Warmth

Allison Whittenberg

I never wanted to write a memoir. I’m not that kind of person. I am a writer, but I write fiction. Not the true stuff. Also, I’m usually not that into memoirs of ordinary people– they’re too personal and all those intimate details are none of my business. I know, I know, the specific becomes the universal, but to make that specific the universal you have to get so specific. That’s generally the difficulty, to be honest enough and nude enough and contextualize it in such a way that it would make sense to any reader.   It’s like that Ferlinghetti poem but instead of constantly risking absurdity, a memoirist is forever battling irrelevancy.

Have you ever been cold? Not just kind of cold, I mean really cold? A cold that takes over you quickly and grips you, relentlessly and drives you nuts. Up to this time in my life, I thought of myself as a warm blooded person. I grew up in Philadelphia which contrary to recent global warming concerns never had too much of a winter. To me, it always had a subtropical feel. In grade school, there were more days off for extreme (over 90 degrees) heat than snow days. So, growing up, if you saw me in a coat, it probably wasn’t buttoned. In my 20s, however, I attended graduate school at the University of Wisconsin and there I did get a wintery wakeup call complete with second degree frostbite. I knew nothing of what a below zero temperature felt like or could do to you so when a classmate had mentioned to me that the weather of the spring semester was far more brutal than fall term I had no clue what that meant.

I breezed through my first term just fine, marveling at the snow build up, which had begun to accumulate right around Halloween. The snow kept piling higher and higher as November barreled into December. I went back east for the holidays and came back in late January only to unbeknownst to me enter the tundra. I blistered that day when my thin knit gloves I’d purchased from Target were decorative but hardly doing the function. They just weren’t providing enough heat, my fingers went numb and immobile and it wasn’t like the elements. It was cursory, the time I’d taken from the airport to the cab ride to my car. That was mere minutes of exposure. Of course, my car’s battery needed a jump after it had been so chilled and dormant. The battery was dead after three weeks of not moving, my tissues were dying and I was moving. When I got to my apartment, I submerged my hands in warm water and mobility came back in tingles. Yep, Spring semester was something else. And, actual “Spring” Spring itself took forever to come, something like late May when it was finally clear of the harsh wintery weather. A dear friend (a native of the Midwest) gave me a pair of insulated mittens, something she picked up at a camping store.  I quickly found not only the fabric, but the fact that they were– mittens, being innate better than gloves because the fingers are close like loved ones.

When I first started having cold sensitivity a decade later, I guess that it could be traced to this incident – it couldn’t be connected to my HAIR! loss and skin changes that was a mere coincidence. I was suddenly susceptible because of my past exposure, right? Yet, even that delusion didn’t hold because these episodes felt different. This numbness developed without subzero temperatures being present. This was brought on by taking ice cubes from the freezer. Or entering a store that had crisp air conditioning. This cold is engulfed by an overreaction to low temperatures – and low is a relative term . All at once, I was frozen.

So, just keep warm, right?

One incident happened on a particularly sharp day in late September in Philadelphia. I had long sleeves on but it gripped me no less. I was a few blocks from my home visiting the farmers market with my son to pick up his favorite fruit: peaches. Struck by the cold, I realized I had to get to warmth. I had to go home and layer up, immediately. For a normal person, there wouldn’t have been a crisis but for me 65 degrees hit me like 65 below. When we got back to our house, my hands were already immobile. I asked Tiago to go in my purse and get the keys to open up the door. Of course, he was able to fish out the keys but, at 6, he wasn’t able to put it in the slot or turn it. I started shaking my hands, jumping up and down, and making wild circles with my arms to jolt my circulation. If a complete stranger would have been passing by that moment, I would have asked her or him to break and enter. After running in place and shoving my hands into my armpits, I was able to move them just enough so that I could open up the door and this crisis came to an end, but, of course, there would be others. Many in fact, when I was marooned on ice island.

This feeling of coldness was unlike anything common. It came on no matter how much I prepared. It was time to do the dreaded – dress for the cold: wear layers, gloves, and heavy socks. Shop at those square camping/sporting goods stores and buy chemical warmers for my pockets, gloves, and socks. I began wearing layers.  Often, I took a hot shower before going out into the world but all that would hold me for an hour or two. I could hold on to my body’s heat. I could not keep my temperature constant. You’d be surprised how often you go to a chilly space. The frozen-food section of the grocery store, a movie theater,  a bus…. And, the last thing anyone wants to hear is how cold you are – when to them “it’s not cold at all”. I know, I know, this is a first world country and people love to crank their ac, like it makes them feel royal or something. However, it’s hard being cold all the time and it’s hard being stiff all the time, your body is always drawn up and you can never just relax and, moreover, it’s also damn frustration when you’re at a place for a prolonged period of time (like your job) and you mention your sensitivity and you get people who claim turning the air condition even one degree will make them “sick”. Suddenly, everyone has a glossary of nebulous diseases that, of course, trump yours because you (I) were expected to endure my suffering. And, suffer and endure, I did.

Oh, how, I missed sweating. Even in sauna condition, I couldn’t produce it. Day was night and night was extreme.

What I had was something called Raynaud’s phenomenon, named for the French doctor who first identified this condition in 1862. Women are up to nine times more likely to get Raynaud’s than men. It is a progressive condition, meaning it tends to worsen as a person gets older. Some people have this alone, others have connective tissue diseases, artery disease or carpal tunnel syndrome. The reduced blood flow can cause damage. I got it as the result of another disease, so this secondary Raynaud’s sent me to take prescribed medicines to control my blood pressure and relax my blood vessels. During doctor’s visits, my fingers and toes were examined using a magnifying glass, a dermoscope to check the blood vessels around your fingernails to see if they’re larger than normal. Constant monitoring was needed to stave off growing skin sores that could lead to gangrene. Yes, gangrene.  I know you’re thinking WW1 had red dots on my palms and the soles of my feet. These happen because cells and tissue in my toes and fingers die from lack of blood.

I was in a race against time because the condition doesn’t improve, then losing parts or all of your fingers or toes would be considered. Of course there was surgery. Yes, surgery. The procedure involves cutting the nerves to the blood vessels in my skin to limit how much they open and close. If it went on a doctor might also inject drugs into my hands or feet to block those nerves.

So what are we up to now in losses? Warmth, skin, hair, and counting.

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ALLISON WHITTENBERG’S poetry has appeared in Columbia Review, Feminist Studies, J Journal, and New Orleans Review. Whittenberg is a ten-time Pushcart Prize nominee. They Were Horrible Cooks is her collection of poetry. Killing the Father of Our Country is her latest novel.