by Renée K. Nicholson

I once had a rheumatologist who always asked me what I was reading. If I was animated about a book, he knew that my well-being was probably in a good place. When I failed to mention a book that had recently captivated my interest, he’d probe a bit to see how I was doing. In this way, he saw me as “Renée, his patient,” rather than just another appointment in his busy day. This kind of interaction reminds me of the Connective Tissue series, for which I have the privilege to serve as series editor for WVU Press. My goal is to help curate the best resources that connect the arts and humanities with our experiences of health, illness, and medicine.

As a rheumatoid arthritis patient, I’ve spent a lot of time in doctors’ offices. I’ve been dealing with chronic illness for longer than I haven’t—a weird milestone that probably plays into why I’m so passionate about narrative medicine, health humanities, and art in medicine. As both person and patient, it allows my worlds to co-mingle in ways that feel more aligned and integrated.

There are many ways my health professionals (or anyone else) can get to know me. I think one fun aspect of my personality, and perhaps one of the quirkiest, is my love of vintage style. I say “style” because it encompasses clothes, accessories, jewelry, and maybe just a certain mentality. I love things with a history and a story, like the gold and aqua dangle earrings that belonged to my grandmother. She was a woman who lived much of her life in Vienna, West Virginia and was known for being not only generous and gregarious, but also stylish. Her name was Opal, which makes me think of the stone—one that’s not transparent but reflects light in a specific and beautiful way, known as opalescence. Opal, my grandmother, died soon after I was born, but I think she has given me a bit of her opalescence, if I can metaphorically borrow the term. She loved to read and had wanted t    o be a dancer. In photos, she had both ease and grace, with outfits that looked both effortless and intentional. I still wear her aqua-stoned earrings. I had the screw backs made into posts, and when I wear them, I feel classic and posh, wholly connected to Opal.

There’s a sense of whimsy in many of the pieces I collect. However, I never want to feel like these are costume pieces—that the style is wearing me. I often mix and match vintage selections with contemporary pieces. During early summer and fall, when temperatures can start and end cooler but get warmer midday, one of my favorite go-to looks is a vintage cardigan layered over a breezy outfit. For instance, when hosting an early fall cookout, I matched a colorful Japanese cardigan with a bright, retro-inspired t-shirt from a biergarten in Lewisburg, WV (I try to get there at least once a year for their annual Lit Fest). With a snugger fit on top, I added wide-leg pants and old-school-looking Keds, a pair of vintage-like sunglasses, and styled my hair with a nod to pinups and stars of years gone by. With these hints and touches from the past, it felt like an outfit that embodied how I wanted to feel that day: colorful, easy, fun.

I’m always searching for fun new pieces to rotate in, but I don’t force it. I try to curate things that speak uniquely to me, and so I often will go stretches where I’ll peruse both brick-and-mortar as well as online venues to see if something connects with me. Maybe, just like writing, these choices change and grow in new directions over time as I hone my personal sensibilities. A few years ago, I found a fun pair of culottes online, and luckily when they arrived, they fit. I figure they may be from the 60s or 70s, and I’ve paired them with everything from plain white t-shirts to vintage-looking sweaters. I also found a terrific robin’s-egg-blue-and-gold chunky ring that hits just the right accessory note with another outfit well-suited to early fall.

For Christmas, my parents gave me a vintage pin—a gold pear with tiny turquoise scattered in the design. Recently, I had a lunch date with a longtime friend. I love going to lunch with friends, and I always want them to have a sense of occasion, so I pinned the new pear brooch onto a turquoise wool cable-knit sweater—actually a men’s Brooks Brothers vintage piece I’ve appropriated into my wardrobe. I was both warm and indulging a bit of fun. In winter, I find these additions add a little sparkle, like when the snow first falls and glitters on the tree branches.

Sometimes just a statement item, like a vintage purse, adds a little enjoyment to an otherwise staid look. This one is like a wooden trinket box, and it forces me not to haul around the world in it because the space inside is small—a feature, not a detractor. It’s not just decorative but forces me to travel light. Plus, I love the different textures and how it feels substantial when I carry it.

Just as we read details about characters to get a fuller, richer impression of them, we read details in the way people present themselves outwardly. Some might privilege a practical minimalism; for others, a classic line and no fuss. For me, style is a matter of bringing my inner self outward. I’ve curated literally hundreds of items, enjoying the discovery of each, feeling like each piece helps me convey some details about who I am and how I’m approaching the world on a given day. I don’t want this to seem just like a paean to consumer culture. Buying vintage is sustainable if it’s about winnowing the pieces in my closet to those on regular rotation and being focused on quality of piece over quantity. Being selective means editing out what doesn’t need to be there and respecting my own self by providing the best elements to mix and match. My body may have telltale signs of rheumatoid arthritis, from the scar from knee surgery to minor deformities in my fingers, but I can still love and respect this imperfect form and attire it with meaning and beauty. Tomorrow, maybe I’ll wear the pin I purchased as a memento from a past trip to New York City that my husband nicknamed “The

In the health humanities, we often think about what it means to be “embodied.” Learning to notice nuance, absorb ideas, and pay attention to details, we develop observational skills that, when applied in a different way than the everyday, can give us insight into the people we care for and who care for us. Meaning-making is not a one-size-fits-most activity, and all the things we do can have consequences for our health, including where we find our joy. For me, joy comes from many places and activities, and it also can be worn. The writer Gillie Bolton, who wrote with palliative care patients in the UK, once said that one can be ill but still have well-being. When you see the fabulous, sparkly earrings or the perfect jolt of color from a pocket square tucked in a blazer, you might just be able to tell.