The Arctic Circle

ellesmere island

On a slushy Ottawa night last week, I tromped into the Officer’s Mess of the Royal Canadian Air Force, here to attend the 513th meeting of the Arctic Circle. When I moved north to Yellowknife ten years ago, my Aunt Diana wrote that her husband Graham would have been pleased I was living in the land he loved so well. He had been an Arctic explorer, as they called northern geographical and archaeological activities in those days. Diana said she had a group of friends who met every month to discuss the Arctic, and she encouraged me to attend if I had the chance.

It turns out her monthly meeting has been taking place since 1947 – almost 70 years! – and features speakers from every discipline relevant to the region. Around 30 people were ranged behind heavy wooden tables and the lecturer, Alexandra Steffen, was here to induct us into the secrets of quicksilver – specifically the methylated form of mercury that causes havoc in growing human brains after bioaccumulating in the marine food chain. Continue reading

The Story I Never Wrote

Syrian tower

Last year, I abandoned a story. It happens, journalists don’t write every story they think they might. But this one I still think about.

It started innocuously enough. A paper caught my eye about looting and archaeology. The premise was somewhat counterintuitive: the author argued that in places where the economic situation was particularly dire, looters were looting because they had no other way to make money. I started reading other papers on looting and ethics. His cut against a lot of the arguments, and it appealed to my upper middle class liberal sensibilities. How dare we, in the West, sip our Starbucks and pass judgement on what people should and should not do with their own heritage, when they have nothing else to live on? 

I talked to the author of the paper over Skype chat. He was nice and clear and convincing. It was a good conversation. Everything was going well. Continue reading

What Happened Next

1200px-Humanitarian_aid_OCPA-2005-10-28-090517aMy husband died.  He wasn’t young any more and was sick and weak but we weren’t expecting his death to come as quickly as it did, within a few days, almost overnight.  He just went away.  Maybe there are worse things than a quick, quiet death.

Here’s what happened next.

My brother and sister-in-law (who live a couple of hours away) called:   We’ll be there tonight,  and we’re staying until you make us leave.

A friend:  I have some lentil soup, may I bring it over?  And may I bring the rest of my family and we’ll all eat it together?

A neighbor:  When you need to start sorting through things, may I help?

A friend:  The kids and I are coming to Baltimore for the weekend.  May I bring them and some pies, and come sit by the fire?

Empathy.  Continue reading

Simplify, Simplify

I’ve owned only one copy of Henry David Thoreau’s Walden, and I’ve owned it since high school. It’s a 1980 Signet Classic paperback, original price $1.75. Inside the creased front cover, in ballpoint pen, a long-ago student has scrawled, “I want to go to sleep. I’ll never last 1 hr + 20 min reading!”

I wasn’t that student—I swear!—but I could have been. I love Thoreau like I love certain smart, cantankerous elderly relatives: I respect his brilliance, his mischief-making, and his preternatural foresight. I appreciate his sometimes obscure humor. I make allowances for the years between us. But even so, I sometimes have to stifle a yawn. I mean, the guy does go on.

Continue reading

With the Grain

177718874_bfa2b98848_zThere is a blue velour–covered box in my house marked with the face of a pirate and the word “Plunder.” Like any piratical treasure trove, there are golden coins inside. There are also marbles, leftover buttons, and crow feathers. Sometimes, I’m not quite sure what makes some of the things inside the box so valuable. But there are a few small bits of colored glass in there that give me the itchy fingers a pirate might have had when discovering a map with a large X on it and a promise of doubloons.

Sea glass comes from shards of glass—from bottles, from jars, from shipwrecks—that have been tumbled by waves, sanded by stone, and corroded by saltwater. Seeing a piece of glass on the shore feels like a kind of luck. Here’s something that the sea has worked so long to create (it may take 30 years or more). And it’s a journey completed: the glass in my hand was made with silica, the main ingredient of the sand to which it returned, in a different form. Continue reading

The Last Word

Still life: Bright green lichen on dark brown bark.February 8 – 12, 2016

C’mon, Hollywood, get real, says Erik.  Even a 12-year old can get out of those rope knots, let alone some grownup damsel on the railroad tracks, let alone Indiana Jones.

New era, new climate, so we need some new words.  Michelle makes up some of such quality that they rival “subnivium;” she also wins Title of the Week: Antevernals in the Anthropocene.

Helen’s got the first runner-up for Title of the Week: Part 3 of the 2-part series on urban lichens.  She just couldn’t let her go of her obsession, and now I do find myself looking closely at the neighboring trees.

Heard the claim of that our own immune systems can defeat our own cancers once too often?  This time, says Jenny, it’s got a shot at being true.

Bride and groom plan destination wedding in the Domincan Republic.  Zika virus shows up.  What should bride and groom tell guests?  Bride and groom learn risk analysis.

 

Love in the Time of Zika

beachLast fall, Krista Hall and her fiancé decided on a destination wedding in the Dominican Republic. Planning a wedding can be a monumental task. Flowers must be chosen, food ordered, cakes tasted, dresses fitted, vows written, music selected . . . the list goes on and on and on. That’s why Hall hired a wedding planner. A couple of weeks ago, however, a problem arose that is beyond the purview of most wedding planners. On January 23rd, the Dominican Republic reported its first cases of Zika infection. Hall had to think of her own health, of course, but also the health of the seventy or so family and friends she hoped would be there on the big day. Continue reading

Can We Defend Ourselves Against Brain Tumors?

shutterstock_190101029

Eleven years ago this week, my 67-year-old mother died from a brain tumor. It was Glioblastoma multiforme, an insidious fourth-stage cancer that, without treatment, usually kills within three months. Treatment options are miserable for the patient and not terribly effective; for those who opt for surgery and radiation/chemo, the cancer almost always returns within a year or so. We chose hospice care, and my mom died at home two months and 13 days after her diagnosis, voiceless and shrunken, a husk of the woman she’d been. (I’ve posted about her on LWON before.)

The same cancer killed a 49-year-old friend of my husband’s and mine in 2014. This gentle and much beloved man spent his final months beaten down by two surgeries and hopped up on steroids, fighting for access to an experimental drug under the FDA’s compassionate use policy. (He had “flunked out” of the clinical trail for various reasons, but the drug had by that time been formulated for him.) With an inept doctor as his advocate, approval was slow and, by the time permission came to begin the infusions, our friend was already dying. We can’t help but wonder whether the drug might have saved him if administered months earlier.

With all that behind me, whenever I see “brain cancer” or “glioblastoma” in a headline, I can’t help but read on, skimming ahead in search of good news. Sometimes I think maybe, just maybe, researchers are actually going to find a way to wrestle this life-sucking monster to the ground. Continue reading