We all have days that stick in our memory forever, days that our lives changed in irrevocable ways. Sometimes these moments are wonderful and perfect, like the morning you have a conversation with a handsome stranger on the bus who turns out to be your soulmate. Unfortunately, there are other times when it is a horrible day that you will also remember forever. I will always remember a particular day that started out completely normal. I was taking a shower. The water was hot, there was some nice smelling body wash and I was shaving my underarms as a girl does. Suddenly, everything got weird. The palm of my hand came in contact with my right breast and grazed over something that could only be described as a lump. LUMP. BREAST. A huge CANCER lightbulb began flashing in my head before I could even process what I had just felt. I mean, there must be other, more rational explanations. What were they? Maybe it was an inflamed lymph node? Nope, that is my breast, not my armpit. Maybe I was overzealous in my yoga workout and tweaked a little muscle that I didn’t know I had? How the hell do you overstretch a boob?! I hurriedly finished my bathing, wrapped myself up in a robe, and called out to Dragos, who was working in the next room, to come and give me a second opinion. He felt the spot and agreed, it was lumpy. There was no other way to describe it. Within minutes, we had a doctor’s appointment scheduled for less than two hours later. Only a month earlier, as new business founders, Dragos and I were discussing insurance options and trying to pick a plan from the dismal self-insurance options that were available. This is when, I said something to the effect of, “Sure, catastrophic coverage sounds great! We’re young and healthy!” Well, here we were with a potential catastrophe on our doorstep. The plan was so new that we hadn’t even received medical cards yet and we weren’t entirely sure if we were officially enrolled. I kept my fingers crossed as I headed out to check the mailbox. What a sigh of relief… the insurance cards were there, proof that I was insured! With about 20 minutes to spare before it was time to leave, I began doing what just about anyone with access to the internet would start doing. I googled lump in breast young woman. It typically feels like any symptom you search for on the internet will always lead to cancer, but in this particular case, the likelihood of cancer seemed low, with things like fibroadenomas and cysts being much more likely culprits. I started to breathe a bit easier now that I was armed with a couple of possible explanations. The examination with my doctor went well enough. She supported all of my internet findings. The lump that was a few centimeters long seemed to move freely, which was a good sign. To play it safe, she recommended that I make appointments to have a mammogram, a breast ultrasound, and a consultation with a breast oncologist. While I had been intensely hoping for a “No, you’re fine, nothing to worry about” kind of scenario, I couldn’t blame her for wanting to be thorough. I complied with all of her recommendations, starting with the imaging. The world of medical tests was all very new to me. I had never had anything beyond x-rays at the dentist and I wasn’t particularly looking forward to getting my breasts squished by a giant machine. I was a bundle of nerves. My worries were not at all soothed when I began to feel that everyone was treating me strangely. All at once, they seemed both overly nice and very tight-lipped. They also seemed to be interested in my other breast too, increasing my stress level. The technician who performed the mammogram told me that I could call her if I ever needed to talk to someone!? That didn’t seem normal. I tried to tell myself that I was younger than most of their usual patients and no doubt was giving off an incredibly anxious aura. I hoped they just felt bad for me because I was upset; still, I had a growing sense of foreboding that maybe this wasn’t all just a formality. When the preliminary results came in, I was asked to come back for a breast MRI and four biopsies. They also started doling out the valium like it was candy. The writing was on the wall, the lump I had found in the shower was breast cancer indeed. All those crazy warning bells had been on point and my google research had been hopelessly wrong. Not only that, but there was a small speck of something in the left breast too – also cancer. I essentially had breast cancer times two! At 32 years old, I didn’t know what any of this meant for me. All I knew was that it felt like my entire life had just been blown to smithereens and I was staring into an unknowable abyss of everything that terrified me; doctors, needles, drugs, hospitals, surgery, body issues, hair loss, pain, pity, weird looks, medical bills, sickness. Mortality. On a much grander scale than my problems, the Pacific Northwest also had a day in its history where everything ceased being the same. It was a moment when normal stopped and was replaced by something different and unfathomably scary. On May 18th, 1980, following two months of earthquakes, minor eruptions of steam and ash, and the growth of a large bulge on the northern flank, Mount St. Helens woke up to a peaceful morning. This was the final moment of serenity before a 5.1 magnitude earthquake initiated a colossal landslide and provoked a violent explosion. The mountain lost over 1300 feet of elevation as its top blew off, leaving behind a massive crater. The eruption claimed 57 human lives, including those of scientist David Johnston, radio-operator Gerry Martin, and resort-owner Harry Truman. Additional losses included unimaginable environmental devastation, countless animal lives as entire populations were wiped out, and over a billion dollars in economic damages (roads, bridges, lumber, crops, homes, etc.). It was the deadliest and most destructive volcanic eruption in the history of the United States. I was only two years old back in 1980. I have no personal recollection of the event. My parents remember going out to the street in front of our house. There, they had a direct line of sight towards the giant ash plume. The Mount St. Helens eruption is part of Pacific Northwest lore and I grew up hearing stories of the big eruption, aware of the fact that all of those other mountain peaks we knew and loved could hypothetically do the same thing. While it was a little scary, it was also exciting and was just one of the things that made Washington State a magical place to live. As the 10th anniversary (January 2021) of my breast cancer diagnosis is fast approaching, I’ve had a growing sense that Mount St. Helens was a place I needed to visit. I have been feeling a fierce compulsion to go stand on the edge of that big volcano and reflect upon the experience which has so severely altered my own life. I was curious about what type of emotions this would stir up. Does that sound like fun?... Summer came to an abrupt halt this year when a gargantuan cloud of wildfire smoke blew in from California and Oregon. The smoke mixed with our offshore marine air and settled in for two weeks of hazardous air quality, dreary skies, and a whole new reason to fear leaving the house! We had been planning a day trip to Mount St. Helens for a while and had to postpone it because of the weather. As soon as the skies cleared, we hopped in the car and drove south to visit the Mount St. Helens National Volcanic Monument and see what things looked like 40-years after total annihilation. So, how did all this make me feel? Well, blame my lingering chemo brain or just the fact that I am easily distracted, but I forgot to ponder such things while I was there. Instead, I just tried to absorb all the beauty surrounding me. There was a ton. The sunny day, mixed with the first crisp notes of fall air, felt like heaven after being cooped up inside the house for weeks. Being that it was late September, I wasn’t expecting too much in the way of wildflowers. It’s true that many flowers had already gone to seed, but a stop at Loowit Viewpoint revealed the most perfect wildflower that I could have found, the Prairie Lupine. Generally, I don’t get too excited by lupines. They are fairly common and tend to all look the same, making it difficult to distinguish between their many species, but this tiny guy, growing close to the ground with cute fuzzy leaves and pale purple flowers spoke to me. As it turns out, this little plant has a wonderful story! When the 10-megaton explosion knocked down and covered up 230-square miles, the areas closest to the blast were completely sterilized. The region known as the Pumice Plains was left with no viable vegetation, seeds, or even anything that could be called organic matter, aka soil. For those who witnessed the desolation, it was hard to imagine how life would ever come back to this place. But… it did. Two years after the eruption, Lupinus lepidus was the first plant to re-gain a foothold. This lupine adores full sun and doesn’t mind some pumice. The dry slopes of a volcano were ideal; it probably thought it had found Hawaii! Lupine is special for a couple of reasons. First, it can self-pollinate. This may not sound all that important but think about the fact that the lack of vegetation meant there was nothing around for miles that would attract insects, like bees, to come around and do the job for them. Lupine is also one of a handful of plants that can fix nitrogen. This means that they actually start building the soil and creating an ecosystem for future plants to grow. When the pioneering lupines died, their remains began adding organic matter back into the ground. The wilted stems created a netlike matrix that served to potentially trap any windblown seeds that blew through, providing a little shelter for them to take root, creating its own little microhabitat. Basically, the Prairie Lupine was a miracle and a crucial first step towards reconstructing the mountain’s natural habitat. Seeds did blow into pumice town, such as those of Fireweed and Pearly Everlasting. As more plants began to grow, elk moved back into the area to give them a nibble. They left behind their poo, which contained more seeds and nutrients to continue the process of rebuilding the soil. Then grass began to grow again. As time passed, ecological complexities began to reassert themselves. One example of this is the Scarlet Paintbrush; it seems that wherever lupine grows, paintbrush is never far behind. Paintbrushes are hemiparasites; this means that they know how to use photosynthesis for energy, but if at all possible, they prefer to take the easy way and use their specialized roots to sneak into the root systems of nearby plants, sucking out water and minerals for themselves. Walking along the trail at the viewpoint didn’t feel like your typical subalpine terrain. Instead, it kind of gave me a beach vibe. The ashy ground was soft beneath my feet, it felt like sand. The weathered remains of blasted trees resembled driftwood. If you looked closely at the wood, you could see that seeds of an even more bountiful future had settled into all the nooks and crannies. There was a small clump of leaves that Dragos and I were both taken with. It was just so cute and succulent. I believe they belong to a wildflower called Pussypaws, another species that is known for growing in environments that most other plants would find inhospitable. Further down the road, at Johnston Ridge, we got a glimpse into the heart of Mount St. Helens’ crater. Although the sky was mostly clear, clouds remained constant over the top of the mountain. We had a clear view of the expansive Pumice Plains and Spirit Lake. In the distance, there was a pack of coyotes that could not contain their giddiness with being able to frolic in some smoke-free air. We also came upon a chipmunk who stole the day with her cuteness. Well, she wasn’t really a chipmunk, she was a Cascade Golden-Mantled Ground Squirrel and she wins the award for the most photographic rodent. Sitting high atop a stump, equipped with some tasty nuts, she seemed to be taking in the view as well, letting herself be entertained by all the humans wandering around. As I stopped to take her picture from a few different positions, she repeatedly turned to face me and continued eating away. Squirrels like this are also helping in the recovery effort by collecting and stashing seeds, inevitably in places where they will be forgotten and left to grow into trees. Before the 1980 eruption, Mount St. Helens was known for its Fuji-esque beauty. One might look at her and think that all the other mountains probably wished that their domes were as perfectly shaped as hers. With mountains, as with life in general, things are not always what they seem on the surface. Mount St. Helens has a history of periodic eruptions. Indigenous groups like the Chehalis, the Cowlitz, and the Klickitat always knew something was different about this place. Many of the traditional names for the mountain allude to active volcanism:
Given the subject of this post, I also have to point out that the Yakima tribe’s name for Mount St. Helens is “Si Yett,” meaning Woman. In all the references that I found, the mountain always embodies a female character. This is in contrast to the region’s other mountains who appeared as both male and female personalities. Legends also told of evil spirits that inhabited nearby Spirit Lake (thus the name). There were salmon with the heads of bears and strange sounds that emanated from the water. It seems there was an impending sense of doom that something major was brewing beneath the surface of this place. Honestly, I always expected that I would get breast cancer someday. I just thought that I would be old when it happened. I had witnessed my grandmother deal with the disease, as well as my mother who was diagnosed for the first time when I was 24. Both women had lumpectomies, followed by radiation, and more or less got back to normal life. I figured that I still had plenty of time before I would have to deal with it. Ahh, youthful naivety… Breast cancer is on the rise and is thereby affecting more and more premenopausal women. What I quickly learned was that when this cancer occurs in younger women, like me, it is typically more aggressive and requires harsher treatments than for the majority of our postmenopausal counterparts. My cancer was not my mother’s breast cancer, nor my grandmother’s. The words “chemotherapy” and “mastectomy” immediately part of my everyday vocabulary. I had both, starting with chemo. It seemed like an easier (yet, still terrifying) way to start things off and it bought me some time before I had to face the physical alterations inherent to a bilateral mastectomy. My breasts were never really my thing. Did I even have a thing? I’m not sure, but it surely was not my bosom. That didn’t stop me from having a big problem with them being taken away from me. Also, the fact that the day they would have wanted to schedule the surgery was my 33rd birthday just seemed too depressing to deal with. So, on came the drugs, Adriamycin, Cytoxan, and Taxol. After the first couple of infusion appointments, we found a rhythm and it wasn’t entirely terrible. I most definitely did not rock the whole bald head thing, but we managed to laugh quite a bit (especially when wigs were involved) and made some new friends. There were plenty of emotional breakdowns along the way, but overall, I look back on the whole ordeal with some odd fondness. After five months of chemotherapy, imaging showed a complete pathological response, meaning that there was no visible evidence of disease. It was wonderful news, but it did not change the next step of my treatment: it was time for the mastectomy. Any cancer diagnosis has the potential to challenge our relationship with ourselves and with those around us, but breast cancer comes with a very emotionally-charged bag of what-ifs. I couldn’t comprehend how things would ever feel right again. How would I react to seeing myself post-surgery? How would I deal with the changes? Would my husband still like me? How long would it take to get back to some kind of normal? …Would I ever feel normal again?! After the 6-hour surgery, I woke up from the anesthesia-induced haze and realized that I was still me. I don’t know who I thought I was going to become; our fears are not always that rational, are they? I knew that the essence of Emily was still intact and I guessed that everything else just needed time to heal. Treatment continued with more drug therapies, Herceptin and Tamoxifen. I elected not to have radiation, which was a surprisingly difficult decision to make (over the course of several weeks), but it turned out to be the right one for me. It was also time to get down to the grueling process of breast reconstruction, which, for me, was carried out in various phases, including two more surgeries over the next twelve months. Let’s just say that I anticipated tissue-expander-filling appointments with more squeamish dread than chemotherapy infusions. Getting used to my new body took time. Positive body image has never been my strong suit, but once the process had finished and things had had some time to mend, I realized that I pretty much replaced my old insecurities with new ones. So, the net result felt much the same to my self-conscious psyche. Yes, many things are not the same anymore… Of course, my breasts don’t feel (use whichever definition of “feel” you would like to here) the way they did before, and my chest is still a little numb or tingly. My pectoral muscles feel like they were permanently traumatized and have retaliated by refusing to ever again do a decent pushup. I have lingering brain fog that feels like it will never fully go anyway, making it so much harder to focus, multitask, or deal with noisy sounds. I don’t understand why my eyelashes (which held on until practically the last week of chemo) couldn’t have managed to grow in a little bit better and a little longer by now. It has been almost ten years and the outstanding news is that all of my treatments were successful! I have had relatively smooth sailing since my diagnosis (on the breast cancer front, anyway) and, while things never went back to the way they were when I was 32, I do feel like I have settled into a new sort of existence that I am at peace with. Would I go back if I could? As much as my first reaction might be to scream “Oh my God, yes, give me my boobs back,” after any amount of reflection, I’m not so sure. Through this experience, I have gained some inner strength and a clearer sense of priorities. I believe I have a better understanding of compassion and empathy. I have experienced a generous outpouring of support from my family, friends, and community that I otherwise would not have known. At the end of the day, I am a girl standing on the edge of a volcano, looking at the destruction and seeing beauty all around. What about Mount St. Helens? Would we ever really want for her to be the way she was before the eruption? Now, there is so much more that she can teach us about resilience, renewal, and reinvention. Her recovery has been filled with more wonder than scientists could have ever predicted. Native plants are thriving, animals are returning, and a new lava dome is building. So, who knows, maybe she will have a different dazzling peak in the next thousand years or so. I can’t wait to go back in the summertime and hopefully see some Pussypaws in bloom and a herd of elk (there are more there now than there were before the eruption) running across the pumice plains. What could be more majestic than that? A few years ago, my dad remarked regarding his circumstances after prostate and bladder cancer: he said he had found a new normal. He was right. For those of us who are lucky to survive it, cancer will challenge all of your preconceived notions about the way things should go; we are all sure to encounter some rocky roads and crooked paths. Hopefully, we can find a way to embrace them like the prairie lupine, realizing that there is a place to grow. There is no going back to the way things were, but we can choose to find beauty in the aftermath. Copyright © 2020 – Emily LaCroix-Axinte
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Way back when in February, before the world changed forever, Dragos and I booked an Airbnb for an August getaway in the mountains. It was intended to be one of a few summer trips; alas, with the pressures of Covid-19, small business ownership, and a cat who forgets to pee, it became necessary to squeeze an entire summer’s worth of fun into this single, long weekend. With this in mind, we embarked on a short adventure to the tiny town of Packwood, WA. While not exactly a glamorous destination, there is a special energy radiating from this part of the state. I think it comes from the fact that it is nestled between three active volcanos! First, to the north there is Mount Rainier, the icon of the Pacific Northwest. Then, you have Mount St. Helens over to the southwest. You know, the one that likes to blow its top. Lastly, to the south of Packwood is Mount Adams. While not the tallest, Mount Adams is the largest of the three stratovolcanoes. Despite its girth, this mountain tends to be forgotten. Even early explorers seemed to overlook this hidden gem, often getting it confused with nearby Mount St. Helens (remember that the two peaks looked much more similar back in the day). Known as Pahto (standing high) or Klickitat (beyond) to the Native Americans, the modern name of Mount Adams was actually meant to be bestowed upon Mount Hood, an Oregonian peak on the other side of the Columbia River. This was part of a whole peak-naming and map-making debacle that took place in the 1830s. Whatever you want to call it, Mount Adams was the true reason we had planned our trip for this area. Dragos and I have always felt drawn to this peak and have not spent nearly enough time within its reach. So off we went, passing through the tiny berg of Randle, WA and heading south on the rugged Forest Road 23, driving alongside the Cispus River and up to Takhlakh Lake. Stunning does not begin to describe the view from this subalpine lake. This is about the closest you can drive up to Mount Adams and wow. Just, wow. The name Takhlakh comes from the indigenous word for meadow. As in a meadow full of flowers, so you can imagine what I was hoping to see! Where is the emoji of a girl with flowers in her eyes? We tore ourselves away from the humungous vista and started off on a trail that encircles the lake, shortly leaving that path to head further into the forest and another loop that would take us to Takh Takh Meadow. Lining the way were charming forest-dwelling summer wildflowers including Pink Wintergreen, Pyrola, and Pipsissewa. We promptly missed our turn and instead continued walking deeper into the forest. I was beginning to wonder when we would come upon anything resembling a meadow in these woods when something unusual caught my eye. There was a stalk of something kind of yellow, kind of red, emerging from the pine-needle-laden ground. It was a flower, but not a normal kind of flower. It was Pinesap! Spread widely in range, but rare in occurrence, this wildflower is native to North America’s temperate forests and challenges all of our commonly-held beliefs about what it means to be a plant. Who needs chlorophyll? Not Monotropa hypopitys. Content to let the nearby trees do all the work of energy creation, this crazy-looking plant gets all the nutrition it needs by taking advantage of fungi in the soil to act as its biological UberEats. This arrangement allows the Pinesap to sit pretty, without a speck of green in sight. The structure that would typically be a light-absorbing leaf is nothing more than a scaley vestige along the stem. The entire body of this myco-heterotroph ranges from pale yellow to scarlet red. The color seems to depend on the time of the year that flowering occurs: earlier you will have more yellow and later more red. These were flowering in early August, so I witnessed a nice mixture of both hues. Two species of Monotropa grow in the Pacific Northwest: Pinesap and the all-white Ghost Pipe. I had been internally obsessed with these strange flowers all summer, ever since I started seeing Instagram posts popping up of people finding Ghost Pipes on my very own Tiger Mountain, although apparently not in the parts I frequent. I wanted to see one so badly. I am always drawn to flowers that are a little on the weird side! Although not quite as eerie looking as its ghostly cousin, stumbling upon some Pinesap was a pretty awesome consolation prize. They may not seem to bare much in the way of any family resemblance, but these two plants belong to the Heath family, a family that happens to include all of the other plants I just mentioned: the Pink Wintergreen, Pyrola, and Pipsissewa. Also belonging to this group are well-known shrubs like mountain heathers, rhododendrons, and blueberries. Talk about diversity! This forest was filled with beauty and wonder and it was also full of mosquitos. Whenever I stopped moving to take a picture, the blood-thirsty bugs would begin harassing me. I took as many photos as I could before being forced to move on. Soon, we emerged onto the forest road and crossed it to get to the meadow on the other side. This is about the time we realized that we had done our loop all wrong and were not entirely sure where we were. Poor signage seemed to be a reoccurring problem in this neck of the woods. Oh well. We wandered around the meadow, which was brimming with White Bog Orchids. On the far side was a large pile of rocks which were the cooled remains of lava flows and a reminder of the area’s volcanic past. We decided to head back to the lake the same way that we had come, taking another short opportunity to admire the colony of Pinesap. After finishing the loop around the lake, it was time to head back to Packwood for some dinner. When packing for this trip, I had included enough food so that we would never have to leave the safety of our Airbnb if we didn’t want too, but the small town seemed to be taking the whole mask-wearing thing seriously enough. As a result, we felt fairly comfortable donning ours and reveling in the joy that is eating out! This was still a very novel sensation for us after months of living the quarantined lifestyle. In Packwood, dining out meant eating tacos at a picnic table while watching one of the local elk threaten to climb atop a parked minivan to reach some fruit from a tree, unless someone appeased the animal by throwing apples in her direction. It made for entertaining dinner theater. Over the course of the weekend, we ate tacos, more tacos, and some Himalayan food that might as well have been tacos. I mean, once you put the channa in the roti, you’ve got a taco worthy of a Sherpa! Unfortunately, our final morning started a little iffy when this gastronomic streak ended. My heart had been set on some breakfast tacos, which had sounded like the most delicious ones of all, and also an excellent way to satiate ourselves for the drive back to Issaquah. Unfortunately, the restaurant had been so busy over the weekend, they sold out all of their food and closed down for the day. Despite the lack of a Mexican-inspired breakfast, the day turned out to be lovely. I needed a little more mountain meadow to complete my summer and Tipsoo Lake, just east of Mount Rainier, always delivers. I think that this is one of the prettiest spots in the Cascades. We made one final stop before reentering city-life. Federation Forest State Park is located just outside of Enumclaw, WA. Like Mount Adams, I think this quiet patch of old-growth forest is easily overlooked, as most people quickly pass by on their way to get somewhere else. I have never seen more than a couple of other cars in the parking lot. By comparison, Tipsoo Lake had a socially-distant but sprawling line of about 25 people waiting for the bathroom in its overflowing parking lot when we had arrived there (with full bladders) just two hours earlier. The “federation” referenced in the park’s name is the General Federation of Women’s Clubs. This group of ladies began to take notice of Washington’s quickly-vanishing forests in 1926 and they resolved to do something about it. They began a fundraising campaign to purchase land from a lumber company. Originally, this land was near Snoqualmie Pass but a string of events lead them to sell back that parcel and shift their efforts to this spot along the White River. The park was dedicated in 1949 and its interpretive center was named for Catherine Montgomery. She was an avid backpacker and the original inspiration behind the 2,650-mile Pacific Crest Trail. She gave birth to the idea during a conversation with Mountaineers Club member, Joseph Hazard in 1926. “A high winding trail down the heights of our western mountains with mile markers and shelter huts – like these pictures I’ll show you of the ‘Long Trail of the Appalachians’ – from the Canadian Border to the Mexican Boundary Line!” - Catherine Montgomery I credit a feminine touch to the poetry of the water-colored interpretive signs that you will find here. They make me tear up every time I read them as I see so many important life lessons reflected in their descriptions of forest complexities. While strolling through the fir, spruce, hemlock, and cedar I realized that we had spent all this time in forests and had yet to hug a tree on this trip! Quickly, we set about fixing this as we found two towering trunks to wrap our arms around. Dragos hugged his and I hugged mine, nuzzling my cheek against the rough bark and closing my eyes. We had a little chat, me and that tree. We talked about its future and my future and how we might come together. I guess I did most of the talking, but some promises were made. I took one step away to reunite with Dragos and when I looked down at the ground, I saw it. Monotropa uniflora, THE GHOST PIPE, the wildflower I had been pining for! It was a sign! The big tree was accepting my pledge and essentially demanding that we seal our deal with a metaphorical smoke! Ghost Pipe does indeed look like a pipe rising from the forest floor. Unlike the Pinedrop, which possesses a cluster of flowers, Ghost Pipe produces only one flower per stem. Young flowers droop, pointing downward and protecting the pollen from would be rains. As the plant matures and is ready to release its seeds, the flower turns upward. Not only does it bear the shape of a pipe, but it also looks like one that has been lit with smoke-tinged edges and glowing orange embers. Because they can only grow when their particular fungal associate is present, there will often be multiple flowers in the same area. As I knelt down to introduce myself to the one that I had spotted, I told Dragos to look around for more. He promptly found some around the next tree trunk. No doubt the trees we had hugged were the ones feeding this cluster. There is some mystery about whether plants like the Ghost Pipe and Pinesap give anything back to the fungi or trees for the carbohydrates they sap. Some early research suggests that there may be some payment in the form of phosphorus, but since that has been left unproven, the answer for now seems to be no, not really. However, in this particular case of me and the forest, the Ghost Pipe provided an effective guilt trip to make sure I uphold my end of the bargain to be a good environmental steward. Who knew trees could be so tricky! No doubt, I still have a long way to go in this aim. In the meantime, I am proud to say that our company, Novo Fogo, through its support of The Un-Endangered Forest program, has had a busy year collecting seeds, growing saplings, and planting threatened trees in Brazil’s Atlantic Rainforest. You can check out what we have been up to here: https://www.novofogo.com/trees/ The two species of Monotropa were not the only mysterious subjects we found on our trip to the mountains. We also found Bigfoot! You can all rest assured that even the big fella was wearing a mask. Copyright © 2020 – Emily LaCroix-Axinte
SCANXIETY! It’s a thing. If you are someone who has been diagnosed with cancer at any point in your life, you know exactly what I am talking about. Cancer and medical imaging go hand in hand and scans are one of the primary tools used by doctors to diagnose problems and keep track of their patients’ ongoing health. One day, some insightful person realized that anxiety and scans were an inseparable, inescapable duo. They smooshed the two words together and scanxiety became the go-to word to describe the onslaught of apprehension, stress, and panic that cancer patients feel leading up to important imaging tests and while waiting to hear the results of those tests. Research has shown that this mental (and sometimes physical) anguish is a nearly universal experience shared by people dealing with cancer, past or present. It manifests itself in sweaty palms, a heart that is beating faster than normal, maybe a little nausea, lost sleep, an inability to focus on anything else, and most likely some overall irritability… sorry, Dragos! 🤷🏻♀️ To an outsider, all this might look like excessive worry, but scanxiety will still happen even when we are genuinely expecting good results. It is grounded in the reality of our cancer experience and has just as much to do with the past as is does with thinking about the future. A survivor of osteosarcoma summed it up pretty well in this quote: “All patients have complicated relationships with their scans not unlike the hate-love relationships we have with other technologies in our lives. We first learn we have cancer from scans, then learn from them if that cancer has shrunk or disappeared, then learn if it has come back. Scans are like revolving doors, emotional roulette wheels that spin us around for a few days and spit us out the other side. Land on red, we’re in for another trip to Cancerland; land on black, we have a few more months of freedom [until the next scan]." - Bruce Feiler, Time Magazine Nine years ago, I had just finished up chemotherapy for breast cancer and was gearing up for a bilateral mastectomy. Between the two events, I was left with no remaining evidence of cancer. But since that time forward, I have had regular doctors’ appointments every few months to keep an eye on things. About the time my breast cancer surveillance had stretched out to just once a year, I was diagnosed with a sarcoma and the whole cycle started over (this time with much more imaging involved). It has always struck me as a strange progression of emotions. There will be a point where I am actually looking forward to the next appointment; I am feeling good and am eager for the validation that everything is A-Okay. This optimism lasts for a while until the anxiety starts creeping in… generally accompanied by some ache, pain, or bump that grabs my attention. Has that always been there? Has that always felt that way? Is that new? Have I eaten enough kale lately? Then we get to the true scanxiety. It feels like a timer going off in my body. I quickly go from being a fairly normal, albeit slightly restless person, to all out of sorts. One sideways look from Dragos will send me over an emotional precipice that I didn’t even know was there. There is no escaping the possibility that I may not get the news that I want or expect. You might think that things get easier over time, but that is questionable. As appointments get further apart, it feels like there has just been more time for something to go wrong. While I believe that a positive attitude will get you far, I also think that there is a point where too much bubbly optimism turns into denial. SCCA Day, as I call it, based on the name of the clinic where I’ve received my care (the Seattle Cancer Care Alliance), is a day of reckoning. The news that comes from it may be good, bad, indifferent, or confusing, but until I know what I’m dealing with, I feel stressed out and sick to my stomach. Over the years, I have tried to incorporate a few habits into my routine that help me to cope with these feelings. The first is always to spend some extra time outside. Dragos and I will set aside a day for a short trip somewhere, the week-end before SCCA Day. Some quality time with my camera and wildflowers always helps me feel a little calmer, and more importantly, it gives me something else to think about. Some happy, pretty memories to take with me into the SCCA building. Our latest excursion included a trip to the Mima Mounds Natural Area Preserve to take in some natural wonder. This particular time around, scanxiety hit me harder than normal. I blame coronavirus! Sitting at home, living a quarantined kind of lifestyle meant that I was spending too much time contemplating an uncertain future with little to distract me. I had been visiting the trails in the forest near my home, which was wonderful, but I craved a change of scenery. An open grassland, brimming with wildflowers, and steeped in mystery, fit the bill perfectly. The Mima Mounds, just a little way south of Olympia, WA, are a bunch of small dome-like thingies. Thingies that no one has been able to quite figure out. They were first thought to be burial mounds like many other mounds found elsewhere across the country, but initial investigation revealed that they were not made by humans. Since then, scientists and armchair enthusiasts have been proposing different theories about their origins. To date, none of them have stuck. Strange landforms aside, I was there for the wildflowers. The area is known for springtime displays of beautiful blue camas, but I was there too late in the year to see any of them. Instead, I encountered swaths of bluebells. Every other time that I recall seeing the Common Harebell, I was up high in the mountains. It was surprising to be standing in a field of them now, while basically at sea level. Harebells, Harvest Brodiaea, Oxeye Daisies, and Common St. John’s Wort covered the hummocks all around me. Closer inspection revealed a few surprises tucked in here and there, like the Hooded Ladies’ Tresses, a native orchid resembling a women’s braided locks of hair, and Farewell to Spring, a bright pink cutie pie! Mima and other nearby grasslands comprise the South Sound Prairie ecosystem, formed in the gravelly wake of the last ice age, some 15,000 years ago. The indigenous Chehalis maintained the land through the selective use of fire to ensure a steady supply of food and medicine that could be harvested from the land. Even some of the non-native plants growing there today, like daisies and St. John’s wort, are brimming with medicinal possibilities. On this particular day when I was nervous about my upcoming tests and doctor visits, it felt sublimely reassuring to feel the warm sunshine and be surrounded by all that healing energy. There are many types of scans that are used to get images of different parts of our bodies. There are CT scans, PET scans, X-rays, bone scans, ultrasounds, mammograms, and even something called a MUGA (I like that one, at least it is fun to say, MUGA MUGA). But there is one particular test that I feel represents the pinnacle of pre-scan jitters: the MRI, short for Magnetic Resonance Imaging. Sure, this machine captures detailed photographs of all of your organs and its smart use of magnets means that it doesn’t have to rely on radiation, but the downside is that it involves being shoved into a loud, noisy tube, an action capable of invoking claustrophobic-related anxiety in most people. Then, to top it all off, you have to lay there without moving, like a corpse, for an extended period. Picture it: you are lying there, perfectly still, except your heart is going a mile a minute and it feels like it will beat right out of your chest. As you begin to worry about whether or not this counts as movement, you begin hyperventilating a little, so now your entire chest is uncontrollably moving up and down and you think all the images will be fuzzy for sure! On July 15th, it was time for my second SCCA Day of the year 2020 (out of three). On the docket was a CT scan of my chest, an ultrasound of my thyroid, a blood draw, an appointment with my surgical oncologist, an informal meeting with my genetic oncologist, and not one but two delightful MRIs: one to examine my abdomen, the former stomping grounds of my sarcoma, and a second, whole-body MRI to look at everything that could possibly be looked at. There was literally nowhere to hide! Nowhere to hide for me, or for any cancers? I’m not sure… I was a little freaked out and I think Dragos was too, although he would never tell me such a thing. Did I mention that scanxiety is also hard on caregivers? It is. For better or worse, the two MRIs are really one super-long MRI. I lost track of time, but I think I was in the machine for an hour and a half. This is where having some happy memories in the distraction bank comes in awfully handy! The first step is to close your eyes; don’t open them no matter what. This way, you have no idea where you are or how tight the tube is that they shoved you into. Next, start dreaming of your happy place: maybe it’s a sandy beach, a peaceful lake, or a wide, open meadow of flowers. Let your mind wander anywhere else, while you focus on taking nice, even breaths… in and out… in and out… ugh. So, in and out… I used the time in the machine to consider the origins of the Mima Mounds. No, really, I did. It was all part of my mental distraction plan. Existing theories included everything from erosion, seismic activity, aeolian forces, animal or insect activity, and of course UFOs. I mean, what good mystery can you have without some possible alien involvement? My gut tells me that the answer must have something to do with glaciers. The mounds occur in the same spot where the Cordilleran Ice Sheet stopped its advance during the Vashon Glaciation. But, glaciation doesn’t explain the presence of similar mounds in Southern California, just outside of San Diego in Miramar. A much more endearing theory involves a pint-sized creature that is found in both locales, the pocket gopher. These little guys live underground and are thought to push soil upwards when things get rainy, in an effort to stay dry above the water table. Researchers worked out that it would be totally plausible for generations upon generations of gophers, working for 500 to 700 hundred years, to construct earthworks of this scale. Hmmm... I do not know how the Mima Mounds came to be. No matter the cause, I think it’s fun that there are still some natural enigmas left to be figured out. What is less fun, is that after I made it through my entire MRI and all the other tests, I still had to wait a couple of more hours before I heard the results and the mystery of the current state of my health would be revealed. Besides indulging in nature therapy, my next bit of advice for dealing with scanxiety is to make sure you have a buddy with you on appointment day. This person can lend emotional support, help pass the hours, and most importantly locate and procure the best after-scan treats! Because it is important to have something yummy to look forward to when it is all over. Dragos zeroes in on the places where all the best mochas, lattes, pastries, and grilled cheese sandwiches are waiting. This time we opted for avocado toast and a crepe, though COVID restrictions meant that this took two unexpected stops. To wash it down, we tried a strange concoction that we had been eyeing for a while, called “cheese tea,” from a cute little cafe named Atulea. What is cheese tea? Imagine iced tea (I went for the citrus chamomile, hoping that the chamomile would be calming) topped with a sweetened, whipped cream cheesy mixture). Both parts were delicious. I’m not sure how well they went together, further research will be needed. What else can one do to help ease scanxiety and squelch those exam day butterflies? And by butterflies I just mean those nervous flutters in the deep recesses of your belly, NOT actual butterflies, I would never squash those. Well, I like to step up my yoga practice the week before (sometimes from none to some). This usually chills me out and helps me focus on breathing. Being able to breathe deeply is helpful for getting through a long MRI, as well as suppressing any mini panic attacks that come your way while you are waiting for your doctor to deliver the news. It is easy to let each day go by and never think about our breathing habits. I know personally that, as each year goes by, with all its new kinds of stress, mine has gotten shallower and shallower. It takes some effort and practice to get it to a place where I can use it as a tool. I like yoga, but meditation or a gentle walk can also afford the same opportunity to practice taking some deep breaths. Something else to remember is to drink a lot of water the day (or two days) before. This might sound silly, but hydrated veins make the process of IVs and blood draws much smoother. As a side note, also remember to drink well after the scans; this will help your kidneys process out all that gadolinium or whatever else they give you for imaging purposes. That’s pretty much all I’ve got. I go outside, do some light exercise, take some deep breaths, drink some water, hang out with Dragos, eat some carbs, drink a bunch of caffeinated beverages, and try to follow them up with more water. That is my scanxiety ritual! It is possible that there is still room for improvement… one can always do better. If I feel like I need a little extra boost from somewhere, that is when I ask the universe for some good vibes to be sent my way. I think this is one area where social media can really shine. Reaching out to your network of friends and asking for some happy thoughts can actually make a huge difference. It is lovely to receive well wishes from across the globe and I absolutely believe that I have felt positive energy come from these digital interactions. The Common Harebell and the Harvest Brodiaea are both medium-sized, bluish-purplish flowers that have very thin stems. When walking past them, it looks as though the other plants are propping them up, creating a support system for them. This is just a floral reminder that it is okay to accept a little help in all its forms, and I thank all of you who have sent me your support over the years! Maybe someday this will all get a little easier, but so far, I find that it just evolves. Some concerns may subside, but others will move into their place. I’m accepting scanxiety as part of the process and making the most out of it as a time to indulge in a little extra self-care, personal reflection, and treats. Like the mounds at Mima, this is just another HUMP to get over. I suppose you’ve read all this way to find out how all my tests turned out… I passed! Everything looks stable, unremarkable, and with no evidence of metastasis or local reoccurrence! Yippee! I can breathe easily for the next six months or so - until it’s time to do all this again. Copyright © 2020 – Emily LaCroix-Axinte
Oh boy, what a March!... And an April! May’s looking pretty iffy as well. One moment we were obliviously trying to go about our business, and the next, the global Covid-19 pandemic was threatening everything we had ever taken for granted. Suddenly we were rummaging through drawers for forgotten hand sanitizers, counting rolls of toilet paper, and wondering when we would ever be able to recklessly hug people again. Spring cleaning took on a survivalist mentality and securing a time slot for Amazon grocery delivery became one of the biggest accomplishments of the week. Underneath all these new concerns was also the realization that if these were the biggest problems we faced at the moment, we were extremely lucky. I had thought things were dramatic enough, back in February, when severe flooding caused the road that connects my neighborhood to civilization was washed out. I joked to Dragos that we were living on an island while having no idea that the whopping island of social distancing and stay-at-home orders was looming just a few weeks ahead. As all the confusion, stress, and worry of this new reality sank in, new priorities emerged, with our health becoming the most important one. The best way to work on this was forest bathing! 🌲 After living in the woods for 4 years, Dragos and I decided it was finally time to start exploring our neighborhood trails in earnest. Our home lies on the southwestern slope of Issaquah’s Tiger Mountain and there was an inviting moss-covered world waiting for us just a driveway away. Typically, there was always somewhere else to go, something else to do, someone else to see, but not any longer. With no more excuses, we regularly set out into our rather glorious “backyard” for some fresh air and exercise. The first few weeks of self-quarantining felt very much like winter. There were even occasional snowflakes. The forest was alive with beautiful green layers of moss and lichen which seemed to cover just about everything. Inevitably, I took some pictures and posted them on the internet. One triggered a response from my neighbor Cathy, directing my attention to an article about the popularity of moss in modern Japanese culture. The article referenced something called wabi sabi. I liked moss. I was intrigued. Initial research into the subject of wabi sabi made it sound like all the authors were talking about our current unsettling state of affairs. These are the sorts of ideas I found: “Wabi and sabi both suggest sentiments of desolation and solitude… In the Mahayana Buddhist view of the universe, these may be viewed as positive characteristics, representing liberation from a material world and transcendence to a simpler life.” - Wikipedia “It […] uses the uncompromising touch of mortality to focus the mind on the exquisite transient beauty to be found in all things impermanent.” – Andrew Juniper (Wabi Sabi: The Japanese Art of Impermanence) “Wabi sabi is a different kind of looking, a different kind of mindset. It’s the true acceptance of finding beauty in things as they are.” - Robyn Griggs Lawrence (Simply Imperfect: Revisiting the Wabi-Sabi House) “Life is unpredictable. And that’s okay. Embrace it… When nothing is certain, everything is possible!... Your plans for tomorrow, next month or next year may not unfold as you expect. But it’s important to make plans and move on. - Thomas Oppong (medium.com) “A wabi sabi inspired worldview can help us invite calm in the midst of chaos.” – Beth Kempton (Wabi Sabi: Japanese Wisdom for a Perfectly Imperfect Life) It is not so easy to find one all-encompassing definition for the meaning of wabi sabi. Similar to the Danish concept of hygge, wabi sabi appears to be something that is absorbed through some kind of cultural osmosis. It is possible to have grown up feeling it without words of its existence ever being spoken. The roots are steeped in Taoism and Zen Buddhism and began to take form in the creation of the Japanese tea ceremony; first in the 15th century by tea master Murata Shukō who incorporated some aspects of Zen thinking and later in the 16th century as Sen no Rikyū promoted a rustic simplicity. Earlier tea-drinking gatherings were often much more lavish affairs used to show off wealth, status, exotic varietals, and shiny teapots that had most likely been brought from China. If we take the two words individually, wabi refers to simple things and a sort of serene detachment from commonplace materialism, a place where flaws only add to the uniqueness. It calls humans to do more with less, a skill I think we have all practiced these last two months. Sabi reflects on the passing of time and the transient nature of life. The vibe is often melancholy, and maybe a bit lonely. More familiar sentiments. I mean, what better brush with mortality than a global pandemic? But when wabi and sabi come together, these two words speak of a beauty that is unexpected. A beauty that takes its cues from nature and finds value in simplicity, humility, and frugality, while reminding us that nothing lasts forever. While wandering the forest, running my fingers over lichen-covered tree trunks, I couldn’t help but feel that maybe there was some wisdom hiding here. Maybe thinking in a wabi sabi way could help me to process this new world that was both terrifying and eerily peaceful at the same time. Dragos appeared to be feeling something too. Every time I turned around, he was writing another haiku! Wabi sabi is best summed up by three words: imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete. Books say that wabi sabi is best experienced when we slow down, something we are all being forced to do with mandatory stay-at-home orders. We are also being made to focus on the present moment while we have little idea of what the coming days, weeks, or months will hold. If hygge is the “art of coziness”, then wabi sabi is the “art of embracing imperfection.” What better time than now to test such a philosophy? As the random snowflakes gave way to intermittent hailstorms, I awaited the first spring wildflowers to materialize from the dirt. On our evening walks, I was able to witness the same patches of plants, day after day, watching the young shoots burst from the soil, blossom, and eventually go to seed and fade away. I realized that they were each telling us their own wabi sabi story. Wabi sabi may be applied to many things, but it is often associated with art and design. To dig a little deeper, let’s take a look at the seven Zen principles of aesthetics: 1: Fukinsei (不均斉) & The Lichen Fukinsei refers to asymmetry and irregularity. Immediately my mind goes to lichen, and their friendly companion known as moss, the two culprits who started this whole wabi-sabi-ball-rolling. Lichen and moss always seem to grow in happy harmony alongside each other. Together, they create uneven, yet perfectly balanced patterns and textures on tree trunks, favoring the shadier, north side. Lichens, in particular, create a natural forest patina and therefore embody the concept of sabi. They are slow-growing with long lifespans. A single specimen will live for hundreds or even thousands of years. The more lichen, the more kinds of lichen, and the larger the lichen, the older, healthier, and more beautiful the forest. 2: Kanso (簡素) & The Osoberry Kanso refers to simplicity and a lack of clutter. Essential items only, if you will. A forest example of this is the humble osoberry. One of the very first plants to flower in the late winter/early spring, it can barely be bothered to produce leaves before sending forth its drooping clusters of white flowers. Once the flowers begin to wither, osoberry gets on with leafing out. These early flowers are a vital source of nectar for hummingbirds, bees, and butterflies when other supplies are scarce. 3: Koko (考古) & The Evergreen Violet Koko refers to no-frills austerity. For humans passing by, it is easy to miss this small, lowly flower that is incredibly easy to step on. Violets don’t want to take any chances though when it comes to attracting potential pollinators. They are acutely focused on their end goal with a utilitarian design to get things done. The top four petals are like a flag to wave over potential pollinators; the bottom petal is a landing strip. Small stripes act as arrows, pointing towards the nectar. Small hairs, also known as beards, provide convenient grab bars and also protect the goods from being watered down by raindrops. As the insect wiggles in for a sweet sip, pollen is deposited and perhaps even secured in place by errant drops of sticky nectar. 4: Shizen (自然) & The Wild Ginger Shizen refers to being natural and lacking pretense. For as long as I have been searching for wildflowers, I’ve wanted to see a wild ginger. Why? I don’t know, I like the idea of a brown flower. It is just so earthy. The native groundcover is ubiquitous to my neck of the woods, but I had never seen a flower. Early on in March, I spotted the distinctive heart-shaped leaves in our woods. With the plant properly identified, all I had to do was wait. I had time. One day towards the end of April, I knelt down to investigate. There was a flower! This confirmed the suspicion I had had all along: I was only ever going to see the flower when I got down in the dirt to actually look for it. Wild ginger’s flower grows beneath the leaves and pretty much lays on the ground, nestled into the leaf litter that is the same brown color. Their low location, however, provides easy access to the ants and insects that come to pollinate or just take shelter in the bell-shaped blossom during springtime rainstorms. 5: Yūgen (幽玄) & The Pacific Trillium Yūgen refers to subtle, yet profound grace. I cannot think of a better flower to illustrate this than the Pacific Trillium. Three deep green leaves, three sepals, and three white petals. The whole arrangement is simply elegant and in case you are inclined to think that this flower is maybe too elegant, I can assure you that there’s always a bug hanging out, calling the trillium home. Instead of counting the days of quarantine in weeks or months, I can mark the passing time in the life stages of this wakerobin. First, there was nothing, but then the vibrant green shoots began to appear and unfurl. It took a few weeks for the white buds to open up. Like many other wildflowers, trilliums always seem to be drawn towards the trail itself and at this stage, I was always worried the plant would be stepped on or rolled over by a mountain bike before being given the chance to live its life. A couple did meet this end, but many more survived. They started as small, single flowers, but, before too long, I would take a second look and see that one or two had morphed into rather substantial giants, by delicate flower standards. Alongside sunshine and rising temperatures, single flowers joined friends. Just in time for Easter, there were what seemed mini forests of trilliums, enjoying the family gatherings that we humans were denied. Another week or so and a subtle blush began to tinge the purity of the white petals. The blush grew darker and more pronounced until the entire flower turned pink, or deep maroon. By this time, the earlier crisp perfection was fading. The petals and leaves had all been munched on by many an insect or animal. The petals also took a beating from the returning rain showers, so at this point the petals were transparent and, in some cases, beginning to disintegrate. But even in this bedraggled state, there was hope in the form of a developing seed pod. 6: Datsuzoku (脱俗) & The Salmonberry Datsuzoku refers to freedom and breaking from habit or convention. The salmonberry is a quintessential northwest shrub and immediately brings to mind memories of a carefree childhood growing up in Western Washington. The branches grow every which way following whims of sunlight. It is easily adaptable and grows with reckless abandon in both forests, open areas, and places with disturbed soil. Unlike other brambles, the salmonberry is only moderately thorny, making it a favorite among berry eaters. Whereas their other rose-related counterparts usually sport white flowers, the salmonberry has opted for bright pink, a color known to attract hummingbirds. I always thought the name referenced the vibrant color of the berries, but more likely it stems from the pairing of the fruit with actual salmon, a preparation that was common amongst the Coast Salish. Besides sparking culinary creativity, this shrub had been used for all kinds of projects including the fashioning of tobacco pipes, flavoring wine, and restoring habitats. 7: Seijaku (静寂) & The Pacific Bleeding Heart Seijaku refers to silence and tranquility. Finally, we come to the bleeding heart, a plant that has traditionally been used to bring calmness and grounding thanks to its nature as a mild narcotic. By the way, it belongs to the poppy family. Drinking a tea brewed using the whole plant will leave you feeling a bit numb…in a nice way. I found a tincture being sold online that told me it would open my heart and allow me to love unconditionally. The bleeding heart is also thought to relieve anxiety, boost compassion, and help heal the heart from trauma and grief. It seemed like it took forever for this plant to bloom. The frilly leaves hung around for a long time before any buds appeared. The buds that did show up looked a lot like shriveled-up flowers. When I told Dragos that I was waiting for them to get blooming, he took one look and told me that nope, they were over. I remained optimistic and eventually, the hearts got bigger and fatter. There were more and more until both sides of the trail were flanked by pink, heart-shaped flowers, spreading the love. So, what is wabi sabi? Have I explained it at all? Who knows, but there is something about this strange time that I believe has allowed me to feel it. It seems as though these last two months have been some sort of suspended reality and we will never really be the same people we were before it started. Once we are all allowed to interact with each other again, will we be better for our time apart? Will we be kinder, more forgiving, and more appreciative of all the different roles people play in our lives? I hope so. 💚 It looks like we have at least a few more weeks of hugging trees instead of people while Washington slowly transitions back towards togetherness. If we can learn to appreciate the wabi sabi of this newfound lifestyle, maybe we can learn to ease some of the stress, anxiety, and emotional obstacles along the way. Time to pull some green tea out of the pantry and enjoy a steaming cup (ignoring the fact it is now 80 degrees in Seattle), while you spend a few moments processing the lessons that you too may have learned during this time and ponder: where did I find unexpected beauty? “Wabi sabi is a state of the heart. It is a deep in breath and a slow exhale.” – Beth Kempton (Wabi Sabi: Japanese Wisdom for a Perfectly Imperfect Life) Oh, and if you don’t yet know what forest bathing is, check out my post: Forest Bathing for Beginners. Copyright © 2020 – Emily LaCroix-Axinte
Forest bathing is great and all, but sometimes you just don’t want to leave the house. Luckily, there is another kind of healing therapy that you can find right in your own home. Look around, it is probably waiting for you; possibly sleeping on the bed, watching birds out the window, standing where their food should be, or simply staring at you from across the room. It’s your pet! The animals in our lives are good for so many things like unconditional love, companionship, and comic relief. But, did you know that there is an underlying biological reason why we love them so much? It is a little somethin’ called OXYTOCIN. This powerful substance is released from our pituitary gland whenever we gaze upon their adorable faces, stroke their soft fur, or otherwise enjoy their presence in our lives. Oxytocin, also known by affectionate monikers like the “cuddle chemical” and the “love hormone” is responsible for human feelings of contentment and happiness. Its main claim to fame is the role it plays in facilitating bonds between mothers and their newborn babies, but the chemical’s influence doesn’t stop there. Oxytocin can ease stress, making us feel calm and safe. It sparks feelings of compassion, trust, and a desire to connect with other people on a social level. It can even lower blood pressure, reduce pain, improve digestion, and boost immunity. The more I learn, the more I think it is responsible for everything good in life! Basically, oxytocin brings out a lot of our better qualities. It can make us better human beings and a little healthier all at the same time. Thirty years ago, the National Institutes of Health (NIH) began taking pet ownership into account when conducting their research studies. Results continually showed that animals positively affect our health. For example, people who owned cats lived longer and enjoyed better cardiovascular health, with fewer heart attacks, than non-cat-owners! Why did this happen? It is a bit of a mystery, but the answer probably has a lot to do with oxytocin. All you have to do is start petting your beloved feline and the combination of warm, soft fur and a gentle rhythmic motion gets the hormone flowing. Just so you know, the optimal rate is 40 strokes per minute for petting perfection. The human-animal-oxytocin connection is so strong that it evens helps to foster trusting relationships between us humans. You know when you see someone out playing with their dog in the park and you think to yourself “How cute! I bet they’re a nice person!”? That is oxytocin working its magic; it is like a natural spell cast over us. Considering the role oxytocin plays in forging parental bonds, it is no wonder that so many of us think of our pets as family. In the Axinte household, our baby’s name is Whiskey. He is a 3-year old Bengal cat. The boy is a looker with leopard-like spots, big ears, and green (or sometimes golden eyes). His fur is the softest I have ever felt in a cat and when the light hits it just so, it glitters. When Whiskey joined our family, 6 months after the loss of our beloved first cat, Copper, he had BIG shoes to fill, but Whiskey would not be denied. He maneuvered his way into our hearts with his wild-bucking-bronco-sideways-jump and the oh-so-adorable-butt-wiggle. But our bonds with him reached new heights when we found ourselves facing his first medical crises and had to rush him to the kitty ER due to a urinary blockage. Since the day we brought him home as a kitten, Whiskey has managed to do his #1 business in the litter box only about once a day. We always thought this was weird, but we were told it is normal for some cats, sometimes. Then one day we realized his lack of pee had stretched over 36 hours! A series of events ensued and before we knew it, Whiskey was situated in a cage at the local animal hospital with acute kidney failure and still no desire to pee. Seeing our young, energetic, feisty boy cooped up in the hospital, with an IV in one paw, a urinary catheter you know where, and a cone around his neck, secured to a harness so that he couldn’t rip everything out, was hard to take. Time and fluids eventually got him back to normal, but we have spent every single day since that episode worrying about when he was going to grace us with some urination, a bodily function we do not take for granted in this family! We try diligently to make sure it happens more than once a day, and at least every 24 hours (25 tops). Whiskey is sometimes more and sometimes less cooperative. It has been a challenging year. But one thing about oxytocin is that its attachments are strengthened even more when you are in the position of caregiver. As a result, we are attached to the little bugger more than ever! 😻 Some months later, Dragos and I had the opportunity to go to Santa Fe for a bit of Novo Fogo related business, namely the Santa Fe Cocktail Week Festival. The trip was relatively short at 4 days, but it was the first time that both of us were gone at the same time since Whiskey’s hospitalization, so we were more than a little nervous. Dragos’ sister, Daniela, bravely stepped up to come house/cat sit for us. We left her with detailed instructions, urinary timetables, medication, and all the “get-the-cat-to-pee” tricks we could think of. It was hard to leave, both because I was worried he might not perform his duties, and also because it is difficult to leave such a cute stimulator of oxytocin behind. However, I expected New Mexico would have no problem supplementing my happy vibes. As it went, I think the oxytocin found ways to keep on flowing. The animal spirit was alive and well in the American Southwest and proved that Dragos and I are not the only two crazy cat people. It started during our connection in the Salt Lake City airport when Dragos spied a man wearing his coveted “Best Cat Dad Ever” t-shirt. As a side note, at the Albuquerque airport, on our way back home, another man was wearing a top that read “Cats Are People Too”. Was this the same dude? Truthfully, I was too preoccupied with the shirts to pay much attention to what the man looked like. The love for animals continued in Santa Fe. As it happened, the Cocktail Week was organized by a woman who is a fierce protector of all animal souls. Proceeds from one of the events even went to the local animal shelter. One night, at Eloisa, our new favorite restaurant discovery, the bartender was sporting an “I ❤ Cats” button on his vest. Another night, in the same restaurant, we shared a memorable dinner with some friends and fellow cat lovers. Alongside the wine and cocktails, I have a feeling that oxytocin was also working its magic. We bonded over talk of our current cats, the cats and dogs that we have loved and lost, and about the right time to bring new furry friends into the home. Cellphones were passed around the table to show pictures. Oh, there was also an adorable baby at the table! I’m sure his chubby cheeks and flirtatious eyes also played a role in increasing oxytocin levels. Our previous trips to New Mexico have primarily been focused on tasty food, history, and art. The little bit of free time we had on this trip was spent trying to soak in all the natural beauty we could. The weather was beautiful, and the wildflowers were blooming. First, we squeezed in a drive to the Santa Fe Ski Area, 30 minutes outside of town. Along the way, I discovered Western Wild Clematis, which I had never thought of as a wildflower before. Quite a few other wildflowers were blooming as well, and it was a beautiful ride. On our one full day to ourselves, we had a very special destination in mind: the Valles Caldera. Our friend, Chris, described the way he felt about this extraordinary spot located in the Jemez Mountains: it was not breathtaking, it was breathgiving. This vast depression in the earth is over 13 miles wide and was formed over 1 million years ago. The geologic attraction was the top priority for me this time around. A volcanic caldera occurs sometime after an eruption when the volcano loses the support of its magma chamber and subsequently collapses inward, forming a large bowl-shaped indentation. In the case of the Valles Caldera, the magma chamber has refilled over time and is continually pushing up the crater floor. This is called a Resurgent Caldera, meaning it has risen again. Further evidence of this resurrection is Redondo Peak, a volcanic dome that has formed in the center of the crater. The road leading up towards the rim of the crater was a winding path heading west through the outskirts of Bandelier National Monument. As first-timers, we weren’t quite sure when things would open up and there would be a big huge caldera looming before us. It felt mysterious. Then all of a sudden, there it was, a massive valley obscured by just a few fire-scorched trees. Without even having time to process it, I felt my lungs take an involuntary inhale, like a hiccup in reverse, …and simultaneously burst into tears because apparently, that is what I do when something is unbelievably, breathgivingly beautiful. As you can imagine, a large grassy caldera is a perfect place for elks and up to 3,000 of them call this crater home. A group of about 82 creatures turned out to welcome us. We followed them down the dirt road that lead to the visitor’s center. From there, we set out on foot for the Cerro La Jara Loop Trail. Here it became evident that although there were a lot of elks, the caldera was ruled by a different type of animal, the Prairie Dog! They were seriously everywhere, at times sticking their heads up through burrows dug in the middle of the trail. There were adorable in a scruffy, dusty kind of way, but under no circumstances were we allowed to cuddle with them. Physical contact was strictly off-limits because they all carry the bubonic plague! I thought it was a little odd that I went to a place looking for soul-healing, natural beauty and I found a plague outbreak, but as I said before, the place is mysterious. So, without getting too close, we left the little buddies alone to tend to their gardens of Rocky Mountain Buttercups. So, you might ask how things were going at home in Issaquah while we were out gallivanting about the high desert? OK, I guess. Daniela and Whiskey were hanging in there, but our little guy was not making her life easy. For whatever reason, it seems like the 24-hour deadline for Whiskey to do his business always comes in the middle of the night and he stretched it to that point each night that we were gone. On our last night, we all found ourselves on the phone together at about 3AM. We were over the 25-hour mark and were brainstorming what else could be tried before Daniela would have to take him to the kitty ER. Dragos, being, in fact, the true “World’s Best Cat Dad” was ready to pack up right then and start driving back Albuquerque to see if we could get on an earlier flight home. Stress was high and I started thinking… Our hotel was essentially on the same block as the Cathedral Basilica of St. Francis of Assisi. St. Francis is the Catholic patron saint of animals. He was known to occasionally stop whatever he was doing to give a sermon to birds. The birds were into it, they would listen without flying away. It seemed like if I was going to direct a prayer to someone for Whiskey to hurry up and pee, Saint Francis was my guy! I quietly said my little prayer while there was a lull in the conversation. The silence was broken as Daniela reported that Whiskey had finally set foot in the box! It worked!!! I silently thanked Saint Francis and we all went back to sleep for a few more hours. Our last scenic drive was back to the Albuquerque airport, along the historic Turquoise Trail. It was my last opportunity to squeeze in some photos of the blooming prickly pears. Besides the cacti, I encountered a desert variety penstemon (I’m used to PNW, mountain-dwelling penstemons) called Palmer’s Penstemon. The flowers occurred on tall spikes and gave off vibes quite similar to our ubiquitous Foxglove. Fun fact: my guidebook on New Mexico wildflowers likened the buds of this plant to the round, distinctive faces of cabbage patch kids. After spending a few days in New Mexico, I was antsy to get back home and be reunited with my little furball. We couldn’t wait to see him and I am sure he felt the same way about us. Another amazing thing about oxytocin is that it is not a one-way street. When we pet and interact with our animals, they benefit from a release of the good stuff as well. The powerful hormone has been bonding humans and animals together for at least the last 10,000 years. When we got back home, Whiskey welcomed us with a burst of energy and two kinds of litter box activity - the first of which made us sooooo happy. He was happy to have us home. When dealing with cancer or any of the other problems and pressures life throws at us, having a pet around can make all the difference in the world. The other day I made the poor decision to look up some statistics on the likelihood of Leiomyosarcoma reoccurrence. What possessed me to do this? I don’t know, it was probably a mistake. Nonetheless, the results did not warm my heart and I quickly snapped my laptop closed. I needed a distraction fast. I ran off to see what Whiskey was up to. I know he will always be there to supply me with a laugh, a new game, or soft cuddles. I think just looking at his adorable face is enough to get the oxytocin going and my stress level lowering. Dragos and I are committed to making his life as good as possible, to thank him for all the happiness he brings to us. We also want him to pee more than once a day, for all of our sakes. We have recently brought in a new consultant, one that speaks his language. Since it is hard for us mere humans to tell a cat what to do, we thought maybe a kitten could do the trick! Everybody say hello to Moonshine, the newest addition to our family! There is so much that I could write about the wonders of cats, I have barely scratched the surface here. I mean, we haven’t even talked about purring yet, but I will leave all that for another day. In the meantime, let’s end this on hugs. Go find your nearest animal, whether it is a cat, a dog, or a bunny rabbit and give them a squeeze. Bury your face in their fur. Nuzzle your horse. A lovable human will work too, if there is nothing fluffier around. Take a moment to appreciate their presence in your life… And wish us luck! We have two crazy cats now, doubling down on the oxytocin and the trouble! Want to see more New Mexico? Check out: High Desert Hygge ...and for more Whiskey & Moonshine, check out their Instagram: @tigermountainbengals Copyright © 2019 – Emily LaCroix-Axinte
On a recent trip out into the wilderness past Lake Cle Elum, the day brought Dragos and me way more drama than we were anticipating. We bounced up and down for 12 miles along a rough gravel road heading into the Alpine Lakes Wilderness. The bumpy, dusty road followed the valley of the Cle Elum River. At times we encountered BB gun fire, overhead drones, and a lone 1980’s Lincoln Intercontinental that seemed really out of place. In one spot the road was washed out and we had to drive over large stones to reach the other side. When we finally got where we were going, the parking lot was overflowing and there remained only one tight spot for us to shimmy into while skirting chipmunks. None of this equals the day’s real drama though… At this point in my wildflower adventures, I have seen many, many flowers. However, there are a few remaining that have been elusive in my home state. I’m not talking about rare beauties like the Mountain Lady’s Slipper, but much more common flowers like the Wild Ginger. Those subtle brown flowers grow on the forest floors all up and down Western Washington and have a fairly long blooming season lasting between April and July. I know they hide under the plant’s leaves, but I still can’t find any! Sometimes, I will find myself thinking about all the sweet excitement I will feel when I finally see one! Now, it is almost autumn. We are moving away from wildflower season into the time of berries. It wasn’t too likely that I would find anything new on this particular trip, but I was still hopeful that there might be something interesting out there waiting for me. We headed down a trail, passing through a field of Meadow Goldenrod and Cascade Aster. A small stream created a boundary between the meadow and the forest. This rivulet was home to a large, sprawling Water Speedwell. The way the tiny purple flowers mixed with the babbling water and gentle undulation of some other little green aquatic plants was intoxicating in an ultra-calming way. I took pictures of patterns in the water. Meanwhile, Dragos made a seat for himself along the upper reaches of the Cle Elum River, on a nearby rock, enjoying his own quiet moment. We wandered around a bit more, sharing a scintillating conversation about what berries we would and would not eat in a survival situation while pointing out the various blueberries and salmonberries around us. On our way back towards the car, I stopped to take a few more shots of the Speedwell, when Dragos alerted me of a new find. Immediately I knew it was one of my elusive wildflowers, the Western Monkshood, a dark purple buttercup beauty. It was a romantic moment of discovery! 😍 We surveyed the area. There seemed to be just one plant and the single sprig was laying across the ground beside the trail, not very photogenic. Dragos held it up for me so I could get a decent look at the flower. I was so excited!!! A Western Monkshood! As the name suggests, the dark and mysterious flower resembles the head covering of a monk. This design makes it difficult for most insects to get inside and find the nectar hidden deep within. But bumble bees are up to the task! They use their burliness to elbow their way in and then their generally long tongues to lap up the sweet juice. Monkshood grows across the mountainous regions of the Northern Hemisphere, wherever bumble bees can be found. Well, they need somewhat shady, moist but well-drained soil too. As I fiddled with the camera and wallowed in my excitement, I had a vague recollection that maybe there was something to remember here. I told Dragos that I wasn’t sure we should be touching it, knowing many buttercups are poisonous and thinking it might cause some kind of skin irritation. He didn’t seem bothered; besides he would do anything for love. I may have touched it too, once or twice as we tried to find the best position. Once my photographic curiosity was satisfied, I left the scene with a big grin on my face. After stalking some butterflies and spying on a couple of flirtatious chipmunks, we set out, back down the gravel road and towards Roslyn. In the little town of Northern Exposure fame, we drank coffee while listening to live music and ate BBQ before finally heading home to our cat. Later, I sat on the couch going through the day’s pictures. I decided to look up what the deal was with that flower. Had we been risking our health by touching it? Turns out Western Monkshood and its kin are involved in some scary, sinister stuff! Oops. As I began to read stories of mysteriously dead gardeners, ailing florists, and the transdermal transmission of toxins, I began to feel strange and tingling all over. There were tales of poison-tipped arrows, witches, and murder. One article said something to the effect of “don’t panic, but you will probably be dead in a few hours!” Eating this plant was a big no-no, but even just touching it could wreak havoc in the form of numbness, heart palpitations, and nausea. If you happened to have an open would in the area that touches it, death is back on the table! What had I done?!?!?!?! I mean I touched it. At least I’m pretty sure I touched it, but Dragos had handled it a whole lot more. How do I tell him he might be poisoned? I looked over to where he was sitting. He seemed fine. Most of what I was reading applied to the European variety of Monkshood, Aconitum napellus. Greek mythology says that the plant originally grew out of the slobber of Cerberus, the hound of Hades, when the heroic Heracles chased the three-headed dog from the underworld. Upon seeing sunshine, the beast began to foam at the mouth. For each drop of saliva that hit the ground, a plant grew. It seems like anywhere that Monkshood grew, people found deadly ways to use it. Often hunting weapons were treated with this poison to become more deadly. In this manner, wolves were killed across Europe; the Ainu, of Japan, used it for bears, and the Minaro, of Northern India, used it for to take down ibex. Somewhat closer to home, the Unangan of the Aleutian Islands, used their local Monkshood, Aconitum maximum, for hunting whales. Their name for the plant, Anusnaadum Ulanquin, translates to House of the Bumble Bee. Despite the cute name, they took it very seriously. In “Where We Found a Whale,” anthropologist Brian Fagan wrote: “Whale-hunting poison was so powerful that it was said that birds flying over a whaling kayak would drop dead from the scent of the aconite. Children were warned not to drink water from streams that flowed from whalers’ caves. Parents also taught their families not to touch discarded artifacts they found in the soil, lest shamans had rubbed them with poison. There were many stories of people who were poisoned by a substance so toxic that it could disable an adult whale.” So, I was learning that this might very well be the world’s most dangerous wildflower. Many hours had passed since we touched the plant and reactions usually occur swiftly. I was 95% sure that the tingling and overall weirdness I was experiencing throughout my body was really all in my head, a psychosomatic reaction that gets me sometimes. I left the room to mull it over while listening to the ghost of my great grandmother (a knowledgeable gardener) hollering down to me and shaking her head, “Oh, Emily...” She probably knew you were only supposed to handle Monkshood with gloves on. But people did plant this thing in their gardens; I’m sure we weren’t the first ones to naively touch it. Could it be THAT dangerous? I tried to calm myself down while my thoughts kept returning to worst-case scenarios. After all that Dragos and I had been through, was THIS really how it was going to end? What if the picture of Dragos sitting on the rock by the river was the last one ever taken of him? What if we both died? Whiskey would be an orphan and no one would know what had happened to us! I imagined someone going through the photos on my laptop and piecing the whole thing together – provided that they knew about Monkshood’s wicked ways. I could no longer bear this on my own and finally fessed up to Dragos. He assured me that he felt completely normal and proceeded to do his own googling. I guess his research yielded more life-affirming results than my own. He talked me down. We survived the night and are still currently alive and well. I revisited Monkshood in all my wildflower guidebooks. They all agree it is poisonous, especially the roots that contain the highest concentration of toxins, but that’s about all they have to say. So, what did I learn from this experience? Was I overreacting or had we dodged a bullet? I don’t really know. Regardless, please don’t mess with Monkshood whether you find it in a garden or out in the wild. Take a good look at my pictures and, if you see this plant, don’t touch it! Definitely don’t eat any of it and stay far, far away from the roots! Also, I would be highly skeptical of anyone trying to sell you an herbal remedy that contains it. I love you all too much! Copyright © 2019 – Emily LaCroix-Axinte
Once upon a time, in the middle of Washington, there was a floundering little frontier town struggling to keep itself on the map. Tucked into the eastern slopes of the Cascades Mountains, the town of Leavenworth began as a fishing outpost for the Wenatchi, Chinook, and Yakima tribes. In the 1860s, gold hunters moved in and set up the Icicle Flats trading post. The berg continued to grow with the arrival of the Great Northern Railroad in 1892 and renamed itself after Captain Charles Leavenworth, the president of the Okanagan Investment Company that originally platted the town. Soon there was a booming timber industry, a massive sawmill, and everything seemed to be dandy. That is until harsh winter weather and frequent snow storms caused the railroad company to reroute the line further south towards Wenatchee in the 1920s. All the booms went bust and the little town found itself sinking into oblivion. Everything changed again in 1969, when the remaining townsfolk decided the best way to save Leavenworth was to transform it into a tourist destination. A plan was hatched to cloak the town with a new, completely manufactured Bavarian identity. Building codes changed, German-inspired festivals were scheduled and a newfound passion for nutcrackers was born. The crazy scheme worked wonders and Washingtonians have been in love with this “German” place ever since! It may not be terribly authentic, but a trip to Leavenworth does manage to make us feel like we have been transported into a mini-fairy tale, complete with Hansel-and-Gretel-esque architecture. People go there for the beer and sausage gardens, for the quaint shops, and sometimes just to see what snow and winter look like. I have gone there for all these reasons too, but mostly I go for the wildflowers. This spring, Dragos and I broke away from work and chores for a Sunday to go see how spring was progressing on the other side of the mountains. As we made our way east, it was hard to imagine that spring would be blooming anywhere. We made a quick pit stop at Snoqualmie Pass and found it hard to muster any enthusiasm for getting out of the car. It was cold, windy, snowy, and the ground was covered with a couple of inches of icy, dirty slush. Not pleasant! We quickly tended to our business and hopped back into the car as quickly as possible. As we began to descend in elevation, the snow and slush subsided. I rode with my eyes peeled to the side of the road, waiting for any flash of color that might be a wildflower. Soon enough, as we were approaching the town of Cle Elum, I began to see yellow pops of color. I was expecting Yellow Bells and, from the fast-moving motor vehicle, that is what they looked like. When we stopped to take a closer look, I saw that they were actually Glacier Lilies. Shy, demure, cute, little Glacier Lilies. Perhaps the day had not encouraged them yet with enough sunshine to unfurl their petals and, instead, the flowers were nodding, looking down towards the ground and taking on a more bell-shaped appearance, causing my confusion. As our trip progressed, it became clear that the Glacier Lily was going to be the most prolific flower of the day. My favorite spot for wildflowers in Leavenworth is the Leavenworth Ski Hill. By winter, this spot is all about skiing, snowshoeing, and sledding. But, come spring, the snow melts away and the hillsides are reclaimed by wildflowers. As their name implies, Glacier Lilies will be among the first of them, as they see nothing wrong with cozying up to a melting pile of snow. The ski hill lilies were much flirtier than their Cle Elum counterparts. Here, petals were curled up towards the sky with their pistils and stamens exposed, beckoning all the bees to come hither. The Glacier Lily is a perennial with a deep root below the ground. But for 10 weeks each year, the plant enjoys a brief and beautiful life above ground. During this time, it will sprout a pair of slender leaves, produce a few bright flowers to be pollinated, and generate seeds. The Glacier Lily provides an important source of spring nutrients for a variety of animals and humans alike. On the animal side, deer and elk like to munch on the green leaves. Bears really like to make a mess, digging up the bulbs with their long claws for the perfect post-hibernation treat. Being dug out of the ground and gobbled up by a grizzly seems like an unfitting end for such a delicate flower, but I guess that’s the way nature goes sometimes. On the human front, Native Americans enjoyed the seeds. Apparently, if you cook them, they taste just like green beans. The leaves could also be chopped up and thrown in a salad or used for a variety of medicinal purposes like brewing an antibacterial tea. Glacier Lilies were most prized for their bulbs, or more correctly, their underground stem called a corm. The corms were eaten raw or cooked to make them sweeter and thus tastier. They were also dried to be saved for later or traded for other necessities. The Glacier Lily was important enough that indigenous groups would actively manage the plant’s populations to ensure an adequate supply. Coincidentally, many of the other plants blooming on the ski hill also had roots that were traditionally harvested for food. This is true of Yellow Bells (which I did eventually locate), Arrowleaf Balsamroot, Ballhead Waterleaf, and Western Spring Beauty. Another name for Western Spring Beauty is Indian Potato because if you cook the roots properly, they taste like a delicious baked potato! Springtime is the best time to collect bulbs and roots because the flowers make it clearly obvious which plant you are harvesting. These roots can all look very similar and not all of them are good for you, like that of the Death Camas. That one is dangerous! It could kill you!! I am always amazed by the amount of knowledge traditional societies had about plants. It seems like an infinite amount of trial and error would be necessary to figure out what was healthy. I have a whole internet at my fingertips and it’s still next to impossible to find a conclusive answer on things like coffee, soy, legumes, raw kale. Fortunately, I did not need to harvest my own lunch - we had taken care of that earlier, in town, where I had enjoyed a sausage and the prerequisite beer. While sipping on a Hefeweiss-Elderflower Radler and watching Netflix’s Our Earth, which was playing on the nearby screen. I felt inspired to discover something special on our little hike. That’s just what happened towards the end of our walk around the Leavenworth Ski Hill. In my lifetime, prior to that day, there had been a couple of encounters that I would describe as mystical nature experiences. The first was during my teenage years on an Outward Bound course in the North Cascades. One day on that trip I was sitting alone in the wilderness during a little mini-solo. As I sat pondering my life, I heard a noise behind me. I turned, and not more than twenty feet away was a beautiful mountain goat. I had never seen such a thing before. He looked so fluffy and friendly, wise and potentially dangerous. I couldn’t believe how close he was!! No doubt he could have killed me with those horns, but instead, he went back to munching on the heather. Even back then, my camera and I were inseparable. I was able to take a few quick shots and I have been in love with mountain goats ever since. As my group continued backpacking, goats followed us. One grueling day, we had to climb over multiple steep ridges; we would go up and over, then before starting the next one, turn back exhausted and see a goat staring down at us. The day culminated in one memorable moment when we had crossed the last obstacle and were setting up camp just after dusk. Looking back the way we had come, sure enough, there was a goat, watching over us like a guardian while a Capricorn moon hung in the sky above…Okay, I realize he was just following our trail to replenish his electrolytes, but it really felt like more. And it was just really cool. My second mystical nature experience occurred in Brazil. The last time I was there, Dragos came down with a horrible cold and spent most of our trip bedridden. I was spending the day at our pousada, trying to make sure he got adequate nutrition and attempting to track down a neti pot - that’s a fun one to try and explain to people who don’t speak English and who are not familiar with the concept! Instead, he received a traditional smoke treatment plus some companion acupuncture and auriculotherapy (ear seeds). While Dragos was sleeping, I explored the property and took copious pictures of butterflies. Then, I hit the butterfly jackpot! A Blue Morpho flew over my head. 🦋…Was I hallucinating? Was I dehydrated? Did I have a fever too? It was the biggest, most beautiful flying bug ever and it didn’t look like it could be real. In case you don’t know, the Blue Morpho can have a wingspan up to 8 inches. The tops of their wings are a brilliant blue, the undersides are a dull brown and the combination creates an illusion that the butterfly disappears and reappears with each wing flap. I had my camera in hand and the Blue Morpho is a rather slow flier (Wikipedia rightly describes the Blue Morpho’s flight as floppy) but there was still no time for a picture. I saw him cross the property a few more times and each time I felt transformed into a character from some children’s fantasy book that was being invited into a magical land. There was an undeniable pull and I really wanted to follow him into the jungle. If it weren’t for my sick husband, my dislike of mosquitoes, a fear of snakes, and the possibility of getting eaten by a jaguar, I might have done it. That could have been the last day that anybody ever heard from me. Now back to Leavenworth, where we were slowly making our way in the direction of the car when one last Glacier Lily caught my attention. This one had a visitor, a little bee of some sort. I always enjoy a good bug on my wildflower, so I crouched down to see if the bee would stay put for a photo. Unlike earlier bugs who had insisted on running away from me, this bee was completely oblivious to my presence a mere foot away. She elegantly went about her tasks, offering me an opportunity to observe a stunning example of nature at work. Bees are the main pollinators of the Glacier Lily. I believe this particular bee was a Miner Bee. Instead of building hives, the female Miner Bee is a solitary creature. She builds a nest for her eggs in the ground. This nest usually has around 5 chambers, one room for each egg. She leaves behind a store of pollen for each offspring, to keep them fed until they are ready to emerge from the ground as adults. After burying the egg, she will never see it again, so everything needs to be perfect. Was the bee I found gathering pollen for one of her babies? Clearly, she took her job of pollen collection (and thereby plant pollination) very seriously. She was focused, each move was careful and deliberate. One by one, she moved around each individual anther, wrapping her legs around them like a dancer. She collected the pollen and moved it to her back legs, eventually forming what looked like a pair of pollen pants. There was so much pollen, it was difficult to tell what was part of the bee versus part of the plant. Dragos tried to get my attention, I called over that I was busy while I nestled onto the ground, trying to get comfy.When my bee had finished with the anthers, she crawled further up into the Glacier Lily, to the spot that must hold sweet nectar. She took a good long drink, perhaps also using some of the sticky substance to make sure the pollen was held securely to her legs. Now that her “pants” had been filled to maximum pollen capacity, she crawled up on top of the petals. She paused for a moment and then began to walk around a bit more, in a seemingly ritualistic way. Maybe she was tired and wanted to rest before buzzing off. Perhaps she needed a moment to clean her feet and make sure her pollen pants were tidy. Maybe she wanted to let the lily know she was grateful for providing her with pollen. After spending 5 minutes with this bee, I was feeling super-protective. Do I possess any telepathic abilities? I don’t know, but if there are any hiding inside me, I tried to use them to warn the bee to stay away from plants sprayed with glyphosate. Once I had tried to convey my message, it was time for both me and the bee to move on. I stood up, swept the leaves and pine needles off my pants and headed down the trail to catch up with Dragos. As we eventually drove away, I noticed that the pear orchard adjacent to the ski hill was an organic one. Yay! Maybe my bee would be a little safer. It is one thing to go for a walk outside, but even when we find ourselves among forests and wildflowers it can still be difficult to feel like we are really part of it. Stress is a hard thing to let go of. Long before cancer wrote itself into my life, Dragos and I already had our hands full with too much stress. Now, 8 years later, there is just more. If it is not a medical issue, it’s a work issue, or a family issue. There is always something. We have noticed a demoralizing pattern of coming out of an appointment with my doctors, taking one deep celebratory breath because all my tests came back clear, and then, before we even make it downstairs to the lobby, some kind of phone call or text message will come in and alert us of a new problem in our lives. The magnitude of the problem will vary, but as soon as we undo one knot of stress another inevitably swoops in to take its place. My brief bee experience had a profound effect on me because for those few minutes I was truly enjoying and living in the present, all other cares and distractions were left behind. The rest of the world simply melted away and I was able to witness something beautiful. Such moments are few and far between, so I want to make sure that I take the time to revel in this one! I encourage you all to find your own enchanting bees, magic encounters, and fairytale moments wherever you can. Copyright © 2019 – Emily LaCroix-Axinte
A year and some months ago, I published my first blog post on the benefits of Forest Bathing. Since then, the Japanese practice has continued to pop up just about everywhere. It is the subject of books and articles, as well as flyers inviting the public to take part in dedicated nature walks. Even when people are not talking about it by name, there’s still all kinds of chatter about the healing power of nature. On the personal front, I would consider my forest bathing skill level that of a novice. I need more practice. But Dragos and I have done our best to squeeze in as much tree time as possible. Our forest-centric outings have become something of a superstition for me, especially in the days leading up to an important doctor’s appointment or medical tests. Besides settling my emotions, I believe the trees are bringing me good luck. Since I began bathing in the forest, I have had 12 doctor’s appointments, nine CT scans, two ultrasounds, and one MRI. All with pretty darn good results. My sarcoma is still gone, my breast cancer is still gone, and my scars are all slowly fading. One stormy January weekend, I was staring down a week which would include a vascular ultrasound and an appointment with my surgical oncologist to discuss, among other things, the current state of the blood clots lingering in my lower extremities. I had also just recently learned that my mom (already a two-time breast cancer survivor) had been newly diagnosed with lung cancer. The new year had barely begun, and I wanted to feel hopeful and excited, but so far, I felt mostly unsettled. So, I needed a nature fix to restore my faith in the natural balance of things and I had the perfect spot in mind: an intriguing combination of nature reserve and sculpture garden called Earth Sanctuary that is located an auspicious 100 minutes from Seattle. This labor of love is the masterplan of founder, Chuck Pettis, to restore 72 acres to their former glory. The land has been logged numerous times and as recently as the 1960s. He is working to restore mature old-growth forests, remove invasive species, and see to it that native plants and animals have a home to thrive. The beauty here is not only natural; as a land artist and practicing Tibetan Buddhist, Chuck Pettis has created so much more, infusing the space with works of art to help reinforce the connection between human and earth. These monuments include standing stones circles, a dolmen megalith, a Buddhist stupa, and a labyrinth lined with the native salal shrub. Basically, Earth Sanctuary is a conglomeration of everything that heals, coupled with a lesson in ecology! This place was beckoning to my soul hard, but I had to sell Dragos. Clearly, this was going to be a little different, dare I say “New Age-ie,” from our typical hike through a state park or forest service land. I wanted to ensure Dragos was in the right frame of mind to appreciate it fully. Upon reading the story of Earth Sanctuary and its creator on their website, I realized that he actually sounded strangely reminiscent of Dragos. The two men share a background of entrepreneurship, brand building, love of sustainability, and trusting they can do things that other people might say are crazy. Ever since starting our company, Novo Fogo, and choosing an endangered Brazilian pine for the logo, trees have become central figures in our lives. This tree love reached an all-time high in 2018 as we launched The Un-Endangered Forest program to give back to our Brazilian community and work towards preserving threatened trees in Brazil. Listening to Dragos talk about Novo Fogo, you will probably hear him say that we are building a company that can last 100 years. Inherent in this thinking is the belief that a healthy environment is key to the continued production of delicious cachaça. Chuck Pettis sounds like a kindred spirit, except that he has us beat: he is looking at a 500-year plan to restore the wooded wetlands on his slice of Whidbey Island. Judging from my own experience with the Himalayan Blackberry, it might take a few hundred years just to deal with this one invasive species. In the end, of course, Dragos was ready to go check things out, if only to see me a little less frazzled. I was determined Earth Sanctuary was the perfect place to lift my spirits and reset my energy for 2019, but there was one problem. It was stormy. Unpredictable winds and the fact that our electricity had been out all night and morning (along with 200,000 other Puget Sound Energy customers) made me question if venturing all the way to Whidbey Island was really the smartest things to do. I mean, a big tree could fall on our house while we were away. What if our precious cat, Whiskey, escaped through the resulting hole never to be seen again? Looking out the window, all these things seemed quite possible. It also looked like it was going to start raining any second. We had to try though, right?! We left the cold, dark house and set off to catch the ferry boat that would take us to the island. If rock cairns exist to let people know they are on the correct path, it was clear we had made the right decision upon entering the Earth Sanctuary parking lot. We were literally surrounded by stacks of rocks in every direction. We were also greeted by a chorus of birds, frogs, and tinkling wind chimes. There were Tibetan prayer flags strung between the trees, flapping in the storm’s lingering breeze. At first glance, they appeared to match my overall emotional state of feeling weathered, faded, and worn around the edges. In the case of the prayer flags, this is exactly how you want them to look. It just means they are doing their job. Tibetans first started hanging these types of flags over 1,000 years ago. They combine elements of Buddhism and the indigenous religion of Tibet called Bön. The flags are instilled with good intentions, inscribed with prayers, mantras, and religious symbols so that when they flutter in the wind, prayers are dispersed and able to travel the globe. I wasn’t even out of the parking lot and already I felt like I had been transported to another realm. Where to go first? Towards the dolman, explore the labyrinth maybe, or follow the osprey guardians towards the beaver pond - one of these days I WILL finally see a beaver in the wild! It was difficult to choose, but luckily none of the answers could be wrong. A few yards down the main trail, I encountered a couple of women heading back to their Subaru. They were bundled up in rain gear with just their rosy faces sticking out behind layers of scarves, hats, and jackets. The one closest to me looked over, and with genuine curiosity in her voice, asked if I had been there before. I told her no and she replied: “Ohhhh, it’s wonderful!” Heading down the path we took in all kinds of forest goodness. There was plenty of moss and lichen, two familiar sights in Pacific Northwest forests that always make my eyes happy. There were also lots of cute little, and some not so little, mushrooms hugging tree trunks or tucked into the cracks of long-ago-fallen logs. I don’t think Whidbey Island was hit as hard by the winds as we were a little further south, but there were still plenty of broken branches on the ground along with the aroma of freshly exposed wood. It is such a great smell and I’m thinking that having so many downed pine boughs meant the air was filled with even more beneficial phytoncides than normal, meaning this was extra-effective forest bathing! I was feeling better. There continued to be prayer flags here and there, hanging between the trees. Tibetan prayer wheels provided a more hands-on opportunity to send goodwill out into the universe. These are high-tech prayer wheels, using an internal DVD storage system to hold prayers, based on traditional Buddhist mantras, aimed to bring peace, kindness, and an end of suffering to all Earth’s beings. Each revolution sends out over 1.3 trillion prayers!!! We wandered through the trees never quite knowing what would appear around each corner. It might be a sculpture, a view of the Puget Sound, or a gong that needed ringing. Dragos was responsible for keeping us both from getting lost and would call out various features from the map asking if I wanted to see this or that. The answer was always Sure. Along the way, he discovered the white pine, a tree he had never particularly noticed before, and fell in love with its bushy needles and elongated pine cones. For me, the highlight was Medicine Wheel #1. The wheel, created by Klaw-osht, a Nuu-chan-nulth (Nootka) shaman, is meant to “amplify the power of prayers.” Who knew, but this really was just what I was looking for. I had prayers to go around, for myself, for my family, for the trees, and everything else. I was totally ready to have them amplified. An added bonus is that I got to walk barefoot in the woods!... In January! I removed my shoes and socks and wiggled my toes in the crisp air while reading a laminated card that explained how one should interact with the wheel. I did my best to honor the tradition. Sometimes when I’m troubled, particularly if I am worried about someone else, I think about the relatives and friends who have been lost over the years or the ancestors I never knew. I like to imagine they are all together, looking down on me from somewhere, sending cosmic protection to me and my loved ones. The medicine wheel gave me a unique opportunity to engage with these thoughts in a different context and I felt a tremendous sense of gratitude for their continued presence in my life. Klaw-osht is also responsible for Medicine Wheel #2 that consists of a baby gray whale skull bone. Its location in the park is near a viewpoint looking over the Puget Sound where whales, in fact, like to roam. They might even be out there right now, making their spring migration north to Alaska. This wheel’s purpose is to be a “beacon of song.” Before approaching, a small sign instructed us to sing one of our favorite songs, silently in our head, as an offering to the Baby Whale spirit as it passes by the island. Do baby whales like Macklemore? Hopefully! Never thought we’d get old, maybe we’re still young Maybe we always look back and think it was better than it was Maybe these are the moments Maybe I've been missing what it's about Been scared of the future, thinking about the past While missing out on now We've come so far, I guess I'm proud And I ain't worried about the wrinkles around my smile I've got some scars, I've been around I've felt some pain, I've seen some things, but I'm here now After visiting the Medicine Wheels, walking through stone circles, and filling our lungs with as much forest air as we could inhale, we found a trail called The Middle Path to lead us back towards the main trail and our car. There were a couple of other trail options to choose from, but when the middle path is laid out in front of you, it just seemed foolish to go any other way. The ferns along the path all seemed extra-enlightened. Somehow it did not rain on us more than a few drops at the very end, while we were in the labyrinth and thankfully close to the car. It had turned out to be a pretty wonderful day for a forest walk. We were not quite ready to leave the island just yet and decided to stop for a glass of wine at one of Whidbey’s many wineries and tasting rooms. When it was finally time to head back and catch the ferry to the mainland, we checked our home security system and saw that the electricity had been restored! Yay! We could also see our precious furball was safe and sleeping peacefully. When I finally returned home to our warm and well-lit house, I felt like a different person than when I had left in the morning. If you are ever in need of your own energy reset or just want to experience some darn fine forest bathing, I highly recommend this place. If you do go, consider loading your pockets up with some of the following items: lighter, tobacco, sage sprigs, pretty stones and/or other small objects; you will understand once you get there. I can’t wait to go back myself and soak up the feeling of a spring day at Earth Sanctuary. The first wildflowers of the season should be starting to show themselves, adding to the beauty. I also kind of wish I had a time machine and could travel forward to check out how it looks 500 years from now! Have the alders been replaced by conifers? What new species of lichen are clinging to tree branches? Did they manage to vanquish all the blackberries? Through all these rollercoasters of emotion, my time with the trees has surely been a most helpful coping mechanism. Since this new year got started, it feels like many things are in a state of upheaval. As a couple more months have rolled by, things seem to be slowly sorting themselves out. Maybe there is some hope for 2019 after all?! The best news is that my mom is a total trooper. She is halfway through her chemotherapy treatment now and is doing really well! As for me, I am once again staring down a week that includes a check-in with my surgical oncologist and a slew of medical imaging to make sure no sneaky cancer cells are setting up camp anywhere. Sounds like it is time for more forest bathing!!! P.S. I would like to add that I am super thankful that I have such an understanding husband and that we can each explore our own love affair with trees while walking hand in hand through the forest. Copyright © 2019 – Emily LaCroix-Axinte
Life is full of surprises. One such surprise came my way as I sat, emotionally unraveling in a Seattle emergency waiting room, a mere three hours after being discharged from 8 days in the hospital, questioning if my bladder was going to hold it together. I’d been experiencing major stress with my catheter that did not appear to be draining properly and, at the same time, the powerful diuretic I had taken a couple of hours before was no doubt sending a copious amount of fluid to my bladder. I felt like a ticking time bomb, except that I actually couldn’t feel anything because of the probable nerve damage that may have happened as an unintended consequence of surgery. Help was being stalled by the ER’s triage team, who assessed my problem to be much less significant than what I was experiencing in my head. Then, unexpectedly, the set of double doors that had been barricading me from medical attention for the past hour began to part. There were still a couple of people in line ahead of me, so I didn’t expect anyone to be looking for me yet, but there they were: my surgical oncologist, Dr. Teresa Kim, and her chief medical resident, Dr. Morgan Richards, both of whom had visited me every day for the last week and intimately knew all my medical ins and outs. I was saved! I saw Morgan, the chief resident first. With her tall stature, blond hair, and flowing lab coat, I initially mistook her for an angel sent from heaven. But, next to her was Dr. Kim! My surgeon was looking as freshly put together as when I had been talking to her from my hospital bed that morning, some 14 hours earlier. She looked at me and, with a sympathetic shoulder shrug, said, “You’re here?!” I whispered back, “I’m here.” Dr. Kim and her team were moonlighting in the ER that night because of a patient who had gotten into trouble and would most likely be needing surgery. While walking around the Emergency Department, they happened to notice my name on a board and came out to see what was up. Dragos and I filled them in on what was happening (or not happening) and watched with subdued glee as they immediately took charge of the situation. It sounded like I was suffering from a blocked catheter. It needed to be flushed, an easy, simple fix. They would take care of it right away. The night had taken a sudden turn from despair to hopefulness. It was even a little entertaining, now that I was assured I would live. Dr. Kim began to escort me back, commenting on my cute panda slippers. She gave directions to the staff and told them what she needed, mainly somewhere to work that had a little privacy. All official emergency department admitting procedures were thrown out the window. It was exciting! Apparently there is one area that is never used: the dental room!? Who knew?! Now it was mine and I settled into the dental chair while my doctors hunted down supplies, things not usually stocked in a dental office. I just kept thinking, Wow; they are so overqualified for what they are about to do to me. To further lighten the mood, Morgan poked fun at Dragos and his notetaking prowess as she looked over the spreadsheets he had brought in with him, detailing my medication schedule and fluid intake. (Dragos is an excellent taker of medical notes, something you would surely know if you were either one of my many doctors or one of our cat’s many veterinarians.) She also gave us some helpful tips on what else to keep track of and what to do if we encountered future blockages. Since entering the dental room, my status had morphed from downtrodden-waiting-room person into that of a Very Important Patient. People were popping in to introduce themselves, to see if there was anything they could do to make me more comfortable; they even offered to repark our car, which we had unintentionally left in the path of some incoming ambulances. Oops! I also used this time to swap out my ugly compression sock for a much more stylish pair. This made me feel slightly more human. While waiting, Dr. Kim turned toward me and remarked that I was a “patient patient.” At the time I felt like a high-maintenance, emotional mess that may or may not be overreacting to every little bodily anomaly. So the fact that she would make such a comment seemed incredibly kind. She thought my behavior was understandable and validated that I had some legitimate reasons to be freaking out. This actually made me feel a little bit better. I already had the utmost of respect for her, but the fact that she somehow was there and able to come through for me at such a surreal moment in my life, made me appreciate her all the more. The flushing procedure did the trick, and with all my fears set aside, for the time being, Dragos and I went home. We were exhausted, and sleep could not come fast enough. With it, I finally found a small snippet of peace, dreaming of a world free of urinary distress. My cat, Whiskey, was there and in an uncharacteristic moment of sentimental attachment (he must have been happy to have me home after enduring his first ever week away from his parents), spent the entire night curled up on my legs. Many months later, a different kind of surprise came in the form of a WhatsApp message from South America, while we were hiking in the mountains near Mount Baker, miles and miles away from any cellular coverage. It was a note from our friend, Fulgencio Torres Viruel, who was in the midst of an Andean road trip from Brazil to Chile with his wife Gisele. The high mountain terrain we were enjoying prompted Dragos to check in with them and make sure they were alright. After all, it was winter in the Southern Hemisphere and crossing the Andes by car sounded kind of dangerous. On our side, we were venturing along the Artist Ridge Trail, a short footpath starting at the end of the Mount Baker Highway. At just over 5,000 feet in elevation, we felt like we were on top of the world. As it turns out, Torres and Gisele were thousands of feet higher and had just reached the Atacama Desert! The two of them were rubbing elbows with pink flamingos and vicuñas (the alpine-dwelling, wild ancestor of the alpaca). They totally had us beat on coolness factor, but that’s okay. Mount Baker had plenty of personality going on. I mean, where else would you overhear pointers for home-making kombucha while walking down the trail? At Mount Baker, the ground is only snow-free for a short window between July and September. We were there in early August and there were still large drifts of snow surrounding the parking lot. Summertime sledding anyone? Before finding the actual trail, we had to work our way through giddy hordes of people armed with toboggans and dodge occasional snowball fire. Those visitors who were not there to play in the snow perched themselves on exposed rocks, taking in the view like curious marmots. No doubt all of this human activity has taken a toll on the wildflower population. There were plenty, but not as many as I would have expected or remembered from previous visits. Despite this, one particular type seemed eager to join in the fun: the Monkeyflower. Monkeyflowers were named thus by the early explorers and botanists who thought their flowers resembled the comical, smiling face of a monkey. If you squeeze the base of the flower, this resemblance is said to intensify. We saw a small, yellow, low-growing variety called Mountain Monkeyflower and a taller, very pink variety called Lewis’ Monkeyflower. Hairs on the lower petals attract bees and other pollinators, because who can resist touching something soft and fuzzy?! Beyond the end of the trail, Dragos and I found our own private boulder to sit on, marmot-like. On our left was Mount Shuksan, toward our right Mount Baker, and sandwiched in between was all the goodness that is the North Cascades. I think there is something inherent in these particular mountains that make people feel strong and empowered. These jagged peaks are sentimental to me. I have loved them ever since I spent three weeks backpacking through them on an Outward Bound course when I was 16 years old. This is the place where I tested my strength for the first time and actually learned that I possessed such a thing. It also happens to be where I learned some rather interesting and unorthodox bathroom practices. I had told Dragos about these things before, but my retelling was much more impactful when set in the proper environmental context. I guess I’m glad I can still horrify him a little bit, even after all the caretaking that he endured during this whole leiomyosarcoma business! When we were done with the Artist Ridge Trail, we headed back down the road to Heather Meadows. After all the crowds up top, we relished the relative solitude along the Fire & Ice Trail. We literally passed only one other person and a single bird. Dragos decided it was a good time for a nap and curled up on a wooden bench. I took to one of the flowing rivulets of water tumbling down the mountainside and found a seat wedged between a couple large boulders. My aim was to sit and contemplate my life, but in truth, it was just too relaxing to think about much else besides how amazing this little creek was and the moment at large: blue skies filled with sunshine, cold, flowing water, and beautiful rocks with little clumps of flowering Alpine Willowherb and Dotted Saxifrage tucked in here and there. As I dipped my hand in the crystal-clear water and took some deep breaths, it was entirely possible that I was touching water (or inhaling oxygen?) that had once flowed through the veins of a dinosaur, millions of years ago; at least that is what one of the interpretive signs told me. I don’t remember exactly, but it sounded awesome. And a little exhilarating. 🦖🦖🦖There was another thing that was truly miraculous about Mount Baker on this day. There were hardly any mosquitos! I don’t know how this happened, but it was GREAT. There were a few flies, other random bugs, and lots of bees, but no mosquitos. It was delightful to be able to take in this natural high without feeling like I was being devoured by the pesky creatures! Thinking about the sweet sound of this babbling stream in the subalpine wilderness takes me back to my whole bladder situation. How did it resolve itself?... Well, my brief tidbit of peace quickly dissolved the following morning when Dragos and I found plenty of reasons to start freaking out all over again. Left to fend for ourselves at home, the simple system of the urinary catheter seemed anything but simple. I wish I could say that the previous night had been my only trip to the ER, but I was back two days later. Additional incidents lead to late night calls to nurse hotlines seeking medical guidance. The Urology team had said that my bladder needed an extended vacation but talk about a sucky vacation! My bladder did not enjoy one second of it. Finally, a week after returning home, Dragos was able to wrangle an appointment with a urology nurse at the University of Washington Medical Center. The plan was to assess my bladder function with something called a void test. Expecting it would fail, the nurse would then teach me how to self-catheterize. There are no words to describe how much I was dreading this education, but at least it represented some kind of forward progress in a situation that was proving unbearable. There were no other options, but then I experienced the best surprise of all. As the nurse proceeded to fill me up with the saline solution, I could feel my bladder getting full, a sensation I had not felt for the previous two weeks. The method in which it was happening felt a little bit bizarre, and the liquid was chilly, but despite all that, it felt normal!!!!!!!!!! The next step was for me to go to the bathroom down the hall and see if I could void sufficiently. I am so happy to report that I aced that test like a pro. The whole thing was completely anticlimactic in the most beautiful way imaginable. Whatever my problem had been, it wasn’t permanent nerve damage. Personally, I believe the anti-nausea medication had been the culprit all along (Emily + scopolamine patch = never again). The nurse sent me on my way, so we adjourned to the lobby and began sending joyful text messages to all the family saying, “I can pee!!!” Life moved on and I decided to start writing this blog. My first Wildflower Therapy post featured a picture of an itty-bitty rock cairn standing guard over a couple mini mushrooms; more greeted me atop Mount Baker. A cairn may serve a variety of purposes, but my favorite definition pertaining to these stacks of stones comes from an outdoor-loving jewelry company named Tarma. They explain a cairn as: “a marker that guides you through uncertain areas. To some, it represents the balance and path of life. To others, the stacked rocks look like steps on a path. We think it is a little of both of those, and more.” I have survived the lows of cancer with all its complications and have gone on to walk glorious mountain ridges and meander subalpine meadows. It is a process and a struggle, but I am finding my way indeed. Copyright © 2019 – Emily LaCroix-Axinte
Wildflowers may be synonymous with springtime, but the colorful goodness doesn’t stop there. If you are lucky, you live next to some mountains where the most delightful flowers have to wait out last winter’s snow before making a late summer appearance. Hooray for subalpine meadows! Really, as soon as I start seeing any wildflowers, I start counting down the months before I can make a trip to higher elevations where there’ll be paintbrushes, heathers, lupines, lilies galore and funky figworts. Every color of the rainbow is represented. Although there are many places in the state of Washington to see subalpine flowers, the one that rises to the top is Mount Rainier, and a little place on this mountain that is called Paradise. Wandering through such a beautiful landscape goes straight to my head, resulting in a rush of excitement and giddiness. With such a high, it seems like the appropriate counter-balance to continue talking about my lowest low. All of these wildflower therapy posts add up to one big story and this is the rocky bottom. So, I will share some of that mountain splendor while I regale you with the lowest part of my leiomyosarcoma saga... When I left you last, I was still in the hospital wondering what I should do about my bladder situation. There were two options.
I hated them both! This whole bladder issue was terrifying me. Does anyone know of a phobia surrounding urinary catheters? I’m certain I have it. I blame television commercials for medical supplies, but that would be way too long of a tangent to try and explain. Initially, I entertained option 2. The way everyone was talking, I was going to have to learn the whole self-cathing thing eventually. It made sense to learn this skill in the hospital, where I had ready access to professional guidance. But I was sore, swollen, and petrified. I just didn’t think I could actually do it. When the doctors left the room, the nurses became our sounding board as Dragos and I asked for their opinions. They tried to make self-catheterization sound like no big deal. How hard could it be if their Grandma did it? Someone brought in a sample catheter to show me what it looked like. It was huge! No way!... Ok, it was totally the wrong device, but it was all she could find in the supply closet. I think it should have stayed there. It was incredibly clear that all this was freaking me out, immensely. My nurses began suggesting that maybe I should just simply focus on healing and not burden myself with the pressure of learning something new. The current catheter was familiar, and hopefully, after I had had another week to recuperate, things wouldn’t seem so impossible. So that was that. I started making preparations to be discharged from the hospital, with my trusty bag of urine in hand. Oh, Joy. The clover may be a symbol of good luck. But finding one with four leaves is a challenge. The plant grows in all sorts of places, over much of the globe, but there are none to be found on the 7thfloor of the University of Washington Medical Center. I mentioned before that all of my nurses were wonderful, but that luck ran out the morning I was to be discharged. The young woman in charge of the process did nothing but stress me out and make me anxious. Despite the fact that we had been talking about practically nothing besides catheters for the past couple of days, faced with being home, it suddenly felt like Dragos and I knew nothing. Is it possible for a catheter to have a personality? I would say yes. I was on my third one of this whole ordeal and it was a finicky little monster. This was okay as long as I was surrounded by medical professionals 24 hours a day, but we were worried about how to keep things flowing smoothly at home. This new nurse was not interested in listening to our concerns, much less answering any questions. She thought we were just being difficult and taking up too much time. After all, we were basically talking about a plastic tube that only required some simple gravity to function properly. How hard could that be? Previous nurses had told us that the hospital would supply us with ample supplies to get me by to my next appointment, but she was barely willing to give me a band-aid! To top it all off, she was super snappy with the lovely assistant who was radiating tenderness and was actually trying to help me out. So, although I felt fairly unprepared to go home, the morning could not go by fast enough. I wanted out! I had imagined the elation I would feel when it was finally time to leave the hospital, but despite a successful cancer removal (which I had all but forgotten about at this point), nothing about this felt triumphant. To the contrary, it felt like I had been sentenced to carry with me my very own black raincloud. Only instead of water, it was filled with urine. When I finally made it back to my own house, I felt numb. I just wanted to wallow for a while without thinking about anything. Since my surgery had been scheduled in December, I had ordered a small Christmas tree to be delivered about the time I expected to return home, so at least there would be a little Christmas cheer. While Dragos set about trying to get things organized, I decorated the little tree. After some time had passed, he came to check in on me and realized that my bag was awfully empty. In fact, it had not changed much since leaving my room at the hospital. Uhmmm, there is one more thing that adds heightened drama to this whole situation. Diuretics! I was taking a nice big dose of something called “Lasix” (otherwise known as: take this pill and you will be peeing for the next six hours) in the hopes of shedding that extra fluid my body had accumulated during surgery. The drug was effective and worked like clockwork, or like a faucet turning on and off. I had taken the pill about 45 minutes prior; my faucet should definitely be turned on so why were we looking at a bag with just a few measly drops?!?!?! It did not take long for panic to set in. Something, somewhere was wrong. Within a couple of minutes, it became obvious that I had to go back to the hospital, a mere three hours after having made my escape! Thus, begins the story of my second trip to the emergency room… but which ER should we go to? I was a girl between two hospitals. There was a perfectly good, clean and shiny hospital about 15 minutes away in Issaquah (this is Swedish Hospital, where the doctors first came across the leiomyosarcoma that had caused this whole mess) or we could take the 40-minute trip back to Seattle and the University of Washington, where they had full access to all my information. Dragos and I hopped in the car and started heading somewhere, discussing our destination on the way. We knew that we would likely get faster help if we went to Swedish, but everything about my situation and medical history was complicated and it would be difficult to bring them up to speed. We decided to drive to Seattle. With the decision made, we spent the next two hours second guessing it. While being the state’s top hospital, the UWMC is not what anyone would describe as clean and shiny. Of course, neither was I. I had barely transitioned out of wearing hospital gowns. I arrived in a thrown-together ensemble that consisted of a skirt, an oversized sweater, one hospital issue compression stocking (what happened to the other one? I don’t know) and panda slippers. The whole atrocious look was tied together with a bathrobe that I was pretending was a jacket, because it was freezing outside. The Emergency Department was nothing like I was expecting. The waiting room was little more than a hole in the wall due to a remodeling project. There was one woman working the reception desk, about 4 people waiting to be seen, and one man behind a curtain doing triage. Things were moving very slowly. My problem and I were not drawing much attention. Every passing second seemed one moment closer to a looming catastrophe, giving my mind more time to contemplate what was happening inside my bladder. I knew its walls had already been pushed beyond a comfortable limit a few days before. The more times something like that happens, the more problematic the long-term prospects. My prayers for a return to normal bladder function were slipping away with each minute that passed waiting. After 39 years of life and two (or three, depending on how you look at it) cancer diagnoses, there is no doubt that this was the lowest, most hopeless moment of my life. Perhaps I was being a little dramatic. I don’t know. But, it was truly the only time I felt like I had no future. Can you die from a ruptured bladder? I think it’s possible and that is where my thoughts were leading me. Glances towards Dragos revealed he was not doing much better than me. He’s not one to sit and wait for things to happen, but at the mercy of a first come first serve policy (unless you are exhibiting signs of a heart attack), there was nothing he could do. We each sat quietly in our private torment, lacking any words that could improve the situation. There have been multiple occasions in my life where I have felt like the universe both curses and blesses me in the same breath. This was about to become one of those times. I was literally sitting there waiting for my bladder to burst, wondering if I would be able to see a doctor before it happened when something extraordinary happened… Okay, now let’s shift back to Mount Rainier. On a much happier and less hellish day than the one I just described, I went to Paradise. When I’m there, Dragos can’t park the car fast enough. I can’t wait to start looking around and see what’s blooming. The mountain isn’t bad to gaze at either! Between the area we wind up parking in and the visitor center there is a native plant walk. This is the place to keep your eyes open for the Slender Bog Orchid and Mountain Bog Gentian. There is one problem with Paradise on a beautiful summer day. It is packed with people and their cars! In order to avoid some of the crowd and keep the walking mellow, we took to the Nisqually Vista Trail. Short and sweet with wildflowers aplenty, this trail has magnificent views looking up towards what remains of the Nisqually glacier. Subalpine wildflowers are impossible to ignore. The colors are impossible to miss like the reds and pinks of Paintbrush, which is also Dragos’ favorite wildflower. Paintbrush comprises a group of over 200 species that grow along the entire western coast of the Americas, from Alaska to the Andes. I can’t say that this plant looks particularly tasty, but apparently, the flowers make a healthful salad topper! Where do the leaves end and the flowers begin? I’m not exactly sure. But if you eat the wrong part, you may overdose on selenium, which the plant absorbs from the soil. In low doses, selenium is a powerful antioxidant, but too much can lead to toxicity. Perhaps it’s safer to leave it for the hoary marmots to nibble on instead. Maybe the most medicinal of subalpine plants is Sitka Valerian. You can recognize the flowers by their sweet scent (or by the odor of dirty socks depending on how your nose works.) The roots are said to help calm a troubled mind and while all species of valerian may have this superpower, some herbalists believe that the high elevation variety will give you an added energetic bonus. Because they survive in a harsh environment, they will transfer some of their montane hardiness as well. It’s a lovely thought. I sure could have used such a concoction when I was sitting in the UWMC emergency waiting room last December. To be continued… Copyright © 2018 – Emily LaCroix-Axinte
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