PLS PASS ON

I recently received a forwarded video in my e-mail from a well-meaning relative, with this impassioned request:

My LADY FRIENDS............PLS WATCH THIS VIDEO
IT IS IMPORTANT TO ALL OF US AS WOMAN
BREAST CANCER-RARELY HEARD OF !!!!!!!!!!!!
PLS PASS ON......................PLS !!!!!!

I watched the video – about inflammatory breast cancer – and agree that it is important information for women to have. But I felt like writing back, “What about me? I’m a woman and I’ve never smoked, but I have lung cancer.” I guess if anyone is going to bring lung cancer to the attention of the public, it will be those of us who are touched by it. There are two things that get in the way… the stigma of smoking, and the fact that there are so few lung cancer survivors.

I never thought I would get cancer. Heart disease has taken most of the women in my family. But if I did get cancer, I thought it would be breast cancer. (One of my aunts is a breast cancer survivor.) I dutifully scheduled yearly mammograms. The idea of having a breast removed was scary to me… I couldn’t imagine anything worse than being disfigured like that. Now I wish I were a breast cancer patient. I would at least have a fighting chance to become a survivor, with or without a breast. With advanced lung cancer I have virtually no chance at all. Here are some hard facts comparing lung cancer with breast cancer, and important information about the second leading cause of lung cancer… Radon. I have no way of knowing if exposure to radon caused my lung cancer, but there were no other risk factors.

• Only 16 percent of lung cancer patients are diagnosed before their disease has spread to other parts of their bodies, (e.g., regional lymph nodes and beyond), compared to more than 50 percent of breast cancer patients

• Roughly 84 percent of people diagnosed with lung cancer die within five years of their diagnosis, compared to 11 percent of breast cancer

• Lung cancer will kill nearly twice as many women this year as breast cancer.

• Less money is spent on lung cancer research than on research on other cancers. In 2006, the National Cancer Institute estimated it spent only $1,638 per lung cancer death compared to $13,519 per breast cancer

• 10-15% of new lung cancer cases have never smoked.

• Radon is the second leading cause of lung cancer after smoking, and the number one cause of lung cancer in non-smokers.

• Globally, the World Health Organization estimates that up to 15% of lung cancers worldwide are due to radon exposure. 1 in 15 homes in the US is estimated to have an elevated radon level

What Is Radon?

"Radon is an odorless, colorless gas that is released from the normal decay of uranium in the soil. Radon can enter homes through cracks in the foundation, floors, and walls, through openings around sump pumps and drains, and through gaps around pipes. Radon may also be present in the water supply in homes that have well water.

You can hire someone to test your home for radon, but simple test kits under $20 are available at most hardware stores. These kits are usually placed in the lowest living area in the home and left in place for a few days. The kit is then sent to the manufacturer who returns a report with a radon level." (About.Com)

PLS PASS ON

Becoming a Memory

I lived in Corvallis, Oregon for twenty-six years. My son Jeff still lives there and keeps me updated on what is happening. Yesterday he e-mailed me this: “Looks like Richey's Market might be a memory. They're re-developing all of 9th and Circle Blvd. …Rumor has it that Richey's might close. What a sad day...”

Richey’s Market (part of the 9th and Circle complex) is one of those rare things nowadays, a local business. I don’t know when they first opened in Corvallis, but I know I shopped at Richey’s as the new wife of an OSU college student back in 1960. The town hadn’t grown out to Ninth Street yet, and the original Richey’s Market was located in the heart of town on Fifth Street, within easy walk of the campus. I remember a lunch counter there, where coffee was only 5-cents a cup. I bought my first ever fresh scallops there and have loved scallops ever since. Richey’s has been the sponsor for the local baseball team forever. That’s what local businesses do. They become important members of the community.

The Ninth Street developer has bigger ideas. He has approached some national chain grocers like Whole Foods Markets, but their response is that Corvallis is too small. Trader Joe’s won’t touch a customer base under 100,000! Corvallis has just been chosen by Sunset Magazine as one of the twenty best small towns in the United States. Maybe it is time to appreciate what has helped to make Corvallis one of the best small towns… local businesses like Richey’s Market.

Just by chance I came across a website that described the Greyhound Bus station in Corvallis as a “Vintage Bus Station.” I admit that I am caught off-guard when things that are familiar to me are called vintage. The website describes the bus station: “Straight from the heyday of bus travel, the station in Corvallis still sports its vintage neon sign from yesteryear. Bus travel hit its high point in the 1940's after the world war. This location stood the test of time and still serves the same function that it did in the Golden Years of travel on Highway 99W.” The Golden Years? Egad! Am I still alive? I know that bus station intimately. I’ve sat in the waiting area on vinyl and aluminum chairs, waiting for the bus to come and take me home for Thanksgiving when I was a college student. I’ve waited there for the arrival of a visiting relative. I’ve waved goodbye as the bus pulls away. I’ve gone to the station on Christmas Eve to pick up just-in-time Christmas presents that have come by bus.

As I think about it, the Greyhound Bus was an integral part of our lives when I was growing up… it was especially important in rural areas. As a kid I always looked forward to spending a couple of weeks in the summer with my favorite aunt and family who lived in the small mill town of Cottage Grove. On departure day Mom would walk me down to the Sutherlin bus stop. I don’t remember there being an actual station. Often it was just in front of a coffee shop or service station. I watched as the bus driver put my suitcase in the luggage compartment under the bus, handing me a receipt. I could feel butterflies in my stomach at the prospect of going somewhere all by myself. But there was excitement too as the bus picked up speed. It felt like I was embarking on a big adventure as we traveled north on old Highway 99, stopping at every little town along the way; Oakland, Yoncalla, Drain, and finally Cottage Grove where my aunt met the bus. I guess that was the heyday of bus travel... and a long ago memory for people like me.

... P. L. Morningstar

Adventures and Reality

From the Journal...

I have always had romantic images of vast desert sand dunes; blowing, shifting emptiness; the wind’s path written in ripples and ridges across the ever-changing landscape. I can see laden camels, their ungainly gait somehow made regal in their slow processional across the desert… silhouettes on a golden sunset sky. The kind of thing I’ve seen in movies such as ”Lawrence of Arabia.” Now here I am… sitting atop a plodding camel; a big straw hat covers my head, protecting my pale skin from the sun, like proper Victorian lady travelers a century ago. Or perhaps the British adventuress Gertrude Bell, a solitary woman who explored and charted a great swath of Arabia. She rode camels with the Bedouin in the Arabian desert and dined on sheep's eyes with tribal sheikhs.

So much for the romantic version. We have traveled by camel for two days now to reach the Sam Sand Dunes. After the sensory-overload of Jaipur, Jodhpur, and Delhi, I have welcomed the relative emptiness and peacefulness of the desert. I thought the Sam Sand Dunes would be the same. But at the end of a long, hot day, when we arrive at the dunes, we find tourists! Many Indian tourists on Diwali holiday. They have come by Jeep and bus to see the dunes at sunset. There is a Disneyland atmosphere with concession tents, camel rides, postcards, and a snake charmer… the whole bit! They have trampled all over the dunes. It is quite disappointing. Somewhat like climbing a difficult mountain for two days, only to find a four-lane highway and a tourist viewpoint on top! Unbeknownst to us, there is a road from Jaisalmer to the Sam Sand Dunes… a 27- mile road… and tourists are routinely brought out here for the sunsets, which are spectacular. The good news is that they all leave when the sun drops below the horizon, allowing the dunes to return to the quiet of night.

We bed down in the sheltered depression of a dune. The sand is still warm, and soft. I quickly fall to sleep. At 5 am I wake up needing to go to the bathroom. The starlight is bright and I decide I don’t need the flashlight. I set off, wearing only my panties and a top. I walk only a short distance, but when I try to return I discover it isn’t as easy as I thought. Everything looks the same – one bump in the sand is like any other - there are no landmarks. I walk in the direction I think our pallet is located, but see nothing. I walk the other way. I still can’t find the pallet. Now I am beginning to wonder if I should sit down on the sand dune and wait for daylight. What a sight that would make, clad in my panties, holding a roll of toilet paper. Thankfully it brightens a bit more and I am greatly relieved when I spot our pallet a short ways off from where I stand.

I don’t go back to sleep. I watch as the sky turns a golden pink. I reach for my camera and begin taking pictures. As the dunes are bathed in early light, I see movement... heads appearing over the top of the dunes. Oh no. Tourists have been brought out for the sunrise too. I have very little privacy now for dressing and am thankful I went to the bathroom in the 5 am darkness. And oh so glad I found my way back. I could have been the subject of “You’ll never believe what I saw” photos. I’ll bet Gertrude Bell didn’t have that problem. ...PLM

Jaisalmer Fort at sunset

Desert Nomads and Safari Chicken

From the Journal...

We wake in time to see the sunrise, but the others are already up. Eggs, toast and marmalade are brought to us, along with some delicious tea. Before starting out for the day, we walk over to the small Rajput village with Matar. The houses are made of sandstone; the shelter for the goats is covered with brush. The villagers come out to meet us. We stand head and shoulders over them as curiously they encircle us. Like a flock of brightly colored butterflies the women and girls pose for me with their burgundy and gold saris draped over shoulders and covering their heads. They are adorned with nose rings, earrings, arm bangles, toe rings, and a headdress made of beads that Matar says denotes them as Rajput Hindi. One girl balances a brass water jug on her head. Then the grouping of males… young boys in faded indigo cotton, two men wearing saffron colored turbans. They are all very thin. The desert is a hard place to live. There has been a drought for the last four years, raining only about once a year. We were told that it had last rained on August 11, at 6:30 pm for two hours.

We leave the village and mount our camels for another day’s ride. Matar begins to sing, a very long song with many verses. It tells the story of a Pakastani girl that is smuggled or kidnapped and brought here to the desert. I think of the camel caravans laden with silks and spices… moving across the desert so many centuries ago. Did they sing their stories to while away the time, adding verses as they went along?

We come to our mid-day rest near the Kanoi village well. A few trees provide shade. From their sandstone huts on top of a hill, a group of women walk to the well. They fill earthenware or brass jugs with the precious water and carry it back to their village, the jugs perfectly balanced on their heads. Desert nomads are camped nearby and they too come to the well. Small boys herd black goats that wear tinkling bells around their necks. Soon there are few people in sight. The animals have sought shelter under the trees as we have. It is over 100 degrees.

After a short nap, we wake to find the little black goats all around us, vainly trying to find even a small nibble of vegetation. Under another tree the rest of our party sits, laughing and having a good time with a group of the nomad women… there are about six of them and they break into a wild and wonderful nomadic song. Matar points out one of the girls and says she is to be married in ten days. She is 15 years old. Girls of the nomad tribes choose their own husbands. They can also divorce them. These nomads are the original (primitive) Indians and speak only Rajasthani. They acknowledge no government or justice but their own. They live in lean-to-tents and in the open. They only herd goats and what money they acquire goes for jewelry to adorn themselves (it is wealth that can be carried from place to place).

We ride to the nomad’s camp. Matar dismounts and walks over to the headman. He begins to negotiate for a live chicken, a scrawny little white-feathered hen that squawks loudly in protest. At the end of the negotiations and for the sum of 30 Rupees, the hen comes with us… destined to become chicken dinner.

Note: “Safari Chicken” was with us for several days before becoming the main ingredient in our chicken curry. Each time we would stop, she would get tied to a bush with a little piece of twine around one leg. She happily pecked away at bits of grass and insects, little knowing what was in store for her.

To be continued…

Riding Sacinia

Both Bob and I were under the weather on Saturday… Bob has a chest cold and bad cough – I’m still dealing with Tarceva side effects. To get my mind off my ailments, I continued to go through my box of travel journals, reading choice bits aloud to Bob, like the saga of “Safari Chicken.” Fortunately he doesn’t mind that most of those old journeys were with my ex-husband. The journal I was reading was a trip to India that took place in October 1987. We started out in a houseboat on Dal Lake in Kashmir, and ended up riding camels for four days in the Thar Desert of northwestern India. The Thar Desert lies mostly in the Indian state of Rajasthan, and then extends into Pakistan. We arrived by way of a steam-driven locomotive... a 10-hour overnight train ride from Jodhpur to Jaisalmer, a remote medieval walled city that sits on one of the ancient silk roads in the heart of the desert. Here are a few entries from that India Travel Journal.

From the Journal...

The best part of our first day on the camel safari is right now… reclining on a Rajasthani blanket with a tray of hot tea, four men sitting around a campfire cooking dinner for us, and a desert sky filled with stars. When we say we are sore, one of the men says he is a masseur and proceeds to massage and rub out all those tired, aching muscles that have resulted from a day of camel riding. I could enjoy this life if I could ever get into synch with my trotting camel. All I seem to be able to do is go up when he comes down and come down when he goes up!

Our adventure began at 7:30 this morning when we met the group of men who would see to our needs in the Thar Desert for four days. There are only the two of us, but for 350 Rupees per day per person ($7.00 U.S.), we are provided with two camels and two camel drivers for ourselves, a camel and camel cart for food, cooking utensils, camel feed and lots of beverages. Also two men to drive the camel cart and set up camp prior to our arrival. My camel driver is a handsome young man of twenty, named Matar. He is Muslim and wears the loose white pants and tunic typical of desert Muslims. On his head he wears a billed baseball cap that says, “In Alaska you don’t tan – you rust.” He has gotten it from another tourist. My camel’s name is Sacinia and he stands eight to nine feet high… he is huge, but a little on the lame side… he rarely trots far before slowing down, sometimes almost coming to a standstill.

Important question - How do you get on a camel? With the camel sitting on the ground, I straddle the saddle and put my feet into the stirrups. Then Matar gets on (in front of me), takes the reins and commands the camel to rise. First Sacinia raises himself by his hind legs, sending us lurching forward – then his front legs stand up, and there we are, high above the ground with me wondering what I have gotten myself into. But I hang on to the saddle horn, and try to relax. It is a long and hot day visiting 16th Century Bada Bagh, a Jain Temple, and watching a flock of peacocks and several antelopes race across the desert landscape. Our first night halt is near a Rajput village called Kherderon Kidhani. It is a poor village of goat herders, using only kerosene and candles for lighting. They eat early and go to bed early to conserve on these precious items. The village is already dark by the time we arrive at camp.

This is Diwali, a major Hindu holiday. It is also called the “Festival of Lights,” with oil lamps, candles, and colorful strings of lights traditionally brightening the night… and fireworks. Jay purchased some fireworks in Jaisalmer and now gives them to the men. They are as excited as children, lighting firecrackers, throwing them down and jumping back… and they love the sparklers. The oldest man has a rocket and keeps trying to light it with a burning ember from the campfire, but it won’t light. Jay finally takes a look and discovers the man is trying to light the wrong end!

Matar prepares our bed on the sand away from the others. A pad, clean sheets and pillows, and a warm comforter in case the desert night grows cold. They all wish us good night and then return to their campfire to drink and visit. They have homemade whiskey that they made from millet distilled in copper pots. I tried some and it was not bad… very mild for whiskey. Jay and I crawl into bed, lying on our backs and filling our eyes with more stars than I have seen in a lifetime. It is a moonless night and we can clearly see the Milky Way, planets and occasionally a shooting star. I drift off to sleep with the sound of men’s voices and their laughter around the campfire. Tomorrow is another day. I hope my camel and I can work out some harmony.

To be continued…

Ghost From the Past

A friend just sent me an e-mail saying, “Next time you are in the bookstore.... look for the March 2009 issue of Sunset magazine....it says 20 BEST TOWNS in bright yellow on the cover. Corvallis is listed on page 67 and I think you might recognize the house.” Well, we couldn’t wait to get to a bookstore, so we found the March issue online. Like a ghost from the past, there in the pages of the Sunset Magazine is the house that I lived in for many years… restoring it, getting it placed on the National Register of Historic Places, and developing the period gardens. It’s nice to know that I leave behind an elegant old lady still capable of getting all the attention.

... P. L. Morningstar

Found... my photos!

Camp Leakey, Tanjung Puting National Park, Borneo, 1990

Morningstar and Mr. Uki

Dr. Birute Galdikas

Adik, adult male

Supinah with infant, Sidydy - hanging out in the trees

(Photos by P. L. Morningstar)

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Chasing Orangutans - Part II

From the Journal
August 1990

After dinner we prepare for the next day. We bring water bottles to the dining hall to be filled with boiled water. We’re asked how many hardboiled eggs we would like, one or two. Only “following teams” get eggs because we have to leave before breakfast. We set our wristwatch alarms for 4:30 am. We are to meet Mr. Uki at 5 am.

Next Morning…

Early morning in the women’s section of the team house. I quickly get up when my alarm goes off. I dress by flashlight so that I will not wake the other women. I drink a container of fruit juice and eat one of my two eggs. In the dark we meet Mr. Uki on the team house porch, and by flashlight and headlamp start up the trail to where Priscilla is nested. We string our hammocks up below her tree and wait. From 6-8 am we are to make minute-by minute observations of her activities. And again from 12-2 pm.

Lying silently in my hammock, I listen as the tropical rainforest slowly comes alive. In the predawn darkness I can see spots of green light shining through underbrush… the phosphorescent mushrooms I’ve read about. I hear strange birdcalls, growing in volume as dawn approaches, and when daylight arrives, the gibbons howl hello.

From 6-7 am, we have no observations to make because Priscilla doesn’t get up until after 7. From that point on, I call on the minute “Now” and Jay tells me what Priscilla is doing at that moment, what the infant is doing, and the position of the infant to its mother. I write it down on the waterproofed observation sheet: Rest – Moving – Eat - Close to mother. Often it is necessary to note P/O for Poor Observation. The person doing the observing soon gets a sore neck from constantly peering up into the trees with binoculars. Then we trade places. Priscilla eats leaves, flowers, fruit and bark (the under cambium layer). She moves and eats all day. It is one of the reasons that orangutans are solitary creatures and require large territories in order to get enough food. Too many orangutans in one area might lead to starvation. The only long-lasting social group in orangutan society is the mother and offspring, who live together for about seven to eight years. We share our food with Mr. Uki at lunchtime and he shares bananas and fish with us. In Indonesian culture it is rude not to share.

At times our clothing is soaked by perspiration. Jay gets a leech bite, but manages to remove it. Blood dribbles down his hand. Priscilla heads towards the swamp – and mosquitoes. She drops lower and lower in the trees. She knows we are following and “kiss squeaks” at us to warn us away. In the swamp she sits briefly on a fallen tree. She gets a drink of water and then climbs back into a tree to feed. She will be here for a while so we string up our hammocks and wait, while mosquitoes whine and fly about us. Jay sleeps. Priscilla moves to a tree directly over us. Debris and pieces of branches and bark rain down upon us as she feeds. Finally she is full and builds her nest for the night. Priscilla and baby curl up inside. In the growing darkness, we return to camp after fourteen hours of trailing a wild orangutan and her infant through the rainforest.

Note: Our hammock skills have not improved. Finding the appropriate two trees requires foresight that we have yet to master. The trees need to be far enough apart so that the hammock is at least a foot above the forest floor when you lie in it. And strong enough to hold you. Jay tied his support line onto a tree that was too small and when he got into the hammock, the whole tree bent over leaving his butt dragging on the ground. We all laughed. I too had my troubles when the knot I tied didn’t hold. As I got into the hammock it collapsed in a heap, with me tangled inside. I watched Supinah, one of the Camp orangutans, do a better job setting up a hammock than I did.

Adik, wild orangutan (male)

Siwoyo and Sugarjito

All of my own orangutan photos are somewhere in storage, so I have taken the liberty of using photos taken in 1990 by Ralph Arbus, the Camp Leakey photographer. He had no photo of the wild orangutan Priscilla.

Orangutans are endangered
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Mad as Hell

I am steaming MAD! Jumping up and down mad. I have been written off by yet another doctor; consigned to that vast ocean of “incurables.” But let me start from the beginning.

A doctor suffering from Stage IV lung cancer recently wrote on his blog about what he was experiencing with Tarceva: “Two weeks ago I went to see an ear, nose and throat specialist. I wanted to find out if my persistent cough was due in part to sinus inflammation. Further examination revealed that my nasal passages are very dry and raw, and the mucosal lining is nearly completely denuded (sloughed off). This epithelial lining is an important protective barrier against dust, allergens and infectious agents. Tarceva can affect all epithelial lining in the body including the nose, sinuses, gut, and skin.” His description fits what I have been experiencing since I restarted Tarceva three weeks ago. For the most part, I have dealt with the dryness by running a humidifier 24/7, using a saline moisturizing nasal spray and moisturizing eye drops, and drinking lots of water. The dry nose, dry mouth, and sore throat pretty much have gone away, but the cough that coincided with starting the Tarceva seemed to be getting worse. I had already mentioned it to several nurses, but no one could tell me if it was connected to the Tarceva, or if it might be something a little more serious. So I made an appointment to see a pulmonologist. That appointment was today.

The pulmonologist never really diagnosed what the problem was… it could be the tumor - or maybe not – no tests were ordered, not even a chest x-ray. He wanted to know if we had considered radiation to reduce the size of the tumor? (In June, we were told by a radiologist that since I had stage IV cancer, there was no point doing radiation. In fact the radiologist said that I might want to consider just going back to Canada to live out my life.) At least four times during the office visit today, I was reminded that I had advanced lung cancer. “You know, you have late stage lung cancer.” So what does that mean? That if I broke my leg there wouldn’t be any point in setting it because I’m not going to live much longer anyway? I walked out of the office with an inhaler (and a little dog and pony show on how to use it) and an appointment to come back in three to four weeks. If I live that long!!

It is no wonder the survival rate for Stage IV lung cancer is so tragically low. There is a fatalistic attitude in the medical field that is hard for the average cancer patient to overcome. We are constantly being reminded that death is just around the corner for us. There is no encouragement whatsoever. Maybe if advanced cancer patients were treated like they were going to be in that elite group of survivors, the survival rate would go up. I was healthy before I got lung cancer… I am still healthy except for the side effects of chemotherapy. Treat me like any other patient. Treat me like I am going to live another five years, because if ever I needed an incentive to live that long it is to prove to you arrogant bastards that you are not God. You do not have some God-given knowledge that gives you the right to predict how long I will live or to determine my treatment based upon that prediction.

... P. L. Morningstar

Chasing Orangutans in Borneo

Last September when Bob and my son Jeff were unloading the U-Haul truck, my job was to determine which boxes should go to storage and which should stay here. When Jeff showed me the box marked “Travel Journals,” I didn’t hesitate. I want those here. During my years of international travel, I wrote copious notes in little black journals, trying to capture every detail of the place and experience. Even then I knew that a day would come when I could no longer travel ‘off the beaten path,’ and when that day came, the journals would help me to relive a lifetime of adventures.

Chasing Orangutans in Borneo

In 1990, my ex-husband and I joined an Earthwatch team as volunteers to aid Dr. Birute Galdikas in orangutan research and rehabilitation at Camp Leakey, Indonesian Borneo. As we prepared to leave on our trip, my parents drove from their home in Roseburg just to say goodbye. It was the first time they had ever done that. My mother was especially worried that this could be a dangerous undertaking and I might not make it back. She liked the orangutans… it was the leeches and snakes that put her off.

From the Journal
August 1990

Today is search day where teams will fan out into the Tanjung Puting Reserve to find wild orangutans to follow for the next week… two Earthwatch members and one Dayak assistant makes up each team. Jay (ex-husband) and I are assigned to Mr. Uki (it is proper Indonesian etiquette to address everyone by their title such as Mr. Mrs. or Dr.), who tells us he is 25-years old, unmarried and has two sisters also working at Camp Leakey. The assignments were given out last night after dinner. No lunch is served at camp, so we take rice from breakfast with us to eat on the trail. Each of us carries a daypack with rain poncho, string hammock, water, flashlight, bug repellent, sun block, first aid kit, compass, binoculars, and extra food. We wear two pair of socks; the outer pair being men’s nylon knee-hi dress socks that we pull over the cuffs of our long-legged pants. This is for protection from leeches. We liberally spray our shoes, socks and pant legs with 100% Deet. Long sleeved shirts and a hat or bandanna are also worn. I find that a bandanna tied around my forehead works best for me because it helps to keep the sweat from getting into my eyes.

All team members and assistants meet at 10 AM. We walk single-file up a trail into the tropical rainforest, with individual teams peeling off onto other trails as they come to them. Jay, Mr. Uki, and I remain on Toges Trail, and at about 11 o’clock we hear a knocking kind of noise off to the left. Mr. Uki stops. We stand still, listening. Mr. Uki says, “It is an orangutan “barking.” He leaves us temporarily to investigate, comes back and tells us that it is a wild orangutan named Priscilla and her infant. It seems that we have found a wild orangutan to follow.

We leave the trail and plunge into the forest. Priscilla slowly moves through the upper reaches of the trees. When moving between the trees the infant clings tightly to Mom, then plays or eats by itself while in a tree. As we follow, the pattern is one of eating, resting, and moving. When Priscilla finds a tree she likes, and settles into it for a while, we string up our hammocks and rest. But if she decides to move, we have to quickly take down our hammocks, stow everything into our daypacks, and continue to follow her.

At about 3:30 this leisurely pattern suddenly ends when we hear crashing sounds coming through the trees to our left. “Is it another orangutan?” we ask Mr. Uki. He nods his head, “Yes, maybe two.” We hear human voices too, and then see Mr. Bill and Mrs. Rachel with their assistant. They are following two orangutans. Priscilla, who has been quietly eating leaves, stops and watches as the new orangutans approach. She pulls her infant close to her and moves a couple of trees away. Another orangutan appears, followed by Dr. Ann, Mrs. Margaret and their assistant. Now the three orangutans converge towards Priscilla who keeps moving away. The orangutan pair (who we later learned were sub-adult males) scuffle with each other in a tree. There is such a wild commotion… nine people on the ground – each trying to keep track of “their” orangutan and write accurate observation notes – and five orangutans to observe in various trees.

The male orangutan that loses in the scuffle decides to take his frustration out on Priscilla, and begins to chase her… with us madly in pursuit trying to keep up. Through the forest, over logs, between thick undergrowth of jungle vines. We follow our assistant who follows Priscilla… she, not us, is his priority. Trying to rid herself of her male pursuer, Priscilla drops lower and lower in the trees, once dropping to the ground, which is unusual for the normally arboreal orangutan. After a 13-minute chase, the male gives up and leaves the area. Calm returns, but what an exhilarating experience. In that moment we quite forgot all about leeches, mosquitoes, toxic plants, snakes, and the unbearable heat. Only the chase was important.

In that relative calm, we continue to follow Priscilla until she builds her treetop nest of leaves and twigs. Mr. Uki marks the spot so we can return in the morning to follow her and her infant for another day. We return to camp in time for a cooling dip in the Putting River.

Dr. Galdikas questioned us concerning the unusual orangutan behavior that we observed today. Orangutans are normally solitary and shy. She asked us to write a complete account of what we saw.

To be continued...

(Photo by Rhett Butler)

What do you say after you've said goodbye?

When I walk down the street and look at my reflection in store windows, I don’t recognize myself anymore. Who is that tottering old woman, stooped and walking with a cane? Surely it can’t be me. Some years ago I remember an older friend and her horror when she held up her arms and noticed the loose, flabby skin flap that hung from her upper arms. “My God! When did that happen?” she said. Getting old happens… sometimes it sneaks up on you from behind, and sometimes it drops on you like a ton of bricks. Prior to my cancer diagnosis, it was comforting for me to know that I looked much younger than my years. Not anymore. Chemotherapy has aged me beyond belief. Isn’t that an irony? The treatments I take to live longer have made an old woman of me within months.

No one remarks upon the changes I see in the mirror every day. As bad as I look to myself, others are surprised that it isn’t worse. I guess when people hear that you have Stage IV lung cancer they expect to see a gaunt, skeletal person near death. Soon after my diagnosis in May 2008, friends and family traveled to Bellingham to see me. Though no one said so, I think they came to say goodbye. That’s not at all surprising. The prognosis was (is) not good… the proverbial six months to live without treatment. With treatment the survival rate (five years survival) is only 1% to 2%… most patients with Stage IV lung cancer die within a year.

It is now mid-February, nine months since the diagnosis, eight months into treatment. I still get the surprised reaction, “You look wonderful!” But I notice there are fewer visits and phone calls now, correspondence has become a mere trickle. The number of visitors to the Blog has dropped. After all, who wants to read about cancer? The word CANCER is one of those hot button words. It immediately gets a person’s attention. But like today’s headlines, it quickly becomes old news. (Anybody hear about Patrick Swayze lately?) After the initial shock of hearing that a relative or friend has cancer, lives return to normal. I understand that… I just wish that my life could return to normal.

My friend Melanie tells me to try to turn all the bad stuff into a comedy. That’s easy for her… she has a sense of humor. The best I can do is this: When bestselling author P. L. Morningstar appeared on the Oprah Winfrey Show recently to promote her new book, people were heard to say, “But I thought she was dead. Didn’t I say goodbye to her last year?”

Oh yes, I am working on that book and plan to be in that 1% to 2% that survive advanced lung cancer. I just won’t be looking in any mirrors.

... P. L. Morningstar

Aunt Melanie Comes For A Visit

Did you ever have a favorite aunt? One that brought you gifts and paid attention to everything you said or did? Well, so do our cats. Aunt Melanie always brings a fresh bag of catnip with her, and a new cat toy. Misty and Meadow think she is wonderful (and so do we). Here are photos of Misty and Meadow that Melanie took the last time she was here, along with her humorous captions.

Ooooooh....this is just sooo much fun!!

Does this make me look stupid?

The Most Handsome Boy-Cat in Bellingham!

Meadow Dreaming About Running
.

Little Things Mean A Lot

Coming back on the Mukilteo ferry, I couldn’t help but think of what a beautiful close it was to our Valentine’s Day outing. The setting sun reflected off a passing ferry, and bright flashes of light from the Coast Guard lighthouse began to shine in the gathering darkness. Many thoughts raced through my head; the knowledge that my own life has come to the gathering of dusk; that there is still beauty in that twilight; and that love will see me through.


There is much to be said about a love that comes late in life. What it lacks in youthful fireworks, it makes up for with the day-to-day little things that show you care for each other. Even as a teenager I had some expectation of what I thought true love should be. In 1954, Kitty Kallen recorded a song that reached #1 on the U.S. Billboard chart… a song called “Little Things Mean A Lot.” I loved the song and learned all the lyrics, of course dreaming of the day when that special person would be part of my life. Today that song has even more meaning to me. I am no longer young, attractive or energetic. Like it or not, I am almost seventy years old, have little hair and my chin line sags. My pride of independence has been humbled by cancer. But Bob is always here with me, to “Give me a hand when I’ve lost my way; Say I look nice when I’m not.” I love you Bob… For always and ever, now and forever, little things mean a lot.

Little Things Mean A Lot
(Lyrics written by Edith Lindeman and Carl Stutz)

Blow me a kiss across the room
Say I look nice when I'm not
Touch my hair as you pass my chair
Little things mean a lot

Give me your arm as we cross the street
Call me at six on the dot
A line a day when you're far away
Little things mean a lot

Don't have to buy me diamonds or pearls
Champagne, sables or such
I never cared much for diamonds and pearls
'Cause honestly, honey, they just cost money

Give me your hand when I've lost my way
Give me your shoulder to cry on
Whether the day is bright or gray
Give me your heart to rely on

Send me the warmth of a secret smile
To show me you haven't forgot
For always and ever, now and forever
Little things mean a lot

... PLM

The Valentine Box

At the end of the block where I grew up as a kid, there was an old two-story wooden schoolhouse. When it was built at the turn of the century, it held all grades, but by the time I was going to school it had become the Junior High School. We kids in the neighborhood loved going over there after school hours and in the summer… to play under the cover of the play shed on rainy days, and to climb up the two-story fire escape slide and slide back down on a piece of waxed paper. We didn’t let our Mom and Dad know about that part. My sixth-grade homeroom was at the head of the wide central stairs and when the bell rang and it was time to change classrooms, the thundering herd of kids could make the double sash windows rattle and the building shake. I started thinking about this because of Valentine’s Day.

I don’t know why I happened to remember this particular Valentine’s Day in the sixth grade. Who can explain why some inconsequential memories stand out and others fade to non-existence. Maybe I helped to decorate the Valentine Box, a cardboard box covered with butcher paper and decorated with red construction paper hearts and lacy paper doilies. At the top of the box was a slit to drop valentines for our classmates into. The box probably sat on the teacher’s desk for a week before Valentine’s Day, collecting all of our cards. At home, I laid out the Valentines that had come in a package from the store, studying each one. Some were big, some were small. Each was different and had different sentiments. Which ones should I give to my best friends, and to the boy that I secretly had a crush on? Which ones should go to my least favorite classmates? Such decisions seemed to hold so much importance back then. Using my best penmanship, I addressed the envelopes, or wrote on the back of the cards, To… and From…

At the end of the school day on Valentine’s Day, we put our books, pencils and papers away and got ready for the party. The Classroom Mom arrived and handed out paper cups and napkins for the Kool-Aid and heart shaped cookies. Then the teacher opened the Valentine Box and began delivering the Valentines, carefully checking who it was addressed to and placing it on our desk. Unfortunately it was a popularity barometer. The Valentines piled up on the desks of the popular girls and boys; others received only a few cards. Their long faces told the story. By the time my own sons were going to school, Valentine’s Day had become more egalitarian… they had to bring a Valentine card for every classmate. No one was left out. Of course the teachers always got the biggest and fanciest cards… sometimes a little box of candy.

The old Junior High is no longer there. New, modern school offices and classrooms have replaced it. The play shed is gone too. I guess kids don’t need shelter from the rain anymore… or maybe they don’t play outside. I’m not sure if Valentine parties are held in classrooms these days. Like Halloween, Valentine’s Day has become a big consumer event for adults. I wonder how much a dozen red roses will cost this year? Valentine cards have changed too. Believe it or not, I sent out E-Cards. But I sent the same one to everyone… no playing favorites. I love you all.

... P. L. Morningstar

Selling Death and Destruction

On January 17, a ceasefire was declared in the Gaza Strip. During the three weeks of Israeli aggression, more than 1,200 Palestinians were killed (including more than 400 children) and over 5,000 wounded. 13 Israelis were also killed in this same timeframe. A report has been released from a delegation of 8 American lawyers (members of the National Lawyers Guild in the United States) who spent five days in the Gaza Strip to determine if any violations of international law had occurred and whether U.S. domestic law had been violated as a consequence. Some of their findings:

Our findings overwhelmingly point to the use of conventional weapons in a prohibited manner, specifically, the use of battlefield weaponry in densely populated civilian areas. Customary international law forbids the use of weapons calculated to cause unnecessary suffering. We found evidence that Israel used white phosphorus extensively throughout its three-week offensive in a manner that led to numerous deaths and injuries.

Under customary international humanitarian law, the wounded are protected persons and must receive the medical care and attention required by their conditions, to the fullest extent practicable and with the least possible delay. Parties to a conflict are required to ensure the unhindered movement of medical personnel and ambulances to carry out their duties and of wounded persons to access medical care. Speaking to medical workers and the family of victims, NLG delegates documented serious violations of this provision.

International humanitarian law also prohibits attacks on medical personnel, medical units and medical transports exclusively assigned to carry out medical functions. Delegate members saw ambulances seriously damaged and destroyed, some apparently deliberately crushed by Israeli tanks. The Palestinian Red Crescent Society and the Palestinian Ministry of Health informed delegates that 15 Palestinian medics were killed and 21 injured in the course of Israel's assault.

Conclusions

This delegation is seriously concerned by our initial findings. We have found strong indications of violations of the laws of war and possible war crimes committed by Israel in the Gaza Strip. We are particularly concerned that most of the weapons that were found used in the December 27 assault on Gaza are US-made and supplied. We believe that Israel's use of these weapons may constitute a violation of US law, and particularly the Foreign Assistance Act and the US Arms Export Control Act.

See also “How Do People Keep Going?” by Kathy Kelly

The United States is the primary source of Israel's arsenal. For more than 30 years, Israel has been the largest recipient of U.S. foreign assistance and since 1985 Israel has received about 3 billion dollars, each year, in military and economic aid from the U.S. ("U.S. and Israel Up in Arms," Frida Berrigan, Foreign Policy in Focus, January 17, 2009)

... P. L. Morningstar

In the shadow of cancer

Barbara Walters recently interviewed actor Patrick Swayze who is surviving pancreatic cancer. He told her, "I keep dreaming of a future, a future with a long and healthy life, not lived in the shadow of cancer but in the light." I thought to myself... yes, that is it. We (patients and caregivers) are always in the shadow of cancer. No matter how much we try to normalize our life, we can’t get away from the elephant in the living room. It’s always there. Bob too lives with the shadow. Everything we do is arranged around, or dictated by the constraints of my cancer.

I’ve been seriously ill before, hospitalized with an unknown ailment that I picked up while traveling in Peru (later diagnosed as paratyphus salmonella and possibly malaria). For days I laid behind doors marked “Isolation,” while blood samples were being sent to the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta. I remember saying to my doctor, “But I’ve always been such a healthy person.” “You still are,” he said, “you’ve just picked up a bug.” Once the diagnosis was made and appropriate medications given, I was well again and returned to my normal healthy life. When I had my back surgery a few years ago, I was pretty confident that when it was all over I would return to a pain-free active lifestyle, and I did. And that is the part that I find most difficult to deal with. A diagnosis of advanced lung cancer means that I will never be “well” again. Winning the fight in my case won’t be getting cured or returning to the kind of life I am used to living. There is no light at the end of the tunnel, no end to the cancer treatments and its toll on my body. I can do everything possible to keep my body healthy. I can take all the newest cancer drugs, but the best they can do is hold off the cancer, extending my life by months or at most, a few more years.

Does that make me angry? No. I am hardly alone in this. But it does make me look at what I have left of life in a new light. It isn’t enough to exist from day to day. I have been given a little lagniappe (pronounced lan-yap), a word I learned when I lived in Louisiana that means “a little extra or a bonus.” What do I do with this bonus; a bonus that comes with such a high price tag emotionally, physically, and monetarily? How best can I use this time? Despite the shadow, my “little extra” is not something that I want to waste.

... P. L. Morningstar

Happy Days

When we visit Lee and Melanie on Whidbey Island they take us to their favorite eating spots… so far we’ve found nothing that matches the good food that Melanie prepares herself. Here in Bellingham, we have a lot of our own favorite spots; places we like to take our out-of-town guests, like The Pepper Sisters, Rudy’s Pizza, D’Anna’s Café Italiano, Avenue Bread Company, and Little Cheerful for breakfast. So with Lee and Melanie visiting us, we sat around discussing where we would eat dinner. Another favorite popped up… Boomer’s Drive-In. And when I mentioned that as a 20th anniversary special all of their hamburgers are priced at $2.89, the die was cast. “Boomer’s it is!” Friday night in a college district and cheap hamburgers. Need I say more? All of the drive-in slots were full and a line of people crowded the restaurant door. With a few quick moves (those young kids didn’t know we could move so fast), we were able to nab a table and while Melanie and I played anchor, the guys went up to place our order. For a little while we were the only silver-haired folks in the place, but as I said to the others, “I’ll bet we know more about the drive-in culture than anyone else here. Where are the roller-skating carhops?” It was busy, noisy, and fun. The hamburgers and waffle fries were good too. My only regret… I was too full to order a hot fudge sundae for dessert. (Maybe we'll try Sunday afternoon.)

... P. L. Morningstar

Reflections on a hot fudge sundae

Yesterday I was reminiscing about maple bars. Today it is hot fudge sundaes. I’ve always loved them, ever since the 1950’s when my family went on special Sunday outings to the A & W Drive In. In later years, I’ve enjoyed them as Peanut Buster Parfaits at the Dairy Queen. But there is so much more to the hot fudge sundae story… it is really a story about a blue Studebaker and how it changed our lives.

THE BLUE STUDEBAKER

I still remember our first family car
It was a Studebaker, blue I think
It wasn’t new, but that hardly mattered
Dad used a company truck to get
Back and forth to work
We kids walked the few blocks to school
And Mom sent me to the store with
Her shopping list or to the post office to get
Money orders to pay the bills
We didn’t have a checking account at a bank
We didn’t have much at all
Maybe that’s why the blue Studebaker still
Sticks in my head

It was the 50’s; the world was changing
And with the arrival of the Studebaker
Our lives changed too
Our small world suddenly expanded
Beyond where our feet or bicycles took us
Beyond Solberg’s grocery store with its
Flyspecked windows and wooden floors,
Where Grandma sold eggs
From her Rhode Island Red hens;
And even beyond the white-steepled Methodist
Church where Grandma and I sang in the
Choir and the outhouse was tipped over
Every Halloween

The Studebaker took us the thirteen miles we
Needed to go to reach the big city…
Well it wasn’t that big, but it had
A Safeway store with bright lights
And shiny tile floors; pre-packaged meat and
Frozen dinners in boxes
To heat, and serve on foldable metal tables
Placed in front of a television set
Black and white
With an antennae on the roof
That Dad had to turn this way or that way
To get it just right
After midnight there was only a test pattern
To watch

The best memories
Are of Sunday afternoons in summer,
The drive down Old Highway 99
Past Mom and Pop Wolff’s Del Ray Café
And across the narrow concrete bridge that
Spanned the South Umpqua… on our way
To the A & W Drive-In
Where Dad cranked down his window
Pressed the intercom button and
Placed our order
Four root beer floats
One hot fudge sundae - the sundae was mine
Even now when I eat a hot fudge sundae
I remember those Sunday afternoons
Sitting with my sisters in the back seat
Of our Studebaker
Spooning thick gooey hot fudge
Over my vanilla ice cream, and
Popping the maraschino cherry into my mouth

That blue Studebaker took us to a
World beyond what we had previously known
…Now it takes me back

... P. L. Morningstar

What's in a maple bar?

I ate a maple bar yesterday and thought of my Dad. It’s strange how the memory works… how such a tiny act can open the door to so many memories. Suddenly there is that little southern Oregon town of 3,000, and the house my Dad built; the house I grew up in with two younger sisters. Dad worked in Roseburg, a 13-mile drive in the company pickup. He worked at Industrial Electric, a wholesale electrical supply store that mostly dealt with the area’s many lumber and plywood mills. It was the heyday for the logging industry and the economy was booming. Dad worked 5 1/2 days a week and sometimes got called out in the middle of the night to provide supplies for emergency repairs. Mills ran 24/7 and couldn’t afford downtime.

There was a donut shop across the street from the Industrial Electric Store. No Dunkin’ Donuts or Krispy Kreme. Just the local mom and pop kind of place with a counter and bar stools. It’s where most of the area workers took their breaks, enjoying a freshly made donut with coffee and a cigarette. Once a week, on Saturday, Dad would pick up a box of assorted donuts to bring home for Sunday breakfast. We each had our own favorites and Dad never forgot… the maple bars were mine. That was a long time ago, but I can’t eat a maple bar today without the memory of the pink bakery box, and Dad. Just like the A & W hot fudge sundae… I’ll tell that story tomorrow.

... P. L. Morningstar

Super Bowl Sunday

The skies are a flat monotone grey. There is little activity on the street… probably everyone is sitting in front of their television sets, with chips and beer and friends. I’ve tried to find coverage of the Super Bowl on my computer. After all, Bob is from Pittsburgh and his sister Tracy is flying east at this very moment, heading to her Pittsburgh home. It was fun having Tracy with us, and her absence today is already felt. But yesterday… now that was beautiful. Blue sky and sunshine. We drove on Chuckanut Drive to the Larrabee State Park at Samish Bay.

The last day of January finally brought warmer temperatures, and the trailheads were filled with parked cars, their passengers somewhere trudging up Chuckanut Mountain to reach the scenic views. We chose to take the short trail, under the railroad trestle and down a path to a small rocky beach. There were folks sitting on outcroppings, children clambering over rocks, and two kayakers in brightly colored kayaks paddled past us to the boat ramp. The tide was out and we looked for sea life in the crevices and scooped-out basins of rock. Sadly, we found none. But the wind and wave sculpted sandstone was beautiful, as were the weathered stumps of old trees and strands of sea grass caught in the limb of an uprooted tree, like satin ribbons they blew in the breeze. I thought to myself… this is art… nature’s art, abstractions of shape and form and light.

Going back up the hill to the parking lot took a little time. I’m not great on hills at the best of times - now with a cane and holding onto Bob’s arm, it was slow going. But worth every minute of being outdoors in the fresh air, sunshine, and communing with nature... and sharing a beautiful Pacific Northwest day with Tracy and Bob. Now let’s see if we can find that Super Bowl.

P. L. Morningstar... Text and photos