The Smell of the Sage -- Part 2 -- Revised and Expanded!

Before my cancer diagnosis, for several years, my summers were defined by two major events: a week of golf in South Carolina with my brother and one or two weeks in Alberta hunting dinosaurs with paleontologists from the local natural history museum. 

During the summer of my treatments two years ago (that is, the surgeries, the chemo, and the radiation), neither trip was possible.  Hey, for several months back then, I couldn't walk around the block, much less hike the badlands of Alberta or drive 14 hours to South Carolina.  In truth, I spent most of the time between doctors' visits at home either sleeping or reading -- while lying down.

Last year, the first year after my treatments, I did drive to South Carolina for a week of golfing, this time with a good friend since my brother couldn't make the trip.  And while the trip was certainly enjoyable -- for the golf; the food; and most of all, the companionship, the drive itself resulted in a deep-vein blood clot in my leg that, I was told later, might have killed me.  (This was Serious Deep-Vein Blood Clot #2 for me, in case you're counting.)  The event put me back on blood thinners for another six months.

And my being on blood thinners made dinosaur work out of the question.  Because falling down hard in the Albert badlands (which happens occasionally) could result in uncontrolled bleeding and a major medical emergency.  (Since the badlands are hours away from any medical treatment.)  So my being part of the dino hunting team would have made me far more a risk to the program than a dependable asset. 

But in April of this year (the time of my last posting) the golf trip and/or the dinosaur work were possibilities again.  But if I couldn't be comfortable making these trips this year, would I ever be comfortable doing either one of them again?  If I decided not to do either or both of the trips, would those decisions be based on sensible caution -- or would the be rooted in unreasoned and unreasonable fear? 

I had been long off blood thinners by this time, which reduced or eliminated the chance of uncontrolled bleeding, but it reintroduced the chance of a blood clot if I remained stationary in a car or airplane seat for any length of time.  I told my chemo doc about my "no more clot" plans, including wearing compression stockings every waking moment, a liberal ingestion of baby aspirin, letting my brother drive occasionally on our golf trip while I propped my legs up on the car's dashboard, and stopping every two hours or so for a vigorous game of Frisbee (to get the blood pumping). The doc was not impressed with my ideas and wouldn't give me an okay to travel.

I "labored" (a Quaker term, I think) with the decision to go or stay home for a month or two and finally decided that the sensible precautions listed above would effectively minimize any potential risks of clotting for both trips.  And that not taking whatever risks remained would be capitulating to fear. 

Okay. Green lights!  Let's go!!

The Golf 
First of all, please understand that, based on the experience of our previous golfing outings, Warren and I knew this trip would have a profound healing effect on both of us -- individually and as siblings.  So this trip was a little bit about golf and a lot about self realization and self fulfillment.  It wasn't just chasing a little white ball across a big green lawn. 

Warren's driving habits (car driving, that is) turned out to mirror mine exactly and I quickly became perfectly comfortable to let him drive as much as he wanted.  Just keep it under 80, please.  And we timed our departure (i.e., 4:00 AM) nicely so that we missed almost all of the craziness of the Washington Beltway rush hour, and pulled into Santee South Carolina at a reasonable hour.  Nice dinner, early to bed. 

A special component of our trip involved Warren's son Spike, who had recently joined the Navy.  He was stationed in Charleston, SC, which was an hour's drive from where we were staying.  (How's that for "way opening"?)  Now this was Spike's first time away from home, and he had been in Charleston for several months.  So Warren was understandably concerned about his physical and mental well-being. 

Knowing this, we had arranged our timing so that we had golf on Wednesday through Friday, and then spend Saturday and Sunday with Spike in Charleston, then finish up the golf on Monday and Tuesday the following week. 

It turned out that Spike was perfectly fine and well adjusted to Navy life.  Not the slightest hint of "Dad, take me home, please!!"  And Warren could take such a happy report home to his wife and two daughters that Spike is fine and has become a Young Man to be Proud Of.  (Not that there was much doubt on the issue, but, well, you know...)

There's lots more to the story, including superhero movies, an intoxicating afternoon of birdwatching, and alligators on the golf course.  And I would be delighted to tell you more when I see you next.

The Dinosaur Hunt
Dr. Brinkman, who runs our dino hunting program, has a handful of volunteers that he collects at Dinosaur Provincial Park every summer.  This typically includes a wonderful young lady from Australia, a charming couple from North Dakota (he's a surgeon, she's a nurse) several folks local to the Park, and Debbie and me.  Other museum personnel and/or graduate students are often in on the fun as well. 

But nobody I know calls him "Dr. Brinkman."  In fact, I'm not sure he would respond to the title.  So it's "Don."  But I wanted you to know that he's got the PhD... 

So Deb and I hadn't seen our dino friends in two years -- and it was deeply gratifying to me to learn that several of them had been following this blog and knew the stories that get told here.  And I felt strongly that they were sharing in my commitment to reclaim this important part of my life. 

During the prospecting phases of our work over the two weeks we were there, Deb and I found some really nice Hadrosaur (duck-billed dinosaur) pieces, including a maxilla (upper jaw bone), ilium (one of the three hip bones), and a tibia (one of the lower leg bones).  Each was found in a different location, but each was (at least we thought!) "museum quality," the museum had several of each of these bones in excellent condition, and therefore had no scientific value for them.  So they were left to erode back into the minerals from which they were made.  Dust to dust. 

We also found some nice teeth (from both plant- and meat-eating animals) and vertebrae, but once again, of no scientific value to the museum.  Ah well. 

But other members of our team found important fossils tht did need collecting, and Deb and I were part of the "did 'em out of the ground, cover 'em with plaster field jackets, and get 'em back to the truck" team.  So we contributed in a meaningful way to the success of the two weeks we were there. 

Oh!  And this is where "the smell of the sage" comes in. 

Imagine this, if you will:

It's afternoon, and you've been walking most of the day through the badlands of Dinosaur Provincial Park.  You haven't found anything of "scientific value" all day, and your socks are rubbing your feet the wrong way, possibly raising a blister.  Which, of course, you won't know until you get back to camp.  It's getting warmer, the sun is too bright and there's not a breath of wind.  And certainly no shade anywhere. 

You're tired and you want to call it a day. 

Because you're tired, you're making unwise decisions about ascending and descending the dozens of hills that comprise the badlands (see photo) -- coming close to slipping and falling down a 20- or 30-foot slope covered with very unhospitable-looking rocks.  Your pack is feeling heavier by the minute and your drinking water supply is now warm and unpleasant tasting.  And the bottle has slipped to the bottom of your pack, making it difficult to retrieve. 

Right now, you're walking through a patch of tall green plants (revisit photo), which are a favorite haunt of rattlesnakes.  So you're listening carefully for a warning rattle emerging from somewhere down around your feet -- hoping that you can react in time if the sound appears.  (Rattle on the left?  Move to the right!  Rattle in front of you?  Stop, then walk back to a safe distance!  and so on...) 

And, inexcusably, you start to feel a bit sorry for yourself. 

Then, without the slightest warning, you are immersed in the aroma of wild sage.  Which, in case you've never had the pleasure, is such a clean, invigorating scent that you feel completely remade in a matter of moments.  And the scent brings a message that "All is well.  All is well."