Butterflies Pause....or Not

When my boys were younger we collected monarch caterpillars from milkweed we found in vast quantities in the ditches by our cabin in northern Wisconsin. Well, O.K., more I am the one who began collecting the caterpillars and my oldest son enjoyed watching me care for them.

We ate a lot of Prego that summer as I saved jars from our recycling bin and when that wasn’t enough, I encouraged neighbors and family to quickly consume their extra Concord grape Smuckers and chunky Pace salsa, poked holes in the lids and deposited caterpillars inside.

We never tired of watching the monarch caterpillars, hanging in a “J” from the underside of the lid, transform into a chrysalis. Seven-10 days later when the chrysalis darkened and a crumpled butterfly emerged, my son would let their fragile wings dry while hanging from his sock on his nine-year-old foot, resting on a finger while he read a book or sitting on his arm while eating his morning bowl of Cookie Crisp.

There was always something joyful that bubbled forth within me when my sons eagerly soaked up an experience and joined me, or was it me joining them, in learning. We bought butterfly books and learned about host plants and nectar plants and the names of every butterfly that frequented our area. To this day my oldest son seems to have an uncanny knowledge of butterflies.

My boys are adults now but this summer, our first at our house in the woods, I planted milkweed and butterfly plant. By late July I was finding monarch caterpillars and eggs and I carefully pulled each leaf from the plant and brought them inside to watch them grow and change and emerge as something new.

While my husband and boys were building our new deck, my oldest, the one who still has not lost his love of butterflies, noticed a swallowtail laying eggs on my parsley and dill plants that I put into the earth close to our house early in the summer to hopefully attract the swallowtails. He carefully located the eggs – 12 in all- and brought them in to me. Later we found four more caterpillars already growing on the dill.

We carefully laid the eggs, upon the plant, into a container and waited. After about five days we had 12 tiny caterpillars no bigger than a hangnail. To keep track of them I had to use a magnifying glass. 

We had only raised a few swallowtails before so mostly the experience was new to me. They seemed to grow painfully slow and I struggled for ways to keep track of so many tiny caterpillars. For a part of their lives I put dill and parsley in a vase and set it into a large, clean garbage can and let them crawl around wherever they liked on fresh plants. Eventually they all had their own jar with holes poked in the tops in various shapes artistically created by my husband.

As August lengthened I began to wonder if they would have time to emerge from their chrysalis before colder days set in.

I began to research the swallowtail and learned that oftentimes they enter what is called “diapause.” Here is how Wikipedia describes this:

“Diapause, when referencing animal dormancy, is the delay in development in response to regularly and recurring periods of adverse environmental conditions. Diapause is a mechanism used as a means to survive predictable, unfavorable environmental conditions, such as temperature extremes, drought or reduced food availability.”

Hmmmm……what a wonderful thought to contemplate. What if, as humans, we could enter diapause for a season? This stormy winter, all cold and frosty, windblown and uncertain, oblivious of its’ end. When spring comes with early sunrise and warming noonday and a slowly setting sun at the close of a day, then I arise, a human being again.

Extremes of pain like illness and death, the loss of friends and growing sons that leave the nest. I think these certainly count as “unfavorable environmental conditions.” My means to survive an extreme drought would be to crawl into bed, cocooned around my Company Store blanket and artificial down pillow in queen -sized bed.

This summer, taking care of my caterpillars has been an unexpected calm in the midst of what, at times, seemed like a lot of unknowns. Waking up in the morning I knew I would find hungry caterpillars waiting for parsley or dill or milkweed planted outside my front door. I knew their jars would need cleaning and that I would be checking them again at 10 and noon and 3 and 6 and again before bed, when I would once again, clean their jars. In two to three weeks they would stop eating and spin their silky string and enclose themselves all snug and close inside a chrysalis to decide to come out, or not.

There is differing advice about what I should do with my swallowtails that have entered diapause. Some people put them in their fridge, taking them out when spring arrives. Some people put them on a front porch where they withstand the environment in which they were born as caterpillars. And some people put them in an unheated garage, protected from raging wind and icy rain and blowing snow. It seems no matter what the choice, everyone has success with some method.

Pause or take a longer diapause. It seems either choice involves a pattern, an extreme and then again bursting forth from enclosed shell to engage in a comforting pattern of living life.

Pain Appraisal

Pain, in its many forms is, I have been told, highly subjective. The first time I heard this word – subjective - in a context that I contemplated and applied correctly, was when I was 18. I had been recovering from foot surgery when my left foot began to hurt – first a little, then a lot. But what is a lot?

Stabbing, burning, aching, weighted and pounding pain is, to one person, a minor annoyance and to another a minute by minute journey through a 24-hour day. The pain in my foot was an ache and was treated with an analgesic. When that didn’t help I began to rub the heels of my hands into my brow and think: were my bones healing and I needed to accept that there was going to be pain? Or was this more? How could I know? Eighteen to a child is adult; 18 to an adult is child. I was a child/adult/child. I hadn’t lived long enough to know how much pain a person should take.

When it was finally discovered that the initial surgery left me with an unhealed fusion, another surgery was performed. My pain was not relieved. It was not only not relieved, it became worse.

I remember the culmination late one night. I had been watching T.V. with my mom and dad, my leg in a cast from the knee down. I remember looking at my toes and wondering if some nerve had been bludgeoned or cut or sliced in two. As I began to rock and cry and complain, one of my parents called the doctor. At this time, I still had prescription pain killers. The doctor said I could increase the dosage but that nothing else could be done. The next day in the doctor’s office I pleaded for relief.

More treatment followed for this fusion that stubbornly refused to heal, but even when it did, my pain was still, in my child’s mind, severe. When the doctor treating me sent me to a psychologist for an evaluation, my troubled mind, already thick with depression begun years earlier, wondered if the people around me thought I was crazy, lying, a whiner who didn’t understand what pain was.

When I at last made it to a doctor who had some clue about what the condition of my mottled, shiny, swollen and cold foot was, he sent me to Mayo Clinic in Rochester, MN for a second opinion. I remember when the doctor confirmed the diagnosis and told me this is one of the most painful of all disorders or diseases. It has been over 30 years and I can still picture this doctor’s face as he gave me what, at the time, amounted to a validation of my being. 

I returned home for a lengthy hospitalization. Many things were tried; some with mild improvement, some more dramatic, all difficult when mired, at the same time, with depression. Because chronic pain exacerbates depression and depression exacerbates chronic pain, I felt like I was existing in an endless cycle where regardless of which one was successfully treated, or not, a web was being knit from the top of my brain to the tips of my toes and all I could do was pick at a loose yarn until it became a knot, only to start to untangle another nearby.

It's difficult to like yourself if you are someone with depression. And if you are someone with depression who was discounted early on, as many are, and you wait for your being to be validated to feel alive, as I did, becoming an advocate for yourself feels impossible.

After months of treatment for my foot pain, my doctor treating me at the time told me that it was impossible that my pain was not gone and refused to treat me any longer. And so in my child/adult/child’s mind I was not only devastated and shocked by his words, but abandoned.

Over the years, many more foot and ankle surgeries have followed because when you alter one thing, everything else takes note and bends and sways in ways they aren’t meant to move.

After my last surgery on my left ankle three or four years ago I started to get cramps in my foot and calf. Annoyances mostly. Though this past year during a biking class I had cramps so severe in my left foot that it became locked into place and I swore and cried and screamed. This happened several more times. I told my doctor, who ordered blood tests and told me my potassium was a little low. Bananas, water, supplements. Nope. I went back to the orthopedic surgeon who performed this last surgery. He didn’t seem to know or maybe he couldn’t think of a surgery to perform that would solve the issue. But after gathering the data I had for him he referred me to a neurology clinic after a minute or two of thought.

This was me, advocating for myself. 

Recently my husband sat by me while my leg locked into place and I began to scream. And so last week he accompanied me to the doctor. Because while I have told my doctor previously about the pain and cramping, and many doctors before her, it continues. 

At this appointment, my husband asked about combining my health history from various doctors into one place. She said we wouldn’t want to do that, particularly not my psychiatric records because that would only complicate things.  Of course it would. Because apparently if you have a mental illness, you are not to be believed. At least, those are the words I heard. It seems I am, once again, back where I began. 

But I am not beginning again, I am continuing on. This is a story about physical pain, but all pain hurts because it is suffering. In my half century of life, I have discovered that when you suffer it is because of loss: lost ability to do something, loss of someone you loved dearly, loss of friendships you counted on, a lost driver’s license in a purse you’ve owned for 16 years, and the loss of freedom and health and memories and more. 

But I have not lost the ability to keep moving forward, and speaking and writing to make a difference: by speaking out for those who can’t or won’t, by telling others I won’t be silenced by mental illness, even when the pain is great in the midst of loss.

Four Feet Down

It has been a week of loss for us here at our home in the woods. We are, again, without a beloved shepherd to keep us company. I imagine by now some people are wondering why we don’t cut our losses and adopt a homeless mutt at the local animal shelter. But if you have ever loved a German shepherd you know why that would be hard to do.

 For now, we will remain a one-dog family as a we assess the pain and pick up the doggy-sized pieces. This one all the more painful because it comes with the weight of judgement upon myself. It was only nine months ago that I held my last shepherd in my arms to die after opting to put him down after he bit part of my earlobe off. This week I will be having my third procedure to restore my ear.

 Most people, it seemed, understood the exceedingly painful choice I felt I had to make. And I think most, but not all, understand the heartbreaking choice I made last week.

 Last night I took my first long walk by myself, hands free of dog treats and leash. I headed out the back garage door and down the muddy trail, deer tracks instead of paw prints scattered before me. At the first clearing before our large apple trees on the edge of our farm field I saw a doe and a fawn. As I walked through our neighbor’s freshly mowed path I spotted another doe in the distance. 

 When I doubled back I walked a zig zag through the rows of soybeans, and bounding ahead before a new path cut through the woods with our pull-behind mower, were two bucks watching me. I stopped and froze in place and strained my eyes to see if I could count the number of points these two had between them on their antlers. As I stepped forward, they ran into the woods, trampling down the overgrown weeds and wildflowers.

 When I turned to walk back I was rewarded with a closer look at these two bucks as they seemed to have doubled back before me. I was bending to pick some ripe raspberries at the edge of our property when I heard my husband urgently calling my name. I had lost track of time walking on my own. I looked at my watch and stared at the sky and was shocked to see that it was nearly 9 p.m.

 I yelled back to my husband but he must not have heard my voice, lost in the trees, that make up the forest around the edges of our yard. I walked as fast as I could across the rocky path before me, since my husband’s voice was growing louder and more panicked.

 When I at last reached him, I could see he was not amused. I made a joke anyway and we walked hand-in-hand back to our house, left our muddy shoes at the door and stepped inside.

 There have not been many days over our 27-year marriage when we have walked into our home without being greeted by a German shepherd. 

 Our first, Koryo, we bought without any knowledge of breeders, knowing only that we wanted a shepherd. He lived to the age of 12 and when he died, our whole family, particularly our oldest son, who never lived a day without this dog, grieved. 

 Our next shepherd, my gentle giant named Nitro, died suddenly of bloat hours after I picked him up from the dog kennel after spending the night in Madison. I was by myself and his growing pain was obvious. When I rushed him to the emergency clinic their diagnosis was quick. He too, died in my arms. He was seven.

 It seemed impossible, but less than two years later our next shepherd, Echo, died of an intestinal torsion. We had a surgical team repair it and he spent days in intensive care. He never was the same again, though. He died before Christmas that year.

 And next, of course, my Otto, who helped me accomplish more than I ever thought possible. Had I known ahead of time the hours I would invest to attain a title on this black beauty I would have called him my lap dog, removed his fur saver collar and tucked his bite-sized training treats into a Ziploc bag for walks in the park.

 Zoey was my first female shepherd. All of our dogs have had names ending in “O.” Though we just couldn’t come up with a female name that ended in “O” and so I liked to call her “Zo Zo.”

It is the unique qualities of every person, animal, plant…thing, that make this world what it is. And so for every person and dog who has entered my life, I have become what I am. There are times when this person I am feels lost and alone – without a friend, without a dog, but with plenty of things. After this last week of hurt and loss, I am more apt to invest in my things and leave the rest to, well, rest.

 And I wish I could lose track of my losses as easily as I lose track of time. The hardest losses are those that come in pairs, that we do not expect, on the tail end of mournful eyes who cannot feel secure in this world, as it is. That was my Zo Zo – fearful and scared, except for the moments she was in the presence of my husband and me. Imagine that and make a choice. Our dog, or other people. The weight of judgment upon myself knowing that no matter what, there is a loss.

 But losses make us stronger and pain makes us real and hard choices make us human.  So if you are a human being who has been in pain and made choices and become stronger along the way, that seems about right for most of us. As Anne Lamott said: “Some people have a thick skin and you don’t. Your heart is really open and that is going to cause pain, but that is an appropriate response to this world.”