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Our baby came swirling into view in black and white, week after week, in the grainy wedge on the ultrasound monitor. First a dark featureless pool, then a tiny orb, then budding arms and legs and finally long fingers and a recognizable profile. Precisely on schedule, I felt her squirm and thump.
After years of grueling and unnatural fertility treatments, the promise of her unfolded easily.
We learned her gender in week 16, cataloged her anatomy in week 20. I scrubbed the baseboards in the spare bedroom and stopped buttoning my jeans. I tried to imagine her as a real child, in my hands and in my life. I drew, in ballpoint pen, her cartoon outline on my skin — with big eyes, a sprout of hair, and an umbilical tether to my navel that made her look like a startled space walker. That was the extent to which I understood her: only in outline, the details waiting to be filled in.
Suddenly there was blood. Blood on my hands. Blood on a thin cotton hospital gown. Blood in red rivulets and blood in dark clumps. Bright beads of blood on the doctor's blue latex gloves. Blood in such startling quantity we could only imagine there was no life, no baby, not anymore.
My obstetrician looked stricken that day in March 2011 when he rushed into a triage room at Bayfront Medical Center. I clenched and vomited as he explained that our baby had no chance of surviving outside the womb — if she wasn't already gone. A tech tried for long minutes to summon a heartbeat on the monitor, searching every quadrant of my abdomen. I don't remember if we held our breath or gasped or spoke or sobbed. I remember only the frozen shock when a heartbeat flooded the room, a sound like a galloping horse.
In just a few hours, our baby had been lost and then found. On the monitor, she bobbed and floated in a pixelated haze. But next to her loomed a mysterious shape that had not been there two days before: a clot of blood the size of a fist, created as the placenta had begun to tear loose from my body. A nurse pumped drugs into an IV to stall the labor, and gradually they took a tenuous hold. But it was clear to everyone that the reprieve was temporary. My baby and I were coming apart.
— — —
A normal pregnancy lasts 40 weeks. I was only halfway there.
If the doctors had not intervened, my baby would have been a miscarriage. But the odds for her had not improved by much.
Early arrival kills more newborns than anything else, and complications from prematurity kill more babies in the first year than anything else.
Some babies are born so early they are beyond rescue. If a baby is born at or before the 22nd week, it is usually considered a miscarriage or a stillbirth. Almost no doctor will intervene, because there is nothing he or she can do.
Other babies ripen in the womb into the third trimester but arrive a little early. If a baby is born later than about 25 weeks, studies show that almost all doctors feel morally and legally obligated to try to save its life. Some preemies have serious medical problems, but most spend a few days or weeks in the hospital learning to breathe and eat and then they go home.
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Explore all your optionsIn between those scenarios is a zone between life and death, between viability and futility. If a baby is born after the 22nd week of pregnancy but before the 25th, not even the smartest doctors in the world can say what will happen to it. New technologies can sometimes keep these micropreemies alive, but many end up disabled, some catastrophically so. Whether to provide care to these infants is one of the fundamental controversies in neonatology.
Babies born at the edge of viability force us to debate the most difficult questions in medicine and in life. Who deserves to live, and at what cost? Who decides whether a life is worth saving, or worth living? When does a fetus become a human being, with its own rights? When does life begin?
About one in 750 babies arrives in that awful window of time, suspended between what is medically possible and what is morally right.
One of them was born on April 12, 2011, at Bayfront Medical Center. My daughter.
This summer I returned, not as a parent, but as a journalist, to the hospital where my daughter was born. I interviewed the people who took care of her about the scientific and ethical challenges of trying to save babies born so soon. I pored over her medical chart and read dozens of journal articles on extreme prematurity. I learned the things the doctors had been too kind to tell us, and the things I'd been too dazed to comprehend.
When the doctors stalled my labor, they gave us a slim measure of hope, but no assurances. Our baby could die quickly, could die slowly, could suffer needlessly, could live vegetatively. She could be broken in any pocket of her body or mind.
She would come squawking into the world unfinished and vulnerable. Conceived artificially, she would have to grow in an artificial womb. She would reveal to us the wonders of medicine and science, and the limits of those things. She would show us the ferocity of our most primal instincts.
A sci-fi baby in an engineered world, she'd teach me, against all possible odds, what it means to be a mom.
— — —
The Baby Place at Bayfront Medical Center is designed for celebrations. The rooms are private, with sleeping couches and flat screen TVs. Sliding panels obscure all evidence of the mess and peril of birth. Mothers are wheeled out holding fat drowsy newborns, dutiful dads follow with the balloons. Every time a baby is born, the loudspeaker carries the tinkling of a lullaby.
It's easy to pretend, in that cozy place, that all babies come wailing into the world pink and robust, and are bundled and hatted and handed to teary mothers and proud dads. But sometimes it doesn't go that way at all. That's why behind the sliding panels there are devices for oxygen, suction and epinephrine. That's why there's a morgue on the ground floor. That's why Bayfront's labor and delivery unit is actually housed across the street, inside All Children's Hospital. When a baby is born in trouble, as mine was bound to be, it is already in the place that cares for some of the sickest and most fragile children in the state.
After the day I almost lost the baby, the doctors made it clear that for now I had one purpose in life: Stay pregnant. In their calmest and firmest bedside voices the doctors said I had to make it another month to 24 weeks, loosely considered the limit of human viability outside the womb. Deliver earlier than that, and I would watch my baby struggle and die.
I lay still in bed and watched the calendar as my baby survived to 21 weeks, then 22. I checked in and out of the hospital twice, and then back in. I Googled images of half-formed babies. I bled and cramped. One tactless doctor made the situation plain when he tried to discharge me. "Your baby is not viable," he said, "so you might as well deliver at home."
By the 23rd week, I was taunted by that incessant lullaby on the hospital loudspeaker, a reminder of how natural this process was supposed to be. Nothing about it had been natural for me. To get this far had taken four years, $40,000, four in-vitro procedures, an egg donor, lawyers, counselors and contracts. Now my body was trying to spit out the baby we'd made. It felt like biological mutiny.
I stayed anchored to the hospital bed by a strap around my belly that charted the volcanic activity within on a computer monitor. The contractions came and went, and when they got bad enough, the doctors stalled the labor by elevating my feet above my head and flooding me with magnesium sulfate, which made me feel like my blood and skin were on fire. That's how I was — inverted, scalding — when doctors conceded the baby was coming soon, and a neonatologist visited to advise my husband and me of what lay ahead.
Dr. Aaron Germain was thin and kind, with a look of constant worry. I viewed him as an ambassador from the Land of Sick Babies, a place I could not imagine.
He told us he knew how badly we wanted our child, and an army of specialists with the most advanced technology was ready upstairs to try to save her life. But we needed to decide whether saving her was what we really wanted. The effort would require months of aggressive intervention, and could leave us with a child who was alive, but very damaged.
Few doctors would insist on intervening. The choice was ours to make.
He went through the list of possible calamities, each with its own initials. IVH, PVL, RDS, CLD, ROP, CP. The magnesium sulfate burned through me, sucking the will from every cell. Blood in the brain. Hole in the heart. Respiratory distress. Chronic lung disease. Ventilator. Wheelchair. Blind. Deaf. Developmental delays. Autism. Seizures. Cerebral palsy.
Every part of her was underdeveloped, fragile and weak. Every treatment would exact a toll. She might live, but she would likely have, to use the medical term, profound morbidities.
Odds she would die, no matter how hard they tried: better than half.
Odds she would die or be profoundly disabled: 68 percent.
Odds she would die or be at least moderately disabled: 80 percent.
There was a 20 percent chance she could live and be reasonably okay. I pictured her in the slow class at school, battling asthma or peering through thick glasses. We would buy her pink sparkly ones and tell her they were cool.
I contemplated that figure: 20 percent. It didn't seem hopeless. Then again, imagine a revolver with five chambers. Now put four bullets in it and play Russian roulette. Would we bet on a 20 percent chance if losing might mean losing everything we cared about? Would we torture our baby with aggressive treatment just so she could live out her life in a nursing home or on a ventilator? Would we lose our house? Would our marriage fall apart?
Dr. Germain gamely counseled us as we searched for loopholes in the statistics. Girls do better than boys, he said, but white babies like ours fare worse than black babies. Our daughter would be delivered by C-section so her body didn't get mangled in the birth canal, and I would be injected with steroids before she was born to strengthen her lungs. But the figures the doctor had given us already accounted for those advantages.
But what were the odds, we wanted to know, for a middle-class girl baby with good parents, who sing songs and read stories? With two big brothers and aunts and uncles and a friendly, big-eared dog? The baby who slumbered inside me, her heartbeat galloping along over the speakers, reminding us that she was perfectly fine in there, and safe, and how wrong it was that soon she would be wrenched into the bright, cold air, and made to breathe?
Dr. Germain spoke softly and didn't rush. I wanted to shake him and his probabilities, to make him yelp and tell us what to do.
He just couldn't say. The answers we wanted weren't in the data.
"The statistics don't matter," he said, "until they happen to you."
What echoed in my head was something Dr. Germain never said: Saving her might be the most selfish act in the world.
After the doctor left, my husband sat on the edge of the bed and held my hand as we tried to work our way toward a decision. I started with shedding my expectations. We were a family of high achievers. My husband, Tom French, was a Pulitzer Prize-winning writer. His two sons, Nat and Sam, were salutatorian and valedictorian, respectively, at Gibbs High. Now they were off at college. We had envisioned a similar path for our daughter — horseback riding, piano lessons and the dean's list. All that was gone now, and we grappled with the fundamentals. Would we try to keep her alive? If she lived, would she walk or talk? Would she one day give us a look that said, Why did you put me through this?
People always ask me if I prayed. I prayed the way people in foxholes are said to pray. I prayed with every thought and every breath. And I prayed with the certainty that I had no business praying, that I hadn't earned the right. I'd never been religious. Worse, I knew we had defied the natural order in our determination to have a child. Through so many in-vitro procedures, with so many tests and needles and vials of drugs, we'd created life in a petri dish. To be given a child just long enough to watch her die felt like punishment for our hubris.
I was crying when I asked Tom, "Did we want her too much?"
I don't remember sleeping that night. As dawn crept closer, we both swallowed the thing we couldn't say. I knew once I said it our baby would be gone, and we'd be the parents who'd turned our backs. Tom climbed in next to me on the skinny bed and wrapped his arms around me and all of the wires as best he could.
"I don't know how to do this," he said.
Our baby's heart kept beating. I held out my iPhone and used its voice recorder to capture the sound, in case it was the only evidence of my daughter I would ever have.
I'm here, it seemed to be telling us. I'm still here.
— — —
Google was of no use. The research was confusing and out of date. The blogs and news sites trumpeted miracle babies but offered little nuance or detail. Nothing we read reflected the agony and complexity of the situation we faced.
The next day, a second counselor arrived from the neonatal intensive care unit. Nurse practitioner Diane Loisel found us still choking on indecision and grief.
Diane had a relaxed, no-makeup look, a contrast to the crisp, professional bearing of the neonatologist. Given the stakes, I thought, could we get another doctor in here? As soon as she started to talk, I felt foolish. She was so straightforward and so patient, it was clear that her only priority was our baby.
Diane told us she had worked with small and sick babies for 30 years. When she started, 23 weekers never made it out of the delivery room. Any baby born weighing less than 1,000 grams — about 2 pounds — was considered not viable and allowed to die. But now science had advanced, raising new questions for everybody.
Some parents insisted the doctors do everything possible, and then insisted on the impossible too. Diane told us it sometimes made her angry to see tiny babies subjected to futile intervention, to see them go into nursing homes or to families ill equipped to care for them. The more educated parents asked more questions, considered quality of life. Diane often wondered if asking parents to make such life-and-death decisions was cruel.
When it came to babies born at 23 weeks, research showed, there was little consensus from one hospital to the next or even among doctors working the same shift in the same unit.
Some were born limp and blue, and some came out pink and crying. In those first hours and days, much could be revealed. And there was a window of time, while the baby was on a ventilator and still very fragile, when doctors and families could reverse course and withdraw life support.
"You don't have to decide right now," she said. "It's a process."
She seemed to be offering an escape from the torment we had suffered all night. Enough of the unbearable coin toss. We could let them intervene and see how it went. If our baby was born too weak, we could decide later to let her go.
"We don't want her to suffer," Tom said. "But we want our baby to have a chance."
As Diane headed back to the NICU, she told me later, she knew she had changed everything. She also knew that once a mother had seen her baby for the first time, there often was no turning back. She hoped we wouldn't blame her for the rest of our lives.
— — —
Another day went by. I imagined my baby gathering a few more air sacs in her budding lungs, a few more ripples in her developing brain. Every hour was crucial, but how many would be enough?
Tom and I discovered it was impossible to stay miserable around the clock. We amused ourselves by speculating about the romantic lives of the doctors and nurses. One doctor looked like a lost Kennedy. Another one — I called him Dimples — kept the nurses laughing. We could hear them out in the hall. Our favorite was a glossy-haired nurse we called Cupcake who wore Grey's Anatomy label scrubs. I imagined all of them screwing in supply closets and gossiping at the nurses' station. One of the doctors, while sketching a diagram of the untenable situation in my uterus, asked if I had any questions.
"Just one," I said. "Is it me or are the people on this floor unusually hot?"
"Yes," he said, "and thank God for it."
All of these people had been between my legs, and I was too wrecked to care. The absurdity of it made me laugh, even though laughter was discouraged while on bed rest.
That afternoon we watched DVDs and allowed ourselves to hope the doctors were wrong and we would make it another week. As soon as the sky darkened outside the window, I tried to sleep, to make the day end before anything could ruin it.
Still tethered like Gulliver by IVs and wires, I shifted left, then back to the right. Adjusted the bed up and back down. Stole my husband's pillow and asked the nurse for extra blankets. A vague sense of unease settled in and I shut my eyes and willed it away. The monitor registered no unusual activity.
When the nurse came in for yet another blood pressure, I told her I felt strange.
Constipation, she said.
At first it was uncomfortable. Then it started to hurt. The monitor mocked me with its refusal to acknowledge what I was feeling. I kept moving the straps around, trying to pick up the signal, then gave up and tossed them all off. I paced the floor, clutching an IV pole, setting off alarms at the nurse's desk.
I had a prescription for morphine, but the nurse stuck to her constipation theory and refused to give me any pain relief at all. I cramped for hours until she sent my husband on a 2 a.m. trek through St. Petersburg in search of prune juice. By the time Tom returned with a 64-ounce bottle, I was screaming on the bathroom floor.
The pain was sharp and low and I could feel the baby kicking with both feet like a mule trying to take down a barn door. "Please," I told the baby. "Be still."
The nurse appeared in the doorway. "What would it feel like if there were feet coming out of me?" I asked her. "Because that's what this feels like."
"No, honey," she assured me. "That's not what's happening."
A doctor finally checked just before dawn. I was sobbing and gulping air. I asked him if he could put me in a coma, and make it all stop, and wake me up in a couple of months when the baby was bigger. Or maybe he could sew me shut. Or hang me upside down. He pulled on his gloves and told me to be still and to breathe.
"Please be careful please be careful please be careful." I couldn't get my breath. "Please be careful."
He reached in and felt the baby's feet, just where I knew he would find them.
A second doctor confirmed it. "We have to go now," she said.
We'd made it 23 weeks and six days.
— — —
I watched the ceiling roll by as nurses whisked me on my hospital bed to Operating Room 4. Doctors debated whether there was time for anesthesia, then someone rolled me over and put a needle in my spine and the pain washed away.
If I'd been able to sit up and look around, I would have seen a group from the NICU, called the Stork Team, preparing to stabilize the baby in a room next to the O.R.
Gwen Newton was the Stork Team nurse that day. She described it all for me later. She said most mornings, she needs a good jolt of coffee to get going. But today, all it took was a look at her assignment sheet: 23 weeker.
When she was pregnant with her son, she said, she had nightmares that he was born at 23 weeks.
She readied a mobile incubator that would keep the baby warm and monitored on the short ride to the NICU. She made a nest of blankets and spread a pillowcase over it to catch the blood.
The baby's arm would be so small she'd use a rubber band for a tourniquet. She got out a No. 1 blood pressure cuff, small enough to fit around her finger. She set the warmer to 37 degrees Celsius, laid out catheters for IVs and wires for monitors. She drew a mixture of sugar and dextrose in a 60 mL syringe — a snack to get the baby started. And she drew 1.4 mL of an artificial lung surfactant — a milky mix of fats and proteins that would help prevent the baby's sticky lungs from collapsing.
A respiratory technician was prepping the ventilator and a neonatologist and a nurse practitioner were studying the chart. When Gwen had everything ready, she stepped to the doorway to watch the C-section.
Some of what happened next would be out of her control. Some babies came out fighting and some did not. You never know what's coming out of that belly, she thought.
— — —
I felt a sickening tug. I knew that we were two separate people now.
"She's kicking," Tom said. He was peering over the surgical drape at the gaping red meat of my abdomen, and at the creature that had just emerged from it. Someone said she cried, but I didn't hear it. I tasted prune vomit in my mouth.
Pretty soon someone slipped a piece of paper in front of me, and an ink pad, and asked for a fingerprint. On the paper were two still-wet footprints, each an inch and a half long. Startling evidence that she was here.
"My baby," I kept saying, "my baby, my baby."
Gwen took the tiny blood-spotted bundle from the delivery nurse. She unwrapped her, laid her on heat packs, and slipped her into a plastic bag up to her neck to help prevent heat and fluid loss. Gwen rubbed and dried her like a mother cat roughs up a kitten, but more gently, so as not to tear her skin. The baby was dusky blue, then dark red. Gwen pinched the tiny greenish umbilical cord between her thumb and forefinger and felt it throb. She counted 17 beats in six seconds.
"Heart rate is 170," she called out. It was strong, a good sign.
The baby was trying to breathe but her lungs were not ready and her muscles were weak. Through the stethoscope her breathing sounded squeaky and coarse. A respiratory technician threaded a tube the size of thick spaghetti through her mouth and into her chest. Into the tube she placed the milky fluid that would coat the baby's lungs. She connected her to a small portable ventilator that delivered oxygen at a constant pressure, and tapped her finger over a hole in the tube to pace the breaths. The baby's chest heaved mechanically.
She weighed 570 grams — 1 pound, 4 ounces. She was 11.4 inches long — the length of a Barbie doll.
I saw Gwen roll the incubator past. Inside was a raw dark creature, a blur in a too-big hat. My husband looked at me and looked at the baby.
"Go with her," I said. "Please go."
— — —
A baby at 23 weeks' gestation has just begun to hear, but can't yet see. It may recognize its mother's voice. It has a dawning awareness of whether it is right side up or upside down. The surface of its brain is smooth, just beginning to develop the hills and valleys that become wrinkles and folds. It responds to pain, but has no capacity for memory or for complex thought. Its lungs look like scrawny saplings compared to the full, bushy trees of normal lungs. Its bones are soft. It swallows. Its hair and eyelashes are just starting to grow and its fingernails and fingerprints are just forming. Its body is covered with a soft protective down. It is recognizably human, but barely.
I was still in recovery when Tom returned from the NICU, crying.
"She's so perfect," he said. His voice was a squeak. "She's so beautiful."
I just stared at him. My sweet, emotional husband, in the grip of something terrifying and overwhelming. He'd been to a place I couldn't fathom.
"That's my baby girl up there," he kept saying. "That's my daughter."
— — —
I used to imagine what I would say to her when I first saw her. She'd be wrapped in a blanket and wearing a hat, and she'd feel solid in my arms, like a puppy. She might open one eye and peek up at me, perplexed but curious. She would know my voice and my smell, know I was her mother, and because she knew that, she would not be afraid. I'd be hit with a force that would unmake me and remake me, right there.
Instead I waited in recovery while she fought for her life somewhere beyond my reach. After seven hours Tom took me up to the NICU in a wheelchair, still in my cotton surgical gown, lugging an IV pole.
Tom pushed my wheelchair up to the deep sink so I could scrub my hands. There were posted instructions and a disposable scrub brush and I felt determined to do it properly, for the full 30 seconds, in the hottest possible water, as if precise compliance with the rules might tip the odds.
I saw her plastic box halfway across the room. I didn't see anything else, just this tunnel of space and time and of everything changing that marked the distance between us. Here I was one person and there I would become someone else. The soap was hard to rinse, and I let the water run for a long time.
Tom wheeled me to her portholed plastic box. The nurse introduced herself as Gwen, but I barely heard her. There, through the clear plastic, was my daughter. She was red and angular, angry like a fresh wound. She had a black eye and bruises on her body. Tubes snaked out of her mouth, her belly button, her hand. Wires moored her to monitors. Tape obscured her face. Her chin was long and narrow, her mouth agape because of the tubes. Dried blood crusted the corner of her mouth and the top of her diaper. The diaper was smaller than a playing card, and it swallowed her. She had no body fat, so she resembled a shrunken old man, missing his teeth. Her skin was nearly translucent, and through her chest I could see her flickering heart.
She kicked and jerked. She stretched her arms wide, palms open, as if in welcome or surrender.
I recognized her. I knew the shape of her head and the curve of her butt. I knew the strength of her kick. I knew how she had fit inside me, and felt an acute sensation that she had been cut out, and of how wrong that was.
I had crazy thoughts. Should we prepare a birth announcement? What would we name her? If she died, would we get a birth certificate? Would there be a funeral? Would we get a box of ashes, and if so, what size box? Was she aware of us? Did she recognize me like I recognized her? Was she afraid? Did she wonder where I had gone? If she ever got out of this box, would she know I was her mother?
She was alien and familiar. She was terrifying and beautiful. She was complete and interrupted. I felt the icy hush that comes with looking at a secret you are not meant to see. I was peeking into God's pocket.
"You can touch her," Gwen said.
I reached in through the porthole. I saw how white and swollen my hand was. I let it hover over her for a second, then pulled away, as if from a fire. Finally I placed the tip of my pinky into her tiny palm.
She grabbed on.
Kelley Benham can be reached at email@example.com or (727) 893-8848.


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Despite the promise of bountiful, cheap, and clean energy nuclear energy didn't overtake fossil fuels like everyone expected them to in the middle of the 20th century. Among other things, fear of radiation leaks and waste products that have to be buried for hundreds of years turned the United States away from adopting it for more than a fraction of our energy usage.
Y Combinator batch company UPower Technologies is hoping to change that by offering reactors that cut out those factors at a scale where regulatory issues and billion-dollar construction costs aren't a problem.
UPower founder and CEO Jacob DeWitte describes the company's first reactor design as a plug-and-play nuclear thermal battery. The idea is that customers will order a reactor that will be shipped in a container with everything needed on the reaction side and then connected to a power conversion method that makes the most sense for the particular application. Some projects might hook it up to a steam turbine, while others might use it in concert with something much closer to a jet engine.
The reactor generates 7 MW worth of heat, which comes out to about 2 MW worth of electricity once converted. That's enough to power 2,000 homes in places like Alaska and others with lower demand for electricity. It's also enough to power entire mining operations or military bases in places where constantly having fuel for large diesel generators shipped is too difficult or expensive.
Radioactive waste, while still an issue due to the nature of nuclear fission, is less of a pain than with traditional power plant designs in use today. The reactor, in addition to being fuel agnostic (it can use thorium, uranium, or recycled fuel) can actually reduce the half life of existing waste, and spent fuel from it can be reused in another reactor with some processing.
UPower is running on an aggressive timetable for a startup whose main product splits atoms. DeWitte aims to get regulatory approval in about four years, with production and sales happening over the year following that approval.
He says the company's biggest advantage in the process is that right now, they don't need to actually operate their reactors to get to the next phase with regulators: Since the fission process is fairly well understood at this point, the company is simulating those parts of the reactor while testing focuses on the heat transfer process that makes the system so adaptable for different uses.

subset: commoncrawl


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This article is more than 1 year old
Apple's profits fetish could spell its DOOM
Mobile world will soon be like PCs
Open ... and Shut The other shoe is about to drop in the mobile market. For years Apple has dominated mobile, both in terms of market share and in terms of profits. It was an enviable position, and a unique one, borne of Apple's commitment to out-innovating the industry, allowing it to consistently charge a premium for its products. But as the industry has matured, Apple has haemorrhaged market share to low-cost Android.
In turn, it is now also losing its hold on industry profits. Given Apple's fetish for profits over market share, it is consigning itself to a repeat of its battle with Microsoft, wherein it ends up as a profitable, but niche, market player.
It was supposed to be different this time. Apple had supposedly learned from its Microsoft mistakes. Hence, even as Android and other new entrants joined the smartphone and tablet markets, Apple lowered prices on older models to fend off threats. Some have praised Apple's pricing strategy, arguing: "Apple's ability to enjoy its impressive margins while offering such a wide range of pricing is evidence of great success at Apple and does not evidence deterioration of Apple as a competitor in the electronics industry."
Yes, it has worked. For a time. But Apple's hold on industry profits is starting to slip, even as its market share plummets. The writing has long been on the wall, even if some refused to see it.
For years, Apple fanbois have pooh-poohed Apple's loss of market share, crowing that it still controlled industry profits. MG Siegler, for example, gushed about all the different ways that Apple is amazingly, shockingly profitable. And it was. Is. But won't be for long. Not to the same extent, anyway.
After all, earlier in 2012, Apple controlled 77 per cent of mobile industry profits. Now that's down to 59 per cent, and this number will continue to fall, no matter what Apple does to boost profitability through chip-making or other means. Why?
Because market share matters.
Henry Blodget captures this nicely over on Business Insider:
The reason market share is important is that mobile is a "platform market." In platform markets, third-party companies build products and services on top of other companies' platforms. As they do, the underlying platforms become more valuable and have greater customer lock-in.Building products and services for multiple platforms is expensive, so platform markets tend to standardize around a single leading platform. As they do so, the power and value of the leading platform increases, and the value of the smaller platforms collapses.
The PC software market is (or was) a platform market, and we saw how powerful that eventually made Microsoft back in the 1990s.
Not only is Apple losing market share in established markets like North America and Western Europe, but it's practically an afterthought in the world's most critical market: China. An Analysys International report, as detailed on BGR.com, shows Android with more than 90 per cent of the China market:
That's up from 58.2 per cent in 2011, and is even more interesting when you see Apple declining in China to 4.2 per cent (from 6 per cent in 2011). In a market with more than one billion subscribers, that's market share Apple can ill-afford to lose.
None of which is good for Apple but all of which is, as I've argued, very good for the industry. Apple has dominated the mobile industry in unhealthy ways. I love the products, but I can't love how the company has hoarded profits for itself. In Microsoft's desktop heyday, its partners made a lot more money than it did. In Apple's mobile dominance, it has captured most of the industry value for itself, even despite one million apps submitted to its App Store, roughly half of which are paid apps.
Apple is a great company, consistently building products that I've been very happy to buy. But its manic desire to control its ecosystem, coupled with its insistence on sky-high margins at the expense of market share, all but ensure that it will soon be an important, but niche, mobile vendor. A few years ago, this seemed impossible, at least, to those who had no memory of the desktop market. But for those of us who lived through Apple vs Microsoft, it's very, very familiar.
What's surprising is that Apple doesn't seem to have learned from its mistakes. It's not enough to be a profitable niche company in a platform market, as Blodget argues. Even profits suffer if a company can't deliver the market share to justify developers focusing on its platform. Apple, so incredibly dominant and profitable just a few years ago, stands to lose both attributes. ®
Matt Asay is vice president of corporate strategy at 10gen, the MongoDB company. Previously he was SVP of business development at Nodeable, which was acquired in October 2012. He was formerly SVP of biz dev at HTML5 start-up Strobe (now part of Facebook) and chief operating officer of Ubuntu commercial operation Canonical. With more than a decade spent in open source, Asay served as Alfresco's general manager for the Americas and vice president of business development, and he helped put Novell on its open source track. Asay is an emeritus board member of the Open Source Initiative (OSI). His column, Open...and Shut, appears three times a week on The Register. You can follow him on Twitter @mjasay.


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Nunna and Krigsman, Machiavelli and Holmes
Good friend, all around smart guy and kitchen magician, Michael Krigsman reviews Gartner analyst Tina Nunna's new book, The Wolf in CIO's Clothing: A Machiavellian Strategy for Successful IT Leadership, and wonders about the appropriateness of using Machiavelli as a model. After all he was so…Machiavellian, and his approach leaves moralists cold, but I would differ with them.
Machiavelli gets a bad rap in my book, largely due to some people misunderstanding his purpose for writing The Prince and other works like The Art of War. In War, he cut to the chase and said if you're going to have a war, and you're going to be good at it, you've got to kill people. It seems obvious and that's the kind of frankness that can seem chilling. Perhaps we are instinctively repulsed at killing and an ambition to be good at it when we should be repulsed by war itself. Regardless, from this we may have gotten the sage phrase that if you want to make an omelet you have to break some eggs.
People think that in The Prince, Machiavelli was dispensing advice for how to act as a ruler and while to a degree he was, he was really boiling down some case study data into some applicable practices. He may have been the first true political scientist and in Machiavelli's writings you get a strong sense of the scientific method at work. His observations form the write-up of natural experiments, not the controlled things we do in labs but the equivalent things that happen in life when, for instance, identical twins are separated at birth. If you study enough of these situations you can see patterns emerge that are noteworthy. In short, Machiavelli was telling us what he saw in everyday practice and in The Prince, and many of his writings, he was simply telling us where the eggs are stored in case we're making breakfast.
Later generations see Machiavelli as all kinds of things — as a proponent of ends justifying the means, of opacity when transparency is needed, but I don't. I see him more the way I see the brilliant author of The Common Law, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr. Holmes was many things, above all a highly original thinker, a Supreme Court justice, and a thrice wounded Union officer and Civil War Veteran. I see each man as a scientific observer of his time reporting on natural experiments, on what is rather than what some moralist sees who is intent on prescribing what should be.
In The Common Law, Holmes examined a hodgepodge of laws that seem to make little sense and are sometimes outright contradictory but he sees them as unified for one very important reason — practice. The common law is the way it is because that is the way we are: contradictory, in the moment, and even Machiavellian.
In Krigsman's review of Nunno's book, he laments the sometime lack of morals that accompany leadership and those times when we need to be manipulative to get what we want for the good of the enterprise, which could happen anywhere but his focus is the IT arena. To this I say, and?
Saying we are manipulative is stating the obvious and condemning it is wishful thinking, and it also misses the point. Blaming Machiavelli for being the news instead of being the messenger is the obvious mistake here.
One of the hallmarks of our species is our ability to manipulate our environment and the environment includes other humans. We've developed it into quite an art form or possibly even a science but certainly into a set of business practices lately with new disciplines springing up such as behavioral economics and behavioral finance all supercharged by social media. We study these things for the same reasons medical students study anatomy — not simply for their own sakes but to give us insights we need to diagnose and prescribe.
Holmes studied law, not in the abstract but as it is practiced in the real world and I think that's all Machiavelli did, a few centuries earlier and at a time when human life was cheap and murder in the furtherance of a political cause could be easily justified.
The CIO who is Machiavellian is so to further the aims of his or her department and enterprise and while I now need to read Nunno's book to be sure, I deeply suspect that her insights based on Machiavelli are rooted in identifying best practices in the real world rather than best intentions in the realm of the theoretical. For my money, business is amoral and Machiavellian in the best sense of the word, and it should be.


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Public policy is a lot like math: No matter what the problem, the wrong answers are far more numerous than the right ones. This is particularly true on the subject of mass shootings and other firearms violence, which have stimulated a new fervor for barking up the wrong tree.
Many liberals think the answer to mass shootings and street crime lies in stricter gun regulation: banning "assault weapons," limiting the capacity of magazines or, in their unrestrained moments, adopting ultra-stringent laws like those in Britain or Australia.
But most of these ideas are irrelevant or impossible. Even if the Second Amendment didn't prevent it, Americans would never stand for a near-total ban on ownership of semiautomatic weapons, a la Australia, or of handguns, as in Britain. You might as well expect Nebraska to build 300 miles of oceanfront beaches.
Outlawing "military-style" guns would be a waste of time, since other weapons of identical capabilities would remain available. A limit on magazine capacity wouldn't impede street thugs, who don't need to fire 30 rounds to accomplish their tasks, or even mass shooters, who typically bring multiple guns or magazines.
The problem with most gun control laws is that they impose a burden on the law-abiding that lawbreakers can usually evade. What is needed is an approach that focuses tightly on altering the behavior of criminals. There are proven steps that can hobble the dangerous without penalizing the harmless.
What works in preventing violent crime? One remedy is simple, though not cheap: more police on the streets. This may look like a Blinding Flash of the Obvious, but it's not. Among criminologists, it was once commonly assumed, based on actual research, that beefing up patrols would make no difference.
Today, the evidence points conspicuously in the opposite direction. Jens Ludwig, who directs the Crime Lab at the University of Chicago, says, "The COPS program launched in the 1990s under President Clinton helped contribute to the crime drop we saw in that decade." Nationally, it increased the number of police by more than 80,000.
New York City added 7,000 uniformed officers in the 1990s, and its numbers are still well above where they started. Result: a stunning 81 percent reduction in homicides since 1990. Last year, the city had fewer murders than any year since 1963. In January, it went 10 days without a single homicide.
Having plenty of law enforcement personnel is just part of the battle; the other part is using them effectively. What appears to have worked in New York -- and, later, in Chicago -- is swarming crime "hot spots" with cops for days or weeks, forcing criminals to mind their manners. This approach "almost certainly made a substantial contribution in New York," writes criminologist Franklin Zimring, author of "The City That Became Safe."
It was once thought that when cops moved into an area, crooks would merely move to another one. It turns out that migration is not always an attractive option. So a crime prevented today may be a crime that is never committed.
Chicago also had some luck with a joint federal-city operation, called Project Safe Neighborhoods. It zeroed in on ex-convicts, with the goal of dissuading them from carrying guns, using a carrot-and-stick approach. The stick was federal prosecution carrying long sentences with no parole in faraway prisons; the carrot was meetings where offenders were offered help getting shelter, job training and education.
In areas where PSN was implemented, homicide rates plunged. In the rest of the city, they barely budged. Ex-offenders who were required to take part in round-table meetings with police, community representatives and service providers were nearly 30 percent less likely than others to end up back in prison.
Another method of catching thugs with guns, says Ludwig, is to offer significant cash rewards to tipsters -- $500 or $1,000. This approach would not only produce more arrests of felons and teens but also strongly discourage them from illegally carrying weapons. An action that today may generate respect or fear -- displaying a handgun to friends or rivals -- would suddenly carry a serious risk of prison time.
If we hope to reduce gun crime, the answer doesn't lie in broad laws that mostly affect people who pose no threat. It lies in targeting the criminals. Most gun control measures involve rearranging the haystack. What these initiatives do is locate the needles.


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This article is more than 1 year old
Android's delicate guts ripped apart
Screws, and then some
Photos Sure, plenty of people have cracked the iPhone's software, but the Droid's hardware? That's a different matter.
Motorola's engineers have worked hard to make their debut Android-powered phone as delicate - and difficult - to deconstruct as possible.
The tear-down crew at PhoneWreck got to grips with this Google-powered midget, though, to give you a glimpse at its delicate insides.
You can check out the full deconstruction at phonewreck.com, or take an expedited trip with us through the hardware.
After removing the back cover and battery, it's screw and fiddle city: with your T6, remove both the silver and black screws from the rear of the chassis that hold holds the PCB and the back plate on the screen portion of the device in place.
Motorola's Droid gets a probing
Finding the next set of screws presents a challenge: they are hidden beneath the plastic piece above the Google label at the very back of the phone. To access them, you need a pin or other small prying device - but be careful, as the plastic pieces tend to be slightly brittle. Once you find the screws, remove them
Another screw is hidden underneath the Google label and lens cover - which needs to be removed. But even this isn't the frustrating part - that's next, with the final three screws.
Spot the screw: hidden beneath the Google label and camera lens cover
Your last three screws are hidden beneath the fake-gold grating that covers the bottom of the battery door. To get at them, you'll need to bring your pin back into play to pry up the grating. Once in, look for the heavily disguised screws and yank them out to free the Droid's PCB. After you've done that, use your wedge to pry out the clips on the back of the Droid's frame.
Fake-gold foil yields its hidden screws
Next, you need to remove one final silver T6 screw used to lock down the logic board. Once that's out the way, you can pop off the flex cables used to connect the device to the screen, and then you can flip away the PCB and remove the remaining flex cable.
Pop off the flex cables to separate device from screen
Once you're free of the PCB you can remove the screen and Droid's slider mechanism simply by pulling at the back plastic frame used to create the phone's upper border. The slider mechanism is simplicity itself - essentially just two rails that are embedded within the screen portion of the device.
Insides out: the Droid's bits on display
As you can see, there's not much to the Droid under the covers, but getting there proved a worthy test of observation and finger size. A worthy adversary, the Droid, but ultimately no match fro the PhoneWreck folks. ®


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Submitted to: Plant and Soil
Publication Type: Peer Reviewed Journal Publication Acceptance Date: 3/14/2013 Publication Date: 4/2/2013 Citation: Sobolev, V.S., Orner, V.A., Arias De Ares, R.S. 2013. Distribution of bacterial endophytes in peanut seeds obtained from axenic and control plant material under field conditions. Plant and Soil. 371(1-2):367-376. Interpretive Summary: Frequent contamination of peanuts with highly carcinogenic aflatoxins under drought conditions is a significant food safety issue. A strategy of biological control through the application of soil bacteria to the peanut is one that may find a practical application. However, the bacterial strains cannot compete with the less water-demanding fungi under drought conditions in the soil. The situation seems to be different with bacteria that live inside peanut seeds. These bacteria are sheltered from environmental stresses and microbial competition by the host plant, seem to better tolerate drought, and may prevent fungal invasion when similar soil bacteria fail. A new experimental approach allowed us to grow bacteria-free young peanut plants, and demonstrated that both, experimental and control peanut seeds accommodated selected species of nonpathogenic bacteria that originate from soil. Among all species, the highly insecticidal B. thuringiensis and antifungal B. amyloliquefaciens, were dominant. The toxicity of these bacteria may explain their selection by the host peanut plant. We plan to clarify the issue on whether among the plant-associated bacteria that colonize the soil internal bacteria play a considerable role in protecting plants from fungal invasion under drought conditions. The research is planned, and the results will be reported in a due course. Technical Abstract: Since endophytic bacteria may play a role in the defense mechanism of peanut from fungal invasion, the internal bacterial colonization of peanut seeds was investigated. Bacteria-free young peanut plants from seed embryos were successfully grown to maturity in the field. Mature seeds from these plants contained several species of nonpathogenic endophytic bacteria, which were identified by the analysis of DNA sequences of their 16S-ribosomal RNA gene. Among the eight bacterial species isolated, Bacillus thuringiensis, which is known to produce insecticidal Bt-toxins, was dominant. There was no significant difference in number and relative occurrence of the two major bacterial species between the experimental seeds grown from axenic planting material and the conventionally grown control seeds. This fact suggests that the endophytic bacterial colonization derives from local soil and not from the seed source, and that the peanut plant accommodates only selected species of bacteria from diverse soil populations. |


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We will hear references to the unsustainable nature of our current entitlement systems, about how not acting now on health care reform only threatens to make things worse. We can expect references to Ted Kennedy. We will see someone in the balcony that was denied insurance. We will hear of he plight of millions of Americans (will they use the number 46, 47 or 50 million?) without insurance. Will will hear of reaching accross the aisle. We will hear something about a trigger. And we will hear about the public option:
President Barack Obama, in a high-stakes speech Wednesday to Congress and the nation, will press for a government-run insurance option in a proposed overhaul of the U.S. health-care system that has divided lawmakers and voters for months.The speech will be eloquently delivered. And the House and Senate will sit as they always do, interrupting the speech with thundrous applause on multiple occasions.
White House officials say the president will detail what he wants in the health-care overhaul, as well as say he is open to better ideas on a government plan if lawmakers have them.
Democratic plans call for requiring most Americans to carry health insurance. Failure to comply could cost families as much as $3,800 a year, according to a new Senate proposal.
But what we won't hear is this:
Congress has already exempted itself from the Public Option.


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I know at least our American readership is probably baking on the beach, grilling up burgers, or getting ready to accidentally set the roof on fire with an errant bottle rocket, but today seemed as good a day as any to issue the following announcement: this will be the last post on Dreaming of Danzan Ravjaa.
When I began this blog back in February of 2005, it was meant as a personal adjunct to my deployment in Mongolia to serve Kunzang Palyul Choling's Mongolian Buddhism Revival Project. It was not an official organ of KPC, but rather a way of sharing my impressions, discoveries, and images from a fascinating land that many will probably never visit in their lifetimes. While I feel that under different conditions much more could have been accomplished in our partnership with the Mongolian Buddhists, still I have a sense of satisfaction that true benefit was generated in a number of ways: sponsoring many young Mongolians to travel to India for deeper Buddhist training; printing and offering the only complete set of the Nyingma scriptures that exists in Mongolia; translating and offering instruction on basic chanting, meditation and visualization practices within our tradition; offering teachings to lay Mongolian Buddhists from Patrul Rinpoche's The Words of My Perfect Teacher and then underwriting the printing of the very first translation of this classic text into modern Mongolian; building a teaching throne to offer for the new temple being built at Danzan Ravjaa's Khamar Monastery in the East Gobi Desert; facilitating the first Mongolian translation of Longchenpa's chod text, "The Bellowing Laughter of the Dakinis"; rendering timely assistance to several individuals in need; rescuing a handful street dogs and cats, two of whom now enjoy a very posh life in America; and many other minor efforts along the way.
But now the institutional relationship which made this work in Mongolia possible has dissolved and I find I must seek a somewhat different way as a monk within the broader universe of my Palyul lineage. On July 10 I will join Palyul's annual 30-day summer retreat in New York State, at which time I will clarify the next phase of my dharma life. I hope one day it includes a return to Mongolia; I really did love my time there and feel strongly there is much more beneficial work that can be done. More than that, though, I really hope that pure lamas upholding any dharma lineage will turn their minds to Mongolia and travel there to bring to life latent practice traditions, and enhance the Buddhist education of the Mongolian laity.
I will leave DODR's comments open until the morning of July 9, after which they'll be closed for good. Because Typepad's annual fee was recently paid, the blog and all its archived posts will remain live until May, 2010. At that time, as with all compounded phenomena, Dreaming of Danzan Ravjaa will dissolve into the primordial space from which it arose. This is, after all, what dreams do, do they not?
I want to offer the gratitude of my heart to all of you who unstintingly offered your support, whether it was material, personal or prayerful; those who amused, provoked, and educated us with your comments; the lurkers who simply enjoyed what was offered here; and, most of all, the love and hospitality of my Mongolian brothers and sisters. May all our minds be liberated within the one pristine mandala of wisdom and compassion!
Update: Well, look at that. I can't even resign without getting upstaged by that half-term governor from Alaska. Nonetheless, as I close the comments this morning and head off to gaze at my navel for a month, please let me thank all of you who left such lovely messages here and privately (Gail, the very last one, you nearly made me cry). I have found again and again that when we try to do good, no matter how artlessly, our efforts positively impact others in ways we could not have anticipated and sometimes may never know. The obvious lesson? Do good always, no matter what.
All of you have been a great comfort in my time of transition, and I've enjoyed so much sharing this improbable journey with you. And who knows? We may meet again in the future in ways we could not have anticipated. I certainly hope so. Until then, stay well, be kind to critters (even the creepy ones), love others (even the creepy ones), and let's work together in the gorgeous task of true, inner liberation.
...and as one friend put it, my Ma and I really chose the right days to be on retreat, avoiding yet another outsized American media orgy.
It was weirdly satisfying spending five days meditating in the sanctum sanctorum of the former Monastery of Mary Immaculate, now the stately Garrison Institute, high upon the eastern bank of the upper Hudson. The retreat was quite well-run, Yongey Mingyur Rinpoche proved an unusually excellent and entertaining young teacher with very cool support staff, the veggie cuisine was eye-openingly scrumptious, and really the only jarring note was the sound of automatic gunfire and artillery that occasionally drifted across the river from West Point. Pretty sure they were aiming the other way, but it added a little urgency to our practice.
Between sessions (and in place of a couple, I confess) I devoured a large portion of The Nectar of Manjushri's Speech, the English translation of Khenpo Kunpel's exquisitely detailed commentary on Shantideva's nonpareil volume, The Way of the Bodhisattva. His many stories drawn from the sutras about negative karma and its effects is enough to really scare the pants off you. Fortunately I don't wear pants, but still. It's helping me with a cold-eyed assessment of the state of my path. Let's just say there's ample room for improvement.
OK, two mighty, mighty links:
So many of the greatest Tibetan Buddhist lamas of the 20th century cite one lama as the most significant inspiration in their spiritual lives: Jamyang Khyentse Chokyi Lodro. The folks at Remembering the Masters (h/t Blazing Splendor) have put together a fantastic memorial video. One of the most personally satisfying aspects of it, as far as sharing it, is the presence of Alak Zenkar Rinpoche, so you can finally get a glimpse of why he made such a huge impression on me during his visit to Mongolia.
And via Shambhala SunSpace, I see that some good souls have expanded on the subject I was so taken with before, Tsoknyi Rinpoche's 3000 remarkable nuns and yoginis in the Nangchen region of Tibet, in a longer documentary film simply called "Blessings." Turns out Tsoknyi Rinpoche also happens to be Yongey Mingyur Rinpoche's older brother. Their father, Tulku Urgyen Rinpoche, also brought into this world Chokyi Nyima Rinpoche and Chokling Rinpoche. That's called being seriously fruitful, man, and brings things nicely full circle.
Big announcement on Saturday, if the current deluge we're having here in Vermont doesn't somehow dislodge us from the mainland and float us off into the stormy North Atlantic.
Well. That's weird. I thought for sure the previous post would summon a couple of "Hey! Neat-o!" comments. It's not every day that someone goes to the trouble and expense to arrange a live webcast from the Gobi Desert of the unearthing of some of the greatest trove of Mongolian Buddhist treasures that were concealed with death-defying courage nearly 70 years ago. But I suppose my version of neat-o isn't everyone's. Or perhaps you felt it, but didn't feel like expressing it. That I definitely get, this blog notwithstanding. Ah well, once again I must declare the human heart and mind a nearly impenetrable mystery.
Off in a few hours with me mater to spend five days in "The Heart of Meditation" with Yongey Mingyur Rinpoche. You're most welcome to chat amongst yourselves, but I'm not packing the laptop and won't pop back up until five days from now, hopefully a wee bit kinder in my outlook.
Well, there, did you feel that? The weirdness just lifted, like mist off the bay. And no, Mr. Comedian in the previous post's comments, the promised announcement was not about Jon and Kate. How do you even know about Jon and Kate in Outer Mongolia? Why do I even (vaguely) know about Jon and Kate? It is so time for an off-the grid retreat, man. My re-introduction to American media 'culture' has been shocking, and not in a good way.
At any rate, some friends of ours over the pond in Europistan seem to have it much more together. What I have to tell you about is bittersweet – sweet that it's happening, a little bit bitter that I won't be present to witness it.
In late 2004, I read a two-part article in the Tibet Foundation's Newsletter about an extraordinary Buddhist lama who had made his seat in Mongolia's eastern Gobi Desert in the 19th century. His name was Danzan Ravjaa, and the article went on to detail the curious, parallel hereditary lineage of takhilch, the caretakers of Danzan Ravjaa's spiritual legacy. Apparently, one takhilch in the early 20th c., Tudev, possessed unusual foresight and courage. In the face of an advancing Red Army intent on demolishing any sign of Mongolia's Buddhist culture, he had singlehandedly spirited away 64 crates of Danzan Ravjaa's writings, texts, sacred objects, and other treasures. Painstakingly preparing the crates in traditional ways to withstand damage from the elements or critters (horse fat was somehow involved), he buried these crates in remote areas of the desert and committed their locations to memory, fearing any written list that would lead to their discovery and destruction. Then he went about his ordinary life, keeping his secret for decades.
The article then introduced me to Altangerel (Mongolian for "Golden Light"), Tudev's grandson and the living takhilch. He had been rigorously trained from childhood to memorize not only the crates' locations, but also the history and meaning of every single item contained within them. Tudev passed away just as religious freedom was dawning again in Mongolia in 1990 and never got to see the first crates of treasures Altangerel unearthed. But the Mongolian public and foreign travelers did. With some of the treasures from 32 of the crates, Altangerel re-established a version of the museum Danzan Ravjaa himself had maintained during his lifetime. Due to the lack of secure storage space, however, the rest of the crates were left in their sandy crypts.
It was this tale that fired my imagination like nothing had in ages, and inspired the title of this blog. A few months later, I would be on a plane to Mongolia and soon to travel many times to the East Gobi and develop a real love and respect for Altangerel, who I consider the finest person I met in Mongolia.
Now there is a new, expanded Danzan Ravjaa Museum, and Altangerel is slowly, year by year, bringing the rest of the crates out of their desert hiding spots. This year, however, is unusually special, because if you have a computer anywhere in the world you can be virtually present for this summer's excavation!
I've been bursting to share this information for months, and now I can: On August 1, my friend Michael Eisenriegler and his team will be present in the Gobi with Altangerel to provide a free, live webcast of the unearthing of three of Danzan Ravjaa's treasure crates and the disclosure of their contents. No one except the takhilch has seen these for more than 70 years. Brother Michael is Austrian, and has created this amazing event to coincide with the city of Linz, Austria being 2009's "European Capital of Culture." Michael made me swear to shut up about this until all the t's were crossed and he had his website up. Well, now it's up, so I urge you to go visit Gobi Treasure Hunt 2009, bookmark it, and circle August 1 in red to tune in for the webcast.
Now, are you more ambitious than that? Good! Michael is encouraging folks to organize live viewing events like those happening in Linz and Vienna (Ariel? DC Friends of Mongolia?), which will also give people the opportunity to contribute to the Danzan Ravjaa Museum and Khamariin Khiid Monastery. Please note you can also do that from the website, and I really encourage it. Michael's a straight shooter and the funds will be delivered as promised and used as intended, I can assure you.
Michael's also still seeking corporate and individual sponsors to help underwrite the costs of this event. The details are here. Please consider supporting this very worthy effort.
And as an added bonus, Altangerel has agreed to allow my Brazilian friend and accomplished photojournalist Haroldo Castro to be present, taking stills and notes for an article he'll generate afterward.
Me? Sigh. I have had a standing invitation to attend these excavations for a couple of years now. But I will be deep into it at Palyul Retreat Center on August 1. However, if I'm reading the timing right, I think the broadcast begins at 6am US Eastern Time, so I'm going to do my best to join y'all online.
The event I was going to announce today has encountered a bit of weirdness. I know Hunter S. Thompson said, "When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro," but the truth is I'm a rank amateur. If things sort themselves out, we'll have the announcement later this week.
Before anything else, I should mention that Sister Tana dialed in with the news that a more professional video of the ceremonies for HH Penor Rinpoche's mahaparinirvana and the attendant miraculous phenomena has just been posted in four parts on YouTube. There's some astounding footage of more private devotions. Here's Part I and you can find your way from there.
After a 12-hour car journey, I have arrived in Vermont for my mother's birthday today – verboten to say which one, but I can safely report we're still just in double digits. If you like, you can skim through my previous paeans here and here. My sister Laura's arriving later and there are rumors of dinner out and cake.
The trip took so long first of all because I stopped by at my friends Chris and Crystal's wooded home in North East, MD to check in on how Nita and The Mooj were faring at Mongolian Kitty Summer Camp. I'm happy to report that their conditions are marvelous – a spacious split-level home on a tidal inlet near where the North East River empties into the Chesapeake Bay; two adorable bright-blond children who think Mongolian kitties are just the koolest; a grizzled 16-year old salt of a tolerant tomcat to show them the ropes as far as tracking squirrels, skritching oak trunks, and teasing the neighbor's dawg; and copious amounts of attention, love, and snax from the humans. In short, they're in heaven.
The seemingly endless traffic afterward between the George Washington Bridge and Bridgeport, CT was made bearable only by the greatest radio station in the universe, WFMU, and its generous servings of American free jazz (Pharaoh Sanders, Marion Brown) and Euro free improvised music (classic FMP recording of Manfred Schoof and his all-star orchestra), all engaged in what the DJ eloquently described as "ecstatic skronk."
I eventually rolled into Worcester, MA, on a mercy mission to deliver a comfy desk chair and homemade cookies to my nephew George, in between semesters there at Clark. I dug his new digs and met his roommates – apparently it was built into the lease that only those with full facial hair and standing 6'5" or taller were allowed residency. He regaled me over iced coffee with tales of his rockin' summer internship with the wonderful Seven Hills Foundation (kid has the biggest heart – he's truly happy when helping others) and later showed me how he was trying to make friends with the snarling, slavering, thankfully fenced-in Chow that lives across the street from him. Needless to say, scant friendliness was in evidence. Just before I left, the dog's owner emerged from the house.
"That's quite a dog you've got there," I remarked.
"Who, Cracker?" he replied with a snort and a flat Mass accent. "That dog's dumb as a pickle."
Yes, well, that's why some of us have cats. I'm still laughing about that phrase this morning. Gonna steal it in the future at just the right moment.
Big announcement about Mongolia on Monday.
I see that Brother Don is reporting on Lama Erdenebat's release event for the book we cooperatively produced – the first Mongolian translation of Patrul Rinpoche's classic, The Words of My Perfect Teacher – with pix. Makes me wistful that I couldn't have been there, but so pleased that we accomplished this. I was tipped to the event by another friend, one of Mongolia's best dharma translators, who took time to contact me, praising both the quality of the translation itself and the print job. As to the latter, we must again thank the generosity of the Khyentse Foundation, a grant from which allowed us to opt for a high-end hardcover edition that can retail at a very affordable price, as well as the ability to give many copies away for free. My hope is that this will merely be the first of many such translations we can publish for the benefit of the Mongolian people and their re-emergent Buddhist culture.
Well, after all that official fuss about Moojie and Nita on the Mongolian side, US Customs didn't even ask to see their papers, just waved me through. I thought to say, "Hey, come on, I glued the photos in their kitty passports myself!" but summoned my habitual distrust of authority, nodded, and schlepped the beasts over the border into their new homeland. Not that they showed any appreciation. Nita may have set some new world record by meowing in outraged protest for 27 continuous hours (thanks for the headphones and wide movie selection, Korean Air Lines!). At Dulles, The Mooj looked like he'd just stared into the chasm of hell itself and wasn't speaking to, or perhaps even recognizing, me.
But they're troopers, and recovered quickly with some overnight TLC at my sister's, only to be stuffed back in their cages this morning for another long ride. I felt like I was delivering illicit contraband as I met their new foster mommy Crystal in the parking lot of The Mall at Columbia (MD) for the big transfer. I assured my little babies that they were going to the coolest summer camp, a house in 11 acres of woodland on a Chesapeake Bay inlet. Shoot, I wanted to stay there! They appeared unconvinced, but they'll thank me some day, or some life. I'll look in on their situation Thursday morning on my way to New England.
Now, on to much more serious matters. Many of you generously responded to my pleas earlier this year for help in getting my Mongolian friend to America and I'm sure have been wondering what happened. As it turned out, with our trip getting turned upside down with the passing of Penor Rinpoche, and other factors beyond my understanding, she was unable to meet my teacher. But this may not have been the most beneficial route for her. When I returned to Mongolia, she stayed (legally, having been given a six-month stamp at the border). Her internal situation had always been disturbed, but about 10 days ago, I learned she had a real breakdown and was admitted to a psychiatric facility where she remains. In one way, this sounds like bad news, and of course she is suffering. On the other hand, if this had happened in Mongolia, there really would have been no adequate care for her. As it is, she is in many ways in the best possible situation to receive the care she needs. I'm working with friends and Mongolian Embassy officials to help as I'm able, but there may be little I can actually do at this point. To preserve her privacy, that's probably the last I'll say about this.
OK, seriously jet-lagged so I must stagger off in search of nourishment. More later.
Oh! Just quickly, the Mongolian edition of The Words of My Perfect Teacher turned out fantastic; the printer did an excellent job. As soon as I can get to a working camera, I'll show pix.
Well, the timing's good for getting out of town, anyway. Yesterday began everyone's favorite annual event – when the hot water gets cut off for two weeks while they service the pipes, and what does issue from the hot water tap attains a hue somewhat akin to weak, day-old coffee.
Lots to do today before the midnight flight since yesterday was dominated by cat drama, generated by the usually serene and accommodating Korean Airlines. Onon (no biblical jokes, please) at KAL's Ulaanbaatar office was seeking permission/confirmation from Seoul for my feline baggage. I had gotten one largish cage to put both of them in, thinking they'd be a comfort to one another on the long, scary ride. It's big ol' Moojie, actually, who tends to be the cowering baby in these situations. Nita just hunkers down and you can almost see the thought bubble: "If I can survive being abandoned on the street in Mongolian winter, I can weather this, too."
My phone rings. "Mr. Thomas?"
"Um, sort of, yes?"
"Korean Air says your cats can't be in one cage."
"The rules say only cats between 6 weeks and 18 months can be in a cage together."
"Why? They've lived together for years. They really love each other. I mean, you know, in a brother sister kind of way."
"That's the rule."
The Rule. OK, I agreed to exchange the large cage for two smaller ones once she got confirmation from Seoul of this plan. That was Thursday. Yesterday at lunch my phone rings.
"Mr. Thomas?"
"Korean Air says you can only take one cat."
Aroo? "But, hang on, yesterday two cats were OK. They need to be with each other and there's nowhere here for them. My plans are all set. I leave tomorrow for heaven's sake."
"That's what they say."
I can hear that Onon is abashed and kind of sympathetic. "Um, Onon? Please, there must be some way to do this."
Onon ponders a moment. "Is one cat small? Less than five kilograms?"
"Nita? So small. Practically fits in your shirt pocket."
"Less than five kilograms?" Onon was all business.
"I'm sure, yes. We weighed her at the animal doctor last week. In fact, she seems to be shrinking."
Pause. "I'll call you back."
I'm in frantic Plan B generation with my friend Dolgor, who's been my indispensable translator/helper this week, when the phone rings.
"Ahem. Yes."
"Mr. Thomas, can you bring your cats in?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Can you bring your cats to the office so we can see them?"
"You're joking."
"No. Is it possible?"
Pinching my eyes. "Of course, Onon. Be happy too."
So off we trooped to stuff Moojie and Nita in their carrying case and haul their carcasses over to the 2nd floor of the Chingghis Khan Hotel. On the way I whispered, "Hey, Nita. Contract yourself some, OK? Look waifish and tiny. And Mooj? Just try not to barf on the office carpet, buddy." I summoned whatever persuasive charm I could manage, and in we marched.
First I brought Nita out for inspection. The issue at hand was whether I could bring her into the cabin and stow her under the seat. This had become, apparently, a whole office project and they all came to look Nita over, one even taking her from me, hefting her a bit and, I swear, setting her on a desk and measuring her with a plastic ruler. Nita struggled only a little and was mostly stoic, and I had enough Mongolian to get that they were remarking, "Say, she is kinda petite." I sensed victory and assured them I could get a smaller cage for The Mooj and a canvas animal tote bag from the pet shop for Nita in Economy. I didn't show it, but I wasn't at all happy about this, thinking about Moojie all alone and frightened for the very long flight in the baggage section when there seemed no good reason that we couldn't have executed Plan A. Nonetheless, there we were. Onon punched the phone buttons for the Seoul office and did an admirable job of laying out a positive case for two beasts on the plane. Seoul put us on hold and Dolgor and I held our breath.
After Seoul clicked back on I could tell they'd relented. Moojie and Nita were on for their Big American Adventure. My elation was to be short-lived, however, when I asked through a fading smile, "Now, how much is this going to cost, exactly?"
Onon nodded thoughtfully. "Well..." said she, and proceeded to outline all sorts of Korean Airlines baggage regulation minutiae while earnestly poking at her calculator. It boiled down to this: beyond two pieces of luggage, other bags are extra and animals are double. $400. When we had talked the very first time about both cats in one cage, it was $200.
"So," I inquired, "two hundred extra dollars to bring a tiny cat into the cabin?"
Onon nodded sadly. "Yes."
All out of options and not wishing to push my luck, I nodded sadly in return. "So be it."
With the final vaccinations and de-worming, production of all the necessary letters and documents for the Mongolian government, and the issuance of government health certificates, earning the right to schlep my little babies to America set me back more than five bills and required a solid two weeks of fairly constant bureaucratic negotiation. But I love them, and feel confident their lives will improve dramatically stateside. And I do look forward to their elaborate service in some future lifetime.
Many, many thanks to Chris in Maryland and Todd in Massachusetts for happily agreeing to be American foster daddies. I'm hoping that by September my life will stabilize some and the three of us can finally download Peaches 'N' Herb: "Reunited, and it feel so good..."


text: Visit The Landing-Minnesota River Heritage Park in Shakopee and explore the outdoors with your child. Learn through themed stories, activities, and crafts. This program is entirely outdoors. Cost is $5 and reservations are required by two days prior. Call 763-559-6700 to make a reservation. This program is open to ages 3-6, plus adult.


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Laser energy has been used in manufacturing for sheet metal cutting or machining holes. The laser energy is used to melt-sublimate the material to be removed. To prevent overheating the laser pulses have a very short duration. Laser ablation can be used for removal of biological materials like bone and teeth tissues. Under this applications overheating becomes more critical as the tissue should not reach temperatures that could produce permanent damage.
MicroFab is developing applications from its patented process of combining ink-jet fluid microdispensing of optically absorbent materials (usually dyes or pigments) with laser energy applied to tissue. The ability to place nanoliter scale volumes of dye as a energy absorber at rates as fast as a laser can be pulsed (20+ per second) makes the ablation process independent of the tissue energy absorption characteristics. Specific applications include laser surgical and dental procedures that involve tissues that are not well suited to laser methods because of poor optical energy absorption. A dye assisted ablation movie illustrates the increase in efficiency that results from combining the dye deposition and the laser pulses.
Left - handpiece tools combining dye-microdrop dispensing elements and optical fibers for laser energy. Right - SEM of 1mm hole drilled in a human tooth using a low power laser assisted by dye-microdrop dispensing.
These same tools can be viewed as general exogenous fluid dispensers. Examples of fluids besides dyes include coolants, photoreflective tissue shields, photoactivated tissue solders, fillers, or surface sealants. A new application for dye-micrdrop assisted laser ablation is the poration of soft tissue (e.g. skin) for intracellular fluid diagnostics and other applications. The image below illustrates this process.
Sequence of events in the collection of intracellular fluid: top - ink drop on the skin; middle - after the laser pulse; bottom - collection of the intracellular fluid.


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Two more recent Atkins MR/ID decisions to add to the Atkins MR/ID Court Decisions blogroll, both from TN. I have not read either of the decisions so I don't know if the TN Supreme court recent reversal that indicates that the standard error of measurement (SEM) and Flynn Effect can now be considered in Atkins cases influenced these two lower court decisions.
Pruitt v TN (2011)
Howell v TN (2011)
- iPost using BlogPress from my Kevin McGrew's iPad
intelligence intelligence testing Atkins cases ICDP blog psychology school psychology neuropsychology forensic psychology criminal psychology criminal justice death penalty capital punishment ABA IQ tests IQ scores adaptive behavior AAIDD mental retardation intellectual disability Pruitt v TN Moore v TN
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HARTFORD, Conn. (November 1, 2011) – CPTV is excited to announce that it is bringing an all-new type of sports coverage to Connecticut with CPTV Sports, a statewide, 24/7 sports channel that covers high school, college and additional sporting events throughout the state.
Scheduled to launch in November on Comcast and Cox cable systems in Connecticut, CPTV Sports is a not-for-profit channel owned and managed by Connecticut Public Television (CPTV) that broadcasts coverage of sporting events and match-ups from more than 40 schools and organizations, including the University of Connecticut, University of Hartford, Central Connecticut State University, Post University and the CIAC state high school championships. The channel will expand to additional cable and over-the-air carriage in early 2012.
CPTV Sports will provide viewers coverage of mainstream sports such as baseball with the New Britain Rock Cats, basketball with the Hartford Lightning and the CT-6 Tournament, hockey with the CT Whale, and soccer with the CT Soccer League, as well as unique sporting events like auto racing from Stafford Motor Speedway, the SpiritFest Cheerleading Championships, and the Connecticut Special Olympics games. Future planned programming includes sports such as rugby, softball, cricket, roller derby, BMX, and others. The channel will also broadcast additional programming related to sports, such as programs on sports medicine.
CPTV Sports will be one of CPTV's digital channels and will also be broadcast in high-definition television, and will take advantage of CPTV's unique ability to bring local people and events to exciting life with intimate storytelling and reporting.
The team behind CPTV Sports includes broadcast professionals Bob Yalen, formerly with ESPN and ABC Sports, who serves as channel director and Joe Coss, Post University Sports Information Director, who serves as production manager.
"At CPTV, we know that the best in sports entertainment can be found, not in Boston or New York, but right here in the Nutmeg State," said Jerry Franklin, President and CEO of the Connecticut Public Broadcasting Network. "Tune in this November as CPTV Sports hits the airwaves, bringing coverage of all the exciting, inspiring fun that can be found right in Connecticut residents' own backyards."
About Connecticut Public Television
CPTV is a media service of the Connecticut Public Broadcasting Network. It is a locally and nationally recognized producer and presenter of quality public television programming, including UConn Women's Basketball, original documentaries and educational programming. CPTV has built a reputation as a leader in children's programming, including playing an historic role in bringing Barney & Friends™, Bob the Builder™ and Thomas & Friends™ to public television. The station offers 11 hours of positive, nurturing children's programs each weekday, reaching 50,000 to 70,000 households daily. The Connecticut Public Broadcasting Network (CBPN) also includes WNPR. WNPR is an affiliate of National Public Radio, Public Radio International and American Public Media. WNPR serves almost 240,000 listeners weekly in Connecticut, New York and Rhode Island with news and information. Its award winning local programming includes Where We Live, The Colin McEnroe Show and The Faith Middleton Show. Overall the network brings a broad spectrum of public affairs, entertainment, sports and educational programming to viewers, listeners and readers. For more information, visit cptv.org.
Follow Ian on Twitter @soxanddawgs. And be sure to like us on Facebook as well.


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Associate Professor of Biology Laura Romano likes to encourage creativity in her classes, but she was rewarded with something quite extraordinary when she assigned an optional extra credit project in her Introduction to the Science of Biology class. The project's goal was to create something that represents a major concept in biology. The students were prompted to use a wide range of mediums such as drawing, painting, sculpture, poetry, videos and music.
Megan Van Horn decided to portray nine birds representing different adaptations of beaks.
The talented artist from New Concord, Ohio, is double majoring in chemistry and English - creative writing, but she has plenty of artistic talent too. She drew birds from ecosystems that range from the tropics to the arctic, including a toucan, barn owl, puffin and woodpecker.
"Dr. Romano has been especially good in making complex biological concepts accessible to non-majors, like me."
When Van Horn signed up for Romano's class, she didn't anticipate being able to utilize her artistic skills. "This class has given me a very good overview of biology," she says. "Dr. Romano has been especially good in making complex biological concepts accessible to non-majors, like me. And I really appreciated being able to use my talents in her class."
Romano was delighted with Van Horn's work. "Megan is very talented in the sciences, and it's obvious that she's talented in the arts as well."
This creative component is not often found in science classes, which typically focus more on lab work then studio time, but Romano tries to incorporate the arts into all her curriculum.
"I figured out early on that some biological concepts are easier to understand visually than by simply reading about them or discussing them," says Romano. Some of these concepts need to be represented in three or even four dimensions (adding time). She finds that by encouraging her students to think in creative ways, they master the concepts more easily.
In Romano's Developmental Biology class, her students must prepare oral presentations that integrate an artistic element. "I've had students present really impressive computer animations, for example."
Romano relieves the subjectivity of artistic merit by creating judges from a panel of peers who must assess the pieces on the metrics of creativity, perceived effort and effectiveness as an educational tool.
"I like to paint and draw myself but I understand that not everyone can rise to a high level of artistic accomplishment," she says. "But science students are really very creative, as seen when they have to design experiments in the lab. The liberal arts ideal of learning across disciplines works very well here, especially when my students are presented with a wide range of options to showcase their talents."


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Treasures of Asian Art: A Rockefeller Legacy
Treasures of Asian Art: A Rockefeller Legacy, an exhibition of 60 works from one of the finest collections of Asian art in the United States, inaugurates Asia Society Texas Center's new Louisa Stude Sarofim Gallery.
Selected from the Mr. and Mrs. John D. Rockefeller 3rd Collection of traditional Asian art of the Asia Society Museum in New York, the exhibition includes outstanding examples of bronze and stone sculpture from South and Southeast Asia and exquisite ceramics from China, Korea and Japan.
Treasures of Asian Art explores these stunning works by placing them in the context of American collecting of Asian art in the post-World War II period, specifically the collecting practice of Asia Society's founder, John D. Rockefeller 3rd, and his wife, Blanchette Hooker Rockefeller.
The son of collectors John D. Rockefeller Jr. and Abby Aldrich Rockefeller, John D. Rockefeller 3rd grew up surrounded by his parents' collection of Chinese and Japanese ceramics, Japanese prints, and Buddhist sculpture. But his tastes and interests in and motivations for collecting Asian art extended beyond those of his parents, in part because of his experiences serving on the post-World War II peace mission to Japan led by John Foster Dulles.
Fostering International Relations
The optimistic program of rebuilding international relations after August 1945 coincided with a new generation of art collectors, some of whom had lived and worked in Asia during and after the war. These collectors understood what was at stake if citizens of diverse countries were not educated about each others' cultures, histories, and achievements.
John D. Rockefeller 3rd and his wife hoped to directly impact international relations and ultimately improve understanding between Americans and Asians using Asian arts and culture as a means of promoting understanding. As Rockefeller stated when announcing the gift of the Mr. and Mrs. John D. Rockefeller 3rd Collection to Asia Society in 1974,
"My own experience tells me that anyone who becomes acquainted with the arts and cultures of Asia acquires a greatly augmented sense of appreciation and respect for its peoples. We hope that the collection, integrated into Asia Society programs, can help instill in Asian-American relations an added sense of importance and opportunity."
About the Exhibition
Treasures of Asian Art: A Rockefeller Legacy features Indian bronze sculpture from the Chola period (9th – 13th centuries), for which the Rockefeller Collection is particularly well known, as well as noted Buddhist sculpture from India, Nepal, Tibet and Southeast Asia, and exquisite ceramics from China and Japan.
Highlights of Chola sculpture include Krishna Dancing on Kaliya, showing the popular Indian deity in triumph over the serpent-demon, and Shiva and Parvati, a warm domestic portrait of the divine couple. Other sculpture vividly illustrates the evolution of Buddha imagery as Buddhism spread from India through Nepal and Tibet and into East and Southeast Asia.
Chinese ceramics range from a brilliantly colored 8th century tomb sculpture of a court lady to a Ming-era ewer whose elegant shapes show the influence of Middle Eastern forms. Other highlights of the exhibition include 16th- and 17th-century Japanese screens.
Adriana Proser, the John H. Foster Curator for Traditional Asian Art at the Asia Society Museum in New York, curated the exhibition, which remains on display through October 7, 2012.
Asian Art, Texas Connections
Treasures of Asian Art is joined by two other installations, which opened on April 14. Contemporary Asian Art: Texas Connections comprises works of art on loan from Texas collectors. Curated by Kimberly Davenport, Director of Rice University Art Gallery, it is installed in the Fayez Sarofim Grand Hall.
Korean-born artist Lee Ufan's site-specific sculpture Relatum – signal, inaugurates the Center's Allen Sculpture Garden adjoining the Sarofim Gallery.


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An independent film starring Rory Culkin, the brother of child star Macaulay Culkin, is filming in Riverhead this week.
"Gabriel" is about a teenager, played by Mr. Culkin, who goes on a journey to find his first love, said producer Allison Carter. Crews began filming at an Ostrander Avenue house Monday and were continuing the shoot Tuesday morning.
The building is supposed to contain the Connecticut college apartment of the protagonist's former flame, Ms. Carter explained.
"He comes to her apartment during winter break hoping to find her here," she said.
The film, which is directed and written by Lou Howe, has been shooting across the tri-state area in New York City, Montauk, Connecticut and Sag Harbor over the past few months, Ms. Carter said. The shoot in Riverhead should wrap up Tuesday afternoon.
Ms. Carter said most of the crew isn't from the area, but they have been enjoying their stay on the North Fork.
"The community is great," she said. "Everyone has kind of welcomed us."
The movie is the latest in a series of television series and films to shoot in the Riverhead area. Last year, the Coen Brothers filmed two scenes for their latest movie "Inside Llewyn Davis" at two properties in Riverhead. That film, set in the 1960s and featuring big-name Hollywood talent such as John Goodman of the "Big Lebowski" and Justin Timberlake of "The Social Network," is due to be released later this year.
In March, another independent film, "El Cielo Es Azul" (The Sky is Blue), held movie shoots at several locations in Riverhead, including Cody's BBQ and Grill and in September, a fishing show called "Lunkerville" shot scenes in Riverhead and Southold towns.
An upcoming television series also filmed at the A Cut Above hair salon in Aquebogue in October.
The HBO crime drama "Boardwalk Empire" shot scenes at a Calverton farm in 2011 for their season finale, and HBO's "The Sopranos" filmed in Riverhead twice several years ago.
"Gabriel" will continue shooting over the next few months and is expected to be released in 2014.


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information for all kinds of studio work from all studio areas at the Slade School of Fine Art


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When we were kids, it seemed like my sister was always sick. By the time we were in high school, my brother and I were convinced that she was the best con artist of all time, regularly convincing our parents that she just couldn't go to school, and could she please have some pudding.
Well, as it turned out, my sister has had Celiac Disease her entire life. It further turns out that our mom has it as well, so my brother and I were both tested a couple of years ago. The results were negative, so my gluten-rich diet of beer and bread was not affected, but my mom and sister -- especially my sister, who is so sensitive she can't even use the same knife as I do if my knife has touched anything with wheat in it -- have had to significantly change their lifestyle to adapt and survive.
My mom did a ton of research, the way you do when you're a parent and you find out that your child has a chronic disease, and ended up becoming something of an expert on Celiac Disease. She eventually took the knowledge she gained from that research, turned it into advocacy for people who have Celiac Disease, and recently started a campaign to increase awareness of what is called "The #1 Disease You've Never Heard Of."
I'm going to turn my blog over to my mom for a little bit, so she can tell you more. Take it away, mom.
Thanks, Wil. You're the best son in the world. Don't tell Jeremy and Amy I said so, but you're my favorite. [Note: The preceeding sentence may have been added by Wil for comedic effect. Everything that follows is entirely true, and written by my mom.]
As you know, since your little sister Amy and I were diagnosed with Celiac Disease 6 years ago, I have become a passionate activist to raise awareness about CD. Today I am taking my crusade to another level with Not Even A Crumb™ (www.notevenacrumb.com) FAQ: Celiac is the #1 genetic autoimmune disease in the world and remains the most misdiagnosed. It is estimated that 3 million Americans are affected and 97% don't even know it…yet. There is no cure, no pills, no drug therapies. The "cure" is a Gluten-Free diet. The only disease in the world completely controlled by diet is also: "The #1 Disease You've Never Heard Of".
I'm sure we all remember how sick Amy was for years before her diagnosis. By the time she ended up in the ER, she had lost over 20 lbs and couldn't eat anything but potatoes and rice. Until that day, none of us had ever heard of Celiac Disease, nor was it mentioned by any of the parade of Doctors who had entered her life at that point. Many thought she was into drugs or was anorexic. After her diagnosis, we connected the dots backwards, and realized that we'd both suffered for years from the now well-known symptoms of Celiac. How different those years might have been if we'd only known that the "cure" was a Gluten-Free diet. And after 6 years on a strict Gluten-Free diet, we are both healthy and symptom free.
Two years ago I began volunteering with the Celiac Disease Foundation. I also created Not Even A Crumb™: "Easy to Digest Solutions for Living a Gluten-Free Lifestyle". Now we have partnered with CDF to produce the 1st nationwide PSA to raise awareness. (we already have a commitment from CBS to air it!)The path to diagnosis didn't have to be such a convoluted maze for Amy and me. The information was available, if we'd only known where to find it, or if our doctors had known to look for it. A national PSA will help unravel that maze, raise awareness, increase diagnosis and save lives. More information about Celiac and our fundraising campaign is just a click away: www.notevenacrumb.com
So there you go. I told my mom that she had an opportunity to reach a lot of people here, so if you feel inclined to share this post and the information included in it with your friends and family, that would be awesome.
Oh, one more thing: I've seen at least one local news report that misrepresented gluten-free diets as some kind of fad diet, like South Beach or Atkins or something people are trying to lose weight. It infuriated me that this station was so lazy and misleading, and many angry letters were written. Eventually, one of the stations ran a correction on their website (not on air, heaven forbid) that included a letter from my mom. If you hear some local newsmodel presenting GF diets as some kind of silly fad, instead of a medical necessity that saves lives, please point them to my mom's website, or the Celiac Disease Foundation.