An Inordinate Fondness for Grasshoppers

Last month I went to Arizona on a reporting trip. One afternoon excursion took me to the eastern Patagonia Mountains, the rolling dun-colored range that aligns with one segment of the United States’ border with Mexico. I walked through oak-juniper woodlands alive with gray foxes and Coues deer, a small, desert-adapted subspecies of whitetail. Tufty yellow bunchgrasses carpeted the ground. And in the grass were grasshoppers, popping up like corn with my every step. 

Even within the underloved phylum of Arthropoda, grasshoppers don’t get much respect. They lack the flashy charisma of butterflies, the collective brilliance of ants, the zeitgeisty appeal of bees. If they’re known for anything, it’s the tendency of some species to gather into swarms of crop-ravaging, famine-inducing locusts, a behavior that hardly wins them many supporters. I’d never given them much thought myself, save for the foam-bodied, rubber-legged imitations that have an uncanny knack for coaxing big trout to the surface. 

As I strolled the crackly folds of the Patagonia foothills, however, I found myself weirdly enchanted by the six-legged lives whirring up beneath my soles. Stooping to examine them, I realized what should have been obvious: Grasshoppers are astonishingly diverse. I scooped up one specimen after another, each stranger and lovelier than the last. We’re accustomed to thinking about aggregations of grasshoppers as “hordes,” “plagues,” and “swarms,” yet none of those collective nouns seemed right for the spectacular entomological weirdness at my feet. “Menagerie,” maybe.

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Guest Post: Poet yells at newspaper article

In late October, The New York Times published a splashy feature article by opinion writer Bret Stephens titled “Yes, Greenland’s ice is melting, but…”. In this 6,000-word piece inspired by a trip to Greenland, Stephens shares his story of conversion from climate denial to climate concern.

At least, purportedly. The piece has been widely criticized by climate advocates and climate journalists for its soft denialism and the over-certainty about solutions often displayed by those new to the climate conversation.

The piece frustrated me, too, so I turned to a technique beloved by poets who want to critique or reverse the meaning of a piece of writing: the blackout or erasure poem. In this form the poet redacts all but a select few words from an existing text to create an entirely new work.

At the basest level, it’s pretty satisfying to take the digital version of a black Sharpie to a piece of writing that annoys you! But I also liked how the concept of erasure echoes the losses (of ice, and so many other things) associated with climate change, and how the black on the page reminded me of the black carbon that falls on Arctic ice. Here are the results below:

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Like Groundhog Day: the Mammogram Story That Won’t Die

breastcancer

Before I begin, a disclaimer: I’m sick of writing about mammography. It feels like groundhog day — I’ve been writing the same damn story, over and over and over again, for nearly 15 years. [NOTE: This post you’re reading first ran in October, 2015, which means I’ve now been writing about this for well over 20 years.] This is at least the fifth time I’ve written a LWON post about mammograms. (See also: Breast cancer’s false narrativeThe real scandal: science denialism at Susan G. Komen for the Cure®FAQs about breast cancer screening, and Breast cancer’s latest saga: misfearing and misplaced goalposts.)

So why I am I writing about mammograms again? Because even though I just published a story at FiveThirtyEight explaining why science won’t resolve the mammogram debate and a feature at Mother Jones asking how many women have mammograms hurt? (the answer is millions) the harms of mammography continue to be ignored or mischaracterized in the media. Every time this happens, I get letters from people asking me to please clarify this point again. Just this past week, a New York Times editorial penned by two breast radiologists and a breast surgeon declared, “Let’s stop overemphasizing the ‘harms’ related to mammogram callbacks and biopsies,” while an op-ed in the Washington Post titled, “Don’t worry your pretty little head about breast cancer” claimed that, “the idea that anxiety is a major harm doesn’t have much scientific support.” (In fact, at least one study has found long-term consequences from a false alarm.)

What both of these opinion pieces miss and what too many women still don’t know is that while 61 percent of women who have annual mammograms will have a callback for something ultimately declared “not cancer,” this isn’t the most damaging problem. Such false alarms are more devastating than they might seem (I can’t think of another recommended medical test with such a high false positive rate), but most women would probably gladly accept this risk in exchange for a reasonable chance to prevent a cancer death.

Here’s the bigger problem: screening mammography has failed to reduce the incidence of metastatic disease and it’s created an epidemic of a precancer called DCIS. The premise of screening is that it can find cancers destined to metastasize when they’re at an early stage so that they can be treated before they turn deadly. If this were the case, then finding and treating cancers at an early stage should reduce the rate at which cancers present at a later, metastatic stage. Unfortunately, that’s not what’s happened.

This graph published yesterday in the New England Journal of Medicine charts the bad news. (The situation is more nuanced for prostate cancer screening, and yet some medical groups have stopped recommending routine prostate cancer screening.)

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Even if it didn’t reduce deaths, mammography might still be useful if it helped patients avoid the most aggressive treatments. But despite claims to the contrary, randomized trials have shown that participation in screening mammography increases the rates of lumpectomy by 30 percent and mastectomy by 20 percent.

new paper just published by John Keen and Karsten Jørgensen in the Journal of Women’s Health lays out four principles that women need to understand before making a decision to undergo mammography screening.

Principle 1: Screening May Help, Hurt, or Have no Effect

Women are often urged to get screened because it might save their lives. But that’s only one possible outcome, and it’s the least likely one. Here are the possible outcomes if 10,000 50-year-old women have yearly mammograms for ten years.

MammOutcomes

Principle 2: The Most Reliable Statistic for Evaluating the Benefit of Breast Screening is All-cause Mortality

Mammography is often promoted with claims that it can reduce breast cancer deaths by 15 or even 20 percent. But these numbers represent relative, not absolute risks, and they only consider breast cancer deaths. The average woman’s lifetime risk of dying from breast cancer is low — 2.7 percent without screening. Mammography also leads to the treatment of cancers that never threatened the patient’s life, and these treatments can increase mortality. All-cause mortality is the only measure that takes into account the harms from over treatment as well as the benefits from early detection, but “the benefit of breast screening on all-cause mortality is so small that hundreds of thousands of participants are required to test if the effect is there. The randomized trials, including >600,000 women, did not show an effect on total mortality, which tells us that the absolute benefit of the intervention must be quite small, if it is there,” Keen and Jørgensen write.

Principle 3: Some Plausible Screening Statistics can be Misleading

As I wrote here in 2012, some mammography advocates promote screening by claiming that it improves survival times. “The 5-year survival rate for breast cancer when caught early is 98%. When it’s not? 23%,” read one Komen ad. But survival time is a highly misleading statistic, because it depends entirely on when the cancer is diagnosed, not its ultimate outcome. People “overdiagnosed” with cancers that never would have never hurt them will have a 100 percent survival rate, even though their lives were never threatened. The more harmless cancers that screening finds, the better the survival rates look, even as more people are harmed.

Principle 4: Breast Cancer Biology Limits the Screening Window

In the end, it comes down to cancer biology. Some tumors can send out micrometastases very early, when they’re too small to be detected on even the most high-tech mammograms, and others can grow quite large without ever metastasizing. According to Keen and Jørgensen, what we call “early detection” is actually late in a tumor’s lifetime. They calculate that a tumor that’s 10-mm in diameter contains about one billion cells and has undergone 29 doublings. If you assume a median volume doubling time of 260 days, that means the tumor is more than 20 years old.

The median invasive tumor discovered due to symptoms is about 21 mm, and the median screen-detected invasive tumor is 14 mm. Do the math, and the difference in average size works out to about 7 mm or 1.4 years, but “in reality it is smaller because the many small, overdiagnosed tumors exaggerate the difference,” Keen and Jørgensen write. “The time window when screen detection might extend a woman’s life is narrow, as many tumors that can form metastases will already have done so.”

So what’s the takeaway?

None of the mammography studies we have is perfect, but in absolute numbers, there’s no question that far more women are harmed than helped by mammograms. Yet because the comparison is essentially apples to oranges (unnecessary treatments versus a life saved, for instance), deciding whether the harms are outweighed by the benefits comes down to a values judgement, not a math problem. If you’re a woman trying to decide whether or how often to get screened, go back to the chart under principle number one above, look at the numbers and decide for yourself whether the odds are acceptable to you. It’s your body and your choice.


Images: Header photo by Laura Taylor, via Flickr.

Chart of possible outcomes, from JAMA.

Incidence of metastatic breast cancer from NEJM.

The Marshmallow Test is Wrong and Bad

I have a new mantra. Live your life, kids. Sure, have the chocolate muffin for breakfast. Wear the nice shoes on the playground. Use the fine china. Eat the marshmallow. Life is short. You might not get another marshmallow, despite what people tell you, so enjoy what you have while it lasts.

My older daughter has a favorite washcloth, a favorite shirt, a favorite pair of leggings, a favorite pair of shoes, a favorite water bottle — you get the idea. The minute these items are clean and available, they are back in use. I know, because I do all the laundry, and sometimes I do it early so she will have renewed access to her favorite stuff. 

I also have a favorite shirt, pair of boots, ice cream flavor, tea mug, tea type — you get the idea. I know, because I usually save them for last. I make myself wear the scratchy fleece or the pinchy boots first, and drink the tea I don’t like, because … I don’t really know why. Because it will even things out, or something? I should suffer first to enjoy the good stuff later? I want to save my favorite things to make them last longer. But this inevitably means they don’t get used as often. 

I don’t know how this happened. But I now think my daughter is onto something, and that I’m doing it wrong. (This is often the case.) I thought about one of the most famous examples of delayed gratification, the so-called marshmallow test.

This was a simple test designed to examine how and at what age kids learn the concept of delayed gratification. In its most basic outlines, kids between the ages of 4 and 6 were offered a marshmallow in a research setting, and told they could either eat it now and call it good, or wait to eat it for 15 minutes and get a bonus second marshmallow. The test was meant to understand the age and maturity level at which kids figure out that waiting is okay, maybe even better, despite how hard it can be. But the test truly became famous after the researchers revisited these same kids years later. They apparently found a correlation between the kids’ ability to wait for the second marshmallow and their relative success in adulthood. For a very thorough breakdown, read this Vox article

But in 2018, psychologists revisited the famous study and found there was no real correlation. Turns out that a kindergartener’s ability to delay her own satisfaction can’t actually predict her success in adulthood. Rather, there are far more pervasive, frustrating forces at play—for instance, the successful kids in the original study all had wealthy, successful parents.

I feel like this is obvious, especially in retrospect, but I also feel like the very notion of delayed gratification is … well, I’ll just say it. It’s dumb. I don’t like it or the notion that it’s something we should aspire to. The marshmallow test’s supposed correlation to excellence is toxic, but it’s also sometimes just the wrong way to live.

Screw delaying gratification. Seize the day! A bird in hand is worth two in the bush. Carpe diem. YOLO. Tempus fugit! Burn the candle.

Use your favorite washcloth. Wear the fuzzier, nicer fleece. Who knows how many times you’ll get to use it at all, anyway? Why wait for happiness to come later, when your very life is happening before you, and you don’t even know how long it will be? 

Life is short, babies. Eat the first marshmallow you are offered. Eat it immediately, and have no regrets. 

image: Wikimedia Commons

The People of LWON Are, In Spite of Everything, Grateful

HELEN: I’m thankful for all the new skills I’ve developed in the last 2.5 years. That’s how I’ve kept myself sane in pandemic times. And I’m using them – I’m trying to make a bunch of Christmas tree ornaments with my quilting and embroidery skills by the first weekend in December, for example, and I will be eating pizza (baking skills) tonight. This feels pretty underwhelming for a Thanksgiving post, but I’m the first one to write anything in here so now everything everybody else writes will sound better. You’re welcome, People of LWON! 

ANN:  Where to even start? Even though I’m still too cautious to go out much, I’m grateful to the people who keep inviting me; I think of them as superior beings looking kindly upon my trembly self, knowing that one day my baby steps will take me to their houses, to restaurants with them.  In fact, I’m grateful for the baby-steps phenomenon, the tiny slow easy things that do end up in a future I wouldn’t have thought I could handle.  

JANE: In no particular order: my air purifier, tater tots, karaoke, Lorde’s Solar Power, whoever invented bicycles, friends old and new, a body that can carry me the places I want to go, the sun, every person who has fought to make this world a slightly better place. 

RICHARD: Can we call this autumn, punningly, the Fall of the Autocrat? Bolsonaro, Putin, Musk, Trump. I admit, I’m writing this paragraph three days after the election, and, I also admit, I’m writing it while nursing a Longboard lager at a bar in Hawaii with a view of mountains and the ocean, but if the present fortuitous civilization-spanning circumstances (and I’m not referring to my current louche lifestyle) change between now and the day this post goes live, then I—  

No, wait. I was going to say, “Then I reserve the right to retract this post.” But actually, I don’t want to reserve that right. I hereby cede it. Because even if the immediate cultural/political vibe winds up changing for the worse in the next two weeks, I will treasure this memory. Right now, right here–6:32:47 PM HST November 11, 2022; 21.96139N, 159.34871W–is an intersection of time and space for which I am, and will remain, thankful.

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consider the toothpaste

I wrote this in 2021 and originally published it in my newsletter. Almost two years later, I am still thinking about it, so please, if you know Crest’s copywriters, please reach out.

For unobservant people (me), product labels are background noise. I don’t pay much attention to the text on a package of toilet paper or what’s written on the various boxes and cans I bring home from the grocery store, though I do think about this can of peas all the time. My partner, on the other hand, reads everything closely. If there’s anything on the dining table while we’re having a meal — a flier, the wrapper around takeout chopsticks — he’ll reflexively read it. So it did not surprise me at all when he showed me the text on our toothpaste tube.

“What does this even mean?” he asked with incredulity, pointing at a phrase highlighted in its own little white box: “Protects against areas dentists check most.”

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“A year later, I was still thinking about this octopus.” A Conversation with Sabrina Imbler (Part I)

A deep blue underwater photograph of an upside-down jelly, its tentacles streaming upward

After a long, miserable summer of illness, I’m back, and I’ve got something extra-marvelous to share: an interview with Sabrina Imbler (they/them), a fellow poet/essayist/science writer and the author of the forthcoming collection HOW FAR THE LIGHT REACHES: A Life in Ten Sea Creatures. Our conversation about writing, publishing, and (what else?) marine invertebrates was so rich that it can’t be contained in a single post, so stay tuned for an absolute banger of a Part II next month. NOTE: This interview has been edited for clarity and length.

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A Shape in the Woods

This concerns the burned out hulk of a ponderosa pine that bears have taken an interest in, sculpted, really. I recently saw this smoldered-black tree on a backpack with two friends in Western Colorado. The walk took four days with no human trails to speak of, so when we arrived, we were well away from human presence in a purely animal landscape.

One of the friends had found it weeks earlier, saying he considers this one of the most important finds of his life. It is a mysterious meeting place for bears. When I saw it from a hundred feet away, I thought the object was a big bear in the woods. A large tree will burn down in a wildfire and leave a hooded black stump that can be mistaken for a large animal. Through lines of standing, live ponderosas, catching it out of the side of my eye, it seemed to be standing on its hind legs, peering through the trees.

This had been a large ponderosa pine, at the peak of its life thirty or forty years ago. For whatever reason, it had grown at a slight angle, and a fire burned it down to about ten feet of trunk, the base smoldering into a stiletto. It looks like a half-ton charred ballerina standing on a single leg. At the top, on what appears to be a head, stands a pair of uncanny protuberances, not unlike the raised ears of a black bear, making it not a ballerina, but ursine, bulky in the chest, heads taller than any living bear. 

You can tell something has been happening around this charred shell. A halo of pine needle duff has been pummeled flat by the weight of many bears over time. This has long been a focus of ursine attention. It stands like their shrine, like nothing the three of us had ever seen in the wild.

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