Arise! and Shine

Part One: The Doctor is More Often to Be Feared than the Disease

It began with something as simple as a minor eye infection.

Having lived weeks in a construction zone, during time which my little house underwent her facelift, I was exposed to more than my share of sawdust, carpet fibers, mildew spores, hardwood shavings and granite dust. The frosting on the cake turned out to be a major chimney rebuild.

Mortar and decades old ash found their way inside the house despite the heavy preventative draping. My eyes dried out, began to itch relentlessly, then developed pink rims.

Nothing I tried worked. It became time to seek professional help.

Now, you might think that finding a new Primary Care Physician, one who is both compassionate and skilled, in a city as large as Portland, would be simple. After all, there are hundreds listed in the directory of physicians. Still, you would be wrong. As it turns out, the limitations imposed by Medicare and one’s supplementary insurance winnow your options down considerably.

So, while I was still feeling some gratitude for the actual having of health insurance, I turned to the Internet and began reading review after review of doctors in my “network”; doctors who were open to accepting new patients.

This finally led me to what seemed like a possible fit: a female Clinic Director of a small, busy, satellite of the Providence universe, located in NE, not far from my home. Described by patients as “knowledgeable”, “accessible”, “no nonsense” and “able to triage easily”, she had also been selected one of Portland Magazine’s Doctors of the Year two years running. I picked up the phone and made my call.

She didn’t have an opening.

‘Who does?’ was the attitude of the clinic receptionist on the other end of the line. “However,” she offered, in consolation, “Dr. X, who reports directly to her, has a 1:15”.

I accepted. After all, a minor eye infection should be easy for any doctor, right?

I arrived fifteen minutes early, as requested, to fill out intake paperwork. Turned out that their computer system wasn’t compatible with Salem Clinic so my complete medical history wouldn’t portage through. What they did have was several years old. Would I please update and verify a few things?

Of course, happy to oblige. No big deal.

Or, rather it shouldn’t have been.

Eventually, I was ushered into the little exam room. You know the type: ubiquitous in their clinical detachment. A stainless steel sink, a few drawers and cupboards filled with nothing too important, paper covered exam table, a stool for the doctor, an extra chair for the patient to sit in while waiting, those requisite domestic violence and sexually transmitted disease posters on the wall.

This one had an added attraction, though. A jaunty little feature meant to educate and entertain us: a looped slide show featuring each employee of the clinic, complete with professional headshots. No information about the actual person, mind you. No personal quote or statement of qualifications, nothing so revealing as that–just name and title, thank you very much. Here we are, ready to serve.

As I waited, I watched the faces and names float by. A nurse appeared to take my blood pressure, pulse and temperature. She was professional, competent and lacking in personality. I actually had to ask her to tell me my blood pressure, which was, as usual, low. She left the room. I found her smiling face on the next go round of the slide show; looking much happier in her digital incarnation than she seemed in the flesh.

I waited for Dr. X to appear. Three slideshow cycles went by. It seemed she hadn’t yet been uploaded into the program. Oh, but look! There’s Clinic Director Woman I was hoping to see. Nice enough smile. Oh, and there she is again, right behind Sports Medicine Man. Zoom goes the program, faces scroll by, and yep, there she is one more time, lest we forget.

The door opens and the mystery of image lacking Dr. X is solved.

She is youngish, dark haired, slender, seems to possess an excess of nervous energy, brisk and abrupt. She wears scholarly black glasses, with stethoscope around her neck, so there will be no doubt as to who is the doctor in here.

She wastes no time on pleasantries. No getting to know you, “I’m just building rapport”, bullshit. Dr. X has a job to do and she is going to do it efficiently.

“You are here today for a possible eye infection”, she states, rather than asks. She looks at her chart. “You also have Cancer and Osteoarthritis.”

Whoa. I didn’t put that on my intake forms. I gently interrupt her.

“No. Uh, I’m not sure why it says that. I did have a breast tumor but it was successfully treated by acupuncture several years ago. My mother died a couple of years ago from Cancer, oddly enough, but no, I do not have it myself. And yes, I guess I do still have Osteoarthritis but I haven’t thought too much about it lately.”

She looks displeased. The interruption was not to her liking.

She carries on. “I see you are also taking Lamotrigine for a seizure disorder, as well as Wellbutrin and Clonazepam?” This time there is the faintest hint of a question in her tone. She does not meet my eyes.

“Again, incorrect.” I go for a good-natured, good humored tone of voice. “I haven’t taken any of those medications for nearly two years. I did update that on my intake form.”

“Our computer system is not compatible with Salem.” she says, almost as though I haven’t spoken. “I don’t have your complete medical history, ”just these few facts.

“Which seem to be out of date”, I add kindly, smiling. It’s not her fault. I give her the benefit of the doubt.

She studies me for a moment.

“Are you currently seeing a Neurologist?” she asks.

This seems to come from left field. I am slightly taken aback.

“No.” I answer, curiously. “Why?”

“The Lamotrigine. It is prescribed for seizures. It says here that you have a seizure disorder.”

Ah, now I understand. I can clear this up easily.

I respond, “The Lamotrigine wasn’t prescribed for seizures, or by a Neurologist. It was prescribed for a mood disorder, by a Psychiatrist., as were the other drugs. I was depressed and anxious, going through a very bad time due to being a Whistle Blower at the State, then harassed for it.” I am talking a bit too fast. “But I haven’t needed any of those medications for a couple of years. Not since I took early retirement. Clearly your records haven’t been updated.”

I slow down, continue amiably, “As for a Neurologist, well, I’m seen enough of them for a lifetime.” I laugh lightly, trying to share the joke. “I haven’t needed to see a Neurologist for decades. We developed protocols for my seizure disorder which work and I follow them.”

I give what I hope is an air of finality to my voice.

I’m hoping we will now move onto the minor eye infection, which is, after all, the reason I came into this office today. My eye is still itching and the light kind of bothers me.

“When was your last gran mal?” she asks, instead.

“A long time ago”, I say, uncertainly, “months. I don’t remember exactly. The closest thing to something like that was in early July. I was outside on an abnormally hot day, 100 degrees, at a Folk Festival in Canada. I overheated because my brain thermostat no longer works since the head injury which created the seizure disorder.” This last seizure was over three months ago, which is a crucial fact, and I know it.

She, however, does not ask a single clarifying question. She does not follow up with a line of enquiry about the type of seizures I experience, the frequency, or whether or not I lose consciousness. She does not ask about my damned eye infection, for that matter. What she does do, is stand abruptly up, excuse herself, and leave, while I sit there wondering what in the hell is going on.

A few minutes pass. The photo circus has been turned off, I notice distractedly.

I listen to muffled sounds outside in the hallway. Voices. Footsteps. More voices; a baby crying somewhere.

I look at the time.
1:30.

I’ve only been in this room fifteen minutes but it feels like so much longer. I need to leave. I start gathering my things.

Dr. X returns. She sits down. She zeroes in on me. “Do you drive?” she demands.

I now know where this is headed.

“Yes, I do.” I respond. I add, firmly, “I have never had a seizure while driving, not once in forty years.”

“Just because you never have doesn’t mean you never will.” She has turned into a Judge. “I want you to know that I am going to report you to the DMV. I have to. It’s a mandatory report.”

“Look, I was the Director of the Abuse Prevention and Training Unit for the State of Oregon for nearly 15 years,“ I begin, no longer the kindly, older woman with a possible eye infection. I become the Director. “I taught mandatory reporting, among other things, for years. I know the law quite well. You do not have to file a report because the incident was more than three months ago.” I am correcting her.

She becomes argumentative. “It says, ‘three months or more’.” She puts special emphasis on the ‘or more’. “I conferred with our Clinic Director. She says that we must report.”

“No.” I correct her, again. I stare straight into her eyes. “You are ‘choosing’ to report. You are making a choice. That is an entirely different thing. It is also a waste of time for the DMV, you realize. Not one other doctor in my 40 years of driving has ever felt it necessary to make a report to the DMV.”

She doesn’t listen. Or rather, she chooses not to listen. She instead stares straight back at me, defiantly. “As for your possible eye infection, I have nothing in my arsenal to treat you with. It doesn’t present as conjunctivitis, which I could treat. So I am referring you to an Ophthalmologist, who should be better able to take care of your needs.”

I am stunned speechless by her incompetence and ignorance. I also recognize in that moment of standoff that she will not budge. In her mind, Doctors are Gods and one does not question their wisdom. I don’t even know what to say to her. I just look at her, gawping in frustration and wonderment, as she hastily scribbles information on a small piece of paper.

“Here is the referral. His office is about two miles away. They will see you in one hour.” And she is finished with me. She stands up, exits the room, no looking back.

I sit for a full two minutes, so angry that I cannot move. My heart is pumping rapidly. My breathing has become shallow. I have entered “fight or flight”.

I flee.

Part Two: It’s Not Right What They Can Do To You

It is four days later. I have convinced myself that it was all just a bad experience with an inexperienced doctor who has since forgotten me. My anxiety has abated and I am living my life. The holiday season is upon us.

The mail comes.

There, amongst the early November bills, is a thin, white envelope with a Department of Motor Vehicles return address. I take a deep breath. I sit down. I open the envelope.

One page; one short, bureaucratic page…
“Due to a report received from a medical provider”, “designated a high risk driver”, “license revoked”. The words leap out at me.

“Effective immediately.” Date given? The very next day.

What? Tomorrow? I can’t believe what I’ve just read. My license is being revoked the very next fucking day?! I am appalled.

Involuntarily, I begin to weep.

I am stunned at how easily my life has been turned upside down by just one ignorant, overworked physician who didn’t even try to deal with me on a human level.

“This is what they can do to you.” I think, as the repercussions begin to flood over me, loss of independence at the top of the list. “This is what they can do to you.”

Part Three: Fighting Back For Justice

I pick up the phone and call the DMV.
A chirpy, young automaton answers. I ask what I can do about this letter. What can I do to get this wrongly filed report corrected to have my license re-instated?

“You can file for an appeal hearing,” she tells me, “Which will take three or four months.” She follow up with, “Or, you can get a physician to fill out a medical form we can send you, have him or her fax it back to us, and wait for our team to assess it.”

“How long does that usually take?” I ask.

“Anywhere from six to ten weeks, depending on the information we receive and what they find.” She adds, “And they may ask you to take a driver’s test again. Or, they could require you to meet with a physician of our choosing.”

I take a deep breath before replying. I’m no fool.

“Will you please send me the forms? Can you email them to me today since my license is set to be revoked tomorrow?”

She continues in her chirpy, trained, customer service voice, “I’m so sorry but it’s too late today to get it out (I look at the clock, it is 3:30pm), and, as you know, tomorrow is a federal holiday. We will be closed. I can, however, mail it out to you on Monday if you still want me to.”

Van Morrison’s song lyrics dance through my mind, ‘You don’t pull no punches but you don’t push the river’. “Yes, “ I say, politely, “please do send the paperwork to me Monday. Thank you.”

“You might ask your doctor to fax the form back to us rather then mailing it.” she says, sounding almost like a real person for a moment. “It usually helps things go faster.”
the process explained

Part Four: Good Citizen Driven to Criminal Behavior

Of course I drive my car. Very carefully, on high alert at all times, but I drive.

For the next five weeks, while I seek and seek for a compassionate and progressive Neurologist (no luck), while I shop for groceries to prepare a Thanksgiving meal for my family (much luck), while I commute back to Salem for a series of unpleasant dental procedures (bad luck), and while I take myself to the beach for a two night writing retreat (excellent luck), I drive my Prius mindfully, always praying to my Spirit Guides to keep me safe, reminding them, and myself, that this is an undeserved situation I have been forced into, beseeching them to keep me safe while I sort it all out.

I also read the relevant laws carefully. Driving with a revoked license can lead to large fines as well as jail time, if one is caught.

I re-read the letter from the DMV.

It tells me to surrender my license immediately to the nearest DMV office. It’s already been over a month and I hadn’t noticed that bit before. Oooops.

I read the law about this. Apparently, it is a misdemeanor, punishable by fine and possible jail time, to refuse to forfeit one’s revoked license. Well, damn. My license not only governs my driving, but it also serves as my primary legal photo I.D. Just this morning, in fact, I was asked for it at the Post Office when I went to receive a parcel.

It seems I have now become some kind of criminal. Not only that, but I am also living as a kind of fugitive, fleeing from place to place in my own car, praying not to be stopped by a member of law enforcement or rammed by some clueless driver. Dr. X’s ignorance has too wide a reach.

I cut back on the driving, genuinely spooked, sticking to back streets when I must. The thought of paying for cabs on my fixed income causes agitation, so I leave them alone. I walk places. I remember the bus. My husband begins doing all of the driving when we are together.

Still, I refuse to surrender my license because I know this is a bogus situation. I intend to get that revocation reversed as soon as possible. I believe that I have been unjustly treated so refuse to comply with an unjust law.

I contact my Psychiatrist, who I haven’t seen in nearly two years. I explain what has happened to me and ask if she can help. She is a good soul and hates systemic bullshit. She says yes. She gives me her first available slot. It is the holiday season, though, so that first available appointment is still two weeks away.

I spend these days thinking about how easy it is for one individual, one mediocre doctor, to mess up someone’s life. I think about people I have known who have been institutionalized against their will. I think about elderly people who are moved into care facilities against their will. I think about how mobility and independence are so closely linked. I think about the lives lost by incompetent medical providers. I think about disability, invisibility, accessibility, accommodation.

I reflect once again on how fortunate I have been all of these years since my traumatic head injury, coma, two brain surgeries, time in special education, the re-learning of how to walk and talk, and most of all, how fortunate I have been to have had a professional life with the freedoms I have experienced, which have allowed me to grow and develop.

I then write an articulate, truthful, non-emotional review of Dr. X and my experience in that clinic and send it in to Providence, attached to their pro-forma “customer satisfaction survey”. This gives me a meager amount of customer satisfaction.

The two weeks pass. My psychiatrist is outraged on my behalf, also glad to see that I look happy and well. I give her much of the credit for that. She literally saved my life.

She fills out the form and faxes it in for me. Wishes me success. Reminds me that they may prefer a Neurologist’s statement. Hugs me goodbye.

I needed that hug so I thank her once again as I pull her office door closed behind me.

I drive myself home from the appointment. I read her remarks on the form the DMV provided and I take heart.

“The event reported never happened.” She wrote, in her elegant cursive. “The patient never lost consciousness, did not experience a loss of control. Furthermore, the physician who reported this seizure did not follow up with patient to discover that the seizure disorder is intermittent, well managed, and not the result of Epilepsy, but is the result of a traumatic head injury incurred over 40 years ago. Patient has identifiable warning auras that give her time to take care of her needs. Driving is not a risk for patient. The Lamotrigine, which was wrongly attributed to seizure control, was prescribed for a Mood Disorder and severe PTSD.”

I am elated by her words, and so, so grateful.

I carefully compose my own letter to the DMV, to include as an attachment to my case. I craft it as an investigative report. I outline my visit to the clinic. I describe the Doctor’s affect and lack of professionalism. I cite her confirmation bias regarding the term “seizure disorder” and what it means to her. I state that she did not ask follow up nor clarifying questions about my particular condition but instead formed her judgement based on incomplete medical history and a cursory office visit.

I stress that she did not listen to me when I attempted to provide her with information that would have helped her form a more accurate conclusion. I explain about the medications, their original intention, and more importantly, their cessation over a year and a half ago. I share that I have reported the physician for her lack of professionalism and for her lack of medical ethics. I close by asking the DMV to re-instate my driving privileges immediately due to the significant negative impact on my life, experienced unfairly already for nearly two months. I fax it to the office and wait to hear back from them.

Oh, and I continue my life as a “situational criminal” while I wait.

Part Five: Nothing About Me Without Me is Oh, So True

A week goes by and I hear nothing.

I drive myself to another dental appointment in Salem, thinking, “When this calendar year and this treatment plan are finished, I need to find a good dentist in Portland.” I shudder at the thought, realizing how many things can go wrong due to one bad provider.

Another day passes and still, I hear nothing about my case. I can’t take it so I call the DMV and become the squeaky wheel.

A different chirpy young woman answers the phone. I explain that I am calling to follow up on my situation, a wrongful revocation of license. I add that my doctor faxed in paperwork, followed by an attachment faxed in by me, both more than a week ago. I stress that I am seeking an immediate re-instatement of my driving privileges. I don’t have a clue if such a thing is even possible.

She is calm and unruffled. “Let me put you on hold, Ms. McCarthy. I’ll see what I can find out.” She disappears into the void.

I wait. I think about how I have spent more than thirty years teaching people how to advocate for themselves, how hard I’ve worked to fight unjust laws on behalf of others, how committed I still am to the empowerment of people so they can demand a more just society.

I marvel at how ironic it is that I now am being forced to do exactly those things for myself. If you let them victimize you, you will remain a victim. If you let them label you, you are doomed.

She comes back on the phone. “You’re all set to go, “ she says, cheerfully. “Your driving privileges have been re-instated. Conditionally. In five months you will receive some paperwork for your doctor to complete, verifying that you remain a risk free driver. Until then, drive safely. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Yeah,” I start to say, “You can change this ridiculous Napoleonic system you work for. Change it so that every person accused will have the right to present their side of a story, their facts, before automatically revoking their license.

You might also work to make sure that every person is respected equally, regardless of profession or ability or income or race or gender or sexual orientation. And while you’re at it, would you please organize your friends, neighbors and family members to fight for the same rights for everyone in our society at large?”

But I don’t.

Instead, I reply, “No, thank you. I did it for myself.
Nothing about me, without me.”

And I hang up.

The first time I opened my eyes, it was to find two uniformed Kitsilano Peacekeepers looking down on me.

The closest one was a smooth faced, handsome young Chinese man beaming concern; the second, his partner, a crop haired, sandy brunette with broad shoulders.

I was lying on my back, fists clutching handfuls of sweet smelling turf, just outside the East entrance to Jericho Beach Park in Vancouver, British Columbia where I’d come for the 40th Anniversary of the Vancouver Folk Festival.

The reason I was lying on my back and that these two fine specimens of Canadian Constables on Patrol were studying me was that I had, mere minutes earlier, experienced a gran mal seizure inside the festival gates. Full throttle, no holds barred, complete system shut down.

I’ve had seizures off and on, ever since being on the receiving end of a solid kick in the head delivered by my Grandmother’s seventeen hand tall Piebald gelding, Sultan, when I was thirteen. Freak accident that it was, it nevertheless landed me in Sisters of Sacred Heart Hospital, in a coma, with a smashed supraorbital ridge as well as a shattered temporal ridge on my right side. Two brain surgeries, one implanted plate and some cosmetic surgery to ice the cake later, I was back in action, relearning basic skills such as how to walk, talk and yes, even how to shit. It created a memorable adolescence.

Now, newly turned 62, I found myself flat

on my back, wishing these intent young men would just go away.

No such luck. I was in their cross sights and they had no intention of losing me, set upon me as they had been by my own frightened husband, Peter, who had been successfully sheltered, until this time, from experiencing the finer points of my purgative full body explosions.

“Ma’am, can you tell us your name?” the sandy haired brunette was repeating patiently.

My words often tangle up and betray me when I’ve gone full gran mal and this was no exception. My head felt like it was wrapped too tightly in layers of thick cotton. It was taking real effort to keep my eyes open.

“I’ll be okay. Really.” I managed to whisper. “You don’t have to stay here.”

“Can you tell us your name?” he asked again.

I opened my eyes a second time to see that the Chinese guy beside him was watching me like a hawk, though his eyes were kind. They both, to my utter chagrin, settled down onto their haunches and moved in closer. Too close. They were nearly on top of me.

“Nyla.” I said, working hard to make it sound like a normal voice articulating normal speech was coming from my mouth.

“Well, Nyla. Can you tell us what happened?”

This time it was the handsome Chinese officer speaking. They seemed to be double teaming me quite effectively.

I clutched my handfuls of grass and soil tighter, something to hold onto. Something to keep me grounded.

This was so fucking exhausting, answering these guy’s intrusive questions. I just wanted to lay there, eyes closed to keep the world from spinning me around, focusing on my breathing, until Peter came back with the car, which he’d told me he was going to get. He’d said nothing about sicking Mounties on me. I felt betrayed.

A new voice joined in, a crisp edged, unyielding, alpha male, “What’s going on?”

Things quiet and just out of reach. Words being spoken. I couldn’t make them out. Didn’t care.

“Ma’am,” the new voice demanded, “Can you tell me what you took?”

I sighed. I could feel tears beginning to trickle down my face, sliding slowly out from under my sunglasses. Glasses I’d had the presence to keep on as protection from the sun’s relentless glare. It was a very hot, very bright day. That was the problem.

My internal thermostat is permanently damaged from one or the other of those brain surgeries. Or maybe it was obliterated along with the cranial bone that originally shielded my brain. Whichever it was doesn’t really matter: the end result is the same.

What I knew could sometimes happen, and what I’d experienced this day, was that I’d overheated while strolling through the festival grounds with my dear friend, Eva.

We’d walked the long journey across the park until we were outside the West gates, travelled through the hot, fragrant, “Porta-Potty Alley”, then spent an hour, or an hour and a half ,visiting the many vendors in the annually erected World Community Market Village. Having a good time. Laughing and visiting with the colorful sellers who were plying their wares. All under a blazing 90 plus degree sun, which was further reflecting the brightness off the deep waters of Vancouver Bay and the surrounding snow capped mountains, all of which just happens to be right, smack dab, brightly, there.

Oh, and I’d stupidly forgotten to wear my hat.

Now, there was no way in my present state that I could muster the strength to tell these three intimidating men any of that. And I had at least enough presence of mind to know that it was none of their damn business, anyway. I wanted them to go away and leave me some dignity.

“Ma’am,” Hard Voice repeated, “I need to know what you’ve taken.”

I sighed. Continued to weep silently and without control. Cursed myself for so doing. Willed my eyes open a third time. Forced myself to drop one of my comforting fistfuls of dirt and grass in order to free up a hand to remove my sunglasses so that the bastards could see my eyes. Cobbled some speech together.

“I didn’t take anything,” I managed. “I had a seizure. My husband is getting our car so I can go home and sleep.”

That was it, everything I had in me for that moment. I put the glasses back on, reclosed my eyes, re-grabbed my connection to earth.

I could hear them speaking to one another again, a kind of mini-conference.

The voice of the kind Chinese man emerged alone, gently.

“Ma’am,” he began, “We’d like to take your blood pressure.” Then he dropped a bomb, “We’d like us to take you to the first aid tent.”

I couldn’t answer. Tears of frustration and humiliation continued to seep out from under my sunglasses. I was struggling hard to keep from sobbing. To not lose it again.

“Your husband asked us to watch you for him.” This was the sandy haired brunette again, as if my husband’s request somehow gave them all the right to make my decisions for me. Men telling me what to do. A blood pressure cuff was meanwhile wrapped tightly around my bare arm.

“You will find my blood pressure low.” I forced the words out of my trembling mouth. “And my pulse will feel slow but normal.” With a great deal of effort I added, “This has happened to me before. I know what I need.”

The new guy, glimpsed during my opened eye communion with the others to be a shaved head blond, barked at me. “When was the last time, Ma’am? Can you remember?” His voice was colored with doubt.

I telescoped inward, feeling powerless.
Powerless.

And weepy.

Afraid.

I was afraid they were going to take me away until I found myself in yet another hospital, undergoing yet another set of tests, being studied yet again like the lab rat so many neurologists perceived me to be. Theirs for the testing.

Where the fuck was Peter? Why had he done this to me?

I reached up with effort, pulling the sunglasses off again, opening my eyes one more time.

Made eye contact with the blonde. Saw that he was older than the other two, clearly fancied him self some kind of leader.

Who knows? Maybe he really was their superior.

I knew the stakes were getting higher. The right words counted. I looked directly at him and said, “Maybe five or six months ago. At home. My husband was asleep.”

I paused for breath, gained a bit more strength and continued, “I had a head injury forty years ago. I have seizures sometimes. I don’t need to go anywhere but home, to sleep. I frightened my husband. He hasn’t seen me have one this bad before. I’ve protected him from them. He’s scared. He’s gone to get the car. Once I get home and lay down I will be okay.” And then I just couldn’t speak another word. Spent, I lay there, tears coursing down my face. Wishing everyone would stop looking so fixedly at my weakened form. Hating everything about this moment in time.

I closed my eyes. The blood pressure cuff was removed. The three began conferring.

I filled my hand with soil.

“Okay.” Blonde Fuhrer said. He’d come to a conclusion. “Okay. We’ll stay here and keep on eye on you until your husband gets back. It sounds like this has happened to you before.”

I drifted away. Back. Away. Glad to be leaving them behind. Then back again.

My handfuls of earth prevented me from leaving everyone forever. They anchored me to this time, this place. To this hot, sunny day in 2017.

Some time later, I at last heard Peter’s voice, the Officer’s speaking to him. All of them together trying to decide my fate.

I had to reclaim my power. Nyla Anne.

I struggled so slowly to my feet. “I am still here”, I thought, “I decide.”

The final time I opened my eyes I, at last, began to walk. Perhaps as if in a mist, a dream clothed by too tight layers of cloud, step by sliding step.
One foot placed, oh, so carefully, in front of the other. Supported by a well-meaning husband.

I entered the car and he drove me back to the house. Where I would sleep for the next two days.

40th Annual Vancouver Folk Festival 2017.

Just went for Chicken Pho because It helps you get well. medicine of choice

The tables were all full so I sat at the counter next to a man who introduced himself as Ooooh or Uuuh (spelling probably wrong), a Laotian refugee.

I learned a lot from Brother Uuuh. How God pulled Lucifer’s head off in August of 2014 but then forgave him all his sins and now Lucifer is no longer a fallen angel. a penitent Lucifer

I learned that Uuuh and his brother saw an alien spaceship over Boeing field last year and then an Angel of God appeared and told then to shoot at it. They saw the alien’s head “explode inside his helmet”.

I learned that there is a church in Portland where the minister was saved by an angel and now is empowered to bring demon’s souls to his church where they are given the chance to be saved or rot in the ground.

I learned that last May, over two million angels descended in the Hollywood hills with the sole purpose of saving celebrities.
However, Michael Jackson will never be saved

but Marilyn Monroe already has been.

He wasn’t sure about Trump but thought he might really be a lizard demon in human form fulfilling a prophecy.
Hmmmmm.

I learned that Christianity is the only true religion and that within 50 years there will be 7 brothers, who are sons of God, who will each head up a major nation but the the US will not be one of the chosen because we are not following the path of love.

I learned that Adam’s first wife, Lilith, refused to stay with Adam because he was lazy so God created an invisible garden for her where she and her children have eternal, sin free life, but they are invisible.
Adam was too lazy for her

I learned that when he was six he fell into a coma and when he awakened from it he was in a Christian hospital staffed by a missionary man from France, a female from Canada and a female from America. They taught him some of these things “Lucky” Laotians losing their culture

but the rest they could not know because they were not Asian. He, however, has seen these things with his own eyes.

I learned there is an underwater base for aliens who God protects right off the coast of Oregon.
These aliens have their own Gods, who are not more powerful than ours and they need our nuclear energy and clean water.

Uuuh has seen God but you cannot look at his face because his eyes are flames which will burn you alive.
Do NOT look into these eyes!

There was so much more but my brain couldn’t take it all in.
He shared these things with me because “I can see that you have been protected by the Angels”.

He told me I must forgive everyone I havn’t yet forgiven, which is the only true path to my soul’s salvation. “God has already forgiven you through his son, Jesus Christ and now you must forgive all of the others”.

Funnily enough, there are a few people out there I do not find it easy to forgive.
I guess I have some work cut out for me.

I wished Oooh.Uuuh peace and made a quiet exit.

Keizer Homegrown Theatre (KHT) present’s Anne Nelson’s, The Guys, a multi-layered portrait of the effects of devastating trauma and the slow re-emergence of hope as viewed through the lens of the World Trade Center bombings of September 11.

Directed by Artistic Director Linda Baker, seen last spring in her critically acclaimed performance of Sister Aloysius in KHT’s Doubt, The Guys shares the story of former war correspondent Joan, a character based on the author of the play, as she finds herself working unexpectedly with New York Fire Department Captain Nick Flannagan, a composite of the real men she interviewed for the script.

Nick struggles to integrate his grief over the loss of his own unit of firefighters, bodies forever missing inside the twin towers, having been asked to write the eulogies of those same men for their families. The play follows Joan and Nick over the course of one memorable afternoon as she helps him craft moving, realistic portrayals of the guys he lost.

Base on true events, The Guys brings humor and insight into this powerful tale of two wounded souls as they struggle to find their ways back into the light.

Award winning actress Nyla McCarthy,
freshly returned from her master class in acting at Oxford University, portrays Joan. Salem’s own Joe Bodkin, a veteran of many local productions and loved by those he has worked with, tackles the fire captain, Nick.

The Guys will play in a limited run at the Kroc Center, 1865 Bill Frey Drive, NE, Salem, on September 8, 9, 10, 15, 16, and 17, at 7:00 pm.

Note: a special matinee performance will be held at 4:00 pm on September 11, with a discussion between audience, cast and crew to follow. Local Fire Chief’s and First Responders will be in attendance. Refreshments will be served.

Tickets are available at the door.

With gratitude to all First Responders, they will be admitted two for one throughout the run.

Connemara ponies are beautiful creatures. Once wild, like our mustangs, and free ranging through the harsh mountains and moors of Connemara (hence their name) they were almost wiped out through cross breeding with Thoroughbreds and Warmbloods by breeders who admired their athleticism and jumping abilities but wanted taller “performance” horses. They are usually around 13 to 14 hands tall at the withers, which is perfect for the Irish countryside but not for artificial jumping landscapes.

It is believed that, also like our mustangs, they are descended from Spanish horses, probably Andalusians, which swam ashore when Spanish Galleons sunk just off the coast of Ireland. They are intelligent, strong, graceful, known for their kind personalities and have tremendous endurance.

Fortunately, the Connemara Pony Breeders Association was formed in 1923 to save the breed from extinction. Four year old mare nursing her foal. The filly will change colors and look like her mother in a couple of years.

These two mares live in the mountains of the Beara Peninsula, where I stayed in the bothy in the woods.
They belong to my hostess, Siobhan, who loves them and will train the babies herself. For the time being, she leaves them pretty much wild on the land. It was wonderful to hike the property down to the river and have these beautiful animals so close.

The foals are about three month’s old and just beginning to lose their baby coats.

practicing grooming skills is serious business

I loved this one whose mane is very much like my own.

Siobhan is a lucky woman.

“Why on earth would you choose that airline?” asked a skeptical friend when I mentioned that I’d booked my return flight from Dublin on Ethiopian Airlines.

I think I understand the unspoken racism of the comment so respond, “They just began offering non-stop flights from Dublin to Los Angeles. I like the idea of supporting a new operation. It will be an adventure.”

Oh, my Gawd, was it ever. And not one I recommend to anyone.

I’d first booked my return flight online in November, paying in full, with a return date of August 4th.

In January, I called them because I wanted to change my seat assignment to a window. First, the agent on the phone told me that they no longer had flights departing on August 4th from Dublin so he could not accommodate my request.

I politely expressed a bit of outrage about that fact. “What?! No one notified me about this. I wouldn’t have discovered it until I’d shown up at the gate. I can’t believe you didn’t send me an email about this.”

He didn’t apologize, just said, “What would you like to do?”

I asked, “So, when is the next possible flight?”

He told me August 5th, 5:30 am, then, “You need to be at the airport three hours before flight for check in.” in a stern voice.

“Okay. Please transfer my booking to that flight and let’s change my seat to a window.” I was being very patient.

Then, he told me I had to pay extra for for the seat change. I sighed. I pulled out my wallet and used the new credit card sent me by Bank of America following a security breach they’d experienced.

I paid the fee with my card. Same account, new card number. Remember this as it becomes key to the “adventure”.

Fast forward to August 5th.

I wake up at my hotel before 3:00 am, take a cab to the airport, and join the throngs queuing for service. There are only two gate agents and several hundred people. No wonder they say three hours.

I get to the gate, hand the agent my e-ticket and passport and place my luggage on the scale.

“Give my your credit card, please.” The woman says.

I’m a bit confused. No one has ever, in the history of my flying, asked me for a credit card when I’ve paid months in advance.

“I paid for this seat and the change months ago.” I say, handing her my card.

She takes it, looks at it, then says to me, “Please take your luggage off the scale and go wait over there.” She points to some vague area outside the queue.

“Can you tell me why?” I ask.

“Please move, madam. We have many people to serve. I will be back to you in a few minutes.”

She keeps my ticket, passport and credit card and I do as she tells me to.

Many minutes pass and I don’t see her doing anything but checking other people in. Finally, I walk over to her and say,
“Excuse me. Can you please tell me what is going on?”

The second agent, a man, joins her. They speak in a huddle for a couple of minutes and then the man says, “Madam, do you have the original credit card you used to pay for your ticket?”

“No.” I answer, then explain, “The bank issued me the one you have several months ago to replace it. It’s the same account, just a new card.”

“I’m sorry, Madam, but we cannot allow you to board if you can not present us with the original card.”

Now I’m getting upset but I don’t raise my voice, just speak a bit more firmly.

“The bank issued me this card. It’s the one I travel with. (professional card stand in)
I paid for this ticket months ago. You have my ticket, you have my passport, which proves I am me, here’s my international driver’s license, another photo I.D. proving who I am. There should be no problem.”

He is firm and not very friendly. “We cannot let you board. Please move out of the way.”

“I’m going to call my bank and let you speak to them.” I say. “I have a ticket and I need to fly home today. Please give me back my card, the number is on it.”

They do and I call the bank. It has become a scene from a bad movie.

The bank representative spends more than an hour on the phone with the male Ethiopian desk agent, his supervisor, and me. At one point the desk agent hands me the phone and the bank rep says to me, “Don’t worry, Nyla. I’m not going to leave you stranded there. I have to put you on hold but I promise I’ll be back. They want me to send a fax with the two credit card numbers and an explanation. I’ve never heard of such a thing but I am happy to help you get out of there.”

After about ten minutes of hold time, she comes back on and asks, “Did they receive it?”

They, meanwhile, have drifted off and are not to be seen.
(This is NOT the service I received nor did I see anyone else receiving it)

The queue is gone and I am alone.

I run around, find the man, he denies having received the fax. She sends it again.

Meanwhile, the woman comes back and the two of them begin shutting down the desks and packing things away.

They deny receiving the second copy, say to me, “I understand this must be frustrating to you, but this is our policy. You will not be able to board the flight.”

Sunrise flight departing. Nyla is not aboard.

And they walk away with no further comment or help.
I am left there, alone, in Dublin terminal one, with my luggage and no way home.

Thank you, Ethiopian Airlines. You have failed another customer.

The Hill of Uisneach has been known as the “sacred center, or naval” of Ireland since long before written history. It is the geographic location where the five ancient kingdoms of Ulster, Munster, Leinster, Connacht and Mide come together.

Mide is an interesting one because while the other four refer to areas which have always been known as geographical boundaries (which still exist in most Irish people’s minds), Mide was the center, a thin place where the other four conjoined, a place of the magical otherworld, of which the Cat’s Stone, Ail na Míreann, served as the entry point.
Ail na Mireann, the Cat’s Stone

Mide was the most powerful place in Ireland, the place where the Druid’s worshipped. It is believed to be the birthplace of E’riu, the Goddess after whom the Milesians named Ireland.
E’riu was the Mother Goddess of the land; the rocks formed her bones, the earth her flesh, the rivers her veins. She is said to be sleeping under the Catstone now and for all time.

We usually think of Tara as the heart of Ireland and in practical ways it was. Tara is where the kings were crowned, where the royalty ruled. The Hill of Uisneach, on the other hand, is where the very first twin fires of Beltaine were lit and where daily rituals of great magic and divination were performed. The huge bonfires, visible all across the island, continue every May 1st. They were said to be the eyes of E’riu as she watches over the land.

In the old days, People drove their wealth, which was measured by the numbers of their cattle, to Uisneach so that the animals would be purified by the smoke from the fires and then they would take an ember from the bonfires home with them so that they could start their own hearth fires to welcome in the summer, thus receiving blessings from the Goddess E’riu herself.

Archaeologists have uncovered the ruins of a roadway which links Tara and the Hill of Uisneach together, as well as tunnels and ring forts suggesting centers of learning, thus lending credence to both the mythological and historical stories about the site.

Ptolemy wrote about the Hill of Uisneach in AD82, though he incorrectly identified its name as Raiba. Geoffrey of Monmouth wrote that the stones of Stonehenge were brought to Britain from Uisneach. It is said that the God Lugh, who gave rise to harvest celebration Lughnasadh, was drowned in a lake on the Hill and rests beneath an adjoining tumulus. The lake is named after him to this day.

The Goddess Brigid, “the bright one”, was also originally worshipped on the Hill of Uisneach.

The ‘Good God’ Dagda is said to have lived there, too. He stabled his solar horses there. Two souterrains have been discovered under Uisneach, inside a wheel shaped enclosure. One of these ‘caves’ is in the shape of a mare pursued by a galloping stallion. I find it very interesting that horse deities have always been associated with the hill.

In 1111 AD, a synod of bishops and clegry was held at Uisneach to begin the work of dividing Ireland into Dioceses. The take over by the Church had begun. However, as late as the 1600’s, the people of County Westmeath still referred to themselves at ‘people of the old kingdom’ (of Mide, which is Uisneach).

Fun facts: James Joyce visited Uisneach while he was working in Mullingar in 1900 – 1901, after which, Uisneach was mentioned in ‘Finnegans wake’.

And in the late 1920’s the great Irish statesman, Eamonn de Velera, addressed a rally of thousands and thousands of people on the Hill, an event which many believe contributed to the success of the Independence movement and the existence of the free Republic of Ireland today.

Of course I had to go to the hill, only to discover that access is now controlled by a corporation created to develop it into a major tourist attraction, (Crowd gathered for the Festival of the Fires, Beltaine)

which is what has happened with access to Newgrange. A large parking lot has been laid, which bodes ill for this important sacred site.

At least they have openly acknowledged the Druidic and ritual aspects of the Hill. They continue to hold the annual Beltaine festival, though now there is an admission fee.

A subject many find difficult to discuss, and which some women will get downright emotional about, is that of our continuing role
as breeders.

In Ireland this has been particularly apparent to me. As I have travelled around this country for five weeks I have met and seen so many amazing women. Strong women.

Beautiful women.

Adventurous women.
Kind women.

Additionally, I have met a fair share of professional women. Executives running their own international businesses, career artists making a living from their creativity, women in broadcast media, women in the tech industry, health care professionals, even a couple of talented architects.

Yet many of them shared the pressure they feel to be a “successful” woman while also being a “super mommy”. This is not new, I know that. I felt those same pressures myself. In the 1980’s. However, I thought we’d somehow gone beyond all that.

Yet here they are, shining women, possibly talking on cell phones, pushing prams, riding herd over two or three other young ones, questioning themselves: “To breed or not to breed? Is that is where our worth still lies”.


Ireland, long anxious about what they call their “brain drain” (the term used to represent the numbers of young, educated people choosing to leave Ireland to live and work in other countries), might want to transform some of that anxiety into educating and supporting its women, professional or not, who feel the pressure to pump out babies as if there is no such thing as global resource depletion.

Yes, I understand that men are part of the equation. I also fully get that this problem is not unique to Ireland. We have plenty of women running the same sad path in the U.S.

However, Ireland tops all other EU countries for birth rate with an average of 3 babies per woman, married or not. 1/3 of those babies are now being born to women who are single.

As a single mother myself for a number of years, I commend these women’s commitment and courage. It is damn hard work.

Still, while the average may be “3 babies per woman” (yes, I did see a lot with that exact number), there are definitely sisters who are going well beyond.

Many of the people I spoke with blame it on the Catholic church and it’s outmoded values around birth control. Others blame the government for its Draconian laws around abortion. These things may be true, but ultimately, its the women themselves who are the ones making that choice to breed.

I suspect some of my readers are going to become angry with me over this post. I am sorry if you choose to become offended. However, my sentiments are not a secret and I am not going to keep quiet.

I think it is irresponsible, in this day and age, to choose to bear more than two children, the number required to keep growth balanced with the death rate, in the hope of slowing our world’s rampant overpopulation.

If you want more children, I support your thinking. There are hundreds of kids out there who need loving, safe families. You do not have to keep spinning your own genetic blueprint in order to have a large family. Foster or adopt. Everyone will be better off for it.

Okay. The next part: I understand the cultural and class issues connected to birth rates. I get that I hold this opinion from a position of privilege. It doesn’t matter. I feel strongly about this: our world’s resources simply cannot sustain this level of entitled breeding.

I am not anti-pregnancy. I say all of this as a woman who loved being pregnant. I remember my own times as a pregnant woman as being two of the most spiritual and magical times of my life. I loved my changing body. I delighted in the fact that I was creating beautiful, intelligent, amazing human beings.

I gave birth to my two at home, felt such peace while nursing them that I continued until each of them was nearly two, that they might receive full health benefits of mother’s milk. So I get it. It’s a beautiful feeling, unique to woman born women. Just limit it to twice, please. For everyone’s sake.

(Aware Irish woman with her two)

It’s just that these past weeks, seeing so many women, with so many children, as though they have no responsibility for the fate of the rest of human kind, has agitated my thinking.
Yes, Ireland is a female country. It has honored the Goddess for centuries.

But as I have listened to women’s doubts and anxieties about the issue of breeding versus developing a new identity for Irish women, it has made my heart ache.

Yes, my sisters, it is possible to have it all. But there is a price.

Do you really need to?

There is evidence that the harvesting and use of peat for fuel in Ireland has been going on for over a thousand years. Indeed, it is estimated that more than 16% of the island was originally bogland, which, in addition to turf, or peat, produces a habitat for a unique array of plants and animals. This includes Asphodel, Heathers, Deer Sedge, Purple Moor Grass,
(close up taken from the side of the road after I stumbled into the Midland bogs commercial harvesting area)

Cranberry
and an interesting little carnivorous plant, the Sundew,
which eats on the average, five insects per month.

Animal life includes the Irish Hare,

Dragon Flies, Spiders, Lizards, Bog Otters,

Frogs, and many varieties of Beetles and Moths.

I became interested in this and decided to educate myself when I found myself accidentally in the heartland of the midland bogs after taking back roads following a sunrise visit to Clonmacnoise in County Offaly and came upon this:

East side of the lane, commercial turf harvesting
(this photo, taken off the web captures the scope better than my humble pictures).
It felt like a wound in the earth, open and aching

Yet, simply looking across the road to the West side of the lane in its natural state, before harvesting (or, possibly after some reconstruction), yielded this:

A few miles further down the road, I came upon an area with a sign offering “peat plots for hire”. Here, people are harvesting turf in the more traditional manner, albeit at a much greedier scale

In “olden times”, it was common for families and individuals, even communities working together, to hand cut, turn, stack, dry and then carry their turf home for fuel. Hard work leading to a romanticized image of the rural Irish peasant

When the water content dries out of turf, what remains are very burnable, plant based, logs.

Sisters performing a critical service

Carrying the harvest home the “auld” way

The boglands existed in the public mind as a sort of symbol of poverty and barrenness. So, as early as the late 17th century, the government began to implement various schemes to reclaim the land: draining the water from it to make it more compatible to agriculture, then selling off the fertile acreage to monied agari-enterprises.

There are two main types of bog in Ireland: blanket bog, which is found in the uplands and throughout Western Ireland, where the rainfall is the highest

and raised bogs, which are formed out of lake basins and are found throughout the midland counties
in this image we can see just how deep the layers can be on a raised bog

Boglands are critical to the island’s biodiversity and they help alleviate the effects of climate change by locking away the carbon. In fact, bogland is a sort of proto-coal; always wet, it remains turf–if entirely dried out, the turf would turn into coal. However, this process takes thousands, possibly millions of years, and given Ireland’s bounteous rainfall, it has never happened.

It helps to think of bogland a a kind of giant sponge: it stores water and prevents flooding during heavy rains, then due to its high carbon content, it purifies the water which seeps through it and back into the water table. This is a very good thing.

But the survival of boglands, and with it, Ireland’s climate health, is in serious trouble.

Commercial harvesting of the blanket bogs has increased to an unsustainable level since the 1930’s, when the Irish Free Government formed what was originally known as the Turf Development Board. It later became Bord na Móna, the entity which now oversees marketing and “management” of the fragile boglands.

Presently, in addition to the mass selling of peat to the population for home heating purposes, there are several turf-fired electricity stations consuming over 3.8 million tonnes of milled peat supplied by Bord na Móna per year as part of the Irish energy plan. One of many of the peat fired electrical plants being subsidized across the island

It has been estimated by the Peatland Conservation Council that viable bogland had been reduced to just 6% since the advent of these giant truck harvesting schemes.
midland bog being raped for profit

In many of the central boglands, there are even train tracks and transport systems in place across the midland bogs to facilitate swifter transport of the highly valuable peat. Born na Mona approved

This should be of concern to everyone because Peat is the most expensive, as well as one of the least effective, fossil fuels out there. It adds twice as much greenhouse gas and CO2 to the atmosphere as natural gas. It costs more to produce electricity using peat than it yields in revenues.

In fact, the Bord na Mona has been subsidizing the production of electricity through peat fueled power plants to the tune of over 45 million Euro per year! This, just to break even. Imagine how many sustainable and environmentally friendly jobs could be created with that sum of money.

Given the politics involved and the pockets being lined, it will take the creation of an aggressive and creative social marketing strategy to inform Ireland’s citizens and change their fuel consumption practices if the bog lands are to be saved.
natural bogland, thanks to an organized conservation project

“Determined now her tomb to build,

Her ample skirt with stones she filled, 

And dropped a heap on Carnmore;
Then stepped one thousand yards, to Loar, 

And dropped another goodly heap; 

And then with one prodigious leap

Gained Carnbeg; and on its height

Displayed the wonders of her might.

And when approached death’s awful doom, 

Her chair was placed within the womb 

Of hills whose tops with heather bloom.”
Jonathan Swift, 1720

Like the better known Newgrange, Loughcrew (Sliabh na Caillíghe–The Hill of the Witch) is a passage tomb constructed in the Neolithic period, sometime before 4000 B.C.

More accurately, Loughcrew is a complex of passage tomb cemeteries, over 30 of them known, spread out over two miles of the Sliabh na Caillighe hills, making it the largest Neolithic necropolis in
Ireland.

Also like Newgrange, Knowth and Howth, the three better known sisters to the east, Loughcrew was created with precise attention to astronomical motion. However, unlike those sites which are aligned with the Winter and Summer solstice celebrating the return of the Sun (male light force), Loughcrew is aligned with sunrise of the Autumn and Spring Equinoxes-that day when lightness and darkness are in perfect harmony (the female light force). The exact religious significance has not been proven, but for centuries it has been believed that Sliabh na Caillighe is devoted to a female, matriarchal form of worship.

Legend states that Garavogue, a magical woman, was told that if she could succeed in dropping an apron full of stones on each of the three Loughcrew peaks, by jumping from one to the next, she would be given the rule of all of Ireland.

She gathered her magic and her stones and succeeded in dropping them on the first two peaks but then missed her landing on the third and fell to her death. To honor her, the giant stone seat,
or altar, on the side of what is now known as “Cairn T”, was constructed for her spirit to come, rest and survey the land that dwelt in her heart. This legend is given as explanation for the impressive group of 5000 year old passage tombs which are spread across the hills.

Jonathon Swift was so enamored of Irish folk tales and legends that he wrote the passage I used at introduction of this post to commemorate Garavogue’s epic actions.

It is thought that Garavogue may be yet another name for, or incarnation of, the Celtic Goddess Bui, the Cow Goddess, who is also associated with fertility and the River Boyne (where Newgrange, Knowth and Howth are located, some 40 miles east of the Sliabh na Caillighe hills).

She is also known as “the supernatural female wilderness Goddess”, or Earth Mother, who watches over the landscape. This provides another explanation for the existence of the Witch’s Seat at the Tomb. This seat, found only at Sliabh na Caillighe, is unique among the neolithic ruins of Ireland. It is 10 feet long, 6 feet high, and is estimated to weigh at least 10 tons. Legend states that a woman who sits in the Witch’s seat with pure intention will be granted one wish.
My wish was not for personal gain. I hope that counts.

It is interesting that the megalithic art found incised throughout the stones, both when entering
and when within the tombs themselves, has been interpreted as referencing more “feminine” objects: celestial stars, moons, Goddess deities, floral and plant shapes, patterns of chevrons, zigzags, and circles. This is in contrast to the art found at Newgrange, Howth and Knowth, which has been described as geometric and mathematical.

Most experts believe that the design elements of all megalithic art most likely comes from hallucinations.
It is well known that magic mushrooms and other hallucinatory plants were used in early religious practices, much as they are still used in authentic Shamanic societies.

It is also believed that the spiral motif, which occurs over and over again in megalithic art across multiple societies, may well represent a sacred vortex which facilitates travel between the different realms, or dimensions, of existence.

Most archaeologists agree that while the cairns of Loughcrew were definitely burial tombs, they also served as ritual, or religious, centers for their communities, for whom celestial motion was sacred.

Cairn T, known as “The Hag’s Cairn” (minimizing our magical woman by giving her one of the negative patriarchal names for a powerful aging woman), is the principal monument in the Loughcrew complex.

It is located at the summit of the Sliabh na Caillaghe hills, which is the highest point in County Meath. Its’ location gives it 360 degree views over 18 of Ireland’s counties, making it a powerful place to look over the lands.

The mound itself is 115 feet in diameter.
The passage from the entrance to the back stone of the inner chamber is almost 30 feet in length. At it’s “hotspot”, there is a cruciform with 10 foot ceilings where the inner chamber and the three side recesses all come together, each with its own corbel roofing.
This is both unique and very impressive. Even more impressive is that at sunrise on each of the equinoxes, the sun rises over the hills and shines directly through the entrance passage, to reflect on the ornately decorated altar/backstone within.

Cairn T was once known as “Carbane”, which means “white cairn”. This is because the cairn, like Newgrange, was once clad with white quartz, which would have caused the site to gleam and sparkle across the land.

The entire necropolis of Sliabh na Caillighe, with its 30 tombs, can be explored on foot over the course of a day or two.
It is thought that there were even more tombs in this location but that erosion, looting, and thoughtless development of the land accounts for the destruction of countless others.

There are ruins of six satellite chambered tombs on the main hill which I visited on the eve of Lughnasadh. None of these has been excavated or opened, making this hill a truly “thin” place for those willing to make the effort to visit it.