Boreal B[l]og

When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the universe.

John Muir

I have found connections between a fireweed plant and a noble fir, between magnesium in a chloroplast of a tiny plant and iron in heme, a connection between these two and the formation of the Earth. Recently, I found a connection between two women several thousand miles apart who did not know each other. 

This story of the “bracelet connection” is fascinating. It’s a bit long, and the bracelet part won’t appear for some time. It began on 20 October 2025 when I finally landed on a rectangular table with a huge gantry of photon shooting metal above me, Day 0, at the urology radiation center, getting my dry run. I would receive 45 radiation treatments ending on Christmas Eve. Each treatment was brief, a few minutes; the preparation, however, important, rectum empty and bladder mostly full, no gas, and maintaining this careful balance until 9 am, my radiation time at the center. After I began a low residue diet, life was better, but it still took me four long weeks to discover that.

The first change I made to my clothing apparel was Halloween, a Friday, my 9th treatment, and I wore a Halloween tie. The techs loved it, and after that I thought that every Monday I would wear a tie. I told Jean, a dear friend, about this and she suggested maybe I could wear a special tie or hat each day. I had several ties, but after wearing my Jonathan Livingston Seagull one, I decided instead to wear bolo ties, for I had a collection of 35.

I wore a different bolo tie to radiation for the next 30 treatments. Each day, I took a picture for Jean and sent a full length picture to Maryam, a good friend in Germany, with whom I have corresponded for nearly 15 years. She even bought the novella about Jonathan, by Richard Bach, arguably the first time anybody read a book I recommended. I wore the ties for the techs Cecilia and Alyssia. I looked forward to going to radiation, so they could see my ties. Who looks forward to going to radiation? A few ties had stories behind them, and the two techs loved hearing those stories.

For the first hour of the treatment day, I was fourth of 4, all of us Mike, a major name shortage in Springfield apparently requiring reusing names, and we were all allowed to be in the inner waiting room together, not the usual rule. We were pretty special. Two of the Mikes eventually finished, a Dan joined us, and we three spent 15 minutes for four weeks chatting each morning until Mike 1 had to get radiated, then Dan, at which time Mike 1 would dress and the two Mikes talked, then Mike 2—me— would get his treatment. 

As we passed Thanksgiving and then my birthday in early December, I had a middle of the night revelation. I was nearing the end of different bolo ties, nearing the end of treatment and wondered what I should do with the ties. I wouldn’t likely wear them again, although I found myself better dressed now than I had been for at least twenty years, but I knew these ties would end up in an estate sale some day. Why not donate them to the center and give the first choice to the techs? I wanted to give a present to the employees at the center, but gift giving is a tricky proposition in the medical profession, and giving stuff under the table isn’t proper. But donating bolo ties? That was a superb idea.

Cecilia couldn’t believe it. Well, I told her, I wanted them to go to a good home. I kept five of mine that I really liked. When I learned Jean liked turquoise, because she gave me the idea of different ties, I gave her first dibs on picking one of the five turquoise bolos which she did on a hiking scouting trip at the Winberry Divide Trailhead, with her Roy standing nearby. She promptly put it on over her hiking outfit which pleased me immensely. She liked it a lot. That mattered to me. I will keep a picture of her with the bolo on. When you give, you get more back. Really. Read on.

The next day, I brought a bag with the remainder of the bolos. I gave the techs first choice, my only requirement being that everybody at the center needed to have a chance of getting a bolo tie. Support staff make the place go. Oh, and I didn’t want to take any back home.

That is where matters stood on Wednesday the 17th. The next day, Thursday, Mike 1 was having his penultimate treatment, and he said he would return Christmas Eve for my final treatment. We spent 10 minutes every morning talking about everything, especially our treatments, because we understood completely what the other guy was going through. When Mike told me he would return to this place of prostate plastering photons for my final day and bonging, I was touched to the point of tears. I was then called for my forty-first treatment, and I got to the room only because I knew the route, for my vision was blurred. When I was done, Mike 1, of course, was gone.

I wasn’t done crying.

When I left the treatment room, Alyssia started talking to me. There was a gap in the patient flow, and she was free. She showed me her wrists, each with three thin metal bracelets. She told me that she had them made by local artisans where she had spent special time, Martha’s Vineyard, Sedona, and Ireland. 

“I won’t wear a bolo tie, but I can have one made into to a bracelet by a local artisan—it is important it be done locally—…” I listened, about to have my life changed.

“I will have a bracelet made from a bolo you gave me, and part of you will be always be part of me.”

I just lost it. As I started to cry, she came over and gave me a big hug. When she let go, I was glad there was a wall near me to fall against.

I walked out—with difficulty, because I was emotionally drained, and when I got in the car, Mike 1 was across the street in his car and gave me a wave. The guy’s got class. I drove home, and later emailed Maryam whom I tell these sorts of things to. She emigrated from Iran to Germany in 2015, runs a lab, and is fluent in German, Persian, and English to the point of having corrected my punctuation. Years ago, I helped her with her Master’s thesis translation into English, which was fun, and she and her husband treat me like I am rare and special. Maryam’s and my letters to each other are a mixture of German and English, and other than politics, which she hates, I can discuss anything safely with her and her advice is spot on. She’s brilliant, beautiful, witty, and polite. She always thanks me for my time with her English questions, when frankly receiving them is a definition of a good day for me. She loves it when I remember Iranian holidays, and I always get Yalda and Nowruz food pictures. Iranians know their food. Maryam knew about my diagnosis early and was incredibly supportive and commented on my good attitude. Anyway, I told her about the bracelets. She wrote:

“The story about the techs and the bolos was beautiful 🥹. Knowing that something you gave will stay with them, and even be passed on, is incredibly meaningful.

“I have to say I really, really, really loved the bracelet idea. Very creative. Also emotional and meaningful — I’m honestly a little jealous in a good way. She actually kind of inspired me. On future trips, I might start buying something small and decorative for myself, something local. I’ve bought clothes, purses, … before, but never local jewelry. This kind of thing feels different, like it carries a story. I wish I could thank her for the inspiration. Hearts for her. 😊❤️

“Leaving the bolos was a great idea, Mike. It sounds like it brought a lot of warmth into a hard place, for them and for you. It’s nice to have people around who make you feel better. No wonder you walked out of there emotionally drained. 

“About Alyssia — it’s actually interesting to think that a message could reach someone I don’t know at all. Two people who didn’t even know about each other’s existence having some kind of connection.”

All this came from my wearing a Halloween tie, having Jean suggest wearing something special daily, changing to bolos, having the techs like them, informing Maryam of this by sending a daily picture of my tie du jour, donating the bolos, and then stepping aside so the world could make some necessary connections.

by Mike Smith

Springfield OR October-December 2025