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To Keep Climate Science Alive, Researchers Are Speaking in Code - TPM – Talking Points Memo

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This story was originally published by Grist. Sign up for Grist’s weekly newsletter here.

At the Department of Agriculture’s research division, everyone knows there’s one word they should never say, according to Ethan Roberts. “The forbidden C-word” — climate.

Roberts, union president at the National Center for Agricultural Utilization Research in Peoria, Illinois, has worked for the federal government for nearly a decade. In that time, the physical science technician has weathered several political administrations, including President Donald Trump’s first term. None compare to what’s happening now. 

The sweeping transformation became apparent last March, after a memo from upper management at the USDA Agricultural Research Service instructed staffers to avoid submitting agreements and other contracts that used any of 100-plus newly banned words and phrases. Roughly a third directly related to climate change, including “global warming,” “climate science,” and “carbon sequestration.” 

Roberts met with his union to figure out how to respond to the memo. They concluded that the best course of action was just to avoid the terms and try to get their research published by working around them. Throughout the federal agency, “climate change” was swapped for softer synonyms: “elevated temperatures,” “soil health,” and “extreme weather.”

It’s part of a bigger trend. Across federal agencies and academic institutions, scientists are avoiding words they once used without hesitation. When Trump took office last year — calling coal “clean” and “beautiful” while deriding plans to tackle climate change as a “green scam” — a so-called “climate hushing” took hold of the United States, as businesses, politicians, and even the news media got quieter about global warming. There’s a long list of supposedly “woke” words that agencies have been discouraged from using, many tied to climate change or diversity, equity, and inclusion initiatives.

The language changes were accompanied by larger shifts in how the federal government operates. Elon Musk’s Department of Government Efficiency, known as DOGE, laid off hundreds of thousands of federal workers last year. The Trump administration also slashed spending on science, cutting tens of billions of dollars in grants for projects related to the environment and public lands. Researchers are adapting to the new landscape, with some finding creative ways to continue their climate research, from changing their wording to seeking out different sources of funding.   

For federal researchers studying, say, the interplay between weather patterns and soybean diseases, the key is to reframe studies so they don’t clash with the Trump administration’s politics. “Instead of making it about the climate, you would instead just make it about the disease itself, and be like, ‘This disease does these things under these conditions,’ rather than ‘These conditions cause this disease to do this,’” Roberts added. “It’s just changing the focus.”

You can see how federally funded research has changed by looking at the grants approved by the National Science Foundation, or NSF, an agency that provides roughly a quarter of the U.S. government’s funding to universities. Grist’s analysis found that the number of NSF grants whose titles or abstracts mentioned “climate change” fell from 889 in 2023 to 148 last year, a 77 percent plunge. Part of that’s a result of NSF staffers approving fewer grants related to climate change under Trump. But researchers self-censoring by omitting the phrase in their proposals also appears to play a role, evidenced by the corresponding rise of “extreme weather” — a synonym that gets around the politicized language.

Trent Ford, the state climatologist for Illinois, said he’s started using terms like “weather extremes” and “weather variability” in framing his proposals for grants. 

“It’s sort of a weird thing, because on principle, if we’re studying climate change, to not name climate change feels dirty,” said Ford, who’s also a research scientist at the Illinois State Water Survey at the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign. But it’s more of a practical decision than anything else: “We’ve seen where grants that say everything but ‘climate change’ and are obviously studying the impacts of climate change get through with no problem.” He only uses the phrase in grant proposals when he thinks it’s absolutely necessary and when efforts to steer around the term would look too obvious to a reviewer.

Researchers have always had to tailor their framing to align with a funder’s priorities, in this case the federal government. Near the end of President Joe Biden’s term in late 2024, when Ford’s team applied for an NSF grant to study how climate conditions could affect Midwestern agriculture, it made sense to include a line about talking to a diverse group of farmers. But that word became a problem after Trump returned to office.

“By the time the proposal got reviewed by the program manager at NSF, that same language that was required four months ago was now actually a death sentence on it,” Ford said. The NSF liked the proposal, but wanted the researchers to remove the line about reaching a diverse set of agricultural stakeholders and confirm that they would talk to “all American farmers,” Ford said. The team sent it back in, and the NSF approved it last April.

Others weren’t so lucky. Another scientist at the USDA’s Agricultural Research Service, who asked to remain anonymous out of fear of retaliation, said DOGE eliminated major research programs at the agency and, in the process, wiped out hundreds of thousands of dollars in federal funds for an initiative to grow plants without soil that “really didn’t have anything to do with climate change.” The scientist said it had only been labeled as climate research to “satisfy the previous Biden administration.”

“Anything, any project, that had ‘CC’ in front of it, was eliminated. Because ‘CC’ stands for climate change,” the staffer said. “So, unfortunately, that came back to bite them during this administration.”   

Though not to this extreme, researchers have found themselves staying away from politically fraught terms like “climate change” before. During the first Trump administration, Austin Becker, a professor at the University of Rhode Island who studies how ports and maritime infrastructure can be made more resilient to hazards like storms and flooding, started avoiding the phrase, even though it’s what motivated his research. “Everything that was ‘climate’ just became ‘coastal resilience,’” he said. “And we’ve kind of just stuck with that ever since.”

Ford initially resisted pressure to stop using the phrase from colleagues he was writing grants with, but he gave in this time around for financial reasons. “Getting a grant could be the difference between a graduate student getting a paycheck and us having to let a graduate student go, or having to let a full-time employee of the university go,” he said.

Some researchers have been looking for grants in new places as federal money dries up. Dana Fisher, a professor at American University and the director of its Center for Environment, Community, and Equity, has procured private funding to research ways to improve and expand communication about climate change in North America. She’s also looking overseas for funding, where she’s had success during past Republican administrations that were hesitant to approve grants for climate research. When George W. Bush was president, Fisher got a grant to study how climate action in U.S. cities and states could influence federal policymaking, an effort funded by the Norwegian Research Council. That fact raised some eyebrows when she mentioned it to people she was interviewing in Congress. “They’re like, ‘Huh?’” Fisher recalled. “I was like, ‘Well, that’s what happens when there’s a Republican administration.’”

As scarce as funding for anything related to the climate has become under Trump, some topics appear to be even more politically toxic. In Ford’s experience, and from what he’s heard from other researchers, “equity” and “environmental justice” are “actually dirtier words.” The Trump administration has closed the Environmental Protection Agency’s environmental justice offices at its headquarters and in all 10 of its regional offices, and continues to lay off EPA staff who helped communities dealing with pollution. Grist’s analysis of grants reveals a similar pattern: Under Trump, mentions of “DEI,” or diversity, equity, and inclusion, have vanished from NSF grants entirely. Terms like “clean energy” and “pollution” have also declined, but not as sharply as climate change.

You could view the federal government’s pressure on scientists to change their language in different ways. Is it Orwellian-style censorship, silencing dissent and policing language? Or simply the right of a funder, whose politics changes with each administration, to ask for research that reflects its concerns? Does it affect what research gets done, or will applicants simply swap in harmless synonyms to ensure the work can continue? 

The answer is complicated, according to the USDA’s Roberts. Many of the climate projects at the agency’s research division that have so far avoided cancellation are stuck in funding purgatory, awaiting a fate that could hinge on a politically charged word or two. Scientists are adapting their research to better align with White House priorities, hoping to continue equipping farmers with the knowledge of how to adapt to a warming world — and scrubbing any forbidden language in the meantime.

“Clever word usage, and controlling the scope of how the research is presented, allows for scientists to keep doing the work,” Roberts said. “There’s no one going around hunting these people down, thankfully. Not yet, anyway.”

Climate: climate OR “climate change” OR “climate-change” OR “changing climate” OR “climate consulting” modeling” OR “climate models” OR “climate model” OR “climate accountability” OR “climate risk adaptation” OR “climate resilience” OR “climate smart agriculture” OR “climate smart forestry” O[–] “climatesmart” OR “climate science” OR “climate variability” OR “global warming” OR “global-wa[–] “carbon sequestration” OR “GHG emission” OR “GHG monitoring” OR “GHG modeling” OR “carb[–] “emissions mitigation” OR “greenhouse gas emission” OR “methane emissions” OR “environmen[–] “green infrastructure” OR “sustainable construction” OR “carbon pricing” OR “carbon markets” O[–] energy”

Clean energy: “clean energy” OR “clean power” OR “clean fuel” OR “alternative energy” OR “hyd[–] OR “geothermal” OR “solar energy” OR “solar power” OR “photovoltaic” OR “agrivoltaic” OR “wi[–] OR “wind power” OR “nuclear energy” OR “nuclear power” OR “bioenergy” OR “biofuel” OR “biogas” OR “biomethane” OR “ethanol” OR “diesel” OR “aviation fuel” OR “pyrolysis” OR “energy conversion”

Clean transportation: electric vehicle, hydrogen vehicle, fuel cell, low-emission vehicle

Pollution remediation: “runoff” OR “membrane filtration” OR “microplastics” OR “water pollution” OR “air pollution” OR “soil pollution” OR “groundwater pollution” OR “pollution remediation” OR “pollution abatement” OR “sediment remediation” OR “contaminants of environmental concern” OR “CEC” OR “PFAS” OR “PFOA” OR “PCB” OR “nonpoint source pollution”

Water infrastructure: “water collection” OR “water treatment” OR “water storage” OR “water distribution” OR “water management” OR “rural water” OR “agricultural water” OR “water conservation” OR “water efficiency” OR “water quality” OR “clean water” OR “safe drinking water” OR “field drainage” OR “tile drainage”

Note: The original leaked memo screenshot was obtained by More Perfect Union. Cut off words or phrases are marked with [–].

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My Undiagnosed Chronic Illness Taught Me to Love Sci-Fi - Electric Literature

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To viewers grieving the death of Stranger Things—by death I mean not the finale of the Netflix series this past January, but the show’s unfortunate decline, after the third season, into a plodding, convoluted ghost of its former self—let me offer something of an analgesic. Travel with me, if you will, back to the superb first season, where Winona Ryder’s Joyce Byers, a broke, chain smoking, seemingly delusional mother, opens a can of paint and scrawls the alphabet onto a wall of her home. Joyce hopes her missing son will use the letters to communicate with her from the Beyond. Ryder’s performance would count as one of the most convincing portrayals of insanity in recent screen history, if it weren’t for one thing: Joyce is not mentally ill. Her son is trapped in the Upside Down, and her love is so powerful, she’s able to ignore the rules of logic and perceive what no one else can.

I became a fan of Stranger Things around the time I became, in my own way, Joyce Byers. To certain people in my life, I had recently morphed into a neurotic, monomaniacal woman. Not because I thought my child had been kidnapped by supernatural beings, but because I was convinced I was sick even though no tests could prove it. At 34, during my first year of a doctoral program in literature, I began to experience an electric-shock like pain in my pelvis. Sitting exacerbated the pain, so I bought a standing desk. Exercise beyond walking hurt, so I gave up biking, yoga, and rock climbing. Through regular physical therapy and rest, I managed the pain for several years. Then, in early 2020, my symptoms mysteriously worsened.

By the end of 2020, simply getting out of bed was excruciating. I left my graduate program with my dissertation halfway done. From bed, I booked appointments with a new round of doctors: radiologists, pain specialists, pelvic specialists. Everywhere I turned, practitioners doubted me when I said walking and standing were excruciating. A psychologist whom I was required to see as part of my treatment at a pain clinic asked if my parents had treated me well, hinting the source of my symptoms resided in childhood trauma. In her assessment, she concluded, “Ms. Cutchin has some symptoms and behaviors known to be unhelpful for pain including: some fear, avoidant behavior, pain anxiety.” 

When a physical therapist saw me limping, she said, “Ask yourself, ‘Why do I feel I have to walk like this?’”

Worst of all, someone close to me hinted I was unconsciously refusing to walk because I “liked the bed and the bath.”

Holed up in bed—a bed that had become for some a symbol of my mental instability—I began watching science fiction. I’ve long been a fan of murder shows and spy thrillers, series in which the culprits are certifiably human and logic more or less carries the day. I binged The Americans, The Bureau, and Bosch, along with some less illustrious procedurals. Then, for want of new programming—it appeared my pain could outlast even Peak TV’s flood of content—I began to watch sci-fi

Not only did sci-fi keep me entertained; it gave me strength. A recurrent trope of sci-fi is the woman who is not believed. There’s Joyce Byers and her can of paint. Iconically, there’s Sarah Connor (Linda Hamilton) in Terminator 2, locked away in a mental institution because she claims—accurately—that cyborgs from the future want to kill her son. In Robert Zemeckis’s 1997 film Contact, based on the book by Carl Sagan, Ellie Arroway (Jodie Foster) tells a senate committee she traveled through wormholes to meet an alien disguised as her father. The (male) chairman points out that video evidence contradicts her account and accuses her of suffering from a “self-reinforcing delusion.”

Not only did sci-fi keep me entertained; it gave me strength.

Also delusional, or so a male colleague insists, is DCI Rachel Carey (Holliday Grainger) in the excellent near-future dystopian series The Capture. When DCI Carey confronts a superior, Commander Danny Hart (Ben Miles), with her suspicion the UK government is altering CCTV footage in real time using deep-fake AI technology, he wastes no time gaslighting her. “You’ve had a shock tonight, Rachel. Why don’t you get some rest.” If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard a male character tell a woman she needs some rest, I’d be able to upgrade every streaming subscription to premium. In the German limited series The Signal, it’s a case of “space sickness” that plagues astronaut Paula (Peri Baumeister), or so a dismissive colleague would have her believe. Aboard a space shuttle, Paula hears a signal she knows can only come from aliens. She records the signal, but when she plays the recording for the rest of her team, there’s nothing on the tape. Her (once again, male) colleague, Hadi (Hadi Khanjanpour), who initially heard the signal, too, tells Paula she’s unwell. “Go lie down.”

Riddled with pain, facing disbelief from those around me, the stories of Joyce, Paula, DCI Carey, Ellie Arroway, and Sarah Connor brought me solace, and a shred of hope. I belonged to a genre of female characters who had to fight to be believed. In the worlds these narratives portray, women’s claims are outlandish, otherworldly, weird, and also true. Eventually, each character finds someone who believes her. Sometimes it’s a man, like Jim Hopper (David Harbour) in Stranger Things, who learns to trust Joyce. Sometimes it’s a woman or girl: Paula’s most steadfast advocate in The Signal is her disabled nine-year-old daughter, Charlie (Yuna Bennett), who, working with her father, figures out the time and place of the aliens’ arrival and proves her mother right.

Watching these films and shows between visits to doctors bent on dismissing me, I grasped sci-fi’s genius: It taps into our culture’s deepest anxieties about the trustworthiness of women. In our real-world political climate, when a woman speaks her experience, whether she’s talking about sexual abuse, harassment, or illness, we wonder, Where’s the proof? And yet, our standards of proof are devised by the same systems—legal, educational, medical—built by men to protect male interests. In the medical system, imaging and other tests count as “proof” of illness or pain, but such tests screen only for well-researched diseases, and what we know about those diseases largely comes from research on male subjects. No definitive tests exist for a host of conditions that predominately affect those assigned female at birth, like myalgic encephalomyelitis/chronic fatigue syndrome and Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome. A woman with this kind of disease might as well be telling her doctors: Cyborgs are coming. Aliens have made contact.

By exploring whose testimony counts as reliable, and on what terms, sci-fi provides a template for what ethical philosophers call epistemic justice. “Epistemic” refers to knowledge. In our everyday lives, we convey knowledge to others by sharing our expertise, by relating our experience, and so forth. When a speaker offering knowledge is dismissed because of who they are—a woman, a trans person, a Black or Brown person—they are wronged in their “capacity as a giver of knowledge,” as philosopher Miranda Fricker puts it in Epistemic Injustice: Power and the Ethics of Knowing. The one who speaks loses out, but so does a community of hearers who would benefit from the information the speaker seeks to convey. Sci-fi dramatizes epistemic injustice and proposes a different way: We must practice epistemic humility by taking stock of our prejudices and admitting that someone who looks and sounds different than us might be right. 

In the eyes of Western medicine, there is little stranger than a malfunctioning female or gender nonconforming body. According to The New York Times, “Women are more likely to be misdiagnosed than men in a variety of situations.” A stunning 72% of millennial women report feeling gaslit by medical professionals, a Mira survey found. If you’re nonwhite, it gets worse. Black women are less likely to develop breast cancer than white women—but 40% more likely to die from the disease due to delays in diagnosis and care. Delays in diagnosis stem partly from lack of research into women’s health. Until recently, women were considered inferior subjects to men in basically all research. “There are parts of your body less known than the bottom of the ocean, or the surface of mars,” Rachel E. Gross writes in Vagina Obscura: An Anatomical Voyage. On top of it all, there’s medicine’s age-old tendency to see women’s maladies as psychogenic in nature—think of the prevalence of the hysteria diagnosis in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.

Today, women are less likely to be told our pain or fatigue is “in our heads.” Instead, in a sophistry-laden twist, we are told our symptoms stem from a “brain” gone haywire. According to the brain-based model of chronic pain, when symptoms persist more than three to six months with no obvious organic cause, the brain is at fault, or more precisely, a “maladaptive plastic reorganization in central pain processing circuits.” A spate of recent self-help books and pain reeducation programs promise to teach your brain to unlearn pain via cognitive-behavioral interventions. The problem with these treatments is they fail to account for the instances when pain persists because doctors and tests miss its underlying cause. Around 70% of chronic pain patients are female. Women are more likely to suffer from underreached conditions like fibromyalgia, autoimmune disease, Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, pelvic pain, Long Covid, Lyme disease, and myalgic encephalomyelitis/chronic fatigue syndrome. Telling a woman her pain stems from a “maladaptive” brain is today’s version of “it’s just hysteria.” 

Given sci-fi’s uncanny ability to channel and critique these medical biases, I’ve put together a quiz: Can you tell the difference between a real-life sick woman and science fiction? The following statements were uttered either in a science fiction film or TV show, or in a real-life medical setting where a female patient came in complaining of physical symptoms. Circle the correct answer:

Answer key: B, D, F, H and J are from science fiction—The OA, Manifest, Stranger Things, Terminator 2, and The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, respectively. A, C and I are from medical records shared with me by a female patient with Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome; E was uttered by the doctor of an Instagram user living with ME/CFS and POTS. G is from my own life. A noted Bay Area pelvic pain practitioner insisted I download a pain therapy app that could, he said, “re-wire” my brain so I no longer felt pain. “The app will teach you that you can’t use the word ‘pain’ any longer if you want to heal,” he told me.

I’m not saying mind-body tools aren’t helpful in managing symptoms. In the early years of my pain, I did quite a lot of psychotherapy and embodied meditation. These tools helped, especially when it came to managing the stress of illness. By the time I became bedridden, I knew I’d gone as far as I could with mind-body modalities. I told anyone who would listen I believed my symptoms had a biomechanical source, but, as time went on, I doubted that source would ever be found. After all, I’d had an MRI, the gold standard for diagnosis of pelvic disorders, and it had revealed nothing. 

Still, I kept searching. For years, I’d been hearing about a world-famous pelvic pain specialist in Arizona. Seeing him would mean traveling seven hundred miles and paying for the visit out of pocket. By early 2022, I was out of other options. A friend and I rented a van and drove seven hundred miles from our home in the San Francisco Bay Area into the Arizona desert listening to crime podcasts. Actually, my friend drove; I laid on a mattress in the back.

The Arizona doctor took by far the most careful, thorough patient history of any provider I’d seen. He recommended a round of pelvic floor botox, and, when that didn’t work, he offered a diagnosis. 

When a woman speaks her experience, whether she’s talking about sexual abuse, harassment, or illness, we wonder, Where’s the proof?

“All the signs point to pudendal nerve entrapment.” 

The pudendal nerve runs through the lower pelvis and innervates urinary, bowel, and sexual function. I’d long known my nerve was irritated. But none of the pelvic specialists I’d seen had raised the possibility it might be compressed. Compression, the Arizona doctor explained, doesn’t show up on an MRI; the nerve is too small, too hidden. Compression typically arises from a traumatic injury, or repetitive stress. The year before the onset of my symptoms, I’d biked one thousand miles down the California coast. The pressure of the bike seat against my pelvis caused scar tissue to build up around the nerve. To protect the nerve, paradoxically. 

It took 11 years from the onset of symptoms to receive the diagnosis. The treatment: a fairly straightforward decompression surgery.

Pudendal nerve entrapment is an underresearched condition that affects—you guessed it—women more often than men at a rate of seven to three. Childbirth is a common trigger. Diagnostic criteria do exist, but none of the chronic pain or pelvic disorder specialists I’d previously seen were familiar with those criteria. Pudendal entrapment isn’t common, but it’s not as rare as one might think, either. Studies indicate it affects up to one percent of the general population. Because pudendal entrapment lacks an ICD-code—such codes are used globally to classify medical diagnosess—insurance companies view decompression surgery as experimental and refuse to reimburse it. (In contrast, ICD-codes exist for “Sucked into jet engine V97.33X” and “Struck by turkey W61.42XA.”)

Broken bodies tell broken stories

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Four months after surgery, I began to see improvement. Within 15 months, I was leading a normal life again: walking, sitting, and traveling—without a van and mattress. I made plans to return to the PhD program. 

Today, I’m grateful to the Arizona doctor who took the time to listen and believe my story. I’m also, frankly, enraged when I think about the time, energy, and pain I would have been spared if the medical system had the patience and trust to take my symptoms seriously. If it had, I wouldn’t have become Joyce Beyers and spent years getting others to see the writing on the wall.

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‘The only thing left’: One woman’s journey from MAID critic to MAID widow

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Victor Enns - Michelle Hewitt MAID widow story
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Michelle Hewitt has spent years raising concerns about medical assistance in dying (MAID).

So she never expected to become a widow because of it.

Hewitt has lived with multiple sclerosis for nearly two decades. As board chair of the advocacy organization Disability Without Poverty, she hears regularly from people with disabilities who consider MAID because of poverty, insufficient medical care or social support. 

But when Hewitt’s husband, Victor Enns, wanted to die by MAID, she set her objections aside and chose to support him. 

“That’s one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made,” she said in February.

Hewitt, who lost her husband to MAID in December, says that supporting Enns was the right choice. 

“I still believe it’s the right decision.” 

But the process by which he was approved for MAID has reinforced — and increased — her concerns.

“It was easier for Victor to get MAID than it was for him to get anything else,” she said. “I just don’t believe that that’s how it should be.”  

Whirlwind romance

Enns and Hewitt always knew death would enter their marriage sooner rather than later. 

When they met in January 2021, she was 53, he was 65. She was recently widowed for the second time and he divorced for the third. Neither wanted to waste time. 

And they didn’t. Enns’ four-word introduction on a disability-focused social networking site — “I like your hair” — quickly led to lengthy emails then video calls. 

He was in Gimli, Man., she was in Kelowna, B.C. They shared meals over video calls timed around medication schedules.

In April 2021, Enns flew to Kelowna. The plan was to spend two weeks together. Instead, he returned to Manitoba only once, to refill prescriptions. They wed in August of that year. 

Enns wrote the officiant’s introduction to their vows.

“You have learned from your own experiences and from each other, suffering is unavoidable, real and to be believed,” Enns wrote. “And [you] know to offer each other succor and consolation when tears fall and times are hard.”

Neither knew how difficult that would be.

Medical crises

Moving to B.C. was risky for Enns. It meant leaving his longtime doctors behind.

Enns had struggled with chronic pain and depression for decades. Throughout his life, he had often felt disbelieved by the medical establishment. His amputated left leg was the clearest example. He had had to convince doctors that an amputation was the only way to end the searing pain in his leg, the result of a failed foot fusion surgery and severe osteoarthritis. 

After that surgery, pain continued, just elsewhere in his body. 

In B.C., Enns found a family doctor quickly: a woman who, coincidentally, had attended school with one of Enns’ sons. But in 2022 she moved, and he needed to find a new family doctor to prescribe painkillers. 

Enns was caught in the crossfire of two health crises: a provincial opioid epidemic and a national doctor shortage. The only B.C. doctor who would prescribe painkillers was an addiction specialist.  For the rest of his life, Enns felt he was labelled as an addict. 

He received a prescription for methadone, a new drug for him. It was too much. He almost died and was put in a medically induced coma so doctors could stabilize him.

Once released, his memory and motivation to leave his home diminished. He began sleepwalking. He once poured boiling water on himself while asleep; another time, he fell after attempting to walk without a prosthetic. 

Emergency room doctors told Enns and Hewitt nothing was wrong. Hewitt says they were told Enns was at-risk of being flagged as a patient who fabricated stories. 

Enns wanted to receive an opioid his former family doctor had prescribed. It gave him fair control of his pain, he said. But doctors refused, noting they were concerned it could kill him. 

Funeral march begins

In August 2024, Enns woke Hewitt from her daily afternoon nap to say the pain in his left shoulder was unbearable. 

He wanted MAID.

Hewitt was not completely surprised. She could hear his shoulder bones grind against each other all the time. “It was the percussion section in his shoulder,” she said. 

But this was not the music of a lively rock band. The pain was keeping time to a funeral march. 

Hewitt knew her husband would not waver in his decision to get MAID. So she put her advocacy work aside and set about supporting him.

For Enns, MAID was the right choice, she says. But not because it reinforced his dignity.

“It was empowering in that it was the only thing that Victor could take control of,” she said in February. “It was the only thing left.” 

Pain increases

When Enns announced he wanted MAID, he was on the waitlist for shoulder surgery. Hewitt called his surgeon immediately to explain the urgency of the situation. A spot had recently opened, and Enns had surgery five days later. 

The recovery went well. But it magnified Enns’ other pain.

“It was like he actually started feeling the rest of all the pain that he was carrying that this [shoulder] pain was muting a little bit,” said Davina Kula, a personal care worker who worked with Enns and Hewitt since 2022. 

Enns slept in a medical recliner because searing back pain made lying down impossible. The percussive pain was now in his knee. 

Kula understood why Enns felt dismissed by the medical system. At appointments with Enns and Hewitt, doctors often first directed questions to Kula. “It feels like his [medical] issues got minimized quite a bit,” Kula said. 

Enns was diagnosed with dementia in April 2025. 

After this, his desire to obtain MAID swung into high gear. 

“I felt like we were talking about MAID every day,” said Kula. Spilled food, dropped items, missed words all prompted Enns to discuss MAID. 

Hewitt was conflicted. The man she had vowed to love in sickness and in health, till death did them part, was pursuing a method of death she opposed. 

Yet, she wanted his suffering to end.

This was no regular dying process. When her previous husbands had been diagnosed with cancer, they had always remained hopeful for a cure. 

There was no such hope with MAID. “Death was there constantly,” she said.

‘Blurry’ lines

In July, Enns had the first of two medical assessments needed to determine if he was legally eligible for MAID. 

He worried about forgetting details or not being believed. Hewitt helped prepare notes for him. 

They were ultimately not necessary. 

At the first assessment, the assessor told Enns he was approved shortly after Enns began telling his story. The second assessor began the assessment by telling Enns he was approved.

“They were so fast. They weren’t worth talking about,” Enns said in December, five days before he died. 

Both assessments worried Hewitt.

Under Canadian law, MAID patients are approved as either Track 1 or Track 2. Track 1 means their death is reasonably foreseeable; Track 2 means their death is not. 

Hewitt had assumed Enns would qualify as Track 2 MAID. But assessors told him he could be Track 1, because of his dementia diagnosis.

Hewitt had previously lost two husbands to cancer. She felt she knew what dying looks like, and that Enns was not dying, even though he was diagnosed with dementia. 

“I thought that I could clearly identify a Track 1 MAID person,” she said in February. “Clearly I can’t.” 

Dementia has proven controversial in MAID requests. 

A report released last fall by the Ontario MAID Death Review Committee described several cases where dementia patients were approved for Track 1 MAID. In many cases, individuals were recently diagnosed and were struggling with fear of the future. Committee members, many of whom were doctors or nurses, disagreed with each other about whether MAID assessments for dementia patients require more rigour. 

Under federal law, each MAID death must be reported to Health Canada, and reports must indicate if patients were Track 1 or Track 2.

But Enns and Hewitt did not know what track Enns was approved under. Hewitt says the assessors never told them.

A patient’s track affects how they are treated. Track 2 patients are supposed to be informed of counselling, disability and community supports that could relieve their suffering. 

Enns did not receive any such offers, Hewitt says. In fact, there was such little communication after the MAID approval that Enns began to worry doctors had forgotten about his scheduled death. 

For Hewitt, the experience increased her concerns about MAID. She had had concerns about Track 2 since it was legalized in 2021. Now, she had concerns about Track 1 as well.

“If the lines between Track 1 and Track 2 are so blurry, I now have strong doubts about Track 1,” she said.

‘That’s enough’

But Enns was at peace with his decision.

“I’m going to, to die,” he said in December, five days before his death. 

“I’m 70 years old. I’m not a babe in the woods or anything like that. I’ve had different kinds of pain and mental health issues for 50 years.” He looked down, his voice cracking. “I think that’s enough. That’s really what it is.”  

The dementia was also robbing his comprehension, the ultimate fear for a professional poet like Enns. He struggled to understand poems he had just written for a book to be published posthumously.  

“I don’t want to wait until I sound like a fool to myself,” he said, before acknowledging that might sound derogatory.

“Language like that isn’t appropriate for someone with a disability, but that’s how it feels sometimes to me.” 

He wanted a good death, he said, and felt MAID was good “compared to some of the other options.”

He knew his physical pain would never truly subside. The dementia was here to stay.

“There’s some things you just can’t fix, no matter how hard you try,” he said.

Hewitt remained troubled by the process. 

“I have chosen to support Victor in what he wants, but this journey in itself—” She paused, then turned and spoke to Enns. “It’s not been a good journey for you.”

“Not as good as it could be,” he agreed.  

“But really?” He turned to his wife with a laugh. “You expect MAID to be a good journey?” 

Final goodbyes

In the end, it was not the good death Enns had wanted.

Enns and Hewitt set about making his last day as memorable as possible. He ate a hearty pancake breakfast with Hewitt and all the caregivers. He had strawberries and maple syrup and a thick milkshake. He was the “life and soul of the party,” Hewitt said.

After a rest, Enns picked his final outfit: dress pants and a dress shirt.

They wheeled in their wheelchairs to the hospice, which could be seen from their condo. They took their time, pausing to watch fish in the pond outside before entering the hospice. In their final photo together, they smiled like newlyweds. 

He had asked to not lie down on the bed for very long before the procedure began because of his back pain. That was not to be. 

The IV was set about 45 minutes before MAID was to begin. His dress shirt was taken off. Later, they had to reset the IV because it had not been inserted properly. Enns cried in pain as he waited for the medication to take effect.

Hewitt had to leave his side so the IV could be reset. They yelled their final goodbyes to each other from across the room.

Hewitt watched it all, telling him she loved him. Enns said he loved her and his family. Then, it was done. 

Hewitt returned to an empty condo, walked her service dog and took a sleeping pill.

She had gone from being a vocal critic of MAID to a MAID widow.

‘Love remains’

Even living under MAID’s long shadow, Enns and Hewitt found joy together. 

In the evening, after their care team had left, they ate ice cream, laughing like children gobbling forbidden desserts. 

She would describe what happened on her nightly walks with her service dog, and they would end each night by saying the same words together: “We are better together, because we are happy, we are safe and we are very well loved.”

Five days before his death, the affection was obvious. They kissed. They laughed. They hung onto each other’s words; they knew not many words were left.

“I’ve learned he is incredibly strong, to just daily go through the level of pain that he goes [through],” Hewitt said. 

“And then to make this decision, and to be fair, going into it knowing that it’s not something that I would have advocated for him to do.”

Enns knew nothing had changed his wife’s love for him.

“I’ve got what I have in your arms right now, and that is that the love remains,” he told her. “That we are still, still —”

She completed  his sentence. “Very much in love.” 

The post ‘The only thing left’: One woman’s journey from MAID critic to MAID widow appeared first on Canadian Affairs.

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Cultural Management of Huanglongbing: Current Status and Ongoing Research | Phytopathology®

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Citrus Greening - Citrus Greening 

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Citrus Greening, also known as Huanglongbing (HLB), is the most important citrus plant disease worldwide. The core mandate of the Research Institute of Organic Agriculture FiBL is to conduct practice-oriented research to develop environmental-friendly innovations with and for farmers and the food industry. Concerning HLB, since 2011, FiBL, together with partners from Mexico, has been conducting different research activities to develop and test different interventions to mitigate and control Citrus Greening in the context of organic production. This involves both direct and indirect measures to reduce the level of disease infection and strategies to increase citrus plants' resistance to disease.

The research results obtained until now (see Our research and Resources) reveal that an optimal combination of the most promising technological innovations is the way forward to control HLB infections in organically managed citrus orchards. This involves alternate weed cutting (to promote natural biodiversity and beneficial insects), applications of the fungus Metarhizium anisopliae by specific thresholds values (to directly reduce the number of transmitting insects), and  the use of ‘charged biochar’ in combination with organic fertilisers (to enhance water and nutrient uptake by citrus trees).

All research activities of the program are currently implemented at two sites in Mexico. It is the interest of the program to validate the technologies mentioned above also in other contexts. As the Citrus Greening disease is also a threat for Mediterranean countries, the program would be keen to link up with European partners to introduce the most relevant measures in organically managed orchards.

The Coop Fund for Sustainability has been supporting this program, which will last at least until 2024.

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Florida growers eye agroecology solution to devastating citrus disease

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  • Virtually all of Florida’s citrus groves have been infected with citrus greening disease, also known by its Chinese name Huanglongbing, since the early 2000s.
  • Despite billions of US dollars put toward rescue efforts, citrus production numbers are the lowest they have been since the Great Depression.
  • Scientists from Argentina are now testing the agroecological method of push-pull pest management using an organic plant-hormone solution to lure pests away from citrus crops and toward “trap crops” instead.
  • Proponents hope push-pull management, first developed in East Africa, could be part of the solution and lessen dependence on pesticides.

FORT PIERCE, Florida — Just off of North Kings Highway, a dirt road once led to lush rows of sweet-smelling citrus crops: grapefruits, lemons and oranges. Now, all that’s left of the once-flourishing groves are barren rows of dead trees, weeds and a few sickly fruits still clutching to their final nutrients.

Florida was once a global capital for citrus production. But in 1998, a state entomologist discovered a tiny insect called the Asian citrus psyllid (Diaphorina citri). It was an ominous sign; the invasive pest transmits a pathogen that causes citrus greening disease, or Huanglongbing, which slowly kills the trees and turns the fruit bitter. It took seven more years to identify the first confirmed case. Over the past two decades, the disease has virtually decimated the state’s industry. Projections for this year’s orange production, the most abundant citrus crop grown in Florida, sit at just under 20 million boxes — down from more than 200 million boxes in the early 2000s, before the disease had spread.

Since then, the world’s leading scientists have poured endless time and money into rescue efforts, including mesh protective covers to block the pest from infecting young trees, disease-tolerant hybrid varieties, and antibiotic trunk injections. Yet the disease continues spreading.

A dead grapefruit grove in Fort Pierce, Florida. Image by Marlowe Starling for Mongabay.A largely dead grapefruit grove infected with citrus greening disease in Fort Pierce, Florida. Image by Marlowe Starling for Mongabay.

Now, a team from Argentina is testing a cheaper and simpler technique to control psyllids — sometimes called jumping plant lice — in Florida’s groves. It’s a method known as push-pull pest management; the idea is to repel pests away from crops and to lure them toward a more appealing “trap crop” planted on the perimeter of the farm.

“We’re working on insect behavioral manipulation” by distracting the pest with more-attractive plants, protecting oranges and other citrus fruits, team leader María Victoria Coll-Aráoz told Mongabay.

Push-pull pest management isn’t new. It’s a low-maintenance technique that farmers have used for the past 30-some years in parts of East Africa where it greatly helped maize crops for smallholder farmers. It’s an intercropping method considered part of agroecology, a holistic farming approach that prioritizes ecosystem health while addressing other aspects like producing enough yield for food security and ditching harmful chemicals for human and ecosystem health.

But Coll-Aráoz’s team is taking it a step further. They are spraying the citrus with an organic plant hormone that represses the plant’s production of a naturally produced chemical called methyl salicylate, the compound that attracts psyllids and other pests. The hormone works by blocking the plant’s biosynthetic pathway that releases this chemical. When a tree becomes infected with citrus greening, it produces even more methyl salicylate — a positive feedback loop “designed by the bacteria for its own propagation,” as Coll-Aráoz explained.

The idea is to spray trap crops with a substance that makes the plant produce methyl salicylate, luring insects to those plants instead. Another way is to deploy methyl salicylate via plastic dispensers that act as perfume bottles to attract the insects. Coll-Aráoz co-founded a startup called Semion to market these organic solutions at an affordable price. Ideally, growers would spray crops during a growth phase called flushing, when new shoots and leaves are growing.

The psyllid likes to lay eggs inside those tiny leaf hammocks and feed on the leaves, “drooling” into the plant, which is how they transmit the bacteria (Candidatus Liberibacter asiaticus) that cause citrus greening. This triggers an immune response that clogs the tree’s “arteries,” called phloem, preventing sugar and other nutrients from traveling through the plant. It’s a slow, prolonged death.

“The disease has this insidious, long incubation period before you see symptoms,” Stelinski explained — sometimes years. That’s why it can be so difficult to control.

Citrus is most susceptible to the Asian citrus psyllid during a phase called “flushing,” when the plant grows new leaves at the tips of its branches. These new-growth clusters are where psyllids like to lay their eggs. Image by Marlowe Starling for Mongabay.Citrus is most susceptible to the Asian citrus psyllid during a phase called “flushing,” when the plant grows new leaves at the tips of its branches. These new-growth clusters are where psyllids like to lay their eggs. Image by Marlowe Starling for Mongabay.

Testing the technique

In Fort Pierce, about 2 1/2 hours north of Miami on Florida’s east coast, Coll-Aráoz and her collaborators have designed an experiment to test this technique on young Valencia oranges (Citrus sinensis ‘Valencia’). There are three plots: One with untreated crops, a second with crops treated with the plant-hormone spray and a third also treated with plant hormones but surrounded by curry leaf plants (Murraya koenigii) as the trap crop, which are sprayed with methyl salicylate.

Curry leaf is a good insect trap for several reasons, Coll-Aráoz said. Their strong scent out-smells the citrus crops, making them more attractive to the insects than the citrus. Add the non-synthetic methyl salicylate, and the curry plants become even more attractive. Curry leaf is also immune to the pathogen that causes citrus greening. But even if a different trap crop is used, the idea is for the psyllids to live out their days on those plants instead of the crop that farmers are trying to protect. Methyl salicylate also attracts the pests’ natural predators, like wasps, which should help lower psyllid populations.

“The idea of putting the Murraya plants around the citrus plants is that any psyllid coming from outside will like these plants more,” Coll-Aráoz said. In essence, this makes the valuable citrus crops smell like “burnt toast” to the psyllid while making the trap crops smell like a much more appealing avocado toast, she explained.

Four adult Asian citrus psyllids feed on a young-growth shoot on an orange tree. Image courtesy of Alejandro Forlin/Semion.Four adult Asian citrus psyllids feed on a young shoot of an orange tree. Image courtesy of Alejandro Forlin/Semion.

Coll-Aráoz is also testing the push-pull technique using plant hormones on corn in Argentina, where the corn leafhopper (Dalbulus maidis) is transmitting a disease called corn stunt spiroplasma.

Lukasz Stelinski, a leading entomologist at the University of Florida, said he thinks the technique could be used effectively for avocados, too. His lab has tested the push-pull strategy on the redbay ambrosia beetle (Xyleborus glabratus), a pest causing a disease called laurel wilt. But so far, his team’s dispensers aren’t out-smelling the avocados’ natural scent. Stelinski said if they were able to change the way the avocado tree smells, like Coll-Aráoz is doing with citrus, “I think it could make a difference.”

So why hasn’t anyone tried it earlier?

Psyllids like to nest in the center of this curry leaf plant, which attracts the pest with its strong scent as a “trap crop.” Image by Marlowe Starling for Mongabay.Psyllids like to nest in the center of curry leaf plants, which attract the pest with their strong scent as a “trap crop.” Image by Marlowe Starling for Mongabay.

Focusing on Florida

In 2022, international juice company Tropicana closed its Fort Pierce processing facility from a lack of fruit supply, firing 27 employees. It wasn’t the first to shut down.

“It’s difficult to imagine being much worse off in our industry right now,” Fred Gmitter, a plant breeder at University of Florida’s Citrus Research and Education Center, said in 2022. “I ask this question all the time: Is this the bottom? Is this as bad as it’s going to get?”

Over the past two decades of citrus greening in Florida, dozens of approaches have fallen short. And some solutions, like disease-resistant varieties, take years to develop. So far, oxytetracycline hydrochloride trunk injections, a relatively recent tool, have had the most success. But they’re also the most expensive option and the method treats infected trees retroactively to improve fruit yield and quality, like taking medicine when you’re sick. The injections also come with risks: Injecting trees incorrectly can kill them.

“Pesticides haven’t worked to control this vector, and we’re entering a time when these alternatives are unsustainable,” said Stelinski, the entomologist. “They’re too expensive. They’re having negative impacts in terms of insecticide resistance development, and they’re not working.”

Semion’s biological-trap approach, by contrast, aims to prevent infection entirely, at a fraction of the cost of most other solutions, including pesticides.

But their efforts to introduce push-pull in Florida have been met with mixed feedback.

Citrus fruits affected by citrus greening disease, like this lemon, turn green. Image by Marlowe Starling for Mongabay.Citrus fruits affected by citrus greening disease, like this lemon in a Florida grove, turn green. Image by Marlowe Starling for Mongabay.

“I was sort of astonished at how reluctant producers are to test something new, even if they know that everything else hasn’t worked,” Coll-Aráoz said. She said some growers worry that by planting trap crops, they will be attracting more psyllids to their groves. But the insects are already there — so much so that eradicating them isn’t possible.

“We’ve all come to learn that it’s just not feasible to try to eliminate the psyllid,” said Pat Schirard, a Florida Citrus Commissioner and grower. “They’re just endemic throughout the state.”

Schirard is one of several growers in Central Florida allowing Coll-Aráoz’s team to set up real-time experiments in their groves. The team is also conducting experiments in Stelinski’s lab at the Citrus Research and Education Center.

“I’m hopeful, of course, about this research,” Stelinski said, but added, “I’m not hopeful that this will be a massive paradigm shift or that it will be a savior of some sort or a silver bullet.”

Instead, he said he can envision push-pull being part of a wider management system to help reduce psyllid populations. “One of the things that we’ve learned over these past 15 years with citrus greening is that it’s very unlikely that there will be one tool or one approach that’s going to make a difference,” he added. “This really has to be an integrated approach.”

The sentiment rings true among growers. “In my view, there is no one answer,” Schirard said. “It’s going to be a combination of things, and it starts with diminishing the psyllid population in any way possible. We’d love to accomplish that without the use of additional sprays or pesticides.”

Forlin and Coll-Araoz check for psyllids on a young Valencia orange crop at one of their testing sites in Fort Pierce. Image by Marlowe Starling for Mongabay.Alejandro Forlin and Victoria Coll-Araoz from the Semion team check for psyllids on a young Valencia orange tree at one of their testing sites in Fort Pierce, Florida. Image by Marlowe Starling for Mongabay.

Heavy pesticide use comes with many drawbacks: Not only do several formulas pose serious health concerns such as developmental and brain defects in young children, but they can also lead to pest resistance, which is when pests evolve to survive the toxicity. Scientists usually recommend rotating different types of pesticides or, better yet, incorporating other types of pest control to avoid this problem.

It’s with this integrated approach in mind that Coll-Aráoz and her business partner, Emilio Molina, co-founded Semion.

“Something really important is that we want to make this technology easily integrated” into farmers’ existing pest management strategies, Molinas said, who is a third-generation farmer from Ecuador.

Meanwhile, citrus growers in Argentina and Brazil have fared much better, in part because they learned from Florida’s mistakes, but also because of more aggressive pest management.

In Brazil, unlike Florida, it’s legal for the government to kill infected trees in private groves. Whereas Florida sprayed pesticides once a month, Brazil sprayed once a week. And Brazil has large, sprawling groves, making it easier to do aerial sprays. Florida, by contrast, has fragmented groves interspersed with superstores and housing developments, making wide-scale control difficult. But Brazil’s heavy dependence on pesticides, many known to be dangerous, has come with its own slew of concerns, including environmental pollution, harm to wildlife and human health effects such as childhood cancer deaths.

The push-pull approach has been less popular in the U.S. likely because it misaligns with the priorities of Western agriculture, Stelinski added. After World War II, agriculture became heavily mechanized, reliant on agrochemicals and focused on high yields.

Both of these leaves are from the same citrus tree: the top leaf is healthy, and the bottom leaf shows symptoms of citrus greening. Araoz and Forlin’s team saw new, healthy growth on the trees they sprayed with the plant hormone that suppresses methyl salicylate production—a welcome side-effect. Image by Marlowe Starling for Mongabay.The top citrus leaf is healthy, and the bottom leaf shows symptoms of citrus greening. Araoz and Forlin’s team are seeing new, healthy growth on the trees sprayed with a plant hormone that suppresses methyl salicylate production. Image by Marlowe Starling for Mongabay.

“It’s easy, it’s accessible, it’s within the already calculated input costs based on the profit you’re going to get from yield,” he said. Push-pull takes more effort: Farmers need a deeper understanding of pest behavior and have to sacrifice some land for trap crops.

But Florida is desperate.

“We’re all in this together at this point,” Schirard said, “which is the reason that I was amenable to working with Victoria and her group. If you’ve got an idea that may help me or my fellow Florida citrus growers, please, bring it on.”

 

Marlowe Starling is a freelance environmental journalist who writes about conservation, climate change and pollution, with bylines in Mongabay, Environmental Health News, Earth Island Journal, the Associated Press and a variety of Florida news outlets.

Related audio from our podcast: Agroecology is changing the way food is produced, but can it feed the world? Author Anna Lappé explains why it’s a myth that it can’t, listen here:

See related coverage:

In Kenya, push-pull method tries to debug organic farming’s pest problem

Citations: 

Rivera, M.J., Martini, X., Conover, D. et al. Evaluation of semiochemical based push-pull strategy for population suppression of ambrosia beetle vectors of laurel wilt disease in avocado. Sci Rep 10, 2670 (2020). https://doi.org/10.1038/s41598-020-59569-0

Luttermoser, T., Khan, Z. R., Midega, C. A. O., Nyagol, D., Jonsson, M., & Poveda, K. (2023). Are pests adapting to the push-pull system? Ecologically intensified farms in Kenya maintain successful pest control over time. Agriculture, Ecosystems & Environment, 347, 108345. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.agee.2023.108345

Beloti, V. H., Alves, G. R., Coletta-Filho, H. D., & Yamamoto, P. T. (2018b). The Asian citrus psyllid host murraya koenigii is immune to citrus huanglongbing pathogen ‘candidatus liberibacter asiaticus.’ Phytopathology®, 108(9), 1089–1094. https://doi.org/10.1094/phyto-01-18-0012-r

Coll-Aráoz, M.V., Hill, J.G., Luft-Albarracin, E. et al. Modern Maize Hybrids Have Lost Volatile Bottom-Up and Top-Down Control of Dalbulus maidis, a Specialist Herbivore. J Chem Ecol 46, 906–915 (2020). https://doi.org/10.1007/s10886-020-01204-3

From Mongabay’s agroecology video file: Ducks raised on rice paddies in Vermont deliver win-win-win results:

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