Jo-Ann Mapson

Max and the SAD light:
winter, depression and cranky editors

The days are growing shorter up here in the Matanuska Valley. We had our first snow, three pristine white inches. A 65-mph Chinook blew it all away, which really annoyed me, since I had my newly purchased cross-country skis waxed and ready. Mornings there's ice to contend with, so I step carefully from car to classroom. The earth's color palette has dwindled. The ultra greens of summer? All faded to a few pale grasses that on sunny days show through the snow. Those crisp-edged golds of autumn I raved about last month? They've turned a dun color, reminding me of the oldest hay in the bale that my horse used to refuse. Some days the sky is bright blue and shot through with clouds. Others it's a muted gray, and the most exciting thing to come across it is a magpie. Watching the crazy flight patterns of these birds has convinced me they need psychotherapy. Ravens do fly-bys, too, squawking over some thrilling booty, usually trash. The mountains appear to have stretched their shoulders up higher than the trees and wear a mantle of snow full time. Some days the snow has a blue, glacial cast to it. It's definitely winter.

Mark , who's also my boss at the Anchorage Daily News, a teacher and writer besides, has lived in Alaska four years now. If I had to guess the percentage of the time he's cranky, it would log in at about 40%. As Oliver Platt said in preparing for his role in TV's short-lived Deadline, "Most journalists have above-average intelligence and below-average salaries, and they are constantly interviewing people who make a lot more money than they do. So they have good reasons to be pissed off in an amusing way." This fits.

Mark says that people who endure Alaskan winters feel glum until the sun comes back. He warned me that my first year up here the sheer amusement of snow would entertain me; that I wouldn't begin to feel the effects of light deprivation and the accompanying depression until I'd been here at least two winters. That is, if I lasted through this winter. Lasting: That's a chorus to the Alaskan National Lament, frequently sung to newcomers. To become an Alaskan, I've figured out you have to accomplish the following:

build an igloo, barehanded
make a bear skin rug beginning with a real, live bear
stick out the winter, with no trips to Hawaii
keep your head down, remain humble, and wait to be dubbed Alaskan

Well, throw out a challenge like that to me and I'll never leave this state! But my tendency toward low moods got me worried, so I decided to check out ways to keep SAD, or Seasonal Affective Disorder, at bay. It's more than a case of the blahs, SAD is a real affliction.

Those affected report:

sleep disturbances (had them since I gave birth 23 years ago)
sluggishness (depending on time of month)
depression (depending on state of career)
a craving for carbohydrates (busted).

About that last item. Can a forty-eight-year-old woman have SAD all year round, or is this some kind of permanent reaction to my ill-fated attempt with the Atkins diet? Mental note: must investigate further..after I finish this toast.

Scientists claim that humans are still operating on the biology we had before fire was discovered. If it's dark out, you can't see, and darkness isn't safe. Best to sleep when it's dark; recharge your batteries for tomorrow's hunting and gathering. We humans synchronized our biological clocks to fit the Earth's. Day is for work; night is for sleeping, or disco, depending on your era. But you know how it is with scientists; they can't leave well enough alone. In the last few years they discovered some neurons they call "the suprachiasmatic nucleus (SCN)." Apparently this cluster of brain cells is the site of our master biological clock. And they don't need batteries; they work on the amount of light entering your eyes. Here's a direct quote: "Its name simply means that it lies above (supra) the optic chiasm (chiasmatic), the place in the brain where tracts of fibers originating at the retina of the left eye cross over fiber tracts originating from the right retina." In plain English? Your master clock is directly above your visual system. And similar to the Alaska pipeline delivering oil, from the SCN to the Pineal gland, the amount of light received determines how much pineal melatonin gets released into the bloodstream.

Light suppresses melatonin release. Melatonin's the body's sleep Sandman. Oh, no. This means Mark's right, and I hate that. Alaskans, Scandinavians, Siberians, anyone living in the extreme northern or southern hemisphere is going to feel glum during the long, dark winter. Solutions? Enter BLT, not a carbo-laden sandwich, alas, but Bright Light Therapy using broad-spectrum lights. For around $300, you can buy a light box that emits 10,000 units of the stuff. I borrowed one from my doctor. It seemed prudent to check it out before I cut a check for a lamp that wasn't even very stylish. What happened the first time I used it simply amazed me.

Max, my 13-year-old Jack Russell terrier, who has been in a bad mood since birth, fell in love. Not with El Duque, the saucy dachshund who lives next door, or Harmony, the 100# mixed breed shepherd-chow-mammoth I recently babysat for my friends Walter and Susie, though Harmony did let him sleep in her bed. Max fell in love with the SAD light. I had set it on the kitchen table so I could get my dose of light while I read the paper and groused about how much Mark rewrites my perfectly acceptable articles so they sound like him and not me. I'm telling you, this editor counts words like my grandfather used to count beans! Anyway, Max plastered his body against the light box and stayed there. Eyes open, looking at me, maximum body amount touching the plastic casing from where the light emanated. I touched the light box to see if it was warm, because Max, like most dogs, is a heat-seeking missile. It was room temperature.

Now, some of you are deductive thinkers, and are saying to yourselves, Wait a second, her dog is on the kitchen table? Ahem, please don't invite me over for dinner. What can I say? Life with dogs involves all kinds of concessions. It's said that Susan Butcher of Iditarod fame selects one of her dogs to sleep inside with her each night. Presumably this strengthens the bond between musher and dog, but as anyone who's ever slept with a dog can tell you, they like to snuggle, rarely snore, or beg for sex-a belly rub and a kind word is enough for dogs. So I let one or two of my dogs sit on a yoga pad (another healthy idea I let fall by the wayside) at the edge of the table! This affords them an eagle-eye view of the road, where at any moment, a UPS delivery truck might pull into view and require incessant barking. They're good dogs; they know they have a job and they do it-for me. After all, I have hands. Hands operate can openers. Hands open the biscuit jar. Hands scratch behind the ears. Hands have fingers, which switch on the SAD light.

For the entire week I'd rented the light, this was the routine. I got my coffee, turned on the SAD light, Max positioned himself against it, and I read what damage Mark had wrought upon my articles. Max, originally a present for my son, aged twelve at the time, hated Jack on sight. He quickly learned to disdain the entire human race, except for mealtimes, when he'll tolerate whoever's feeding him. Is it possible he was a displaced Alaskan all this time, and I didn't know it? Could BLT therapy change all that?

I bought the light. I use it everyday. The light pours out in a glow with a blue cast to it, kind of like the snow on the mountains. Except for the dog-shaped cut out area, which is Max's domain, I bask in it. If Max suddenly decides he's happy, begins wagging his stubby tail, or allowing me to pet him, I'll have recouped my $300. If I stop craving carbs, I'll get one for every room of the house. If I don't see any results, I figure I can always give the light to Cranky Mark.

More later,
Jo-Ann

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