December 2025 – Maria Yang, MD

An atmospheric river is a river in the sky.

I don’t remember these from my youth, though they seem to happen most years now on the West Coast.

An atmospheric river that reaches Seattle is often called a “pineapple express” because the long band of moisture in the atmosphere originates around Hawaii. When the pineapple express arrives, the temperatures here become unseasonably warm (mid to high 50s°F / 12 to 15°C) as the rain falls.

The thing about rain in Seattle is that it usually isn’t rain. It’s more like a mist, a quiet visitor that stops by maybe for an hour or two, then slips away. Within the hour the drizzle returns again, just to make sure you didn’t forget about it. This is why most people here don’t use umbrellas. Raincoats are enough; umbrellas are a burden.

In contrast, the rain of atmospheric rivers demands your attention. The droplets are heavy and full. The water falls in sheets. It’s the mob of young people dressed up like Santa who sing Christmas carols off-key on a crowded light rail platform.

A particularly long river in the sky recently passed above Washington State. Grey clouds rushed overhead, churning past each other like currents of a river, dark water soaring through the heavens. Mud slid, highways collapsed, and lakes formed.

Walking around in it was like walking through a warm blizzard: My face stung from all the water droplets slapping against my cheeks. I had to squint to keep the water out. One afternoon, despite only walking for about 30 minutes, the hems of my pants were soon dragging on the ground. The rain had penetrated every thread and the weight of the water stretched everything down.

There is a small city in South King County that operates its own jail. It has only around 100 beds. (Compare this to the main county jail, which operates two adult facilities with around 1500 beds.)

This small city jail is near one of the rivers whose levee failed. Even as of this writing, the major roads on three sides of the jail are closed, one of which is a state highway. At the height of flooding, the state ordered people to evacuate.

What do jails do when the state orders people to evacuate because of a flood?

Reputable word on the street is that this jail took two actions:

Some people were released from jail. I don’t know what system jail officials used to determine who should be released. Presumably there was some consideration about the severity of the alleged crime. Releasing people from jail, though, results in the former inmates themselves holding the hot potatoes: If people have been ordered to evacuate and roads are closed, how do they return to their homes? (What if they don’t have homes?) People leave jail with only the belongings they came in with (and sometimes not even that), so if they didn’t come in with rain gear, oh well.

Other people were sent to a jail on the other side of the Cascade Mountains. This means inmates piled into secured vans or buses and travelled about 150 miles to Central Washington. Again, I don’t know what system jail officials used to determine who to relocate. Jails are meant to serve the local community and people can be released from jail unexpectedly. Will these people get a ride back to this small city? Will they have to figure out their own way back? With the exit of the atmospheric river, a polar vortex has taken its place. There is snow on the pass.

May our federal government stop manufacturing artificial disasters through inhumane policies. Natural disasters are distressing enough.

Guys, I am excited to share inconsequential news with you: Something I wrote was published in the New York Times!

Michelle Cottle wrote a poignant essay, ‘We Had No Idea What Was Coming’: Caring for My Aging Father (free gift link). On a whim, I wrote a response in a letter to the editor.

Editors are supposed to edit things, so of course my letter got edited. Here’s what got published:

Michelle Cottle’s excellent essay on the growing caregiver crisis includes the comment, “Never have I been so grateful not to be an only child.”

I, too, cared for my aging father. My mother was already deceased, and I have no siblings. The responsibilities were thus all mine.

As my father disintegrated, I was grateful that there was no ambiguity about next steps in his care. My friends with siblings who were also caring for aging parents experienced otherwise: They disagreed about how to manage finances, where their parent should live and the levels of care and interventions they should receive. As an only child, I was spared those burdens.

My beloved father was liberated this past February. There is a painful realization as the only child: No one else remembers my dad the way I do.

I guess the New York Times doesn’t like Oxford commas. (Probably because they take up valuable space.) And I’m honored to represent only children…?

You can read my beloved dad’s obituary here. That the New York Times chose to publish my letter seems, I suppose, like another gift from him. (Thanks, Dad.)