The story of questions unanswered

It’s amazing how little it takes to remind me of just how helpless I was, lying on my side on that operating table.

I was cold, and I couldn’t see anything. I could barely think anything, which was strange and alarming. I was so used to a constant, running stream of consciousness that when all I could muster was a trickle of half-formed thoughts, I didn’t really know what to do.

I was afraid.

Then I felt something sharp dig into my head, right behind my left ear. I couldn’t cry. I could yell. I couldn’t move. I have never felt more helpless.

I didn’t know what it was, but I knew it had something to do with the mole they had to remove. Whatever it was, Dr. Mom had said it had to come off and she felt that it was important enough that it got removed.

Last Friday, the mole in my eyebrow (see above) became slightly larger and painful. Neither of those are good things with moles, and so Dr. Mom said (with great urgency) that I needed to see a doctor either that day or first thing Monday.

Monday morning, I saw my doc and he took one look at it.

“It’s irregular and it’s dark. It’s not as dark as a melanoma could be, but the fact that it’s on your face makes me quick to pull the trigger.”

He asked me which dermatologist I wanted to go see, and i picked one. The good part about being a local medical reporter is that you know most of the local doctors and know which ones you like.

Next Friday, the doctor will take a look at my face. My contact at his office, who had a basal cell skin cancer tumor removed from her nose by the same doctor, said he’ll probably do a biopsy. If the results come back bad, he’ll probably do a Mohs surgery to remove whatever is left.

I am trying not to be worried. Everyone tells me it’s probably nothing, and I kind of hate that. I appreciate them trying to cheer me up, and I know they are probably right. But what if it isn’t nothing? The worrier in me can’t help but be nervous about what they’ll find.

There’s not much to do in the meantime but to wait and see what it really is.

However, there is one other problem. Location. This ridiculousness is in my eyebrow, and eyebrows aren’t exactly something that is easily missed when one or part of one is suddenly shaved off and missing.

So I am posing a conundrum to you all… What do I do with my eyebrows so that I don’t look completely stupid after this procedure?

Oh, and one of the photogs at the paper will be photographing whatever it is they do to my face. Oh yes, there will be pictures.

The story of the sound and the fury

The sound

One hand over one ear. Cell phone against the other.

I was screaming, and I could barely hear myself.

“Bob! It’s Dariush! I’m at West Parrish Avenue and Highway 81! The county fire department has shut down part of West Parrish because power lines are blocking part of the road! Kenergy and OMU are recalling their repair crews because the winds are over 70 miles per hour and it’s too dangerous for them to work! Trees are coming down on power lines all over the city and I can’t get back to the office directly! I’m trying to find another way back in!”

He sounded like he wanted to laugh at me. I wanted to laugh at me.

I was Geraldo Rivera, standing in the path of a hurricane and so over the top that it demanded laughter.

Except it wasn’t over the top. I was standing on the side of the highway on the edge of town with two firemen and a whole gaggle of motorists staring at me. I was several hundred miles from the nearest ocean. And what had I done to piss off a hurricane?

Lifeline

I hung up my phone and tucked it in my side pocket. I never carried my phone in that pocket. But there it sat, safe, secure and slowly cooking my man-tackle. If I lost my phone, I was in real trouble.

Fwip. The wind ripped the glasses right off my face and in my rush to pick them up, the wind swept me right off my feet.

Skrush. There went my notebook right out of my back pocket. If it got blown into the soy bean field 10 feet away, I’d never see it again. The wind took me down again.

Both the glasses and the notepad went into my camera bag after I found my feet. The bag, instead of being carried nonchalantly over one shoulder (like a manly purse) was now being carried slung so that if the wind wanted to blow it away, the strap would have to go through my neck. It was a very distinct possibility that such a thing might happen, I reflected.

A piece of debris, a cornstalk, hit me in the back of the head, hard as a child’s plastic baseball bat.

I looped the camera strap around my neck, pressed the camera to my face and began firing.

The fury

Cornfields to the left. Cornfields to the right. I looked over both and the sky above them was brown with dried cornstalks being hurled throughout the air. It looked like a sandstorm. I swerved to avoid a roof that was lying across the road a few hundred feet from the barn it belonged to.

I had just seen power lines shooting great gouts of wispy blue flame as long as a mare’s tail. How could this be any worse?

I made the turn, stepped on the accelerator. The first stoplight I came to was dark. No power. The second stoplight I came to had only one stoplight. The second had been ripped free and all that remained was a dangle of wires. I made another turn, got about three more blocks and slammed on the brakes. Trees ahead were blocking the street. Big trees. Trees older than all my grandparents put together.

I made a turn. Into a neighborhood filled with more towering trees. I went as far as I could. A three-way stop. One way blocked by a tree. Take the open path. Come to another four way stop. Only one way open. More trees down. Repeat.

Above the trees danced and swayed to the terrible beat, taunting me. At any moment the tops would be felled and fall on me and that would be all she wrote.

Another turn. More giant trees overhead. I was a rat in a maze, but I felt like fish in a barrel.

One last turn. The main drag of town. Two stoplights here that actually worked.

I pulled into the parking lot at work. Sanctuary.

Do or die

“Ladder One, Ladder Five, Engine One, Engine Five, Rescue One: Building collapse, East 18th Street. Window manufacturing facility.”

I looked at the head photographer. Going to a partially destroyed glass factory with lethal winds blowing was not what I had in mind when I signed up for this job. Perched atop my shoulder, a facsimile of my mother screamed at me that this was NOT a good idea. I agreed.

And then I turned to the photo editor. I nodded my head, turned and walked away.

“I’m getting the keys for the company truck,” I tossed over one shoulder without looking back. “I’ll drive. You shoot.”

Aftermath

The wind was gone but for the last few breaths. Tree limbs lay about like wreckage. In each neighborhood we passed, the sound of chainsaws being started drifted on the last lonely vestiges of the wind which had so recently left me fearful.

In the truck, the scanner mourned the passing with each new call of trees down or power lines smoking. Three-fourths of the city without power.

I came home to air, conditioning, Internet access, a comfortable bed. I’d never been so thankful for these amenities which we call necessities as when I came home last night. A good 25,000 homes in this county didn’t have them yesterday.

I thought I had something to complain about yesterday. Then I thought about what I had heard one of my sources say earlier in the morning, before things even got bad.

“Think about what they’re going through down in Texas.”

And now, my problems don’t seem so large.

The story of hatred and friendship and all that falls in between

I hate cancer.

The best part about being a health reporter is that there are a myriad of topics out there that I can oppose as much as I want and nobody cares. Nobody likes cancer.

You hear me cancer! YOU HAVE NO FRIENDS!

But it has become personal. It became personal a long time ago.

It all started with a woman named Sandra.

When I was very young, a friend of my family was diagnosed with cancer. I want to say she had pancreatic cancer, but this was about when I was 8 or so. I had no idea what cancer was. All I knew was that it was the reason I was the only one at the funeral who wasn’t crying, staring at that ash-white face that I never knew to hold anything but a smile.

About the same time, my mother told me that I had to be seen by a doctor. Then she told me I had to have a surgery. Being a doctor’s child, this wasn’t terribly alarming. I knew it was probably for a good reason, and I didn’t understand what it was all about.

The doctors ended up removing a mole from behind my left ear that my mother told me probably wasn’t anything to worry about. Still, they put me through a surgery to get the thing off and the scar sure makes for a good story. I even remember the surgery itself because the dunsel who was supposed to put me under botched the job and I could feel a good part of the procedure, though the pain wasn’t terribly bad and even if it was, I wouldn’t have been able to do anything about it as I could not move or speak. But they gave me a Happy Meal coupon afterwards. Yay.

The combination of seeing Sandra in that coffin and the surgery I went through made it official. I was afraid of even the possibility of cancer. I didn’t even know what it was, but I knew it could kill you. I had my own scare a few years ago when my migraines started (complete with auras – flashy lights in the eyes). That CT was the scariest thing I ever went through. For the first time in my life, I understood why people put off such terrifying tests. Fortunately, all the docs found was that yes, I do have a brain, and my genetics mean that I will be doomed to hate the world around me every so often because it feels as if there is a whale in my brain and he wants out.

So here I am, a medical reporter. I have plenty of rein to come up with my own story ideas, and so I shine the light on cancer as much as I can. Get your screenings! See your doctor regularly! Support those who fight the fine fight!

And then one day a source and I were talking at the end of an interview and she asked me how my boss’ wife was doing.

I have a miraculous tendency to be very obsessive and yet completely clueless. The puzzle pieces fell into place. That was what was being talked about in a conversation I had barely even noticed but still heard. And I became afraid, because I did not want it to be what I thought it was.

“You know more than me about it, I think. All I know is that something is up. But I didn’t ask.”

My source looked at me and I knew she didn’t want to tell me.

“She has cancer.”

“What kind?”

An icy hand was gripped around my heart and I could only tremble at what my boss and his wife must have felt. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt that afraid. I know I never want to.

“Breast cancer.”

My boss and his wife recently became parents to a beautiful baby girl. I had never seen my boss be anything but a responsible leader and a good man until the day his wife first brought his daughter into the office. The rest of the world around him literally ceased to exist. I got a picture of it and it now sits on one of his shelves.

My boss is not just my boss. When I was an intern, he trusted me to get the job done. When I made a mistake of epic magnitude about two months ago, he soundly ripped me apart in front of three other editors and then told me he was disgusted with me.

He wouldn’t have said it to me, I think, if he hadn’t known how big a fire it would have lit under me. It worked, and it made me a better journalist. It also made me a better person.

But after a weekend conference in St. Louis earlier this year, spending time with and getting to know him a little better, I knew I had found myself in a rare spot. My boss wasn’t just the man who gave me my orders and kept me gainfully employed. He became my friend, and I knew that I would follow him anywhere. He had earned my respect and my trust by giving me those things.

He and his family are friends.

And now…

Yes, I’m afraid for them. But I can’t just sit around. It’s not my way. I’m a man of action. I have to do something. And so I shall.

With the help of the strange, wonderful and generous denizens of Fark.com (special thanks to site owner Drew Curtis – whom I once had the pleasure of playing a game of soccer with – for putting up the link on his site), $517 and change have been raised in support of my boss and his wife through me.

I’m walking a 5K next weekend in support of my boss and his wife. To give you an idea of the kind of people I’m supporting, so far 53 people have joined the team to show their support. We’ve raised more than $6,000, blowing away our team goal of $4K.

Any support you all would like to show is welcome. Feel free to send letters of encouragement or donations or what have you. Knowing I have friends like you all who read regularly is why I blog.

Knowing that I can be that kind of a friend for someone else is why I’m doing this.

P.S. – Aaaand, I should probably note that the aforementioned link I mentioned above, the one put up on Fark.com? When I got that link posted… I kinda promised to allow myself to be photoshopped. Me wearing a pink shirt…

There is no way that this can end in any way but an awesome one.

Click here to visit the Race Page of Owensboro’s team, Graciously Pink. If you want to make a donation through me, just click my name on the list on that page.

The story of a life lived half-blind

For years, I have struggled with an inability to remember faces. People I have interviewed, talked to at length sometimes, fade away and are lost. If I meet them again, they have to remind me of who they are. More usually, I simply play along with them, embarrassed to reveal that I cannot tell for the life of me who they are.

This is a handicap. I get around it as best I can. With people I work alongside regularly, it is not a problem, because after seeing a person a few times, I am able to remember them.

Yesterday, as I interviewed a new local physician, I took some time to study her face. She had freckles. A few laugh lines at the edges of her eyes. High cheekbones.

And then it hit me. I was doing something different.

I’ve talked jokingly about my ADHD before, but this is one of the more painful parts of having this disorder. A lot of times, we ADHD sufferers also show signs of autism. I have trouble looking people in the eye. When I look at faces, I don’t focus in on details. I merely glance at the person, and having a notepad in hand makes this easy.

For the most part, people either don’t know, don’t let on that they know or don’t care that I have this difficulty with faces. One source did not let me off so easily and made me feel quite bad about forgetting her face for a third time.

It’s been a long time in coming. I never knew why I was cursed with this inability to remember people. But now… and I am sorry to use the pun, I see that the answer has been staring me in the face.

And now… It’s time to look closer.