Month: June 2018

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The Words That Matter

When you’re a reporter, the newsroom is home.

It may be a home you see more often than your real one, to be honest. It’s where the phone calls get made, the interviews get scheduled, and the miles and miles of copy get written. It’s the place of bad jokes, election-night pizza, and arguments over whether a material is called “concrete” or “cement” in print. It’s the core of the daily insanity, the “daily miracle” as each new edition of the newspaper is referred to.

It’s where life happens.

And last week, for one publication, it became where death happens, too.

On Thursday, the staff of the Capital Gazette in Annapolis lived the nightmare. Five of their co-workers dead as a gunman shot his way in. The rest, having to keep going, to cover this horror that had come through the door, to report the deaths of friends and colleagues even in the midst of trying to find safety.

Every reporter has heard the editor’s admonition to get out there because “you won’t find any news in the newsroom.” If only that were always true.

The exceptions hurt too much.

***

In a way, it’s strange to be writing about this. Not just because I did a column about press violence literally a year ago, when the stories of the day were about windows being shot, bomb threats being called in, and a congressional candidate knocking a reporter down. But because it’s a story of someone taking a newspaper seriously. Seriously enough to kill.

That’s been the exception more than the rule these days.

We’ve seen the stories of the budget cuts, the layoffs, the financial pressure put on newspapers across the country. To many people, they’re a part of the conversation that seems to get increasingly exiled to the periphery. Websites keep snapping up and recirculating their copy – it’s a dirty secret how many online news sites rely on newspaper coverage, just as television stations once did before – while the men and women at the heart of it are continually called on to do more with less.

And they still do it.

I’m not talking about angels. I’m talking about people who make good choices, bad choices, and sometimes even bizarre choices in what they cover and why. Here and around the world, they ask, they learn, and they tell the story, even when someone would rather they not.

Sometimes they die for it.

Around the world, just this year, 33 of them have. Most of them by murder.

***

To our Founding Fathers, the conversation would not have been strange. On the Fourth, we look back to when several of them wrote words that could get them killed. When the signers of the Declaration pledged “our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor,” they knew it was no empty promise.

“Do you recollect the pensive and awful silence which pervaded the house when we were called up, one after another, to the table of the President of Congress to subscribe what was believed by many at that time to be our own death warrants?” Dr. Benjamin Rush of Pennsylvania recalled in later years.

“Let us prepare for the worst,” Abraham Clark of New Jersey wrote after signing. “We can die here but once.”

The right words at the right time matter.

And in journalism, this is why the work goes on.

Sometimes badly. Sometimes well. Reporters get praised, threatened, reviled, thanked, and even ignored – sometimes all in the same week. And even if newspapers went away tomorrow, the work would still go on somewhere, in some form, because it is too necessary to a free country to have people ask and learn and tell the story to others.

The story won’t stop. So the storytellers must go on.

At the Capital Gazette, one page of one edition was left blank after the shooting, save for the names of those who died and a brief tribute. A moment to pay honor, to feel the pain.

And then the work continued. As it has. As it will.

This is a country made by speaking out. And the words will not be silenced.

Not even in their very home.

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In Good Hands

Years ago, my wife Heather referred to an omni-competent physician as a “Swiss Army Doctor” – the sort who seemed to be good at everything, whether they were part of his specialty or not.

She ought to know. Because Heather is one heck of a Swiss Army Person.

She’s a fearless driver who’s undismayed by Denver traffic.

She’s an aunt who speaks fluent Child, winning the immediate trust and understanding of anyone under 10 years old. (Yeah, she was going to be a teacher at one time.)

She’s a patient who’s done everything from diagnosing her own conditions before her doctors did, to fixing her own IV when it threatened to come loose after a home infusion.

Lifehacks? Minor repairs? Odd bits of knowledge? Never bet against the mind of a woman who’s read War and Peace cover-to-cover and is ready to start again.

In short, she’s the kind of person that everyone knows they can rely on. And that’s the trouble.

Because Heather has also been chronically ill most of her life – Crohn’s disease, ankylosing spondylitis, and most recently, multiple sclerosis. And that means two things.

One, it means that life can get very frustrating for her, when something she should be able to do suddenly becomes difficult – say, because of the balance issues that MS can bring, or the “brain fog” that can even make reading a trial at times.

But the second is more subtle. Heather needs to sometimes not be needed. To just be sick, and have everyone else carry the weight for a while.

That’s all too easy to forget. Embarrassingly easy, in fact.

And the truth is, most of us have been in similar situations.

Sometimes it’s on the personal level – the parent, or neighbor, or colleague, who can seemingly do it all, and thus often gets asked to. Whose hands keep getting filled, even when there’s no room left to grip. If none of it gets passed on, something is going to slip. Probably several somethings.

Sometimes, it’s on the institutional level – services and agencies and organizations that you’ve come to rely on, whether local, federal, or in between. You assume things will go on as they always have, and so they do … until the day that there’s a new person in charge, a new policy in place, a new mandate from higher up. Suddenly the secure becomes scary. Suddenly things you never thought could happen are becoming the new normal, while things you could trust are no longer certain.

In both cases, the panic usually comes when a crisis hits – and at that point, a lot of damage has already been done. That’s when you’re scrambling, trying to patch the holes, grab the tasks, juggle the flaming chainsaws that are already in the air. And sometimes that’s unavoidable – but only sometimes.

Most times, the needs and the dangers can be seen far ahead. But seeing them requires attention. Understanding. A willingness to work before there’s a need.

It means anticipating when a loved one might be overwhelmed, and taking the initiative to relieve the pressure.

It means having a plan before the roof leaks or the furnace dies.

It means doing more than vote, but being engaged and involved in the political process before it comes down to casting ballots.

Sure, it’s not always possible. No one can do everything they need to do – and that’s the point. If we all look out for each other, if we all stay alert to jump in where we can, then we can make the ride easier for all of us. We’ve seen this in times as dramatic as the 2013 flood and as quiet as a family’s mourning – when we stand together, we’re stronger. We’re family, neighbors, community.

We all remember that less than we should. Myself included. So here’s the reminder.

Be there. Do what needs doing.

And let the hardest-working hands get some rest at last.

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Carrying On

The Missy Purse is dead. Long live the Missy Purse.

In all honesty, this was not a surprise. Our developmentally disabled ward Missy tends to pack her ever-present purses to the breaking point – and then about three trailer-loads beyond it. A black hole attracts less mass than a Missy Purse. Soldiers have traveled with smaller loadouts on campaign. In fact, since Missy stands under five feet tall, and weighs less than 100 pounds, you could make an argument as to whether the purse carries her.

Mind you, Heather and I stay vigilant. We’ll periodically smuggle the purse out of sight – which is a little like hiding an elephant under a windbreaker – and cast off some of the detritus. But no matter how many times we revisit it, its contents always seem to regenerate, including:

  • Seven weeks worth of bowling scores, folded until they resemble origami.
  • Three Hot Wheels cars, still in their well-handled packaging.
  • Intermingled flash cards from three different decks.
  • $13.72 in loose change.
  • Two Harry Potter winter hats – even in July.
  • A thick stack of bingo cards, secured in a Ziploc bag.
  • The Ark of the Covenant.
  • The missing “dark matter.”
  • A partridge in a pear tree.

Like the TARDIS of Doctor Who fame, Missy’s accessory of choice always seems to be larger on the inside. But even the mightiest purse has limits. Zippers cease to fasten. Stitches start to give. And, inevitably, the shoulder strap will wear through.

Just as inevitably, Missy will refuse to give up on it right away. Sometimes dragged, sometimes hauled, sometimes presented to one of her Official Porters (us) with a curt “Here,” the Missy Purse will be paraded in honor for another day or two, before it is finally allowed a decent burial and replacement.

It’s hard to let go. Even when it’s become too much. Even when it’s become an obvious, uncomfortable burden.

Sound familiar?

Most of us have carried something similar, even if it isn’t a bright red piece of faux leather. Sometimes it’s an old resentment. A toxic relationship. A painful memory that shapes expectations. Or yes, a prized possession that’s become “What’s it in the shop for this week?”

Sometimes we’re not aware of the damage it’s causing. Sometimes we have to be told or made aware. But most of the time, we know darned well that it’s become a burden – but it’s easier to hold on than to let go.

Letting go means unfamiliar territory.

Letting go means figuring out what to do next.

Letting go means admitting we’ve held on too long, to something that no longer rewarded the attention, if indeed it ever did.

There are a million reasons for not making the hard choice. We know the burden well. We’ve learned to live with it. It’s not that bad, really – right?

And all the while, the seams are splitting. And the shoulder is getting sore.

Ultimately, the choice is ours. Friends can help (and welcome help it is). Advice can offer suggestions, empathy can provide comfort and relief. But the hand that loosens the grip has to be our own.

Only then can we make way for something new.

There’s a new Missy Purse now. Black, this time – a rare choice for her – and rather snazzy. Yes, it’s already accumulating stuff of its own. But it’s more manageable, more comfortable, more useful. And when its time comes in turn, maybe it’ll be a little easier to make the separation.

Maybe.

After all, it’s all a matter of purse-ception.

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Making the Reach

It shouldn’t take a celebrity.

It shouldn’t require a death.

But here we are.

Some conversations never seem to be had until something painful and public happens. Like discussing security after a terrorist attack. Or guns after a shooting.

Or, in this case, talking about mental health after someone famous commits suicide.

Two someones, this time around. The most recent spotlight started with designer Kate Spade. And then, before the news could die down, chef Anthony Bourdain entered the headlines as well. Social media echoed and magnified the conversation, full of people trying to raise awareness, or share memories, or simply understand.

It’s what we try to do after all. Find patterns when something makes no sense. Make a painful moment manageable by reaching for an answer, any answer.

And then time passes. The moment passes. No one can live forever in crisis mode, and so the incomplete answers and uncertain explanations fade out for most of us and we return to a more normal sort of life.

Except for those who can’t. Those who continue to face a daily silent struggle. Unheralded. Unseen. Maybe even unsuspected.

And often, as a result, untalked about.

It’s a curious thing. Many of us these days are willing to talk about physical ailments, almost to the point of oversharing. Diabetes. Epilepsy. Multiple sclerosis. Even the once-unspeakable “big C” of cancer. We don’t necessarily pass around our latest medical charts, but there’s little hesitancy about speaking out, finding support from others, sharing stories, maybe even pinning some colorful ribbon to a shirt collar or Facebook profile once a year.

We don’t talk about mental conditions the same way. If we talk about them at all. It’s taboo, unsettling, dangerous. And those in the middle of it all often keep quiet, not wanting the judgment that comes with the label.

We all know someone who’s there. Whether we realize it or not.

I have friends and family who have lived with (and sometimes died with) depression, PTSD, bipolar disorder, and more. Many of these CAN be lived with, even if that life has to be won again day after day after day. But in isolation, without support, the battle can become overwhelming.

Once in a while – usually after something like a Spade or a Bourdain – the drumbeat will go up. Folks will be shocked into awareness, will post the suicide hotline numbers, will encourage folks to reach out for help. And that is good.

But.

Many conditions are isolating. Your brain outright lies to you, telling you you’re worthless, you’re alone, that no one really cares. There’s a hesitancy to reach out, not just because of the social stigma, but because of the internal soundtrack that’s constantly playing.

The burden of action cannot be entirely theirs.

Don’t wait for someone to reach out. Reach in.

Reach in to the people you do know. Not as a nosy neighbor or a person with all the answers, but as a friend who cares that a friend is in pain.

Reach in so they know they’re not alone. Step away from the center and listen. Don’t worry about having the right words or the magic formula – it’s not about you, anyway. The right words are the ones that remind someone you’re here, now, for them.

You don’t have to be a psychiatrist. You don’t have to be a therapist. You don’t have to solve the problem for them and you’re not going to.

But if enough people reach in, it can become that much easier for someone to reach out for the help they truly need.

It starts with us.

Not every battle will be won. Not every person can be helped. Some will need more than we ourselves can give.

But where we can, we should.

It shouldn’t take a celebrity.

It shouldn’t require a death.

Just open eyes. An open heart. And open, ready hands.

Be there. Reach in.