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It’s been a difficult week. A difficult few weeks, actually.
I hate it when things get hard. And it’s been harder than usual. It’s been so bad that my fingers tingle and the sadness in my heart overwhelms my every cell. Every breath. My entire being.
That’s how it’s been. But it’s getting better. I hope.
Sometimes when I need to be knee-deep in work, writing a story, making a schedule, creating a to-do list, my mind wanders to you. To your health. I wonder what went wrong. When it went wrong. Why you wouldn’t get help. Why you didn’t care enough to take care of yourself.
Sometimes I think of your hands. They’re tan. The veins are large. The nails have a slight curve. You don’t wear polish and rarely wear jewelry. I don’t know why I think of your hands. I just do.
When you called, your words were simple. “I’m going to tell you because you always say I never tell you anything. I had a stroke.”
I remember my mind going in a million directions. You were talking to me. Telling me this. So surely you were fine. Right? But stroke? Stroke?! How could you be fine? You can’t be fine. It’s STROKE.
Then I remembered. It all came flooding back to me. You have no insurance.
YOU. HAVE. NO. INSURANCE.
You paid your dues. You’ve paid your dues all your damn life. It’s always been so hard. Why does it have to be so hard? Why does my heart hurt so much thinking of how hard it’s been? It shouldn’t be so hard. WHY DOES IT HAVE TO BE SO HARD?
You paid your dues. You had insurance. Till he was laid off. That was only a short few months ago. YOU HAD INSURANCE.
Now you don’t.
Now you’ve had a stroke.
Somehow we talked you into going to the emergency room. But it’s been more than a week since it happened. You haven’t seen a real doctor for probably 30 years. I’m scared. We’re all scared.
I get word that you’re having tests. Then I get word that the hospital turned you away because you don’t have a doctor you currently see. Do they not get it? You’re not only deathly afraid of doctors and hospitals, but you have no insurance. Is this not a clue that you might not actively be seeing a doctor? And how the hell do they turn someone away who is walking around having had a stroke and who has a blood pressure reading of about 200 over 100-plus?
A few days pass. You’ve seen a doctor … you finally have medication. More tests are scheduled.
I finally have the courage and a bit of a clear head to write this. But I’m still freaking out. I’m wringing my hands. I’m biting my lip. I’m trying everything in my power not to fall apart. To lose it. To crumble into a million pieces.
I can’t keep my hands from tingling. Which just reminds me of your hands.
I can’t stop thinking of your hands.
I picked up my kids at school today so they wouldn’t have to ride the bus home. They are now officially car riders on the way home and bus riders on the way to school. This elaborate plan comes about since it now takes them almost an hour to ride what is only about 2 miles. The genius plan that was supposed to help out the school’s budget now has our kids on the bus for … well, forever.
Anyway, I picked the kids up today and our oldest immediately tells me, “I went to the nurse three times today.” This is after we already got a call from her the SECOND DAY of school because he was wheezing and needed his inhaler. I looked at him and said, “What in the world are you doing going there that many times? This woman is going to think we’re beating you or something.” He said, “Yeah, right Mom. I have huge bumps on my legs and I couldn’t stop itching.”
I tell you what … this kid is the most sensitive little guy ever. The kid woke up this morning with no fewer than four HUGE, RED bumps on his skinny little legs. We were freaking out because this is not the first time this has happened to him while he sleeps. So I’m all freaking out and ripping sheets off the bed and looking for a brown recluse spider family that was feasting on my oldest son’s legs at night. Or bed bugs from hell or SOMETHING.
I found nothing other than a ton of stupid-ass Webkinz huddled in the corner of the bed.
So once we get home, he says, “Mom, you gotta see this one on my leg. It’s huge and getting bigger.” At this point I figure he’s just wimpy, cause he can be. I mean, christ, I saw them this morning. They are BUG BITES. They itch. GET. OVER. IT. Finally, I glance over half-assed and notice A HUGE SWOLLEN KNOB on his shin.
Holy shit pie. The kid is blowing up.
“The nurse said I might need some Benadryl.”
Uh, yeah. You think?
I immediately look all over the very-messy fridge for the nurse’s number and can’t find it … so I call the front desk instead. Hoping the nurse is still there …
“Uh, hi. This is Kasey Jackson, and my son was in your office today like, oh, I don’t know, a zillion times.”
She laughed. Really hard. Then said, “Yeah, he was in about three times and by the end of the day, his leg really popped up with a huge goose egg.”
So we talk and she assures me she believes the bites to be mosquito bites, and we figure he probably got them the night before when riding his bike outside around dusk. Duh. I guess he needs some DEET of the most powerful kind. Kid is getting EATEN ALIVE. I kept saying over and over, “Are you sure it doesn’t look like a brown recluse spider bite? How about a black widow?”
She probably thinks, “WHY DOES THIS WOMAN KEEP SAYING SHIT ABOUT SPIDERS??” I’m guessing she thinks I’m a freak. At this point, the only thing going through my mind is “Please don’t call Child Services on my ass. This kid looks like he’s been beaten.”
Ha.
Not that you care, but I guess I share this story so you all know I didn’t beat him, but I also don’t bother to EVER use bug spray. I think I’ve learned a lesson. If I don’t want my kids to blow up like balloons with allergic reactions to MOSQUITO bites, I’ll invest in some stinky spray.
Lesson learned. 
Twitter has been an ugly place the past few days with blogging moms and lady bloggers with no kids bombarding the Twitterspace with obnoxious updates about what they’re doing at Blogher ‘09 and what they’re getting for FREE! and what fun they are having with their parties and how many tears they’ve shed over one another’s AWESOME! AMAZING! LIFE-CHANGING speeches.
puke.
I will say with all honesty that you are wrong if you’re thinking I’m just jealous of all of them and wish I were there and had so many cyberfriends I couldn’t count them all. I am not jealous. I don’t want to be there. (Though I do love Chicago and would love to be there … just not for that.) I am not impressed with their illusions that they are changing the world and their opinions are golden and that the world cares whether they are eating deep dish pizza or getting FREE! swag bags and FREE! iPhones and FREE! belly ointment to prevent stretch marks (that shit don’t work.)
I will also follow that up with a disclaimer that I DO like some of the women who have gone to this event and I DO consider a couple of them “acquaintances” and I DO admit I’ve met at least one or four of them IN PERSON at least ONE TIME.
But that being said, I do have to point out to all of these women a few things:
* People value your opinions more if you are honest and open about what you are doing, why you are doing it, and how you got to do it in the first place
* I want to know things YOU LIKED BEFORE you were offered the chance to get something for FREE!
* If you do a review and you get something for FREE! by doing it, it IS A PAID REVIEW in that you were COMPENSATED for your efforts. You should say that. Just because no MONEY changed hands does not mean you weren’t compensated.
* I would actually believe you more if you came clean and just admitted you started blogging to TRY TO MAKE MONEY, not because you think you are a good writer or the world cares that your right boob is smaller than your left.
* I like to hear your REAL stories, your REAL opinions, your REAL dreams and REAL family drama. I am sickened when I read something that is bloated with BS and full of smoke and mirrors. Be honest with yourselves. Be honest with your readers. Enough of trying to be something you aren’t when your fingers aren’t on the keyboard.
That being said, for the three people who read this blog, I give you a few of MY OWN THOUGHTS on things I love. Things I think you would love. Things I AM NOT BEING PAID TO PROMOTE. Things that, as a mom, woman, friend, sister, daughter, etc., I think are fun and awesome and worth your time.
Take it for what it’s worth.
My favorite book: To Kill a Mockingbird. If you haven’t read it, do yourself a favor and pick it up on the summer reading table at your local independent bookstore. If you don’t have an independent bookstore in town, DO NOT BUY IT. Go to your library or ask a friend. Surely someone you know has a copy.
A great family beach: Wrightsville Beach, North Carolina. While I DO NOT want this beach to become even busier with tourists, even though I am one myself, I will share that it is the best quiet little nook ever. We love it for its wide, clean beaches and grassy dunes. It’s fun to look for the turtles that nest in the dunes and to eat THE BEST CRAB CAKES EVER at The Oceanic restaurant. We love it here. You will, too!
Favorite money-saving item at Costco: We love the bagged, frozen salmon at Costco. The fish cuts are excellent and grill up great with sauteed spinach and some rice. Mmm. No way our family of five could eat this kind of meal at this cost any other way.
Favorite large family car that isn’t a mini-van: Honda Pilot. Hands-down our favorite car EVER. Seats 7 comfortably and has tons of space if the back seats are folded down. Three kids fit across the middle seat IN CAR SEATS. That says something. Get the leather seats for easy cleaning. 
My camera of choice: NIKON. I got my first Nikon a few months ago and LOVE IT. Have used Canons in the past for work (never owned a Canon) and do not like nearly as much. I use the Nikon D40 and have absolutely nothing bad to say about it. Easy to use. Nice size. Great quality. Affordable for a digital SLR.
Coke or Pepsi: Coke. Absolutely.
Best movie you might not have seen: Roman Holiday. Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn. Come on!
Somewhere you might never have thought of going but should: The Biltmore Estate in Asheville, N.C. America’s largest home just got larger with the unveiling of some never-before-open-to-the-public rooms. I can’t wait to go again! And kids get in FREE ALL SUMMER LONG. Breathtaking from the minute you enter the gates. Dudes, the DRIVEWAY is incredible. It’s about 3 miles or something crazy like that. It’s larger than you ever, EVER would imagine. Do yourself a favor and GO.
Most over-rated restaurant chain ever: Melting Pot
Best chain restaurant that doesn’t feel like a chain: Bonefish Grill
Most unnecessary baby item on baby registries: Baby wipe warmer thingee. Spare me.
What you need that everyone says you need and you really do need for babies: LOTS of onesies, cloth diapers to use as burp cloths and butt ointment
Easiest meal that tastes great and smells great and will impress your family: Salsa chicken. Take boneless, skinless chicken breasts, throw into dish sprayed with Pam, pour an entire jar of salsa over top. Put on lid and bake for an HOUR AND A HALF on 350. With about 5 minutes left, open lid and add your favorite shredded cheese. Serve with sour cream if you’d like. YUMMY. Chicken FALLS APART it’s so juicy and good. Also goes well with Spanish rice and corn. Mmmmm ….
OK. I’m out of control now. This has been fun.
My point? Nikon didn’t pay me to say they’re great. Honda didn’t give me a Pilot to drive around and blog about. But even if they did, I WOULD TELL YOU THAT.
I would expect that others do the same. It means a lot to me to know the honest truth from my friends and fellow bloggers … what you really, truly like means something.
Stay true to yourselves and your readers. That’s all. It shouldn’t be too hard. RESIST the urge to dive in and elbow your way to the free stuff. People will appreciate your words more if you do.
I blame this post, and the mourning it is causing, on Facebook.
I just finished looking on the site at about 160 photos of journalists, some I’ve worked with at The Indianapolis Star. The journalists worked together at The Indianapolis News, which still existed when I first came to Indianapolis to work as a copy editor. Both staffs shared an office at that time. I remember sometimes coming in around 4 or so to start my shift, only to find a bunch of people I didn’t really know finishing up theirs. A lot of those people I know now in one way or another. Some moved over to The Star when The News shut down. A lot of those people are in these photos.
To be honest, I don’t know most of them that well. But this post and the feelings surrounding it aren’t about those people at all.
It’s not that I don’t like them or don’t miss them. I do like them. I do miss them. But it’s more about the feelings I get when I look at the photos. It’s like I’m mourning something I wanted so badly and never got the chance to have. At least not the way it always was in my mind.
Let me try to explain.
When I look at several of the photos, I see an active newsroom. I see men smoking. I see people SMILING. I see messy desks and people on phones. I can practically hear the tapping of the old typewriters and can smell the stinky inky air. I can feel the newsprint. I can see it smeared on all their hands.
It’s the newsroom of my dreams as a young gal and a newbie journalist.
It’s the newsroom I never saw.
You see, while I did have a few of those things, it wasn’t the same. Yes, I worked in the composing room with hot wax machines. I used Exacto knives to cut and place type. I had the ink on my fingers. I picked fresh, still-moist newspapers up the second they rolled off the press. I took long, deep breaths while walking past the pressroom. I typed on an old computer (not the same as a manual typewriter for sure). I designed pages in a clunky pagination system (Egads! The horror!). I even used all those ancient tools journalists today have never even seen or touched (pica pole, proportion wheel, etc.). I can even still count out a headline the old-fashioned way. Know how many spaces an M takes up? How about an i? I do.
So yeah. I’ve been there. But I never did see the smoke, the men in crisp, white shirts and ties. I never heard the screaming, swearing editors (OK, well maybe a few times) and never saw gruff old-timers take a swig of Jack Daniels at their desk. I never felt the thrill of that kind of newsroom. The thrills were there in the newsrooms I’ve been in, sure. But for some reason, I just know it was not the same.
I know some people would be like, “Why would you WANT editors yelling and screaming and people smoking and all white dudes ruling the newsroom?” It’s simple. That’s the newsroom I pictured the entire time I was growing up. That’s what I read about in All the President’s Men. That’s what I thought it would be like. That’s what I was craving. The noise. The chaos. The excitement.
Being a journalist is like no other job I can think of, and maybe that’s because it’s the only real job I have ever known. But there is a special passion in people who want to gather and share stories, photos and information. I don’t know how to explain it. If you’re one of us, you just know. Because you feel it, too.
And most definitely, if you saw these old, black and white shots, your heart would hurt just a little bit as well. Especially when you realize just how fast that type of newsroom went up in smoke.
Almost as fast as the modern newsrooms are following behind.
And that, my friends, is heartbreaking.
P.S. As I write this, news has hit that Walter Cronkite has died. Heart. Hurting. Worser.
I have to admit I was a bit surprised today when I read in my local newspaper something that sounded, well, VERY familiar.
To be honest, the story isn’t something most people even care about. But when I noticed the headline on the homepage of the newspaper’s site, I clicked on it, interested to see how the story was reported, if there were photos of my “friend of a friend,” and if there was anything new.
I was surprised and a bit saddened to find, well, nothing I hadn’t already read.
In fact, I’d already read the story almost word-for-word. In a press release. Written by said “friend of a friend.” Sent to me days earlier in an e-mail.
Yes. That’s right. The story in said newspaper is almost exactly what I already read.
Hmm.
But where this gets interesting is the fact that there at the top of the page is a photo and byline from a certain reporter. A certain reporter I KNOW clearly did NO REPORTING to get this story.
Can you say copy/paste?
I can.
I’d like to see some harder hitting stories. I’d like to read stories that genuinely were reported. Written from the heart.
If our paid reporters at the state’s largest newspaper are COPYING and PASTING from press releases, then putting their byline on the story, what does that say to the state of journalism? How is this helping the industry’s current situation? Newspapers are dying. It sucks. But if this is the type of reporting we are going to get … well, I say … DIE, DIE, DIE. And I don’t want that to happen. I really, really, REALLY don’t.
But we expect more. We demand more.
When I was making a fuss about this earlier, my oldest was asking me what the deal was. Why I was so mad. Why dad and I were combing over both stories and making comments about the similarities (READ: LIFTED COPY). I had to explain it to him. Told him it wasn’t right. His reaction: “Yeah, that’s dumb. Why would you want to read the same thing two times?”
Ha. Yeah. Even he gets it.
