sappy fag

Damn NPR. Damn them to hell. Not because of some political bent some folks believe they have. Not because their reporting isn't always perfect or because their interviews don't always ask the questions I'd like asked.

But damn them and their real life stories.

OK. Don't get me wrong. I love NPR. My radio is always tuned to it. Morning Edition on the way to work. All Things Considered on the way home. And if I'm lucky, I get to catch This American Life on the weekends.

I do get tired of hearing the same things over and over. i.e.: The war in Iraq, the housing market, and what the overcrowded pool of presidential candidates are doing now to keep us from falling asleep during the 200th debate.

It's the last 10 minutes of the shows that I live for. That's when I get to hear the commentary from some of my favorite folks like Andre Condrescu.

Usually, these commentaries don't do anything but give me a break from all the political hoo-ha that the media calls news.

Last Friday, though, on the way home one of them caught me by surprise. It was a hospital chaplain recalling her first assignment some 20 years ago. It was a visit to a family who had a little girl dying of cancer.

I've heard lots of stories involving cancer. They're usually touching, but usually end in a "chicken soup for the soul" kind of way.

See, I had childhood cancer (acute lymphocytic leukemia, to be exact) when I was seven. I was lucky. I lived. (obviously.) No bone marrow transplant. No radiation.

But now that I'm a teacher working with kids who are the age that I was when I was diagnosed, I can't imagine any of those little bodies having to go through what mine did. And I can't imagine their parents having to look and take care of such an innocent and unmarked life knowing that they may not make it.

Listening to the story got my attention. But as soon as the commentator quoted what she heard the mom say to the little four year old who lay dying in the hospital I lost it.

All she said was, "You're such a good girl, Anna. And mommy's right here with you."

It brought back every memory of my mom being right there at my side. And how I had no idea what was happening to me, but that I didn't like it. One bit. And I thought about that poor little girl. She had no idea what was happening to her. Or why her body was giving out. Or why she was in pain.

But the fact that her mom chose to say what she said hit me. She knew it wasn't going to "OK." Or that everything was going to be "fine." She said the one thing that the little girl could understand. She was a "good" girl. She put up all the fight a four year old body could muster and was loosing.

Then the story went on to tell about Anna's older sister coming in to see her. And how the sister didn't understand what was going on or the importance of why she be there as her sister dies.

All she knew was that Anna was getting all the attention.

So the chaplain, who came in to baptize Anna, asked her sister if she would like to be baptized at the same time.

It was the last moment they would share together as sisters.

Which turned my misty eyes into an all out sob.

My older brother and sister raced through my head at that moment.

My brother, who's always been very laid back, took it all better than my sister. While I was getting hours worth of blood transfusions, he held me in his lap and read to me and watched TV with me, not knowing if that was the last thing we would ever do as brothers.

My sister, who was going through adolescence, didn't fare as well. As she was going through those junior high years and needed the most attention from my mom, she got the least attention. And she knew it.

She still came to see me in the hospital. And even brought jello cookies (which were too hard for me to eat because of the unbearable joint pains I had) Imagine how that felt. There she was. Giving me the one thing she could give me, and I wouldn't have it. That could have been her last memory of me. Denying the gift she had brought me.

It wasn't fair. And though I know there's nothing I could have done, sometimes I feel the guilt that I took my parents away from my siblings for three years. And three years in kid-years is a LONG time.

Thankfully, my sister and I get along swell in our adulthood. We don't talk about that part of our lives. And that's OK.



This whole mess of crying in the car took me by complete surprise. I rarely cry. Every once in a while I get a lump in the throat during a good movie. But never a big enough one to cry. (save one)

The last time I had a good, big cry was after my marathon in '99. THAT one took me by surprise.

I was on my last quarter mile. I could see the finish line. I could see my mom, my sister and my friends there cheering me on. And out of nowhere, tears started forming in my eyes. I was thinking about how amazing and somewhat miraculous it was that not only had I survived cancer, but had just lost an incredible amount of weight and less than 2 years prior, had never run. And when I got to the finish line, I threw my arms around the woman who gave me life not once, but twice. My amazing mom. We both cried.

I don't remember what we said. I just remember holding her in my arms and feeling more alive, thankful and lucky than I'd ever felt before, and in hindsight, since.

And then there's the movie Wit. If you haven't seen it, get it. NOW. It's about a woman dying of cancer. Alone.

I don't sob at the end of it. But it always makes me cry. And it always starts when an old professor of hers comes into her hospital room to read her a book. And she reads a children's book about a bunny.

And now, after today, I've decided I now have a hormonal imbalance of some kind.

This morning, on the way to the gym at 5:20 a.m., I was listening to my usual NPR. And on comes a commentary I've been following all week from a young dentist in Iraq named Hassan. He's had ups and downs this week. But none like the down he had today.

Hassan's best friend, Mohannad, was kidnapped. And after Mohannad's family paid a $20,000 ransom, the kidnappers agreed to free him. Then, as Hassan and Mohannad's family waited in the market where the kidnappers were going to free him, the kidnappers pulled up in a van and dumped Mohannad's beaten and beheaded body in the market.

Out of nowhere, again, I started crying. But I was about to go into the gym, so I had to start thinking happy thoughts.

Puppies. Kittens. Rainbows. Waterfalls.

But those freakin' NPR bastards followed it with another commentary from a Vietnam Vet sharing the story about the death of HIS best friend.

Holy shit. I actually had to sit in the car for a few minutes to regain a little composure lest anyone in the gym actually see my puffy red eyes and begin talking to me. (I hate people talking to me while I'm working out.)

NPR folks: I love the commentary. But enough with the children dying of cancer and the best friends being killed. At least for a few weeks, lets stick to puppies, kittens, rainbows and waterfalls.