The Kindness of Strangers

I love PostSecret. I read it every Sunday morning. Some of the secrets depress me; others make me laugh out loud. Some make me cringe and some I really identify with. Some, at the risk of sounding like a jerk, I believe to be made up and not actual secrets. Others are so dark I can't imagine anyone making them up. Some are bright and simple; noting the happiness found in life's little surprises.

Today's secrets included one that reminded me I have some thanking of strangers to do.



The same thing happened to me twice last winter, and I have often wondered who came to my assistance. I'll never know, but I will always be grateful.

Unlike the person who sent this postcard in, I did not have a seizure. I don't know what happened to me either time. For the time being, I am chalking it up to exhaustion. I had a lot of mentally, emotionally and physically demanding things going on this past winter. I tend to think I am invincible and can take on anything and everything. Human nature, I suppose.

Here in Charleston, I collapsed in the Town Center mall. In Kansas City, I hit the bricks right before boarding a flight at KCI. I don't remember either incident. In Kansas City, however, I did experience something like the "my entire life flashing before my eyes" phenomenon that people sometimes experience. It wasn't nearly as dramatic as it is made out to be in movies. I can't remember exactly what I "saw" but I do remember it was just a bunch of random, seemingly inconsequential snapshots of places and things I recognized.

No matter how sane we are in our waking lives, our brains are crazy and complex things.

Anyway, when I got the ambulance bills a few months later, both referred to a 911 call being the source of dispatch. There was something strangely touching about that. I know that sounds cheesy, but I was filled with gratitude and (even more cheesy) love for whomever made those calls. I know it's something I would do if I saw someone go base over apex and lose consciousness. I know it's something pretty much any human being would do. But when you're the one that is in need of help, knowing that someone was paying attention and made the effort to call for help really means a lot. It's hard to be vulnerable like that, and it's a very uncomfortable realization that I was unconscious in unfamiliar places, by myself, surrounded by strangers. I don't like to think about it, but I do often think about the people who helped me, and I wish I could thank them. Since I can't thank them in person, I'll just send it out to the universe via my blog.

Dear persons who helped me when I needed it,
Thank you.

Thoughts on Tim Russert's Passing

It's a rare occurrence that I write about my family in a public setting. Tonight, I feel compelled to write about my father as I watch coverage surrounding Tim Russert's unexpected passing earlier today.

I'll get to dad in a moment.

Tim Russert was a great journalist. Political, broadcast or otherwise, he was a class act in what has become a sea of sensationalism and sleaze in broadcast media. Watch any network news channel and you'll be bombarded with pundits posing as journalists who will say anything to get viewers riled up. Why? To increase numbers, amass a fan base, get a book deal, make lots of money... check those ethics at the door. Tim Russert brought a sense of legitimacy and dignity to an otherwise shallow news media; a gentleman in the Don-Henley-Dirty-Laundry industry.

Meet the Press is a program that I have very much enjoyed for some time now. I'm not a religious person, but I do have a little Sunday morning "church service" I draw a lot of peace and inspiration from, and that is watching CBS News Sunday Morning. And, every time Sunday Morning would end, I would flip over to Meet the Press. This Sunday morning ritual has been a part of me for some time. It was a wonderful way to start my own special Sabbath, several hours of televised arts and culture followed by political discussion, all delivered by pleasant personalities. By mid-day, I'd feel that my creative, spiritual and intellectual selves had been re-charged. Sunday morning is going to feel strange this week.

Watching his colleagues speak of him is very touching. It takes me back to the days following the death of my father, reminded of the wonderful things that people would say to us about him. The theme was solid: My dad was remembered as a good man, an honest man, a man dedicated to his faith, his family and his country. A man who, as a high school art teacher, touched lives. At dad's funeral, students from many years back came out to pay their respects. He was only one year away from retiring from the profession he loved and was so skilled at.

Those memories, despite the pain surrounding the event, are heart-warming. Other memories that stem from this coverage are more difficult to re-visit.

Tim Russert passed away the same way my dad did, suddenly... unexpectedly. My dad was 56. It was four days after the 9/11 attacks. Dad kept himself in good health. He was not a drinker, not a smoker, kept himself in check. While watching commentary this evening, it was reported that Tim Russert had a stress test in late April and passed with flying colors. I felt a pang in my own heart as I remembered that being the exact same scenario with my dad. He, too, had a clean bill of health at the last checkup he had... about a month before he died.

Collapsed and died. I've heard that before.

But there's one phrase that I keep hearing that hits me the hardest, and I really need to change the channel to VH-1 or something lame and non-challenging. That phrase is: He could not be revived.

He could not be revived.

I've heard those words. I heard them in a hospital emergency room on a sunny Saturday morning in September, a day that we as a family were planning to spend together helping one of my brothers move.

That is one of the single worst statements a person can hear, I can assure you. And it's something you never forget. Technical, matter-of-fact, yet so loaded with emotion.

I know the pain Tim Russert's family is feeling, as well as anyone who has lost someone they've loved deeply. Whether the inevitable loss lingered or was sudden, the rug is yanked out from under you and all you can do is love them, honor their memory and carry on.

This time of year is always very difficult for me due to all the father's day advertising and so forth. But while the difficulty of the loss varies in intensity depending on the time of year, not a day goes by when I don't think of him and hope that I am making him proud.

If you're still reading this, I want to say one last thing. Love your parents. Love your children. Love your siblings, your grandparents, your significant others, your friends, your pets... be kind to the people you interact with be they stranger or friend. This life is a frenzied one and its easy to lose track of people we care about. But this life is also short, and can end at any moment.

And that's all I have to say about all of this. Thank you for reading.

Yes, I Know the Feeling

Coming home from very lonely places, all of us go a little mad: whether from great personal success, or just an all-night drive, we are the sole survivors of a world no one else has ever seen.
- John le Carre

Country Roads

I made it.

You Flicker and You're Beautiful

I'm going to miss this view from my kitchen window.