History of the Blog, Part 5: Why I Hate Newsreporters

I suppose that I was in shock. There can’t be anyway that you are supposed to react to that kind of statement. I didn’t collapse to the ground or start moaning and wailing like in the movies. To be honest, I didn’t even weep.

I had the wherewithal to offer my shoulder for my mother to cry on but other than that I was numb. I don’t think I got what was going on. I knew; but I didn’t get it. I can’t explain any better than that.

After a minute, Mom explained that he had been hooking up a trailer to his tractor and as he was connecting the cables, the brake either slipped or wasn’t set properly and the tractor rolled back into the trailer, pinning Ryan between the truck and the corner of the trailer. My neighbor, a mortician, and the man who took care of the burial arrangements, told me later that the level of injury Ryan sustained was such that he was gone instantly; he didn’t have time to suffer.

In the days to follow, we were able to work together a rough timeline of events. Mom talked to Ryan on the phone about fifteen minutes before the accident. They had a short conversation and as she has always done with her kids, she told him she loved him when they said good bye. He told her that he loved her too, then hung up.

Uncle B’s brother (who also worked at the company) saw him heading out to where his cab was, and then a few minutes after that he found Ryan pinned. He called for help and moved the truck to get him free. 911 was called immediately and CPR was started. The chaplain who worked with the EMT’s and police told us later that the company workers who were doing the CPR did it so well that the paramedics did not replace them. They were able to begin other life saving processes without interrupting the CPR. It was very comforting to know that EVERYTHING that could have been done; was. Nobody goofed up, no one made a critical error. It just was what it was. Time to go.

As I stood there on the porch of the emergency room attempting to comfort my mother, a news van pulled into the parking lot. It made me mad.

When Punk had her surgery earlier in the week, there was a high profile, media driven circus going on at Primary’s. Another experimental surgery was taking place at the same time as Punks, and the media was ALL over it. The headlines for the better part of a week was about this surgery. It irritated me (and my sister, though she’d never admit it), that this was getting so much attention while other equally miraculous doings were ignored.

Jealousy? Might have been a little, but what really set me off was that the family at the center of this attention was really rotten. On camera it was sweetness and humility. When the cameras weren’t rolling, it was selfish, egotistical, narcissism.

A celebrity came to sign autographs. Everyone lined up except for “mommy”, who loudly stated “I’m the mother of the twins, and I have to get back to them quickly, so I’m going to go right to the front.” And you know, it was ok. Because everyone else in line at the hospital that day was just there for the tours and free donuts.

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!!!

I could go on, but I won’t. We’ll just say that the sense of entitlement was astonishing, and it was powered by news feeds and refueled by “live reports”. It made me so mad I wrote a letter to the editor decrying the media intrusion into a place where families who did not get as happy an ending as this famous family did had to sit amidst the cheering circus and try to grieve or mourn.

The letter was published in the Tribune the day Ryan died.

And now, with the news of my brother’s death still ringing in my ears, a news truck pulls up to get the “dirt”. I told the Deputy that we had nothing to say to them and that if someone put a microphone or a camera in anyone's face, I was gonna perform an impromptu colonoscopy with it.

OK. It wasn’t quite that eloquent (I think what I actually said was that there’d be a fight), but I was in defense mode and wanting to get some answers, not give them. Especially to a bunch of clowns I was already mad at to begin with.

The Deputy, an imposing fellow with the kindest face you ever saw, assured me no news people would get anywhere near us. Feeling protected, I went inside and found a restroom. I walked over to the sink and looked into the mirror. It was still kind of an “out of body” thing. I looked at myself and said out loud, “Well. Life as you knew it is now officially over.”

I called the Boss.

I could fill another thirty pages with the rest of the day. One of the great oddities of shock is that you are numb in the moment and unable to act or think but for some reason the memory recorder is going full blast with double barrels.

The worst memories of my life took place over the next few hours and days. But one of the good things that I see in any of them is my brother in law.

His connection to my family was distant at best, being married to my wife’s sister. He was on vacation; his break from difficult and demanding school work, yet he stayed the whole day. He was three steps ahead of every need. He ran errands, made phone calls and made himself useful in a thousand ways. With everyone else in shock, we had the blessing of a calm and clear Brother who cared for us and made sure that nothing important got overlooked in those first few hours. When inspiration struck and I needed a camera, he had one (I took a photo of the sunset over the Great Salt Lake on the last day my brother’s mortal eyes would see. I wrote a poem that night that is posted below). When we needed someone to go to the trucking company and get Ryan’s car, he volunteered.

How do you pay THAT back?

After a very long day, I got home around ten and flipped the TV on without thinking. Since no one from our family or the trucking company was talking, the reporters had started guessing. First, they said he’d been trapped for as long as five hours, which thanks to that call Ryan made to my mother, we knew was B.S.

Some of my family got the call that Ryan was gone only to be told on TV by an ignorant “on the scene” reporter that he was still alive but in critical condition and being transported to the hospital via life flight. It was news to us.

They got stonewalled by everyone involved, so the media just made it up as they went. Worst of all, when I flipped on the TV that night, I was immediately greeted with the worst thing I’ve ever seen. I should have known better, but I still wasn’t thinking clearly.

The jerks had flown a news chopper over the yard and hovered there over the paramedics as they worked in vain to save my brother’s life. The last physical images I have of my brother were provided to me by a news chopper hovering over his body like a damn vulture.

I didn’t need to see that. My parents surely didn’t need to see that. And total strangers sure as hell didn’t need to see that.

I equate it to pornography. They took an image of something that was none of the public's business, but because it was shocking they offered it to the curious masses to improve ratings and make a buck. It’s evil.

Now, I‘m sure they can make a case for it being journalistically ethical. But ethics are one thing and morals are another. It was morally reprehensible.

The media took the pain and suffering of a family who was loud and clear in their desire for the events of the day to remain private and then publicized their half truths for financial gain. Three and a half years later, none of the people the media were trying to titillate with that footage remember it. Just those of us who have to live with the memories of their irresponsibility.

To this day, if I’m watching the news and footage of a fatal crash or accident comes on, I change the channel as quick as I can. I feel sorrow for the family and shame that I belong to a society that requires so much intrusion into private grief.

And that, faithful readers, is why I hate TV news reporters.

Up next, Part 6: How Was the Theater?

Ryan's Poem

Here's a copy of the text in case you have eyes as bad as mine.

Every day the sun will set
Though its light may bring no heat
A thousand pretty pictures
And all are bittersweet.

Hazy redness fogs the view
Is it beauty or a mess?
A thousand thoughtful touches
Seem to bring no tenderness.

If and Why are ugly words
That prevent our faith in Him.
Like the smog that blocks the sunset
And make His Light seem dim.

But there is beauty in our trials
Like a sunset through the haze
And naught of man will ever stop
His eternal loving rays

Darkness comes to every day,
That’s just as it should be
Yet on the ‘morrow comes His Light
For all of us to see.

Every day is counted
And shall not be numbered less
For a Family is Forever
We will share togetherness.

For Ryan
August 17, 2006

History of the Blog, Part 4: Worst Day of My Life

All right. A deep breath, a cracking of the knuckles and a big mug full of coke.

Check, check and check. Here goes.

When last we met, I had just finished an Associate of Arts in English degree at Salt Lake Community College. At SLCC, I had a very good family friend who worked in Financial Aid, and she was able to find all kinds of grants and aid to keep things afloat financially. I could thank her again for eternity and never do justice to the love and support she offered us. Like many other blessings, we noticed how powerful it was only after it was gone.

I was headed for UVU and looking forward to a schedule full of classes that I wanted to take as opposed to the oft lamented general ed courses. Since I had no job, I was planning on doing 12 to 15 hours a semester. I could graduate in a year and a half that way. I had all the books for my classes weeks in advance and I had already done a good chunk of reading. It was exciting.

The week before classes started, the Boss’s brother in law came out to Salt Lake from New York where he was in law school. On the 17th of August (the fact I remember the exact date portends disaster, does it not?), he called me and asked if I’d like to hang out and play some XBOX.

Now please allow me a bit of digression here, it’s needed for background. My sister L and her husband B have three children. A son who is about a year younger than the Eldest, a daughter that is just older than Moe, and another daughter a little older than Puzilla.

L’s middle child is known (at least to this Uncle), as “Punk”. Punk is a walking, breathing, parting of the Red Sea. She was born with a chromosomal disorder called DiGeorge Syndrome. It has a host of symptoms that range from minor annoyances to catastrophically fatal heart defects. Because of this, Punk would have to be born at the University of Utah med center so that emergency surgery could be performed if necessary.

It was not the kind of news that anyone ever wants to hear. The excitement that usually comes from the anticipation of a new member of the family was dimmed by a good deal of worry and fear. It was very hard for my sister and her husband and we did what we could to assure them of our love and support.

When Punk finally arrived, her initial examinations and prognosis were mixed. Her heart was functioning enough that the doctors felt comfortable in waiting for a while to do surgery and that would give her time to build some strength. The bad news was there was a lengthy list of things that would need to be taken care of.

All of her internal organs were reversed from where they should have been, a condition known as Situs Inversus. Stuff that is supposed to be on the left was on the right and vice versa. Her tiny heart had what is called Pulmonary Atresia, a condition that means she effectively had no pulmonary artery to carry blood from the heart to the lungs to be oxygenated. All the blood vessels in her lungs were tiny and underdeveloped which resulted in her lungs being tiny and underdeveloped. In addition to all this she had a VSD or Ventricular Septral Defect. In normal person terms, tiny little Punk had a hole between the chambers of her heart the size of a quarter.

She has had more surgeries than you want to know about; all of them life threatening. After one of them she had a stroke that doctors said should have killed her; but her brain re-wired itself and she kept going even though it caused some complications she could have done without.

A few days before my brother-in-law and I sat down to play Madden 06, the Punk (who was about 5 at the time) had undergone an experimental surgery that doctors had not thought was possible just months before. They created a pulmonary artery and stretched the blood vessels in Punks lungs to dramatically improve her ability to oxygenate her own blood. It had gone beyond the doctors expectations and was deemed a success in every way. Punk’s recovery had been rapid and for once, problem free.

So I was really surprised that afternoon to pick up a call from my Mom and hear her sound so worried. I figured something must have gone wrong with Punk and in less than a heartbeat I was as nervous as I had ever been.

“Your brother has been in an accident at work”, she said.

Three and a half years later that sentence still puts me into a bit of shock. I was sitting on the couch playing a video game and one instant later I had prepared myself to hear bad news about my niece. Then less than ten words are spoken and I had to slam into reverse and worry about someone else altogether.

I’m pretty sure that I blew my mental transmission right there and that’s why the rest of the day passed in kind of a blur. My youngest brother had been working for a trucking company in their freight yard, moving trailers around the docks and preparing them for shipment. Nobody knew better than me how dangerous that kind of work was and a flood of very bad thoughts crossed my mind.

“How bad is it?” I asked, not sure I wanted to hear the answer.

“I don’t know yet”, Mom said. “But say a prayer and I’ll call you back when I know more.”

That sounded a little ominous to me, but this family had survived a trillion trips to the emergency room, and dealt with the complications of Punk’s condition, so I had little doubt that things were OK. They were always OK.

I said goodbye to Mom and hung up the phone. I told the Boss what Mom had told me, and we rounded up the kids and knelt for an impromptu family prayer. I remember asking the Lord to help us not worry, and that Uncle Ryan would be alright. I also remember feeling the Spirit wash over me the way it did when the Boss and I have made our toughest decisions. At that point there was little doubt in my mind that things were going to be OK. The Spirit had told me so, and the Boss and I hadn’t jumped off of those cliffs about school because we weren’t willing to listen to the voice of the Spirit.

Mom called back a few minutes later and said she had talked to Uncle B (Punk’s Dad) who worked at the truck yard with my brother. He had told her that the paramedics were working on him but that they were going to bring in life flight to get him to a hospital quicker.

That bit of info gave me chills, but Punk had been airlifted once, so I knew that it didn’t have to mean a matter of life and death. I told Mom about our prayer and the feelings we had and told her not to worry.

She had been up at Primary Children’s hospital sitting with Punk so Aunt L could get some rest and so she was a quick walk away from where the life flight would bring my little brother. Dad was out of town; in fact he was sitting on a plane flying home and we could not get a hold of him until he landed in Salt Lake. I didn’t want Mom to sit there by herself, so I told her I was coming.

My brother in law, in his first of many acts of unforgettable service that day, offered to go with me up to the hospital to be with Mom and the Boss could keep the kids out of the way at home. I was glad he was there; I was in shock and not in much shape to be driving. I spent the half hour talking his ear off and reassuring myself of the feelings I had during our family prayer. It was going to be alright.

We got to the hospital, found the emergency room and found my Mom standing on the porch outside the door talking to a Salt Lake County Sheriff’s Deputy. I walked out onto the porch and when the door opened, Mom turned around. Her face was twisted into a look of desperation and grief that I had never seen and never want to see again. She looked up at me and in a strong clear voice that belied her countenance said almost matter-of-factly,

“He’s gone. They couldn’t save him, and he’s gone.”



Next up: Part 5 Why I Hate TV News Reporters

One More Reason Not to Go Green

I'm still waiting for Al Gore and his henchmen to begin the crusade against the Mongolian Gerbil hordes. So far, not a squeak. And this week, I found further evidence that going green is actually hazardous to our health.

My niece, who lives in Kansas, is back in Utah with her husband for the holidays. Her husband started getting a sore throat and within a day he was in intensive care at the hospital.

According to the doctors, he had an advanced case of strep throat that had spread and attacked his epiglottis; that little flap of tissue that closes off the passage to the lungs when we swallow food. In his case, the tissue had swelled to an enormous size, and was practically shutting off his airway all the time. They were worried that it was going to close completely and he'd suffocate.

Didn't sound all that fun to me.

As it was, the doctors were amazed that he was able to keep breathing with the infection as bad as it was. Most people with that degree of swelling tend to croak. (Hey, that's the best pun I've had in minutes, and even I didn't even see it until I went back to proof read. I don't know where they come from, it's like a gift or something...).

The Doctor asked him if he was originally from Kansas and when he was told that he grew up in Utah, the doctor said, "Oh, that explains it. Years of living in the valley and adapting to the constant inversions have strengthened the tissue of your epiglottis and improved your response to respiratory distress. That's how come you were able to keep moving the swollen tissue to breath."

In other words, if it hadn't been for the inversion, my niece's husband would probably be dead. Instead of destroying the human race as Al continues to insist, it may be adapting us into a race of super humans, able to breath when lesser men would keel over and die!

Global Warming indeed.

Death to Gerbils!

Ton of Bits

OK, here's one brought to you by the "Ghost of Destruction Past". Squizzle has been growing like a weed lately and like all one year olds, he likes to grab stuff and hit things. So we got him one of those little hammer and peg sets and Santa brought him a xylophone (what was he thinking?) and a few other toys he could weaponize for battle with his siblings.

He loved the unwrapping part, and he did have a good time with the paper. But unlike the other kids when they were small, he was actually interested in what was in the paper. He grabbed the hammer and started banging away on the pegs. His coordination still isn't that good so he spends a good deal of time missing, but he is in heaven. Watching him play with the toy reminded me of a very funny story.

When my youngest brother was only a little older than Squizzle, he had a similar toy hammer set. He loved that thing and would happily spend all day pushing those wooden pegs from one side of the board to the other. At some point, he began chanting something while he was swinging away. This in itself was very funny, kind of a kindergarten chain gang thing. "Gonna dig me a hole...."

Anyway, after a while, it became clearer what he was saying. He'd hit the peg and then say "Ton of bits". We all figured he was pretending to smash the peg into smithereens.

Then one day, Dad was in the basement doing some home improvement project or other and he hit his thumb with the hammer.

"Son of a...."

And from nowhere, my little brother came tearing into the room with his little toy hammer shouting at the top of his lungs

"Ton of Bits! Ton of Bits! Ton of Bits"

Close to twenty five years later, it's still funny. But I'm watching Squizzle like a hawk. Whatever he says, he didn't hear it from me. Honest, Mom.

I Have Returned...

What a week. It's been a while since I spent any time writing, but it wasn't for a lack of material. I had my camera and a pen with me most of the time, and I wrote down half a dozen ideas for future posts. When I started this blog, I figured that I had enough stories to last a week or so. Not much of a worry anymore.

After a few visits from the "Ghost of Destruction Past" combined with the ever current destruction of the Present, I have no worries that I can type inexhorably towards the unavoidable destruction of my Future. Clarence the Angel might be able to keep me from jumping off of the bridge, but he can't stop the runts from pushing me!

Rather than one lengthy post that will take a month to write and read, I think that I'll break it up into smaller bits and that way if I have to walk away, I won't leave anything half finished. I will also start work on History of the Blog Part 4 today, so both of you who are interested will get more soon.

Hope you all had a Merry Christmas and if you got coal, I hope it came with a stove to burn it in.