Moving forward isn't as easy as it sounds

I'm no stranger to death.

I've been to enough crime scenes and accidents, seen enough lifeless hulks covered with ponchos, tarps and body bags for ten lifetimes. But I learned early on  - with the help of some very experienced editors - to keep all of those horrifying things at arms-length. To an outsider, our twisted jokes would come across as callous. But joking like that is really a well-developed defense mechanism.

When I get an ID on a body from the coroner's office, it's just a name, an arrangement of letters on a computer screen. Even when I have to speak to a family member, while I come across as the ultimate professional, I don't let any of it in anymore. Nothing. Sounds horrible, right? Well, try doing that several times in a week and see if you can keep your sanity.

But when death comes to your door, all of the defense mechanisms in the world can't help you.

"All life is suffering," states the first of the Noble Truths of Buddhism. Damn...isn't that the most honest thing you've ever heard?

I've also heard people say that life is defined by a series of important moments, some good, some bad. Sure...

For me, two major, awful moments stick out among all the others. One was Dec. 28, 2003: I lost my grandfather that day. After losing its patriarch, my family has never been the same. I've watched my grandmother, who was the pinnacle of energy when he was alive, sit in her house watching television all day, something she never would have done while he was alive. And while her body has aged and her energy waned, I know in my heart that if grandpa were still alive, her focus and purpose would have continued to be taking care of him. I also watched my grandfather die...an experience I'm grateful for, yet disgusted with. On one hand, I was there with him when he passed. It didn't matter that he hadn't opened his eyes in several days. I was there, and I'd like to think he knew I was there. But on the other hand, that experience scarred me. For years, I had nightmares about it. I obsessed over it until it got to the point where I was getting panic attacks. Before that, if someone had told me that they got panic attacks, I would have laughed at them and called them dramatic. But then it started happening to me. There were times I wouldn't feel safe anywhere, and it was horrifying. But it all went away over time. Occasionally, the nightmares return (always the same ones), but I came out of that experience stronger. Most days, I can think about grandpa and not cry. I can look at his picture and not have to worry about breaking down.


The other moment came just last week, Oct. 26. I lost my best friend, my companion. Flower was more than just a dog. She was my sidekick. I can't go into details about her death, because it continues to tear me up inside. But the hurt I've felt has been overwhelming, and it came at a time when I was finally coming to peace with the tough times I have ahead with my surgery. This house is empty and drab without her. I see her in every corner, in every room. When I wake up in the morning, I expect her to be sitting in front of my bedroom door to greet me.

Just posting this picture has been difficult for me; I miss this beautiful face...the deep pools of her eyes that would stare back at me with complete understanding. There were many times I didn't understand her, but I know she understood me and what I was feeling.

This moment...well, there's no need to write another word about it.

After spending more than four years in the world of journalism, and a good portion of that time at a large daily newspaper, I've gotten pretty good at crafting ledes for almost any kind of story. But I have to admit to feeling a little stumped on this one.

For those of you who don't know what a lede is, I'm referring to the lead paragraph of a story. For many writers - myself included - it's an element that comes to them almost immediately and well before they sit down to hash it out on the keyboard.

My typical start to writing a story consists of writing the lede in my head, then finding some type of quote to end with. I call them my bookends; when those two things are in place, the meat of the story usually falls into place somewhat effortlessly.

Anyhow, my point is that writing a blog isn't exactly my forte. But my main reason for doing this is therapy. But what's the therapy for?

Well, I'll get to that.

Now take a look a this man's face. Is he actually excited about open heart surgery?

He may be. But I certainly am not.

I was born with a small aortic valve and, up until recently, the condition caused me little trouble other than keeping me from another dream of mine, which was to serve in the U.S. Navy.

But things just got real about two months ago.

After my annual checkup with the cardiologist and some subsequent tests, it was determined that I needed to get the valve replaced. It had finally wore out and I've been dealing with major fatigue.

As terrified as I was of being cracked open, my fears weren't actually realized until I met with the surgeon and set a date. The details of what they were going to do to me sent me into a mini-tailspin.

I've never handled stress well. But despite the silver lining in knowing that I would be feeling much better afterwards, this news sent me over the top.

I got into journalism because I wanted to be a professional writer. Working at a major daily newspaper was the ultimate dream...but for me, it became a nightmare.

The stress, at times, has been overwhelming. Some people thrive in that type of environment, but I've come to find out that I don't. Throw in the issue of money (never, ever enough to compensate for the long, hard-fought hours) and the constant fear of losing my job, and I had a real problem on my hands.

Some would point to the trail of newsprint left in my wake, an indicator that I've thrived in this profession. An editor recently told me this much, but it's really not any consolation for what I've endured or done to my body in the process. The significant weight gain, drinking and other bad habits are just a few to name here.

As the clock ticks on, it signals the end - or at least a pregnant pause - in my career as a newspaperman.

My future seems to lean towards something slower, something new. All I know is that things have to change.

With a Nov. 3 surgery date looming in the distance, I'm planning to chronicle my experiences, my thoughts, whatever else, in hopes that it will be therapeutic.

We'll see...