Death comes across my desk almost daily in the form of obituaries, death notices, news stories and feature articles. That’s the part of journalism rarely taught in school.
Yet, it represents one foundation of reporting. And unless you know the person who “passed,” the process is impersonal. Get it right. Get it published. Screw up and brace for the hell that follows.
Name spelled correctly? Check. Calling hours on the right day? Yes. Was the person an avid sports fan, a loving parent, someone who liked the casinos or an active member in a veterans group? Review the funeral director’s notes. The church. Where did they go to church?
Wrote my obituary once. Damn, I impressed myself. Listed everything I had done, which included the honor of being Washington Junior High’s top male student. Listed the family: wife and daughter down to the aunts, uncles, nieces and nephews. Oh and the “preceded in death by.”
On Jan. 16, 2013, I died.
The cause of every death is heart stoppage. Sure, events lead up to the passing, such as cancer, bullets, ladders. Watch out for the ladders. But when the heart stops it’s game over. However, a surgeon stopped my heart to save my life.
On Jan. 16, 2013, I survived.
Don’t look to me for inspiration. The list of things that led to my open heart surgery covers a period of years – diabetes, high blood pressure, obesity, hot dogs. Lots of hot dogs. Who can pass up two Nathan franks for $2? Not I. That was a killer deal.
McDonald’s. We won’t discuss McDonald’s, Chili’s or chicken parmesan with angel hair pasta and extra sauce.
Stupidity placed me on an operating table. A saw split my sternum and the ribs spread apart. Heart stopped. Heart fixed. Heart revived.
Every day, a scar down the middle of my chest reminds me of the ordeal. Daily, I think of the emotional, physical and monetary expenses. Humor dulls the memories. Faith lifts the spirit. Family keeps me sane. Paychecks, savings and insurance cover the bills.
I make no promises as to the future. The phrase “second chance” finds room in my cluttered mind. A cardiac surgeon provided me with a “do over.”
My new obituary will be much shorter.
An idiot died but lived once more. His heart finally gave out naturally but not before resuming life as a loving spouse and parent, heading to the casinos and being an avid Cleveland Browns fan.”
Hey, life’s not perfect. You gotta have heart.
Yet, it represents one foundation of reporting. And unless you know the person who “passed,” the process is impersonal. Get it right. Get it published. Screw up and brace for the hell that follows.
Name spelled correctly? Check. Calling hours on the right day? Yes. Was the person an avid sports fan, a loving parent, someone who liked the casinos or an active member in a veterans group? Review the funeral director’s notes. The church. Where did they go to church?
Wrote my obituary once. Damn, I impressed myself. Listed everything I had done, which included the honor of being Washington Junior High’s top male student. Listed the family: wife and daughter down to the aunts, uncles, nieces and nephews. Oh and the “preceded in death by.”
On Jan. 16, 2013, I died.
The cause of every death is heart stoppage. Sure, events lead up to the passing, such as cancer, bullets, ladders. Watch out for the ladders. But when the heart stops it’s game over. However, a surgeon stopped my heart to save my life.
On Jan. 16, 2013, I survived.
Don’t look to me for inspiration. The list of things that led to my open heart surgery covers a period of years – diabetes, high blood pressure, obesity, hot dogs. Lots of hot dogs. Who can pass up two Nathan franks for $2? Not I. That was a killer deal.
McDonald’s. We won’t discuss McDonald’s, Chili’s or chicken parmesan with angel hair pasta and extra sauce.
Stupidity placed me on an operating table. A saw split my sternum and the ribs spread apart. Heart stopped. Heart fixed. Heart revived.
Every day, a scar down the middle of my chest reminds me of the ordeal. Daily, I think of the emotional, physical and monetary expenses. Humor dulls the memories. Faith lifts the spirit. Family keeps me sane. Paychecks, savings and insurance cover the bills.
I make no promises as to the future. The phrase “second chance” finds room in my cluttered mind. A cardiac surgeon provided me with a “do over.”
My new obituary will be much shorter.
An idiot died but lived once more. His heart finally gave out naturally but not before resuming life as a loving spouse and parent, heading to the casinos and being an avid Cleveland Browns fan.”
Hey, life’s not perfect. You gotta have heart.
