The not-so-private thoughts and rants of Elizabeth Donald: journalist, author, photographer, and founder of the Literary Underworld.
I am angry.
I am the Relay for Life team captain for St. Andrew's
Episcopal Church, and I do this because each and every one of us has
known someone with cancer. Some of our team members have even fought the
battle themselves. When you sit down and think about it, is there
anyone who DOESN'T know a cancer survivor, or has lost someone to this
I AM ANGRY.
I watch as this disease carries off
brilliant artists, actors, musicians and writers without pause. I see
grieving families and I know that none of it has to happen. When my team
began walking, one of us was a cancer survivor. Eight years later
nearly half of us are survivors. What does that tell us about the
pervasiveness of this disease?
Some time ago, I lost a dear
friend after ten years of battle against the cancer that invaded her,
and she was my age. She deserved more life than she got. It isn't right,
or fair. I miss her, and I wish she had more time with us.
And I AM ANGRY.
Cancer is universal. It knows no
boundaries. It respects no race, creed, religion or background. Disease
has no preference. But it CAN be beaten.
Please consider making a donation to me, or even joining my team. If you can't help out,
please spread the word; every little bit helps. You are helping deliver
the hope that future generations will not have to endure cancer
threatening the lives of their friends and family. You have the power to
Yesterday I messaged a friend that I had been sucker-punched in the head. He said, "I saw, I'm so sorry." He thought I was talking in metaphor, because my grandmother passed away Friday morning and there has been much reminiscing on Facebook.
Grammy's death is too big a thing for me to wrap my head around yet. I thought I'd be able to write about it by now, but it's going to have to wait until my heart and my head get in sync. There are too many moments, too many scenes, too many memories that don't connect with each other to write about her yet. I keep mentally stumbling across things, like the way she called me "My Elizabeth" since I was a toddler, or the alternate lyrics she taught me to John Phillip Sousa, or her funny sweaters, or the time I told her the sky was a different color blue where she was, and dubbed it "California blue," which she said always came to mind afterward when the sky was clear over her house in the San Joaqui…
The good news: Boy is home early! Yay for boyhugs.
The bad news: He is home early due to injury. Of course.
About a week to ten days ago, he was nicked by an arrow in the leg. (Long story.) Tonight they called me to tell me the wound had gotten badly infected, and he needed immediate medical attention. So I drove out to collect him and his things (made record time to camp); he was due to leave Sunday, so this basically cuts his time short.
He greeted me, "Hello momperson."
So tonight was a pile of fun, with attempting to clean out the wound and bandage it properly. I am not a doctor, nor do I play one on TV, but I worked as a medical assistant in my youth, and Jim was an Air Force medic. (Of course, that was in 1985, so our arguments over the advisability of using hydrogen peroxide in wounds will continue as long as we argue over macaroni and cheese as a side dish.)
We drove by Jim's work on the way back from camp so Jim could look at the leg. We debated taking him to ur…
A random thought occurred to me tonight: This month marks 17 years with the News-Democrat, and simultaneously marks 20 years in journalism.
I suppose I could count my career from my occasional dabblings in junior high or high school newspapers, or from the point where I switched majors to news editorial and started working for the University of Tennessee student paper. But for my own purposes, I count from my internship at the Union City (Tenn.) Daily Messenger, which began this month in the sunny year of 1997.
It doesn't feel like 20 years ago, and sometimes I feel like I catch glimpses of the greenest cub reporter to step into an old-fashioned newsroom. Many of the tales I could tell from those days belong over drinks in a bar, not in this blog. But I can tell this one: I learned more from the editor of the Daily Messenger in six months than I could have learned in years of study.
His name was David Critchlow, and last I heard, he's still running the show. They had never had…