Monday, November 29, 2010

Sparky's gone, and Mary's not doing too well, either

If there is something more gut-wrenching than watching someone mentally deteriorate, I don't want to know what it is, because it has to be something truly horrible.  We tried to keep Mary, my mom, at home for a time but, unlike physically-debilitating conditions, those of the mental variety soon outpace the ability of family members to keep up.  The neighbor ringing the doorbell at 4 am with mom in tow put the exclamation point on the effort at home-based care.  Mary is now at a nice facility, cared for by a round-the-clock staff and surrounded by older folks who are sometimes part of this world and, at other times, in their own universe.  The typical conversation includes a lengthy spell of trying to figure out the context of what she is talking about:  did something happen at the facility, did a friend say something, is what she is talking about even real. 

Some weeks ago came word that former baseball manager Sparky Anderson had died, just a few days after being put into hospice care during the last days of dementia.  I was a huge fan of the Big Red Machine in the 1970s, a baseball team that always finds a spot on lists of best ballclubs ever.  Sparky was a character, a latter-day Casey Stengel type who knew baseball but had a habit for mangling the English language.  His death was a stark reminder that while people sometimes beat back physical ailments, no one gets over on things like dementia and Alzheimer's.  Imagine knowing the day you talk with someone who has such a condition is the best day that person is going to have; that the next day will be a little bit worse, as will the one after that and the one after that. 

If there is an upside, it is that such patients are not in pain, not spending their last days and months in agony.  Mom has her own world that she sometimes lets us into; at other times, it is virtually impossible to know what she is talking about.  So, you nod where it seems appropriate, say clever things like "uh-huh" and "really?" to give the impression that you are following along a narrative that may as well be in another language.  Frankly, visits are depressing but what do you do.  We visit and try to make the most of it. 

The most maddening thing is that these patients retain a good deal of social skill; in other words, they can fool someone who is unfamiliar with things like the 4 am wakeup, or her calling for a husband who's been dead 9 months, or the other people she sees that no one else does.  But, if you don't know that, she can ask enough general questions or carry on enough of a conversation to leave you believing that the problem is just a few "senior moments".  Those who visit often, however, learn that is not the case.  It's a nasty thing, this dementia.  People don't get a choice but if they did, my recommendation is ask for a physical ailment at the end; the mental type is much harder. 

Friday, November 12, 2010

Facts are facts, except when they aren't

It has not been a good run for journalism.  From the open cheerleading of the '08 and '10 electoral campaigns to the trading in speculation that has marked the Cam Newton "story", the profession continues to be its own worst enemy.  As a former reporter - not a journalist, not a commentator, not a pundit (though I did have the chance to be one of those - it is troublesome to see such a casual disregard of the basics of the profession.  Stories require facts, usually supplied either by documentation or on-the-record interviews.  Maybe the most valuable lesson that any J-school can teach students today is that a reporter can only burn a source one time.  After that, the source will never talk to you again, will discourage others from doing so, and will let anyone within shouting distance know of your unscrupulousness. 

A generation ago, Reagan-era Transportation Secretary Raymond Donovan asked where he could go to reclaim his reputation after being acquitted of some very shaky charges.  The question seems a quaint relic from different time when pesky little things like facts were considered staples of journalism.  It may be that Newton will be come the Shoeless Joe Jackson of his generation but, thus far, there is not a shred of evidence, a trade of data, or a single person going on the record to accuse of him of anything.  Not. One. Thing.

To keep the story alive, the narrative has relied on a combination of second- and third-hand allegations from shady characters and un-named sources who offer nothing to back up their stories, and internal navel-gazing and canibalism over the state of the profession.  A few writers have taken shots at other writers which will last until the next round of allegations is launched so another batch of Heisman voters can self-righteously wax about wanting to avoid another Reggie Bush.

The voters' role is not elect the good citizen of the week, mister congeniality, or a public official; it's to choose the most outstanding college football player in the country and I do not hear any debate over who that is.  And, the writers who chastise colleagues do so only after inserting some version of "if this turns out to be true" into their stories.  Well, if the allegations are proven true, so be it.   Cam will suffer, and it appears that Mississippi State will, too.  Auburn appears in the clear all the way around save for wins that would have to be vacated in the case of a negative finding.  We are a long way from such a finding, however; in fact, we are a long way from anything of substance. 

The 24-hour media monster is aided and abeted by a public that demands to know everything about everyone, five minutes ago.  That leads to sloppy reporting, rumor passed as fact, and an over-reliance on sources who may have axes to grind or are looking to cover their own hides.  It's not pretty and if the industry does not take serious efforts to get its house in order, the next generation's Raymond Donovan is just an allegation away.