One December night my family and my girlfriend both visited me in the small Missouri town where I went to college. As large flakes of snow fell, we walked to the school auditorium, where student jazz combos were giving a concert with a special guest. It’s thrilling to watch student performances, because there’s no guarantee it won’t be a complete disaster. In this case, it was far from that: the bands played perfect covers of “Dear Old Stockholm” and “Caravan.” The horn players launched into deeply felt, unpredictable solos—you could sense both the rigor of years of endless scales in the practice room and the need to prove they could do much more, the desire to surprise. Full Article »

Timecode: 04:16:25:19

A young woman, no older than twenty-three, lay unconscious on an operating table. Her torso and breasts were exposed, while sheets draped the rest of her body. A team of medical technicians surrounded her, keeping close tabs on her heart and respiratory rate, blood pressure, body temperature and brain activity. Dressed head-to-toe in surgical scrubs, they wore face masks and caps, so only their eyes could be seen. They didn’t look somber, but serious and focused. The surgeon stepped up to the table, paused ever so slightly, and then, using a metal scalpel, no bigger than a pen, began to make an incision within the natural fold of the woman’s left armpit.

The woman’s epidermal, dermal, and subcutaneous tissue layers shrunk away from the sharp blade on either side as it glided across. A small channel in the blade released a mixture of gases and a catalyst that together generated heat, instantly cauterizing the blood vessels in the woman’s skin tissue. As a result, there was very little blood. Having made this initial, three-inch incision, the surgeon looked relieved, and the mood all around seemed to lighten.

With a flat, metal hook, he pulled the skin away, and with the cauterizing scalpel, proceeded to carve out a small cavity between the woman’s pectoral muscle and tissue of her left breast. Someone handed him a clear, circular, flat, rubber pouch connected to a thin plastic tube. Using two fingers, the surgeon gingerly stuffed the pouch through the incision, guiding it into the cavity, until only the tube hung at her side.

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The incident was within my first month of working at the hospital. I had walked into the CEO’s office, as usual, handed him a copy of my latest health article, and took a seat in the chair in front of his desk. I’ve always felt a bit uncomfortable watching a person read my writing, awaiting their response. But by now I’d gotten used to the ritual with Dennis, the hospital CEO. He’d scan the article, ask a question or two, then hand it back to me with his seal of approval. This time, as I crossed and re-crossed my legs in the hard office chair, I noticed his face growing pale. His tie started to look too tight. He reached up to loosen it. His eyes stayed pinned to the paper in front of him, not moving at their usual scan-speed, instead moving left to right with a stunned slowness. It took him a while to look up from the page; it took him longer still to meet my eyes, his face now scarlet.
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The landing strip is just that—a strip of land between the slush and cracked ice of both the Bering Sea and Troutman Lake. From above, the isolated patches of flowing water ripple like a sheet of Saran wrap resting on last night’s soup. The area of rocky ground belongs to the St. Lawrence Island town of Gambell, Alaska. As the plane aligns with the north-facing runway, I can see from the twelve-seat cabin past the cockpit and through the windshield. Snow blankets the airstrip.

We’re drifting left of the last tire impressions, but I’m more concerned with trying to catch a glimpse of Siberia, just thirty-six miles or so to the west. Hazy skies block my view of Russia, though the disappointment swiftly disappears. We’ve landed. Full Article »

“Story ideas come from the sum of your life experiences…In short, and to put it bluntly, cannibalize your life. That’s what it’s there for.”

― Marshall Krantz, Ideas and Research

Let’s start with the seizure. I was ten years old and briefly lost consciousness while retrieving a ball gone astray during a game of pool volleyball in my backyard. My knees hit the grass first, then my arms, and finally my head. My body shook wildly, as if the sudden electrical change in my brain had extended to my muscles. I remember little more than feeling drenched with sweat in the backseat of the car, and then chilled by the air conditioning in the magnetic resonance imaging laboratory of the hospital. Full Article »