Self Censorship

I love being primarily a health care reporter. The potential to make my editors squirm shouldn't ever be underestimated.

This week I did this kind of trend story about treatments for incontinence; if you turn on a TV, sooner or later you'll see one of those ads about drugs to urinary incontinence (those "gotta go, gotta go, gotta go right now" songs are SO annoying), and there's even surgeries that can help stress incontinence and urge incontinence.

And yes, there's such a thing as anal incontinence. Fairly self-explanatory.

So writing this story involved talking to a few physicians about the bladder, the anus, sphincters, bodily fluids, all sorts of things. It was kind of absurd. During each one, I could almost see myself from above, realizing just how crazy it was. Here I am, this journalist taking everything very seriously, and these physicians and PR people too, and part of me just wanted to stand up and shout, "Pee! Hahaha! Poop!"

Writing the story was so much harder than I thought it would be; I've written about things that I think make my male editor in chief cringe, like the cervix and sex and other stuff, but this one was wretched, and it's mostly because I have a horrible habit of cursing.

I didn't actually curse very much prior to my senior year of college and working at the student newspaper. I didn't have a problem with people cursing, and I said "damn" and "shit" and "ass," but I didn't use them too often, and I hardly ever said "fuck."

Then I became EIC and spent a whole year almost literally living in the newsroom around a lot of stressed out, potty-mouthed people, and within about two months I had the worst mouth of them all. I curse all the time now in casual conversation. I don't do it in interviews, but I do it around the office; I would never do it in front of my parents, but my sister and I use a lot of curses when we talk to each other. It just happens.

So writing this story felt so incredibly hard because I didn't want to say "accidents;" I wanted to say, "You shit your pants." I didn't want to talk about stress incontinence; I just wanted to explain that you'd sneeze and pee yourself a little bit. Using polite language just felt like it got in the way of conveying a clear message to readers. Surely our middle-aged, upper-income readers say "shit" when they're in their corner offices once in a while.

The story was the last one I wrote; I kept putting it off because it was hard to find a way to diplomatically talk about everything. I finally felt OK about it and sent it on to my editors, telling them it was probably the most awkward thing I'd ever written, and they agreed (although they said I did a good job of wording everything).

There's nothing like a little self censorship for the freedom of the press.

Bodies

I'm reading a book right now about a physician and her journey through Harvard Medical School and the transition to becoming a doctor, and while her writing style sort of grates on my nerves, I'm still fascinated by the whole idea of turning into a doctor. Physicians in this country are still largely better educated, better paid, and better respected than most in our communities, and sometimes I lose sight of the fact that they all started off somewhere.

As a reporter, I've gotten the chance to glimpse into that somewhere-starting place a few times, and every time I do it leaves me more confused about my future. I love journalism, I love writing, I love words and sharing stories and scenes with others, but at the same time, I find myself pining for the scientific knowledge that would let me change lives. Anyone close to me can attest to the fact that I'm constantly talking about how maybe I need to become a doctor or a nurse or a PA or NP or something.

A few weeks ago, our local medical school hosted about a dozen high school students during a summer seminar called More Knowledge In Science. I was writing a story about this, since it's a demonstration of the community outreach the school does as well as an example of how much funding is needed through various levels of the government to make these programs possible. I went with the kids the day they went into the gross anatomy lab at the school, and it really made me excited to see these kids as engaged and curious as I was.

It was my first time in the gross lab; there were about two dozen stations, each with a computer and a basin for dissection, and bright yellow trash cans stenciled with "Human Tissue Waste Only" or some other dire warning. We all gathered around one stainless steel table with a white body bag on it, and the PhD who was teaching that day gave the kids a short intro about how all the bodies were donated to science, and that these were people who wanted others to learn more about the quiet inner workings beneath the skin, fat, muscle and fascia.

The cadaver had already been dissected, and it had the muted, beige-gray colors of formaldehyde and time. I don't know how old it was, but the organs had already been separated and could easily be removed, like puzzle pieces. The kids pulled on gloves and handled the organs, poking fingers into blood vessels and pulling on tendons. I thought of the exhibits at the Body Worlds shows, touring through museums.

I went back to work that day and a coworker asked if something smelled funny; it was me, naturally, chilled and marinated in the chemical smell of science. It was quite a different experience than the autopsy I got to see at the medical examiner's office back in the late winter.

The autopsy made me nervous; for days before, I worried about whether I would pass out or feel nauseous and have to leave. When I was in high school, we had a family friend who was a veterinarian. I was thinking of being a vet at the time, and she invited me to spend a day with her during the summer. The first thing I saw was a small dog having surgery on its eye, which I think had been popped out of its socket for some reason. I was in there for about a minute and a half before I started getting lightheaded and woozy. I had to spend a half hour on the floor with my head between my knees and drinking a Coke before I felt well again.

The autopsy didn't make me woozy or lightheaded. Part of me feels proud of that, and part of me feels guilty. This was not a person who donated their body to science. This is a person who had been found dead in their bed just hours earlier. The body was still wrapped in the bedsheets. The colors were rich and still had the tones I would associate with life. The heart was full of thickening blood. The brain had many subtle colors. The organs looked as though if they were put into the right body, they would still work.

I was awe-struck by the autopsy, and asked lots of questions, along with my fellow media people who were there as well. The ME's office has a policy where autopsies can be viewed for teaching purposes; med students, nursing students, etc, can come through and see a body be studied for clues about its death. By asking questions and trying to remember all the info from my anatomy and physiology classes, I would stay detached. It was just a body.

The autopsy did have an effect on me. I was afraid of nightmares that night, but I didn't have any. The next day, I went on the ME's website and looked at the listings of deaths. Remembering the body and the rough time of death, I was able to figure out who the body belonged to. It belonged to a person, and I had the name, and I wondered how the family was going about making funeral arrangements. It had been a sudden death.

I guess it's taken me a while to write about it because I didn't know how to go about it. I don't want to trivialize death, but I don't want to trivialize the learning opportunities in it, either. As other writers have said, death is a great unknown, but there is so much to be learned from it. The cadaver, the body, each was a person with a history and life. Same goes for the various pickled organs on the shelves at the medical school; the stillborn baby with anacephaly and conjoined twins had mothers who carried them in their bodies and fathers and family histories. But you can't think about that too much if you're trying to learn.

I think that's the most fascinating thing about becoming a medical professional: learning to draw that line between detachment and compassion. As a journalist, it's something I can look in on, and I can have my own small struggles with sources or whatnot, but it's nothing compared to what the MDs and RNs face.

Also, it doesn't compare to what some reporters face, like cops reporters or those who cover disasters. Dan has seen his share of dead bodies, many from car accidents, and he's never said that he's been affected by them. He has said that they have to be viewed as mannequins or puppets instead of people, though. Thank goodness I haven't had to interview family members shortly after a death or tragic event.

I don't really have a grand thesis to this post or anything; it's just some musings on the body, and specifically the dead body and how to handle it. One thing I would do, however, is encourage people to consider donating their bodies to science. It's not for everyone; many people have religious objections to it, which is fine. Everyone should become an organ donor, though. The body is a glorious thing, even if it is deceased. And what better way to honor something than to share it, either through its individual parts or through the knowledge that comes through knowing and understanding all of it together.