I saw a friend today who commented on the column I wrote about turning into a reporter after crossing the finish line of the Boston Marathon recently.
She said her daughter read the part about my boss gently suggesting I go back into the haze to do some reporting on the bombings. In my column, I confessed my frustration with my boss, Patrick.
Her daughter said to her, “That wasn’t very Christian of him,” to make me go back.
It kind of made me laugh.
“Well, I didn’t say many Christian things when he asked me to, ” I assured her. “But I went.”
Then today I saw this on Romenesko, a headline saying someone covered a train wreck on the way to his dad’s funeral, and a reply from a reporter talking about editing a story while his wife was in labor. There are funnier posts here. And the neverending discussion about how being a reporter is the worst job ever. (It’s not — if you’re nosy, competitive and care about public interest.)
This stuff happens. People think of doctors and nurses jumping into the fray, but reporters do it, too.
It just means your life is never your own when you’re a journalist. I confess I don’t really mind that. I seriously cannot imagine doing any other job.
When I got to my in-laws’ house a few days after the race, one of them said it was “just like me” to immediately start working after I finished. I felt weird about that comment — what exactly does that mean? I didn’t do anything special. I probably did less than anyone else out there because I was freaked out. I didn’t really answer her. What was I supposed to say?
Sometimes the only reason to do the right thing is because it’s the right thing. And for me, that’s reason enough.
(Though I don’t think I would have been as patient as that reporter’s wife if my husband had been working while I was in labor. Thankfully, he’s a nurse, so he was able to help me when I kept getting tangled in my IV, etc. So I guess technically, he was working. Thanks, honey!)