It's a dog eat dog world.

From the time I could pick up a pen, I knew that when I grew up I would be a writer.

I would tell ghost stories to anyone who would listen, write the 12 page reports when an assignment only required three and kept a diary every day.

Now that may seem over exaggerated to some, but there are people who can tell ya, I was driving everyone nuts.Other kids wanted to grow up and be nurses, firemen, doctors, lawyers. Not me, I wanted to tell stories. I'd get that dreamy little look and say, I'm going to be a writer.

In third grade, we had to interview someone who did an interesting job for a paper. I interviewed my great-Uncle Jimmy, who was a judge.

As I sat there with my little pen and notebook, I found out the favorite part of his job, was marrying people. He liked to bring people together, he said.
Years later, I remembered that and asked him to officiate at a wedding.

It was then, I knew what I wanted to do. I knew I'd still tell ghost stories, love stories and write silly historical interest things.  In fact have a novel that I'm not brave enough to give to anyone sitting on a flash drive, begging the what ifs.

This is all pertinent to this week.

This week has been a rough one. I won't go into extreme details. My entire life goal has been to tell stories about people, interesting people, what do they do in their day to day? What makes people tick? Why do they have these strange little quirks? What are they learning?

After a couple of particularly rough days with little sleep,a lot of anger about the way something was handled, and frustrations about the casual callousness of the modern world,   I went to see Vicki.

As I sat with her, I cried..."Maybe I'm too soft to do my damn job the way the modern age thinks it should be done. Maybe the only way to be good at this job is to lose the compassion you have for people and not be trustworthy."

Vicki hugged me and said, "Your compassion and trustworthiness is what makes people open up to you. don't lose that."

For years I have managed to put on a good tough outer shell with people. I stand there and pretend that I don't care about what's happening, pretend it doesn't bother me. Then I go home and write.

I was told this week to remember I am an observer in the lives of these people, and I do remember that.

I know myself and know I will never be a cut throat type person.

I also remember that I'm a human being. I find myself cheering for people when they do well and crying for them when things are bad. I don't mean to, but aren't we all connected? When one person experiences happiness or tragedy, doesn't it have a ripple effect to the lives of other people?

In the modern age, we all rush to tell as many people as possible what is happening right now. Does that give us time to feel what is happening and truly experience the moment?

What's the line between having a story and still respecting the pain and tragedy people are going through?

Even as an observer, you feel the impact when you see a rescue team cry at something. You feel the emotion when you watch an EMT who talks to patients and their families with an incredible ability to keep everyone around them calm. You feel the impact when you observe these people and know who the knowledgeable person is, who the take charge person is, who the responsible person is.

Watching those teams work together, you can't help but gain an incredible amount of respect for each of them and the way they do their jobs

In that respect, there is trust. A rescue crews first priority is rescue and care. Their first priority is not to make sure the public has information. Which sometimes puts my job at odds with theirs.

What I think though is this, part of my job should be patience. Let them do their job and then I can do mine. I think patience is something that is often forgotten in this world of 24/7 everything.

I read once that reporters are something like 75% less likely than other people to have families, to be involved in communities, to have a regular church to attend.

Are we so busy being observers that we forget to live?

I have joked often that I am the Carrie Bradshaw of the Midwest, with my funky fashions, reflections on love and life and even my blog that has a readership of...oh about ten people. I don't feel so Carrie Bradshaw right now.

At the beginning of school, I had to take an ethics class. An ethics class I will admit to getting an A in, but only because numerous times I argued with the professor about the public's right to know against an individual's right to grieve privately and not have their pain splattered all over.

I always argued that compassion should be a part of our world. Unfortunately, not many felt that way. 

My favorite stories are the stories that tell about a persons life and how they overcame struggle. It always has been.

I think more and more about the Peace Corp, but am still not brave enough to start that application. I think I just keep waiting for someone or something to ground me to one place and make that place "home."

At the end of yesterday, I had someone actually tell me they felt I handled my week in a tasteful manner. Those words meant more to me than the person could ever know.

For the rescue crews, I want you to know that while I'm observing, I see you when you're hot and tired and sweaty and sunburnt. Someone sees how you guys keep pushing even though you're exhausted. Someone sees the tears you cry on a bad day and the triumph on a good day.

I was in a place this week where either way I went, something I did was going to make someone mad. The question was, who did I care more if I hurt? 

I hope Vicki is right. I hope that compassion and trustworthiness trump callousness.