Writing about death is one of the most difficult things a journalist encounters.
After reading Jeff Farrell’s story on the dog breeding bust for the front page of today’s paper, I was compelled to write an editorial with a personal touch.
True to my Sevier County roots, I have been getting my hair cut by the same stylist for nearly a decade.
“Build a better mousetrap, and the world will beat a path to your door.”
It is becoming routine to read the news and think I am reading a Robin Cook or Tom Clancy book from twenty years ago. An airplane as a weapon of mass murder? Clancy in 1994. An outbreak of a virus that not only kills quickly but in a terrifying manner of hemorrhaging? Robin Cook's "Outbreak" in 1987.
Not to get too romance novel on you, dear reader, but today’s column is about a love affair.
As I’ve expressed many times before, I’m what most people would classify as something of a geek. We always had a computer in my house, starting with a Commodore 64 when I was in kindergarten, and my Dad was always encouraging me to read and buying educational toys.
“When are you going to take your family to Disney World?”
A patient recently asked if the new electronic cigarettes (e-cigarette) really work and are safe. Curiously, the question came from a patient who had broken his habit years ago with a simple decision to quit.
It's been a tough couple of weeks in Sevier County.
I recently had a “My Name is Earl” moment. For those unfamiliar, the nutty sitcom is full of laugh-out-loud moments as a man named, unsurprisingly, Earl is convinced he has bad karma and can only regain good karma by righting the wrongs he has committed in his life. He keeps a handwritten list of his wrongs, updated periodically as he recalls (and errantly commits) additional indiscretions. His list, I am glad to say, is far lengthier and weightier than mine.
During the very week Knoxville was hosting an incredible Medal of Honor Convention, the state released some sobering statistics about the difficulties of Tennessee veterans.
As I was growing up, my parents chased the economy.
If it wasn’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have any luck at all. It’s cliche, for sure, but often describes me perfectly.
A 91-year-old patient of mine recently received a very powerful drug. The effect was remarkable. He looks and feels almost 20 years younger.
On Aug. 30, 24 years ago, my father passed away at the same age I am now, 44. I am frequently amazed at the size of the void his loss still maintains in my life.
With summer ending and a hectic week behind us, here’s a little bit of this and that culled from my mental notebook.
My patient was told in 1984 that he had prostate cancer and it would likely kill him within five years. I wasn’t the one who told him. I was playing football as a senior in high school and more interested in putting people on their hind-quarters than examining them. I still had no clue I would even be a physician at that point. But our eventual crossing of paths was set.
Robin Williams’ death last week has been talked about ad nauseum, nearly every publication, including ours, has had stories about his life, his death and the illnesses that likely led to his suicide.
Several years ago, during my single dad days, I had become a master at keeping life organized. It was purely out of necessity.
One of my very first vivid memories of high school football was sitting in a small wooden desk in Miss Poole’s first grade classroom. She started that Friday morning introducing our guests who were stopping by.
Well, friends, it was bound to happen. I completely forgot my anniversary.
In the summer of 2007, desperate to find a car that achieved great gas mileage but could comfortably seat four people, I set out on a quest to scour the internet, auto magazines and the brains of all the motorheads I knew to find the best.
There are many encounters with my attending professors, from renowned internationally recognized researchers to an aging kindly small town doctor, that easily come to mind as medicine adds gray to my own hair. Dr. George Bosworth, a pediatrician in Rome, Ga., holds more than a few memories.