I'm starting to believe there are angels watching over me

I had a crazy week which included a couple of close calls. And even though things got pretty scary several times, things turned out OK. Actually, they turned out just fine. And now I enter the weekend feeling very thankful and somewhat relieved.

And I'm starting to believe there may be angels watching over me...

My week included flying from D.C. to Phoenix after a weeklong business trip. I worked a full day on Tuesday. I then put in another 5 1/2 hours covering the election. I volunteered to help edit stories and post blogs in the Cronkite News Service newsroom at Arizona State University. You can just about see me sitting near the far wall in the photo on the left above.

Angels start waking up, stretching... On Wednesday, after a very quick turnaround, I got to a 7:30 a.m. appointment to have a sonogram on my right breast. One of the two imaging machines in the office were broken, but I was patient No. 1. Out in 20 minutes. Determined not to worry about it until the results were in. Take one step at a time.

After another long day which included attending a large award luncheon, helping to run the 90-minute Twitter conversation #wjchat, and plenty of catching up, I headed home around 7 p.m.

That's when the angels really spread their wings...

My battery light was on as I drove the 15 miles home. As I got off the highway about 3 miles from home, my radio went out. Then other warning lights on the dash began flashing. I turned right hoping to make it another mile to a mechanic. I was about to turn left from one very busy street onto a side road when my car stopped altogether. It wouldn't start again. I had only enough power to run the emergency flashers.

I hopped out of the car to wave people around me and started looking for a phone number to the mechanic. Yet I was pretty sure they'd just closed. Cars were whizzing by on both sides of me. I don't have AAA.

I was thinking, 'How big of an emergency is this?'

Cars were whizzing by. People seemed really irritated that I was slowing them down. Irritated that I was having a personal emergency.

I called 9-1-1 - 'Car died. In the intersection. On Rural.' A very nice dispatcher said to stay in a safe place and a patrol car would be right there.

Angels are flying down low to start directing traffic...

A guy in a really big pickup pulled up and offered to push me through my left turn to get me through the intersection and onto the side street. At that point, the road was free. We could go. But my car was dead weight and he was slow getting me up to speed.

The angels gasped, averted their eyes but shot some juice to my car horn..

By the time I was coasting through the intersection, somewhere a light had changed and three lanes of cars were heading right toward me. They kept coming, weaving around me. I leaned on the horn, which worked. They honked back and I'm sure were swearing as they swerved around me, narrowly missing my car. I was coasting and braking and honking. And praying like only an atheist can. Oh God, oh God, oh God.

I rolled alongside the curb, out of harm's way. An officer pulled up behind me, turned on his lights and hopped out. Oh, man, I should have waited for you.

The angels started checking in to base camp to see if anyone else was in need...

My officer called for a tow truck. A second officer said she'd stay with me if I felt unsafe. I felt super-safe now. And within minutes a very helpful tow truck driver tried to see if he could diagnose my car's problem before he put it on his truck for a 3-block drive to my mechanic.

And before the final angel moved on...

My doctor had called to give me the all clear. No problems spotted on that morning's sonogram.

Robin, Tempe

Front page for breast cancer: Black and white and pink all over

Black and white and pink all over.

The Huntsville Times launched a month full of coverage about breast cancer with this special pink Front Page.

In a day when newspapers are trying to be all things to all people, often afraid to take risks, this is a bold move.

Congrats to the editors in Huntsville for making such a strong statement.

Here's a note from the paper's editor Kevin Wendt who explains why they are printing pink papers.

"Every day in October," Wendt says, "we will tell the story of a cancer survivor, beginning today with Liz Hurley on the front page. And throughout the month, we will report on the many aspects of the disease, medical and emotional."

And they are collecting the stories online at the Think Pink Page.

Nice job, Huntsville.

Robin, Tempe

Love Deb & Rene. Hate cancer.

Bald really is beautiful.




Our friend Deb, who is fighting cancer, lost her hair last week. At Sunday morning's Hair Coming Out Party, her friends gathered around to kiss her sexy dome. And what a perfect noggin she has.



Deb and Rene are reading 'Crazy Sexy Cancer' by Kris Carr. I think of Deb when I read Carr's words:

“What I’m saying is that we are still empowered. We are still alive and whole. I might have cancer, but I’m dealing with it and I’m still all that. The most important thing is to have a voice and use it."

You shout it out, Deb.

(Natty umbrella hat provided by Deb's loving uncle.)

Robin & Sue, Tempe

Elliot, rest in peace, my friend

I heard today that my friend Elliot Pinsley died this week. I worked with Elliot for a few years many years ago. He may not even have remembered me. And I don't know if he'd call me a friend.

But it still comes as a shock to hear that he died, at 57, of cancer.
Elliot was a great reporter, but by the time I knew him, he'd become an editor, bending and shaping other reporters stories.

For a while at The Record in Hackensack, New Jersey, Elliot and I sat across from each other. My memory of him was that of a very busy man. He always seemed to be running late for something. Always had a lot to do.

When I heard about his death today, the memory of one afternoon came back sharp and clear. I was at my desk. Elliot at his, juggling phone calls and people stopping by.

The phone rang again and he snapped up the receiver. It was Max, Elliot's young son.

Elliot was a little impatient at first, but then I could just feel his body relax and he sat back and gave Max his full attention.

Elliot had decided to shut out everything else right then and give Max his full attention. Nothing else mattered except the little-boy emergency that led Max to call his dad.

I could tell from hearing one side of the conversation that Max had lost his velociraptor and was pretty upset. Elliot, who took the loss as seriously as Max, talked his son through looking in his room,...

checking the kitchen and then pulling up the couch cushions where he found the toy. Emergency over. Max was back to playing and Elliot back to work.

I haven't thought about that afternoon when Max lost his velociraptor ... probably since it happened. But as sad as I am that Elliot has died, I am also comforted by the memory of that afternoon, happy that I witnessed that pure moment when he decided to cut out the clutter and help his boy, took the time to be a good dad.

For more about Elliot the journalist, this obit ran in the paper we both worked for:

Elliot Pinsley, former Record reporter and editor, dies at 57


Robin, Tempe, Arizona

Pure joy and the lessons of a survivor

I was out for a run yesterday. A quick (I know not so quick) 6 miles before work. Running, blowing out the kinks, always helps me get through the day.

I live in Arizona, so running in the summer is a little heroic.. or perhaps foolish.

Either way, when I'm out in 104-degree heat, strangers sometimes can't resist the urge to call out guidance: "Don't overdo it!" "A little hot to run, isn't it?"

If I'm feeling good, hydrated, pacing myself, these negative comments can feel like word bombs tossed in my direction... they make me wince, duck and then I have to shake them off.

That happened yesterday.

But then, at about mile 5, I saw Pure Joy....


A woman who'd been riding her bike, was off the bike, and standing under a heavy arc of water shot out from a broken landscaping pipe.

She stood there under the waterfall in her pink shirt, with her bald head, filling her pink hat full of water and grinning to the sky with such joy.

Pure Joy.

Robin, Tempe