Very sick people

Swine Flu and a tragic tale of Tori Stafford

There are very sick people around. And I'm not talking about the swine flu. Although, that one should also be recorded for history: swine flu is the new SARS. Remember the SARS outbreak in 2003, serious maybe, but certainly over-hyped by the media? Apparently a strain of pig flu in Mexico got tired of living on pigs and jumped on to humans. Hence the name swine flu. Which infuriated the pig owners of the rest of the world, and it was quickly renamed as H1N1 strain. The media took over in flu-like frenzy and created a pandemic, reporting every person who sneezed as a case of the swine flu (they weren't letting go of such a compelling name for the disease). As it turns out, the swine flu is no deadlier than the regular flu and the vaccine is already being administered around the world. We had a few cases in Canada, even, I believe, two deaths, both of them attributed to the swine flu, but actually in both cases the person was in poor health before the flu came. So, the shirt makers in Toronto, who once sold the shirts with the sign "I survived SARS" must be rubbing their hands in delight; I expect to see the "I survived Swine Flu" version soon.

People suffering from flu are not the only sick ones. There are the other kind that make me wish there's death penalty in this country. Maybe we could somehow make a trade deal with the US and send them our psychos for the terminal solution in their electric-chaired rooms? Six weeks ago in Woodstock, Ontario, a small town about an hour drive from Toronto, an 8-year-old girl Victoria (Tori) Stafford disappeared after school. The surveillance camera video shows a woman in a white coat leading the girl away. The search was on for abducted girl. Yesterday, the police arrested a man and a woman, believed to be the same woman from the video, on murder charges. The search for the missing girl becomes the search to recover her body.

I remember being assigned as a photographer in 2003 to cover the grieving family of another child victim, a 10-year-old Holly Jones, who also disappeared after school. Being a part of the media circus in front of Holly's house was an experience I am truly ashamed of. Jumping at every goodhearted person who brought flowers, fighting with each other for the spot every time Holly's mother appeared at the door, we, the media, behaved like vultures. However, when the killer was arrested by the police, I had the same thought I have now, when the alleged killers of Tori were apprehended: I wish there is a capital punishment in Canada. There's one thing no one can justify to me: a murder of an innocent child. A person capable of such a crime should be dealt with in one way only, the same way he or she dealt with the child. Hey, it's even a recession-friendly solution: we don't spend money on keeping the bastard in jail forever. It's infinitely more just than a prison sentence and it sends a message to the other sickos out there.

"Duma Key" by Stephen King

Maggie and I listened through the last few hours of this audiobook together, completely immersed in captivating reading by John Slattery. Maggie actually read the book last month, but couldn't resist listening to the end again with me. It's Stephen King at his best, maybe not so scary, but with characters portrayed so lively it makes you believe they're real, so much so that you want to take Edgar and Wireman, the main and most likable characters, out for beers and chat.

Edgar is a construction guy who lost an arm in an accident he barely survived. He comes to Duma Key to recover and discovers his uncanny gift for painting. But his paintings can alter real life. Soon he find himself fighting a force which destroyed his elderly landlady's family almost 80 years ago and is coming to life again, threatening Edgar's own family.

This lame description of the plot doesn't do justice to the book. We equally enjoyed the suspense and drama in Edgar's struggle to pull his life together after his accident as we did the thriller ending and face-off of good and evil. Aside from the supernatural elements, King's "Duma Key" is written on the level of Richard Russo's best works.

Who's in Christ's tomb?

Pope Benedict just finished his visit to the Middle East, ending it with a holy mass in Jerusalem and a visit to the tomb of Jesus Christ. This last part confuses the hell out of me--if Jesus was resurrected three days after he was crucified what or who is in his tomb? If there's nobody home, then why is it called the "tomb"? Why not the burial site where he was temporarily buried until, unhappy with the accommodation, he left?

But wait, it gets more bizarre: on bibleplus.org web site, where I went to seek an explanation, are the pictures of the tomb. There is a sign of the entrance with the words "he is not here for he has risen" written in...ENGLISH!!! If even Mel Gibson in his movie "Passion" had his celluloid Jesus speak Aramaic, which genius thought of writing the sign on the tomb in English?

Marathon

It's really difficult to describe the excitement I felt prior and during my big race. On Sunday I ran my first marathon--full 42.2 km (or 26.2 miles). The night before I couldn't fall asleep. When I finally did, I kept dreaming about being late for the start. I'd wake up to realize it's just a dream, and that I'm not getting a needed rest. The same kind of dream with minor variations repeated itself four times through the night, until I gave up and laid with my eyes closed until the alarm clock went off.

The day was clear but cold, after Saturday's heavy rain and even hail on times. It was perfect for running, not too hot, but maybe a touch too cold--I'm still getting over a bad case of sore throat. The organizer bunched the half marathon together with the full one at the start. It made for a crowded beginning. People running half the distance tend to start faster and before you know it, you're following their pace, exhausting yourself before time. I had to force myself to constantly check my pace to stay on my pre-planned speed. Which was very ambitious 3h10min, the time that would qualify me to both of the world's most prestigious races, Boston and New York. For that my speed had to be constantly 4'30/km.

It must have been adrenalin, excitement of the race, of all the runners beside me, all the people cheering us on, but I haven't felt fatigued until the last 4 km. By that time I already had 3 minutes "banked"--meaning I was ahead of my planned time by 3 min. Each of my legs felt 20 lbs heavier than usual. I forced them to keep moving almost on pace for those last minutes to finish in just over 3 hours 8 minutes. Sticky with Gatorade I spilled over myself on numerous water stations (ever tried to drink from a cup while in full run?) and tired, of course, I finished with an impressive time and an incredible feeling of accomplishment. What a thrill!