The Little Girl in the Well Syndrome

So what is it about this kid who was supposedly trapped on a large balloon that got away and flew up to 9,000 feet that so got the world's attention? Not only did it get the Local TV News Chopper Live treatment here in Colorado, but was broadcast instantly all over the world. Even the BBC Radio World Service, which doesn't usually cover dramatic sensationalizm of questionable news value, did a story on it.

We daily hear about lives lost in Afghanistan, crushing poverty in the world's slums, convenience store shootings, and weepy breast cancer stories - all tragic, often involving frightening death, but none of which capture our attention like a six year old who may be trapped in an escaped home made flying saucer.

It's that little girl who fell down the well syndrome. You know the story. A little girl is playing near an abandoned well and falls into it. The next 48 hours, the hole in the ground is surrounded by frantic family members and emergency equipment. All television news networks park their satellite trucks nearby. Voyeuristic townspeople watch from behind police tape, waiting to see if she'll survive.

The phenomenon is so powerful that it is captured in fiction. In Woody Allen's 1987 movie, Radio Days, a World War II era family tensely sits by the radio for hours to see if a little girl they don't know survives the fall down a far away well. Atrocities in Europe which affect even this family's relatives don't merit such attention.

The Simpsons spoofs these types of events in an episode where Bart drops a walkie-talkie down a well and pretends to be a little boy who fell in. In addition to the media circus, law enforcement, and general mayhem, hucksters sell "I was there when Timmy fell down the well" T-shirts. Truly funny satire as only The Simpsons can do it. When it's discovered that it was only Bart's prank, the disgusted townspeople quickly leave the scene. When Bart really falls down the well, no one pays any attention.

I suppose nothing unites us like a helpless child caught in a perilous situation. Everyone wants the outcome to be happy, regardless of our separate religious and political views. One thing a businessman in India and a housewife in Canada can have in common is the fervent hope that the child will survive.

And, just like on The Simpsons, our concern turns rapidly to cynicism and disgust. When little Falcon turned out not to be on the balloon, but hiding in his Fort Collins attic, all that good will from around the world evaporated into accusations of publicity stunts.

Meanwhile, how many people died in Afghanistan yesterday? I don't know either.

A Visit to the Breast Center

Like Christmas, the hoopla for Breast Cancer Awareness Month (which actually isn't until October) comes earlier each year. As we gear up for another season of pink t-shirts, teary-eyed testimonials on the news, endless "Race for the Cure" promotionals, and at least one Denver office building that puts a giant pink ribbon on its side, I would like to add some awareness of my own.

Though the rate is only 1 in 1000 (American Cancer Society ), men fall victim to breast cancer too. Survival is thought to be lower for us because of ignorance about the warning signs. Men also have less tissue in their breasts than women, usually, so once cancer spreads, it doesn't have far to go before reaching other parts of the body.

Naturally I was concerned when I noticed something growing in the right side of my chest. I asked my doctor to take a look during my bi-annual physical and he sent me to the Rose Hospital Breast Center for tests.

It just happened to be Breast Cancer Awareness Month (2007). The whole city was festooned in pink ribbons. Television and radio trumpeted the annual fundraising "Race" and reminded us constantly that this could affect our wives, sisters, mothers, and daughters. It felt like the there was yet another major holiday crowding the fall schedule.

I'm not hung up on my masculinity. But it was a challenge to walk into the Breast Center. Most people in the waiting room sat in pairs, two women or a woman and a man (presumably a husband). Every single one of them looked scared to death. As I reached for a magazine and sat down alone, I could feel their eyes upon me. "What is that guy doing? Where is his wife?"

Even I, a cynical consumer of medical services, was impressed by the compassion and reassurance of the place. The receptionist greeted regulars by name. The waiting area was comfortable and roomy enough to allow for some privacy as patients processed the implications of their predicament. A television unobtrusively played in one corner, something about a world series, distracting the husbands and minimizing the need to talk.

After a few long minutes, I was called to the more clinical back rooms. Shown into a cubicle, I was asked to take off my shirt and put on a gown. I waited several more minutes behind the ubiquitous hospital cloth partition before the technician came to get me.

All business, she led me to the big machine. Having never seen one, I nevertheless knew it was the device where women have their breasts squished in search of unusual growths. Seriously, I thought, you mean I'm supposed to put myself between those two flat, metal plates?

As I stepped up close and leaned in to have the delicate tissue of my chest region uncomfortably pressed into the cold mammogram apparatus, I made a lame comment about the challenge of having to squish a man between the metal surfaces.

"Oh," she remarked, "we get a lot of women in here who are smaller than you."

I didn't say a word for the rest of the exam.

Long story short (too late I know), I did have a growth. It required a couple of return visits and some painful biopsies which consisted of long needles being plunged deep into my apparently fleshy man-breast.

Everything finally turned out negative, much to my enormous relief. But every Breast Cancer Awareness Month, which started in mid-August this year, I feel just a little more aware than the average guy.

Which reminds me, I'd better start getting ready for HIV/AIDS Awareness Month. December will be here before you know it.