Monica Bielanko
That's What She Said
Just A Junk Drawer Dream
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Waiting For Word

It is interesting, perhaps only to me, that the biggest stories of my journalism career occurred here in Utah, not New York City. From the Salt Lake Winter Olympics, the kidnapping and eventual (un-fucking-believable!) return of Elizabeth Smart, to the murder of Lori Hacking and sundry, always-entertaining polygamy scandals that provide hilarious fodder for the rest of the nation.

Unless you maybe live under a rock or are one of those lofty people (we can't be friends) who don't watch television (yet still spend hours on the internet and come on, let's be honest, at this point the difference between the web and tube is negligible so get off your high horse already) then maybe you don't know that there are six men trapped in a mine here in Utah.

For the past seven days I have done nothing but breathe this story. However, at about the same time as day eight bullied day seven into the past, much of the urgency drained from our coverage. Like receding flood waters, the saga, although far from over, has lost the initial hurricane force that gripped the nation and in turn the media. Or is it the other way around? No matter. I suppose all of us, denizens of newsrooms and news watchers are feeling resigned to waiting for word of bodies being pulled from rubble instead of the triumphant, back-slapping recovery of live men from beneath ground that we'd all hoped like hell would take place.

Even now, as I sit here typing, the electricty that pervaded this bustling newsroom last week has died. In its place dwells quiet exhaustion. I see it in the purpley-black that bruises the skin beneath my co-workers' red-rimmed eyes. We are tired of this story yet we are anxious for it to reach its zenith, whatever that may be. And so we, along with millions of others, wait for word.