Like picking a scab, I keep returning to the most recent News Sentinel article on Henry’s death, the one they decided to run as the LEAD STORY on the morning of his funeral.  As if the statement by the Sheriff wasn’t upsetting enough, when you read stories online you get to enjoy the ignorant, judgmental, and downright hateful comments left by readers.
Many commenters on this and other articles that have been posted since Henry’s death have a problem with Katie’s blogging–not just what she’s been saying (most of them don’t even know what she’s been saying, because they can’t be bothered to click a link and actually go to the blog and take a look), but that she is blogging at all.  They seem to think her ability to write at such a time is odd.  They apparently think that whatever way they choose to deal with grief is superior.  They have even accused her of using her son’s death to further her career or seek attention for herself.
What they don’t seem to get is this:  writers write.  That’s what they do and that’s how they process what happens to them.  For some that’s even how they come to an understanding of what it all means for them.  For others it’s a helpful way to deal with their pain.  Looking back on the columns I wrote (and I will post all of these at some point) I see that almost every traumatic event that has occurred in my life in recent years made it into the East Tennessee Catholic unless it involved someone else’s privacy issues. 
 I wrote a column when I was almost killed by my own runaway car, I wrote one when I was overcome with guilt over the death of our puppy, I wrote one after my grandmother died, I wrote one when we lost our baby to miscarriage.  I didn’t rejoice when those things happened and think, “Yay! Grist for the column!”  But I needed to write about them, and I was fortunate to have a forum in which to do so.
One thing I’ve never done, though, is hang out on making mean and uninformed comments on stories that have nothing whatever to do with me.  Why people would do that is something I’ll never understand.


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