By Carmen K. Sisson

In life, he was the keeper of history. Presidential photographs, letters, memos, campaign materials — nothing escaped the thin fingers and sharp eyes of the Columbus native who lived simply and died simply but touched time, leaving a signature of his own.

To his family, he was “Sonny.” The man who never met a stranger, never knew an enemy, never stopped talking and never met a plate of pinto beans and corn cakes he could resist.

To his colleagues in Washington, D.C., he was Theodoric C. James Jr., records management analyst for the White House. A dignified, bookish archivist who held security clearance, along with intimate knowledge of the facts, foibles and fascinations of every president under which he served, from John F. Kennedy to Barack Obama.

He didn’t talk about his job. Not to family, friends or people on the street. But he loved his work. It was his life. No one knows why he retired in 2009, after almost half a century of service. Perhaps at age 69, he felt he could no longer give his best. Or perhaps it was time to try on a new role — one which had captivated and troubled him since childhood.

He would not have wanted this story. He would not have wanted the story The Washington Post published Aug. 13. He would not want a headstone on his grave at Union Cemetery, just as he did not want one for his mother, Bessie James, who is buried beside him. He did not want a retirement party, and he politely declined the attention which he did not seek, tried to reject, but could not avoid.

James, 71, died of heat stroke Aug. 1 at his home in Washington. That’s what the death certificate states. Black words on an official page. The kind of document he would have painstakingly noted and filed.

But he loved life, his family says. He loved people. His death, and the circumstances which surround it, makes no sense.

Ascent

Tyrone V. James Sr., James’s younger brother, clutches a cane and stares at the floor. His home, a Queen Anne Victorian on the corner of Fifth Avenue North and 11th Street in Columbus, was built by their grandfather, the city’s first black doctor.

Tyrone James was only 6 in 1959 when Sonny James, a senior in high school, was sent north to live with their aunt. The rumbles of the Civil Rights movement were just beginning to roll through the South. It was a time, their parents believed, when the best educational opportunities were elsewhere.

He gazes at an image of his brother, a lanky, serious boy who attended Union Academy and R.E. Hunt before graduating from Western High School, now Duke Ellington School of Fine Arts in Washington, D.C., and going to Howard University. He briefly enrolled in medical school, but he was fascinated with cameras, storytelling and life. In 1963, he took a part-time job at the White House, filing records for President John F. Kennedy. By 1970, he was a full-time employee, working in the Office of Records Management.

He never forgot his roots. He called Columbus twice a week. Every summer, he came for a visit, flying when time was short, taking Amtrak when time permitted. He liked the train. He liked the hubbub of porters and people, none of whom suspected that the man sitting with his head cocked, asking questions and listening to their stories, had a story of his own.

Tyra James, 21, says that’s what she loved most — her uncle cared about the details of people’s lives. He sent books and inquired about her studies, goals, dreams. He was proud of her. He was proud of her brothers. He loved his family, says his sister-in-law, Avee James. When he stopped communicating a year ago, it worried her. In March, he called and asked about relatives. When she asked about his life, he cut her off.

“Talk to you later,” he said, in that clipped way everyone knew so well.

It was the last time his family heard his voice. His life had taken a terrifying new trajectory, one which society — indeed, everyone close to him — could not understand. In the aftermath, his loved ones cling to the only answer they can accept.

Descent

Sonny James was fascinated by homelessness. He talked about it in nearly every conversation. What led people to a life of deprivation and itinerancy? Did they eschew companionship by choice, or was the decision made for them by fate? His family believes he intentionally chose to shed his suit and adopt the tattered lifestyle of the forgotten.

He stopped bathing. Stopped interacting. Kept his home but let it slide into disrepair. The man who had been making more than $60,000 a year — large sums of which he gave away to charity — lived without power or water. He brushed aside concerns of family and neighbors. He brusquely sent social workers and mental health agents back down the street from which they came.

If he was suffering from depression, he never admitted it.

“I’m fine,” he said. “I’m fine.”

Last year, he was hospitalized for malnutrition, dehydration and heat exposure. From Mississippi to the White House to Madison Street, family, friends and neighbors grew more frantic. They filed numerous requests for intervention. But he had no documented mental or physical illness. Legally, agency officials said, no one could stop him.

Homecoming

Sonny James passed quietly out of this world on a scorching hot Monday in Washington. Rescue workers found his body at his front door. There were no trumpets to herald his return to Mississippi, just a grief-stricken family and a crowd of 50 who gathered at Missionary Union Baptist Church Aug. 13 to say goodbye.

Friday, as the sun slid into the fields and children rode bicycles beside the abandoned school where a national archivist and presidential history-keeper once sat, his family stood in Union Cemetery and stared at the red clay covering his grave. He will have a headstone, his brother says. He will just have to get mad.

They’ll settle the argument in Heaven, beneath a big shade tree, with a picnic table of home cooking and a circle of family and friends.

A wooden cross stands in front of the ruins of Smithville Baptist Church May 1, 2011 in Smithville, Miss. Fifteen people died in the town during last week's EF5 tornado, part of a storm system that swept across six states in the South, killing 342 people and injuring thousands. (Photo by Carmen K. Sisson/Cloudybright)

Please click here to see the original story in TIME.

By Carmen K. Sisson

The post office is gone. The school is gone. City Hall is gone. Most of the churches are gone. Nearly every building in Smithville, Mississippi is gone — or so heavily damaged they will have to be demolished. The devastation from last week’s F5 tornado is so widespread, so absolute, that it’s easier to tally what remains: The telephone company. Coker’s Han-D-Mart. And an unshakeable sense of faith.

Sunday morning, amid the droning of chainsaws, an estimated 500 people gathered beneath a tent in front of the ruins of Smithville Baptist Church, where they laughed, cried, shared stories of survival, and mourned their dead. Even as parishioners praised God and remembered the 15 people who perished in this tiny Mississippi town, search and recovery teams continued combing the fields, looking for the 14 who remain missing. A hearse slipped silently down Highway 25. American flags waved against an overcast sky.

With the tornado a half a mile wide, with wind speeds topping 205 miles per hour, it’s a miracle anyone made it through, residents say. It was the worst twister Mississippi has seen since 1966, yet within the three-mile path of destruction it left behind — more than 200 homes and 20 businesses destroyed — most of Smithville’s 900 residents survived. Pastor Wes White choked back tears as he recalled lying in bed that night, asking the question everyone here is asking: “Why am I alive?”

At a time when the entire South is hurting, struggling to comprehend a storm system that spawned long-track tornadoes across six states, took 342 lives, and injured thousands, it is a question with no easy answers.

Two-story brick homes were swept from their foundations. Buildings that have stood for centuries lie in splintered shards. People of all ages, denominations, and socio-economic levels were affected. For those who are left behind, it makes no sense.

And so they draw upon the twined roots of family, community, and faith. In small Southern towns, White said, these roots are so deep, so interconnected, that even when all is gone, church holds the power to act as a cohesive agent, rebinding the shattered, bonding the broken. “A lady asked if this was the end of Smithville,” White says. “I told her, ‘You don’t understand Smithville. We’re not going anywhere. This is our home. And faith is the vehicle in which we travel.’” White called the tornado a “resurrection moment” for the town, saying he hopes the spirit of the people will serve as a beacon of hope for a devastated region.

As youth minister Todd Summerford, 24, picked through the rubble of the church he has attended since childhood, he tried to explain what faith means in a small community like Smithville, where everyone knows everyone, and directions are still given by landmarks, even once the landmarks are gone. Church is the center of Southern rural existence, he says. It’s where babies are baptized, couples are married, beloved residents are laid to rest. It is home. It is life.

For residents like Carol and Jim Herren, their faith is stronger now than ever. Their two daughters were home alone when the tornado struck. The girls took refuge in the hallway, and when the house stopped shaking, they realized the only two walls left standing had sheltered them. The elderly couple in the house next door died.

Jim Herren says he has no intention of leaving Smithville. He plans to rebuild in the same spot. Still, it’s hard. “When you walk down the highway in front of your house, and you don’t recognize anything…” His voice trails, and he pulls his oldest daughter to his chest. “God put his hand over the part of the house they were in,” he says.

White cautioned residents against pondering the “what ifs.” Earlier in the day of the catastrophe, before the twister hit, he and Summerford had debated canceling regular Wednesday night services. Severe weather was a possibility, but at the time they decided to cancel, Monroe County hadn’t been placed under a tornado warning. In the end, they decided the risk was high enough to warrant telling everyone to stay home. In the end, it was the right decision. At 3:47 p.m., the sirens began sounding. When the tornado approached, the pair stood on the church steps and watched, transfixed by the power and intensity of what some Southerners call “the finger of God.”

A group of terrified mobile home residents fled to the church, and as they raced up the steps, White’s reverie was broken. What if they hadn’t sought shelter? What if he hadn’t led the ragtag group to the old nursery in the center of the church that withstood the storm? There is no point in “what ifs.” The only question worth asking, he says, is “Do you believe?”

Even as he preaches of resurrection, and the reunion with those who have passed on, he mourns. His people mourn. The South mourns. “I may not know what to do, but I know where to go,” White told the crowd. He pointed out a stained glass window bearing an image of Jesus with outstretched arms. It survived the tornado. So, too, the people of Smithville will survive.

And as he does on so many Sundays, he gazed over the sea of faces, some with eyes closed, some with tears streaming, and said, “I’m so glad you’re here.”

PORT ARTHUR, Texas — Three girls watch as the tall, well-dressed man strides down the cracked sidewalk, across the playground, through the weeds, past the swings, and toward a merry-go-round that might have once been blue but is now a tired gray.

They seem wary here in the shadows of the housing projects and petrochemical plants that make up their world. Life on the west side of Port Arthur, Texas, is hard; street smarts come early by necessity.

Hilton Kelley grew up in the same squat brick building where they live; breathed the same fetid air; dodged the same haze of pollution, crime, and poverty. As a teenager, he settled scores with his fists. Now he fights with words and a five-gallon bucket used for testing the air, making sure Port Arthur’s chemical plants and oil refineries – some 70 in all – follow the law.

Mr. Kelley has won a lot of victories in 11 years. In 2000, he formed the Community In-Power and Development Association (CIDA) to collect data on pollution levels. He stormed corporate shareholder meetings and distributed photographs of Port Arthur children wearing respirators.

Armed with air samples and statistics, he took on the Motiva refinery – separated from the girls’ playground by only a chain-link fence – and secured a $3.5 million settlement for the community.

When Motiva decided to increase production from 285,000 barrels of oil a day to 625,000 barrels, making it the largest refinery in the United States, he pushed for flame and sulfur recovery units to cut down on dangerous emissions.

Last year, the Environmental Protection Agency named Port Arthur a “showcase community,” awarding $100,000 to help the city meet its environmental and health challenges. This month, Kelley will accept a $150,000 Goldman Environmental Prize for his efforts.

But though plenty of people are aware of what Kelley does, fewer understand why. He had a burgeoning career as a stuntman and actor in Oakland, Calif. He was inducted into the Screenwriters Guild in 1991 and worked with actor Don Johnson. Then, he walked away from it all.

In February 2000, he returned to Port Arthur for Mardi Gras and stumbled into a nightmare. The once-bustling streets were pocked with holes. The heavens glowed eerily orange at night as flares from refineries shot into the sky, raining noxious, toxic particulates. The air reeked of chemicals.

He walked the streets, noting what he thought was needed: jobs, a diverse economic base, and a social infrastructure.

Over the next three months, he took the bus from California to Texas 18 times. As he rode, he honed his plan.

In May 2000, he came home for good.

“My California friends said, ‘You’re crazy to leave here and go back to that little town,’” he recalls, his voice booming against the walls of the soul food restaurant he’s renovating downtown. “I got back and people said, ‘Man, what you come back for? Ain’t nothin’ here.’ ”

But there was something – pollution. Lots of it. More than three-quarters of the residents had respiratory ailments. Cancer rates were 20 percent higher than the state average. Nearly every day, toxic chemicals like benzene, sulfur dioxide, and hydrogen sulfide were dumped into the air in unplanned “emission events.”

Instead of encouraging people to stay, he wondered, maybe he should be telling them to leave. He decided to educate himself on environmental issues. He met activists in other states. He learned how to measure pollution levels and test the air for hazardous chemicals.

Slowly, the situation changed. Today, he’s on good terms with most of the petrochemical plant officials and is welcome to tour their facilities. A dialogue has begun.

“I wouldn’t say we’re holding hands and singing ‘Kumbaya’ just yet, but we have better communication,” he says.

Leslie Fields, environmental justice director for the Sierra Club in Washington, D.C., spent eight years in Texas and nominated Kelley for the Goldman prize. She says what impresses her most is his ability to gain allies on a sensitive subject.

“He’s had to walk a very fine line taking these kinds of positions in these communities, because [petrochemicals are] the economic base,” Mrs. Fields says. “He’s really part of a renaissance.”

Kelley has earned a few enemies along the way. He shrugs it off and keeps talking, keeps testing, keeps moving. He works to draw nonprofits and businesses downtown. No matter what he’s doing, he keeps a close eye on his industrial neighbors.

“Someone has to be at the gate to protect the … treasures that support and sustain our lives,” he says. “Without air, we die. Water you can’t drink is like not having water at all. With contaminated land, you can’t grow food. Fighting for our natural resources to be uncontaminated is one of the most important fights there is.”

Every day is a new battle, but California no longer calls to him. At night, he opens his windows, listens to the crickets, and breathes easy, happy in his decision to write a new script for Port Arthur’s future.

The supermoon rises over Interstate 10 in Beaumont, Texas in this composite of two images, combined in Photoshop. (Photo by Carmen K. Sisson/Cloudybright)

Beaumont, Texas. March 20, 2011. 12:41 a.m.

It is the same moon, of course. If I were home tonight, I would have driven to Biloxi to photograph the supermoon rising over the Gulf of Mexico. I would have devoted all evening to this endeavor and perhaps walked away with a nice bit of stock imagery instead of a hacked together bit of tripe. Then again, perhaps I would have slept through the whole thing, another humdrum moment in my ordinary life.

But my life is not ordinary, and when I am on the road, I remember this. Celebrate it. I step out of my comfort zone and try new things like boudin (yum), alligator meat (yuck), and shrimp embrochette (OMG). I revel in the odd twist within my spirit, the quirky ways that make me who I am. I laugh at myself when a cowboy tips his hat and says hello, and I — being the cool girl that I am — walk straight into the wall. I laugh at life and the strange wonder that is our universe.

Tonight, I am in Beaumont, Texas, working on a story for Christian Science Monitor. I don’t remember last year’s supermoon. Can’t begin to tell you what I was doing on Jan. 30, 2010. Probably working on my website, filling out job applications, and packing. I was losing my house then. I was losing my mind.

A year later, the earth continues to revolve on its axis. The stars did not fall from the heavens, and my life did not end — not by a long shot. You couldn’t have told me that then. I wouldn’t have listened. I wanted to be miserable, and I was.

The moon is not larger tonight; it only appears that way because it is closer to the earth. So, too, life itself is a matter of perspective. Some would say I’ve made no progress this year. I still live in the storm shelter my grandfather built, and I still live story to story, paycheck to paycheck. I’ve written a few articles that pleased me this year, but I’ve won no major awards and accrued no accolades. I’m still single. I’m still overweight. I’m still a Monday’s child with a Thursday future.

But it doesn’t matter.

I know who I am and what I am. I know my heart, and I rarely waver. I make more than my share of mistakes. But I also remain steadfast. I love journalism as much, maybe more, than the day I filed my first story (Dec. 8, 1988). I believe, as strongly as ever, that past is irrelevant and the future is now. I love people again. I love life again. And when I look in the mirror, I can meet my own eyes. I could not have said that a year ago.

The next supermoon will be Nov. 14, 2016. Who knows where I will be? The small voice inside wonders if I will be here at all. But I don’t listen to that girl so much anymore. She doesn’t say anything of use to me. She deals in fear and doubt, two qualities that were never a part of my true self. I’m through with being a shadow blocking my own light. I’m through with touring the periphery of life, a spectator in the greatest novel I will ever write.

Some will say this confidence and sure-footedness is a by-product of Texas. The high that comes from the work itself. The thrill of a new place. But I know myself. The tides of my life have turned, not externally but internally.

And I’m not drowning anymore.

Click here to read the original story in TIME.

GRAND ISLE, La. — Tangled ropes of purple, gold and green beads sailed through the air, landing with a thwack on Louisiana Highway 1 on Sunday afternoon. Perched on the back of a gray Chrysler Sebring convertible, Miss Grand Isle, Harleigh Duplantis, 17, fought the island breeze for control of her sash, hair and silver tiara before covering her face with both hands and succumbing to giggles. Everyone smiled. If ever a town needed Mardi Gras, it is Grand Isle — the first populated piece of U.S. territory to see oil make land following the April 20, 2010, explosion of the Deepwater Horizon.

In the days and months following, life changed for residents of this seaside paradise. The beach closed. The seafood industry was decimated. The wildlife was stacked like piles of crude-soaked driftwood, the carcass counts rising daily. No one knew what the future would bring, and today — as the one-year anniversary of the oil spill approaches — it’s still too soon to tell. On the surface, things look better. Mayor David Camardelle estimates that Grand Isle is 80% back to normal. Only 350 of 6,500 BP workers remain cleaning up the beach, which reopened last month. People are fishing again.

Still, he admits, tar balls keep washing ashore. He likens the oil-spill remnants to a ghost in the Gulf of Mexico. It’s there; then it’s gone. When the weather is rough, as it was last weekend, the sticky globules resurface. At Grand Isle State Park on Sunday, seashells commingled with quarter-size tar balls, hard to spot from a distance but unmistakable when smeared between fingertips or toes.

Everyone tried to focus on the Mardi Gras parade and leave the oil spill behind for the day. As crowds lined up to grab fistfuls of fleur-de-lis clappers and other baubles, First Baptist Church Pastor John Boss kept one eye on the hot dogs he was grilling and the other on his flock. He grew up there, graduated from Grand Isle School in 1993, ministered there after Hurricane Katrina and held a revival last August after the spill. Four weeks ago, he decided to leave a pastorship in Alabama and go home for good. “I feel a calling to this culture and these people,” he says. “We’ve battled hurricanes. We’ll battle this.”

He paused when asked if Grand Isle is still fighting oil. “The battle now is in the mind and how [the community] processes the emotional response,” he says slowly. “I don’t know that the battle is still on the beach.”

People go to him to talk about arguments with spouses, money worries, work spats. Just like they wouldn’t talk directly about Hurricane Katrina’s devastation, they skirt the topic of the oil spill. It is the nature of Grand Isle. It is the nature of those who have been hit too many times from too many directions by too many things. He does his best to help them cope with the fallout. He knows that, like the Gulf itself, subsurface unknowns pose the greatest threat. He tries to mitigate the emotional damage. “The consequences affect us all,” he says. “I don’t think anybody escapes.”

Randy Adams, 48, never wanted to get away. He’s lived on Grand Isle for more than 20 years and had been planning to build a house there. Every week, he took the earnings from his construction company and bought something new. First the land, then the pylons.

Then the oil spill happened. In the past year, he’s roofed one house. He filed a claim with BP for lost wages, but the process is slow, and he had to feed his family. In order to survive, he sold everything he owned, including the lot that was to become his dream home. He used to go out and write scriptures on the beach in the sand. Now he won’t even take his grandchildren there.

On Sunday, he watched the Mardi Gras parade from the dark recesses of Cisco’s, a local bar. As he nursed a beer and a cigarette, he talked about the employees he lost when business dried up. In past years, they would have been on the red stools beside him, but they took cleanup jobs with BP and left him in a lurch. He lost not just workers but also friends. “Times change; people change,” he says. “You got to go with the flow.”

For some, going with the flow meant enjoying the Mardi Gras festivities and trying to forget. Ray Arabie, 61, has seen a decrease in work as well, but on Sunday he was king for the day — Mr. Senior Citizen Grand Isle. He works as a deckhand on a commercial fishing boat, and normally this time of year he’d be immersed in oystering. The boat went out a few weeks ago but returned empty; the oysters were dead. This week, Arabie received a final settlement offer from BP for $5,000.

“My rent is $1,200 a month,” he says. “What am I going to do with $5,000?” He doesn’t plan to accept the offer. Instead, he’s looking for a lawyer.

He grinned and adjusted his plastic Mardi Gras crown. It was a little big and kept slipping down to cover his eyes, but with enough padding and a little determination, it fit just fine.

Baptist Memorial Hospital saved my life. Now it's up to me to create a life worth living. (Photo by Carmen K. Sisson/Cloudybright)

“There will be good days and bad days,” he said.

At the time, I hadn’t had a good day in a so long I couldn’t remember what one was like, so I didn’t put much stock in the notion. But then I had a string of good days. Days where breathing wasn’t my primary objective. Days when I took my morning medicine, then spent the rest of the day lost in writing and shooting pictures until nightfall, when I took my evening medicines and slept peaceful, dreamless sleep.

Blessed respite. Freedom from the shadow of illness. Freedom from the specter of fear.

It creeps upon me at odd moments, spaces when my schedule is suddenly empty and my hands are idle. I’ve stopped Googling my illness. What I read leaves me terrified, and until my Feb. 24 visit with the pulmonary specialist, there seems little point in making wild guesses as to what my life will encompass over the next few months. Breathing treatments and oxygen infusions. Counseling, if I’m not too proud to take it.

It’s impossible to pretend I’m not sick. Even when I feel well, there’s a new threshold for what “well” actually means. The tight chest is always present. It doesn’t go away. The wheezing and shortness of breath fluctuates. Worse in the morning, best an hour after I use my inhalers. I cough, but most of the time it’s not too bad. I panic if I think too much, so I do my best not to think.

Slowly, my life is settling into a comfortable routine, and I can see myself forging a new life in Columbus. There’s plenty of work in North Mississippi and central Alabama. I still have enough clients, and enough old contacts, to make it. And so I begin the fledgling steps of starting over. I run my numbers; I skim the classifieds; I spread the word; I haunt Craigslist; I network like a fiend; I chase work, finish work, deposit paychecks, and begin again.

I dream. I dream a lot. I dream of the day a key is placed in my hand and I write my new address for the first time. I dream of making my first meal in my new home. I dream of the first morning, when the sun slants in the windows and I feel the calm certainty that finally, after a year of wandering, I am home. I dream of a day when the doctors tell me I no longer need to visit them, that my lungs are healthy and my future is bright. I’m not so sure that last fantasy will ever happen.

Doctors told me I was in for the fight of my life — fighting FOR my life — but the real fight is mental. A battle against the darkness that says it will always be this way, so give up now. A battle against the cigarettes, which call my name constantly. A battle against the fear, which is more paralyzing than the illness itself. A battle against my inner demons, which tell me I will not win.

A year ago on this day, I was packing boxes, facing homelessness. I was depressed and afraid, unsure what would happen next. It’s been a wild adventure. There have been some low points. There have been high points as well. And now, it’s time to begin the next phase. New things make me cry. New ghosts haunt me. New foes challenge my future. But I remain as determined as ever to create the life I want. I didn’t come this far to end up gasping for breath, watching my life flash before my eyes. I didn’t come this far to give up and crawl away to die.

It is hard. It’s possibly the hardest thing I’ve ever faced, and I thought I’d faced some pretty harsh stuff. I am lonely and alone, uncertain and unsure. But I’m standing on solid ground. I know what I want. I know what I need. And knowing is at least half the battle. By next week, I hope to have my housing situation settled, once and for all. Then, I can concentrate on working and getting well — whatever “well” ends up meaning.

Wish me luck.

I'm still wearing my hospital bracelets, even though I've been out for nearly a day. I want to remember. I have to remember. I can't afford to forget the terror, because I must remember to fight. (Photo by Carmen K. Sisson/Cloudybright)

Words are difficult this morning, shy and evasive, contrary and hesitant. I’ve spilled my soul often over the years, but those were old wounds. This is different. This is jabbing a razor’s edge along the quickening present. This is avoiding saying what I want to say. This is terror, trying to obfuscate before I stumble into a truth I don’t want to see.

This is me wanting a cigarette, because smoking has become so entwined with writing that I’m not certain I can spin words without the unholy baptism of nicotine in my bloodstream. This is me trying to ignore the fact I want a cigarette, because if I let myself think about it, I would have to acknowledge why I can’t have one, and I’m not ready to write about that and make it real.

But it is real. So this is me, trying to accept reality.

That’s why I’m still wearing my wrist bracelets, though I was released from the hospital Friday afternoon. That’s why I took self-portraits during my three-day stay, though they were just grainy iPhone images and far from flattering. The most poignant moments, the ones I most need to remember, were the ones in which I was too sick to make a photo.

The real story lies in the images I didn't make. (Photos by Carmen K. Sisson/Cloudybright)

Jan. 18, 2011. 2 p.m. Dizzy and disoriented, I stumble into the emergency room at Baptist Memorial Hospital in Columbus, Miss. “Think I’m going to pass out,” I say. And I do.

Jan. 18, 2011. 4 p.m. Gritting my teeth as a nurse digs a needle in my wrist. My arterial blood gases show my blood is only saturated with 50 percent oxygen. “I bet you do feel sick,” the nurse says.

Jan. 19, 2011. 2 a.m. In my room with oxygen tubes up my nose, listening to the patient in the room next to me. He is old. He is screaming. Then there is silence, followed by more screaming — the man’s family. I hear the words, “No,” and “why,” and “oh God.” I whisper a prayer for the departed and the newly bereaved, because I don’t know what else to do.

Jan. 19, 2011. 5 a.m. The room is hazy and spinning. I feel so strange. I try to lift my head. “Am I dead?” I ask no one in particular. “The Lasix dropped your blood pressure to 70/40,” a nurse says. The world goes black.

Jan. 19, 2011. 6 p.m. Talking on the phone with my mother, trying to get someone to come care for my dog. I’m clutching my chest, gasping for breath, crying.

Jan. 20, 2011. 3 a.m. Hanging my head over the edge of my bed, hyperventilating, aspirating tears and vomit as nurses pat me on the back and tell me to breathe deep and slow. Nocturnal panic attack. A nurse tells me later that my oxygen saturation dropped to 38 percent; I woke up because I stopped breathing.

Jan. 20, 2011. 11 a.m. Walking down the hall for the first time without oxygen. I can make it, I can make it, I can’t make it, I’m sliding down the wall, and the world is going black.

Jan. 20, 2011. 5 p.m. My hands are plastered against the glass cage, lungs burning as I struggle to exhale during a Pulmonary Function Test. My scores are negative. I have to take it again.

Jan. 20, 2011. 7 p.m. My ex-boyfriend holds me while I bawl as he traces a cross on my forehead with Holy Oil and asks God to restore my health.

Jan. 21, 2011. 4 a.m. The nurse apologizes for hurting me as she searches for a fresh vein in my bruised arms. “Just do what you have to do,” I say through gritted teeth. “I want to get better.”

Jan. 21, 2011. 11 a.m. - I stare at the doctor, nodding my head and trying to make sense of what he is saying: This is the beginning of pulmonary hypertension, secondary to advanced Small Airway Disease.

And there it is — truth. Stark. Real.

I thought we were dealing with asthma. I’ve spent a year drifting through doctors’ offices, being told that the right inhaler would fix it all. But nothing can fix it. My four-year love affair with cigarettes — three with Djarum Black cloves, one with Camel Crush menthols — has irreparably damaged my lungs. If I continue to smoke, it will continue to worsen. If I stop now, I will retain at least a semblance of a quality of life. Maybe.

I am numb and blank, as gray as the ashes which so often coat everything I own. I can’t see the future, though people tell me I have one — if I seize control now and make lifestyle changes. I struggle to make sentences and wonder if my difficulties in writing stem from a chronic state of hypoxia. I worry that instead of dying, I’ll become brain-dead from lack of oxygen. I stare at the clock and fear the coming of darkness, because I think sometimes it will steal my breath and I will not see dawn.

I said I wanted to know my enemy’s name so I could fight it. I wish I didn’t know. I’m not sure knowing is better. I feel lost and confused, alone in a sea of fear. I am determined to beat this thing and maintain the life I’ve known and loved, and I’m determined not to allow it to become the central focus of my world.

Yet, even as I say that, I know my world — indeed, life as I know it — has forever changed. It’s daunting. It’s hard to explain. It makes me want a cigarette. And that’s the saddest, stupidest part of all.

BAYOU LA BATRE, Ala. — Donna Gainey grew up here in the picturesque fishing village of Bayou La Batre, Ala., – went to school only a mile away, married a local boy, and made the tiny City Hall on Wintzell Avenue her home away from home.

This is all she’s known. All she’s ever wanted to know. For 32 years, she’s watched mayors and council members come and go, but still she remains. That suits her just fine.

She gazes at the city seal, which bears a hand-drawn image of a shirtless, barefooted shrimper hauling his catch aboard a boat. She was good with numbers. She could have gone anywhere. But she wanted to stay here. So much so that when she turned 62, two years ago, she decided to forgo retirement.

“I just love my job,” says the city clerk, framing the words slowly. “I love people.”

Of course, there are the job benefits to consider, and those weighed heavily in her choice to continue working. A decade ago, she battled breast cancer, and though she’s well now, health insurance is important to her.

There’s her granddaughter to consider as well. She and her husband, Lamar, are raising the 14-year-old. Even though the teen has lost her penchant for Aéropostale hoodies – mercifully – it’s still expensive to raise a child in today’s economy. Mr. Gainey supplements their income through his work as a security guard at a local medical center.

The couple could afford to retire, but Mrs. Gainey says working keeps them busy and provides money for extras, like a new car, as well as necessities like the escalating cost of home insurance along the Gulf Coast. They’d always planned to travel, but now they find there’s nowhere they really want to be except the home they’ve built together and the jobs that have made up the tapestry of their lives.

Besides, work keeps her young, Gainey says. She enjoys the challenge of wrangling with new computer software, and she likes interacting with the 30-somethings that populate her office. She teaches them to balance spreadsheets; they teach her social-media skills. Recently, a younger co-worker helped her set up a Facebook account so she can stay in touch with her son, who is serving in Iraq.

“I’ll probably retire in a few more years,” she says. She watches Bayou La Batre’s mayor, Stan Wright, shuffle to his office and smiles. He’s 10 years younger than she is. “Then again, I might not. Since my health is good, I think I’m going to just keep working.”

Inhalers and various bronchodilators. (Photo by Carmen K. Sisson/Cloudybright)

It’s slow suffocation. Standing outside your body, watching yourself drowning in poetic, Ken Burns style. Pan to the glut of inhalers on the nightstand, as colorful and effective as Pez dispensers. Zoom to the shaking hands trying to juggle an iPhone and a blue-gray inhaler. Scroll some words across the screen in an official-type font. Helvetica is nice.

Ventolin works by relaxing the muscles of the airway so you can breathe more easily. It is fast-acting and is therefore used as a rescue inhaler.

Zoom to the clock: 3:52 a.m.

Switch to a wide angle lens and shoot from above: Simple room, barely 100 square feet, blue walls faded to gray by the passage of years. A massive black desk, the girl’s prized possession. It’s clean tonight, because she was making her goal lists for next year; cleaning the desk is an annual part of the symbolic process. There is a MacBook and a Nikon beside it. Pan across the cork board above the desk: Assorted press passes — Columbus Blues Legends concert, Mobile Bay Bears opening day, Memphis in May, a red, hexagonal White House Press Pool pass; a tin button from U.S. Senator Rand Paul’s campaign; a copy of Mennonite Weekly Review folded to display a four-column story — “Thousands Mourn Kentucky Family;” a pink birthday card, a small cat-themed Christmas card, a membership renewal notice to Society of Professional Journalists; a business card from Monell’s restaurant in Nashville, a receipt from the Nashville Red Roof Inn dated March 5, 2010.

Flash back to a scene on the Cumberland River in Nashville on March 6, 2010. The girl, healthy, eyes glowing, so alive. An old-new friend beside her, holding a Canon above their heads, trying to stoop as she tries to tiptoe to make up for their one-foot difference in height. Laughing, feeling silly, not minding the cold. There is no inhaler in the pocket of her leather coat. Asthma hasn’t been an issue since childhood.

Fade to black; return to the tiny cell in Mobile. The girl is partially hanging over the edge of the bed, arm dangling, inhaler on the floor, her cheek pressed against the phone. She’s gasping and crying, a large dog at her bedside, licking her face as she murmurs ancient words: Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen. She is not Catholic. She doesn’t think God will mind.

She lifts her head and slowly types into the phone. Zoom in to see the tears dripping on the glassine surface. Pls be awake…scary as hell…give anything just to be able to breathe… She’s writing to the only friend she knows who might be awake at this hour. I love you, she types. But then she deletes the words.

Two more puffs from the rescue inhaler. Who knows how many times she’s used it today. She tries the red one too. She reaches for the Zippo and pack of Camel Crush cigarettes but puts them down. Slowly, she drags herself from the bed, coughing, grasping her chest. She stands and almost falls. The trip to the coffee pot is excruciating. But she knows coffee acts as a bronchodilator — the boy in Kentucky, he told her that.

She switches on a space heater and huddles against its warmth, holding a cheerful snowman box which has become a miniature pharmacy. Her breath comes in rasps and pants. “Let’s not fucking hyperventilate,” she growls, and her dog licks her hand in silent approval.

One by one, she examines the pharmaceutical cornucopia: Symbicort, Ventolin, and Primatene Mist inhalers. Bronkaid. Claritin. Mucinex. Vitamins. Wellbutrin for the depression. Buspar and Ativan for the anxiety. Prilosec, Nexium, and TUMS in case the asthma is being caused by acid reflux. She selects one Ativan and returns the rest to the snowman box.

Coffee now ready, she closes her eyes and takes deep, slow gulps. Two more puffs of Ventolin. One Ativan. Her tears have dried, and she’s calmer now. Her dog is sprawled in the warm bed she abandoned, and she stops to scruff his hair and kiss his nose.

Zoom to the clock: 4:46.

She opens her computer and begins to type. Her hand reaches for the cigarettes, pauses, then extracts one from the black box. She skims her music library and settles on the song she wants to listen to as she writes: “Idumea” from “Cold Mountain.”

Am I born to die? And lay this body down? And as my trembling spirits fly…what will become of me?

She lays her head on the cold aluminum of her laptop, smoking, perhaps thinking of her lead, perhaps sifting through memories of happier times.

Cut away to a montage of flashbacks: Her uncle, hoisting a redheaded infant out a car window, saying, “Look everyone! This is my baby niece! Isn’t she pretty!” as her mother laughs and says, “Frank, stop! You’re going to drop her!”

A redheaded toddler sitting on her daddy’s lap, laughing at wrestlers parading across the tiny Zenith television. That same toddler standing in a dirt driveway, watching that same man drive away. Watching, watching, until she can no longer see his taillights or even the cloud of dust.

Older now, sitting on a concrete block along a river, watching her grandfather bait her hook, watching her mother and grandmother fish ham sandwiches from a red and white Igloo cooler as the sun slants across the marshland.

A lanky teenager, standing knee-deep in mud on a football field, a Minolta X-700 in her hand and a press pass around her neck. Zoom in, what does it say? Alabama Press Association. Mobile County News. Correspondent.

Older now, thinner, wearing jeans and an Alabama sweatshirt, standing on the front porch, clinging to her mother and boyfriend. It’s hard to tell who’s crying the most. But finally the boy takes her hand and leads her to his overstuffed Dodge, college-bound. “This is going to change us forever,” he says, as they wave goodbye. She says nothing. She’s crying too hard.

That same boy and girl, scooping up two kittens from a roadside, shoving aside a trunkful of tackle and fishing poles to find a blanket to warm the mewing babies. “I’m going to name mine ‘Scoot,’ he says. “And mine will be ‘Boogie,’ she says, cradling a gray-striped fur ball to her chest.

The girl and boy, walking across the Alabama quad in the setting sun, him carrying her books, her carrying the kitten she snuck into French class. Studying, cooking, washing dishes, curled in bed together, whispering long into the night. Secret letters from another girl. Fighting. Slammed doors. The boy stalking to the river to fish. The girl stomping to the college newspaper office to lose herself in printing negatives. The boy packing his things. The girl begging. The boy leaving.

A blur of awards, bylines, classes, music, candles, and vodka. A kindly face in a college bar. A look exchanged. Afternoons spent reading the paper, gazing out the window at the falling rain. More looks. A gentle courtship. A kiss. A ring. A promise. Parties filled with laughing friends, candlelight, and wine. A new house. Buckets of paint and caulk. Hammers and drills.

The girl lying on the bathroom floor, cradling a gray fur ball in her arms, screaming. Friends arrive. Her mother arrives. A box, the finest she can afford, is prepared. They take the cat from her arms. She’s still screaming. They lay him in the box and set the box in the ground. They toss roses in the hole and pile dirt and rose petals on top. She spreads her body across the grave, lays face-down in the cold dirt, and screams. Light slants through the trees and a distant train sounds. There is a statue among the roses inscribed: Boogie. Oct. 18, 2005.

Flash back to the present. The girl is writing now, no longer gasping for breath, lost in her words. She’s gazing at the cork board above her desk, perhaps thinking of Nashville, perhaps thinking of her career, perhaps thinking of Kentucky, perhaps grateful she erased the last text before she sent it.

Fade to a continuing montage of flashbacks. The charming house in Northport. Afternoons with friends, sitting on the porch smoking, watching lightning bugs flash in the deepening twilight. The guy sitting on the floor in a darkened bedroom, the girl lying in bed, facing him. His voice barely a whisper.

“Are you ever going to marry me?” The girl: “I don’t know.” She’s crying. He’s crying. She tries to explain, but there’s no explanation for this.

Him returning home late one night, his eyes bright, his face flushed, looking so happy. The girl standing in the peach bathroom, brushing her teeth, studying his reflection in the mirror.

“So are you going to move out?” she asks.
“Yeah,” he says.
“When?”
“September maybe.”
“If you’re going to go, I think you should do it now. I can’t look at you all summer knowing you’re leaving.”

A blur of boxes and friends drifting in and out. The house is almost empty. The guy and girl stand in opposite doorways, awkwardly making conversation, the dog — her dog — bouncing back and forth between them, squeaking his ball. The guy drives away and the girl stands on the sidewalk — the sidewalk where they traced their initials the day they moved in — and watches his taillights fade. The dog strains at the leash, whining, trying to follow. And she sits down beside their mailbox, hugs her dog, and cries.

Cigarettes, vodka, inhalers, a trip to the emergency room. Needles, oxygen masks, white-coated doctors, steroids, pills. More boxes, screaming landlords, a mailbox full of bills, no bylines. The girl and guy standing outside the house one last time. They hug. She’s crying. They get into a fight. And then they go their separate ways.

Nights spent huddled in doorways in New Orleans, trying to fend off the rain. The girl shivering in an abandoned building, the dog and a down comforter providing her only warmth. Writing. More writing. An email, then a spate of text messages from an old friend. It’s cold, so cold tonight. And she’s lonely. So lonely. The girl peers at the phone’s tiny print, smiles, then laughs. She’s a little not sober. Old friends are good friends. She smiles some more. Dusts off her camera.

“Come to Nashville,” he says. And so she does. Driving through Yazoo City, she sends a text: This is crazy. Please don’t be psychotic. The phone beeps a reply and she smiles.

“This is the craziest thing I’ve ever done,” she says to the dog. She cranks the stereo and heads north.

Fade back to the present. The girl has made a second pot of coffee and is smoking as she types. To her right, two inhalers and a Zippo. To her left, the iPhone and camera. She takes a deep breath, and there is no evidence of wheezing.

Zoom to the clock: 7:27.

She walks to the front door, opens it, and smiles at the rising sun. She made it. For whatever reason, whatever purpose God might have, she’s been given one more day.

“Thank you,” she whispers to the sky.

1. Journalism is not dead, so don’t let anyone discourage you. The way we do it is changing. The way we distribute it is changing. That’s all.

2. You need to like it — a lot. You need to like it so much you won’t be discouraged when no one accepts your pitches and your bank account is terrifyingly low.

3. You WILL get discouraged, even if you love it. Understand this is normal. Don’t let temporary boredom or frustration become a permanent career killer. Talk to your peers. Don’t isolate and drown in desperation.

4. Make friends and mentors who do what you do. Find the best and walk in their footsteps. Don’t be afraid to ask questions. People love to help.

5. If you’re not active in social media, dive in. Twitter is huge, but you get out of it what you put into it. Find people you admire to follow. Then find people who are sharing things you want to know, do, learn. Imagine gathering everyone you ever wanted at your kitchen table. That’s Twitter.

6. If you don’t shoot pictures, learn. It’s not enough to write anymore. You don’t have to become a great photographer. If you’re competent with lighting and composition, you’ll be ahead of many writers. “That’s not my job” is not an acceptable answer.

7. It’s vital to have a deep, rich online presence. If you don’t have a website, get one. NOW. It takes time. It’s frustrating sometimes, because all you want to do is write. Sadly, none of us are “just writers” anymore. You have to be good at a little bit of everything. It sucks, but it’s life. Deal with it.

8. Save as much money as you can. If you want to go freelance, don’t do it until you have at least six months of savings AND have a stable enough freelance income you can leave that savings in the bank and only touch it in dire emergencies.

9. Learn to make do with less. Money is a problem for many freelancers. If you like the best in clothes, furnishings, food, tech toys, etc., you may find it a hard life. Become good at seeking bargains and taking care of your things. Buy quality, not quantity.

10. Never say no for someone else (stolen from Steve Buttry). Your job is to produce your best every single day. That’s it. Your job is not to second-guess your clients or doubt your abilities. It doesn’t serve you. Lose the fear and shoot for the stars.

11. Take every opportunity offered, even if you can’t clearly see how you will benefit. Someone wants you to write a guest blog post? Do it. Someone invites you to lunch? Go. You’ll never regret the things you did, only the things you never tried.

12. Don’t be afraid to walk your own path. The days when conformity was king are over. Editors pay you more for how you think than how you write.

13. Read constantly and broadly – nonfiction, not fiction. Unless you’re a fiction writer, in which case you need to read it, fiction is a leisure you can rarely afford. So is most television. (Stop watching f*cking LOST.) Never stop learning.

14. If you’re not good at time management and organization, learn. Many creatives find organization somewhat stifling. There’s a mystique around the scattered, harried artist. Lose it – FAST. Being disorganized costs money. It costs clients. It will cause you more stress and lost opportunities than you can imagine.

15. Make time for fun. Don’t forget your friends and loved ones, because you need them more than you think. If you ditch them constantly in the all-holy pursuit of work (and trust me, you will), life will be harder — and lonelier — than it has to be.

16. Keep abreast of industry news. Things change rapidly. This is a game of anticipation. You must know what your peers and competitors are doing — not today, but in five years, ten. The writer who knows what is coming is the writer who will have food when everyone else is starving.

17. Help others achieve their dreams. You’ll gain more by helping others than you will ever gain in the single-minded pursuit of self-gratification.

18. Write something every day, even if no one reads it. Incorporate daily writing practice into your life. Schedule it into inviolable blocks of time. Writing is an exercise, and you’ll find it easiest if you keep yourself limber.

19. The easy path is not always the right path. Know yourself and follow your instincts. You’re smarter than you think you are.

20. Forget your limits. There are no limits. You are as good, as brave, as talented as you think you are. It doesn’t matter what has happened to you. It doesn’t matter where you’re standing. The only thing that matters — the ONLY thing — is where you’re going. Past is past, and present is over before you can type the word. Face forward. Always.

Chin up. Life is beautiful, even in all its breathtaking pain and sorrow. Nothing is as bad as it seems, and no situation is so hopeless that it can’t be fixed by a good night’s sleep, a decent meal, and a little hard work. A good writer will use it all — every ounce.

Go be brilliant. The world needs your voice.