Up the Mountain: Part III, The Expert That Came Through

So here I am back at the bottom.

All of UGA won’t email me back, and yes that includes both the school of social work and counseling, except for the one guy from the Gwinnett campus who never followed up when I responded back. And oh yes, I also emailed professors from both Georgia State and Georgia Southern. I guess no one was intrigued enough by my interest in “exploring barriers to accessing mental health services in rural areas.” I did a quick literature search, but couldn’t find any recent articles; the professors and doctors seemed to have retired or disappeared into the ether since the publications.

I’ve got nothing it feels. Amanda’s certainly not enough. So I do another search, on one of my most invaluable reporter’s tool-– google. I find the Georgia Rural Health Association. I’m no longer laid out flat. I’m sitting up a bit. I call the office, and I explain who I am and ask if there is anyone who would be willing to talk to me about blah blah blah, hopefully you know what I’m working on by part III.

“Yes, that would be the executive director,” the lady on the phone says. Hmmm, I think, do executive directors really talk to you?

“She’s working on a grant that’s due Friday right now, so if she’s doesn’t call you back then give her a call in a few days.” My draft deadline is tomorrow, but so many experts have brushed me off, that really I’m just going through the motions. And plus the economy is bad and everybody knows funding is being cut, so go get that money Ms. Executive Director. I’ve started to get comfortable down here at the bottom.

But I ask for her email address anyway, because that’s what you do, right? You follow-up, attempt to reach people through multiple methods. I send a quick email identical to the message I left over the phone.

It couldn’t have been more than 2 hours before she emailed me back this simple, yet beautiful question, “When’s your deadline?” Nothing else, not even a signature.

I carefully craft an email back, explaining that I have a draft deadline tomorrow morning. Yes, it’s just a draft. But I had nothing besides Amanda. With that, all I would have had on my paper would be a giant TK, the reporter’s notation meaning “to come.” I was still chasing my entire story! But my urgency need not be her urgency. My values tell me to not expect anyone to inconvenience themselves on my behalf. I detail a few questions, asking her to give me a couple of paragraphs in a conversational tone (or how ever much she has time for), always the last resort for interviews. But I figure that this would get me started and I could schedule a follow-up phone interview later to fill in the holes.

My phone rings a few hours later. “This is Marona speaking,” I’ve learned to answer since I started giving out my business cards to what seems like everybody in the world.

“This is Katherine Cummings from Georgia Rural Health Association,” says the caller. What? I’m caught off guard. It takes me a second, before I get it together enough to thank her for calling me and to go into it’s-time-to-get-what-you-want mode.

“I don’t even have time to write an email,” she says. “I’ve just spent the whole morning out of town.” She’s venting, but I have no complaints. After all, she’s called me back so promptly.

“Well do you have a few minutes right now?” I ask. “It won’t take more than about 10 minutes.”

She agrees. I don’t have to work very hard, because once again, she’s calling me. I ask her if she wouldn’t mind giving me a minute to put her on speakerphone record the interview, explaining that it would speed it up. A minute passes. I can’t get my recorder to work! Technical difficulties right now? Is this really necessary, I ask Mr. Recorder. But yes, the show must go on.

She’s talking. I’m sorting through the most crucial questions. I’m writing. She’s talking. I’m thinking about what to ask next. I’m writing. I’m reminded of my short memory. I’m writing. It takes me a split second to realize my best option is to fix the recorder. I zone out for a crucial 45 seconds of my 10 minute interview that is already about a minute and a half under way. But finally Mr. Recorder begins to work and I capture the rest of the interview, with plans to do a more extensive interview.

Later as I begin to write, I find that from those 10 minutes (actually more like 8 if you subtract my recorder struggles), I have enough solid quotes for my article. I’ve hustled an interview with a willing expert, and maximized my 8 minutes.

Now I have Amanda and at least one solid expert witness. I’m inching my way back up.

Up the Mountain: Part II, The Experts Who Shafted Me

Before I know it, I’m tumbling down the mountain with all the grace of someone flailing, trying to grab hold of anything. I know there are multiple witnesses to this particular stage of the journey.

Before I found Amanda, I had set up an interview with the coordinator of the Clarke County ABHS Mental Health Clinic. I gave him a quick spiel of what I’m trying to do, that I was looking for him to talk a bit about the issues confronted in rural areas when attempting to seek mental health treatment. But I had no story yet, so I gave him few details. After meeting Amanda the Monday before my meeting with him on Friday, I thought it would be only professional courtesy to give him a more fleshed out idea about what I was interested in doing. I believe in forecasting and in being honest about your intentions. Plus, if I was going to bring one of my multi-media partners interested in videotaping him, should I not give him a heads up? Not make him feel like he was being cornered into saying yes on the day we showed up?

Nope. I shouldn’t.

I fell into the hole of giving him too much information. Things I now know I should have kept to myself:

Amanda
Amanda is a client there
video camera
article

Being clear with your intentions is important. But so is not having a big mouth, I’ve decided. I’ve done a lot of thinking about this. I’m not in to manipulating people. I don’t like to beat around the bush. I like to be up front with people. As a journalist-in-training, I’m going to go ahead and be dramatic, and go so far as to say that I’ve had to redefine my values. Where’s my own moral line? How comfortable would I have been with waiting to give him more extensive details until I arrived? Is it okay to use the word story over article?

It’s still a touchy subject. But by now, I swear to you, I feel like I’m laid sprawled out on my back, at the foot of the mountain, once again. Dramatic, again? Yes, I know. But my entire story felt like it was falling part. I wasn’t expecting difficulties in finding experts. I had not prepared myself for this. If Amanda can list out her cocktail of 5 medications that keep her mood stable and tell me that when she’s not on them, she doesn’t feel like showering daily, then why can’t you, Mr. Coordinator, let me in your office and tell me about how people in rural areas struggle to find mental health services? I sent a follow up email, clarifying my intentions, in case there were any misunderstandings. I also sent a large batch of emails to various UGA professors. Thanks for nothing guys. If I sound bitter, it’s because I was at this point. No one likes to go from having it together, to feel like it’s falling part. So like I said, I’m at the bottom of the mountain, finally realizing how big the mountain actually is. You’re thinking the d-word again, I know. But he canceled on me the day of the interview and told me he thought “the best person to assist you would be the CEO.” Not even his British accent coupled with his excessive politeness helped. Polite doesn’t matter when it’s something you don’t want to hear.

Everyone knows CEOs don’t talk to you. But I pop a peppermint, because remember I have those sugar level problems, and I muster up my last bit of energy to go about harassing people via phone and email.

Up the Mountain: Part I, The Character

Article submitted. Deadline met. I’m done with my Mental Health article that I put so much sweat and tears into. Well, maybe not tears, but I did violently fist the air on multiple occasions at the imaginary apparition, hanging over my shoulder, that represented my story. I’ve spent weeks struggling to shape something that when I was finished with it I wanted to do more than just burn. But it wasn’t all smooth. It was certainly a strenuous climb to the top.

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So there I was staring up at the top of this mountain, wondering if maybe I should have picked something a little smaller. Of course you can’t even see the top, you never do. All you know is it’s big as hell.

I take off full force, enthusiastic, energized. I had thought my biggest obstacle would be finding someone who was willing to share their personal story with me about their experiences dealing with a mental illness and seeking treatment in a rural area. I wrote an entire post on what stake-holders I would contact to get the human interest element that I needed for my story. I’m down a half of year’s worth of business cards and fancy letter head, attempting to create the most confidential method I could think of for stakeholders protected by HIPAA laws, doctor/therapist-confidentiality, or basic morals to pass my name on to individuals who they think would be willing to talk to me. My fingers were crossed. All that effort and I don’t get a single hit. Not even one.

But it’s okay I’m just barely start to slip back down to the bottom before I luck out.

Have I mentioned that the agriculture extension office shares a building with the parole office? Small, rural towns make me smile. I roll into the parole office one day and ask if anybody has a few minutes to talk to me. I hate cold calls, but I love cold visits. I take pleasure out of just showing up. I dress down. One of my colleagues dresses up. He says he feels like he gets better responses when he’s dressed up. I say, I feel like I get better responses when I’m dressed down. Sneakers, jeans and a cotton shirt. My name is Marona, no last name needed. Maybe because I’m a female? Or maybe because I’m a black female in the south? Or maybe my smile is just so incredibly disarming that once you see it, you want to hold nothing back from me. Who knows. He leads me to Florence’s Manor, which I also blogged about. This is where I met Amanda. She shares her story with a level of transparency, that only makes you wonder, if she’s sharing all this, is there anything left to even hold back?

I’m taking that mountain in stride. I’m halfway up, and not even out of breath. Or at least that’s what I thought.