Because I am a delicate flower, I have not watched any coverage of the disaster in Haiti. Or read about it. Not because I want to pretend that it didn't happen, but because I cannot digest the horror. I am not joking. The tsunami put me into a really bad place that was hard to shake, and I could do nothing but watch the coverage and cry. And 9/11 turned me into a quivering mass of broken that took weeks to reassemble. I realize that I am an egocentric maniac and that it is a sickness, the way I can take a world tragedy and make it *about me,* but at least this time I recognized my brokenness and avoided the meltdown.
Until the telethon.
So my exposure to the crisis was sugarcoated by gorgeous celebrities soliciting donations. And still, the stories of tragedy and of triumph were enough to make me cry and send me to my dark place. But only for one night. And instead of wallowing, I gave money to Hope for Haiti Now.
I asked Tim if we should take our house off the market and fill all the empty space with Haitian orphans. He suggested I just call the telethon and give again. While Tim is a kind and generous man, he is apparently immune to the siren's song of Haitian orphans, while I am mentally repainting bedrooms, ordering whimsical Ikea toddler beds and wondering how old is *too old* to give a toddler a new name (I've always been partial to Luc).
And while I know that Justin Timberlake can't ease the suffering of people living their own worst nightmare, he did a damned fine job of easing my second-hand suffering on their behalf.