Finding Iris Chang (3 of 4 free samples)

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COPYRIGHT
Finding Iris Chang by Paula Kamen. Copyright 2007 by Paula Kamen.
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INTRODUCTION: THE QUESTIONS (CONT'D)

Over the next hour, in one of the strangest conversations of my life, I stumbled to ask her about what had happened. She talked about her overwhelming fears and anxieties, including being unable to face the magnitude--and the controversial nature--of the stories that she had uncovered while researching her book on the Bataan Death March. "People in high places are not going to like it. Frankly, Paula, I fear for my life," she said, still maintaining her flat tone.

That was the first time I thought that Iris may have been human, after all. Perhaps she wasn't an exception to the rules of nature. Perhaps even she was not able to work nonstop without paying any price. Perhaps I wasn't such a freak, after all.

Despite having told me that she was sick, she described her current vague problem, which I understood as some kind of depression, as the result of "external" forces. It wasn't a result of the "internal." I asked her what others in her life thought about the cause of this apparent depression. She paused and said, "They think it's internal."

"It's got to be external. It just can't be the result of . . . of a book tour," she said, fading out a bit to ponder that question. She was referring to her exhaustion from the more-than-twenty-city tour she'd made in the spring of 2004 for the paperback release of her book The Chinese in America. She went on to talk about other fears. "Paula, I've made serious mistakes with my son. I gave him autism with vaccines." The tone of her voice was firm, like she was proclaiming an unassailable guilty verdict on herself from the voice of the highest possible authority.

"What?" I said, totally perplexed at this comment. I knew autism was the result of the "internal," basic neurology, not external actions. And I didn't even think that he was autistic.

"I've made some very serious mistakes with my son," she kept repeating.

I fired questions at her, repeating the same ones over and over again--about her son, her research, her state of mind--although I kept hearing all the same answers. I was reeling from the apparent suddenness of this crisis. I thought I had figured her out years ago.

"This is all temporary! It's a storm that will pass. You have to wait it out." I then confessed to her about a period of months in 2001 when I had been immobilized by a depression, which later lifted. I called it a "breakdown," although it probably wasn't technically one. I told her that with some time off, I eventually found a way to manage a root cause of that depression, a chronic and yet untreatable migraine. It wasn't easy, but I was doing the best I could, even in some pretty challenging circumstances. I said that she would read more about those strategies in greater detail in the spring, when my book on chronic pain would be published. She didn't respond.

She talked more about her guilt over her son. At one point, she was silent and then seemed to drift miles away, as if she had been possessed by demons. A faint voice, which did not sound like hers but that of a tiny child, whispered longingly: "Paula, do you ever just want the lights to go out?"

"Yes, of course," I said, stumbling over my words. "These thoughts are normal. But they pass. I would be, I would be devastated if something were to happen to you. I wouldn't, I couldn't. . . ."

There was more silence.

"This is temporary," I said. "This is not how I see you," I assured her.

"That's not how you see me? Then, how do you see me?" she said, with sudden intense interest, her voice returning to earth.

"Energetic," I said. "You're someone truly engaged with life. A hero! You've been a total inspiration to me! You've helped so many people."

"Yes, engaged with life," she said, brightening a bit. "Remember that. If anything ever happens to me, people are going to talk, and you have to remind people of that."

I repeatedly asked to speak to her husband, Brett, to get more information, but she said he was busy. Then, we talked more and I felt a bit relieved to hear that her husband and her parents were near. She seemed to come back to me and sound more lucid, and I talked about my pain-coping skills for a while. To start off, I gave the example of Buddhist-like advice an alternative healer had given me. "I know this sounds cheesy, but . . . try to see your fears and anxieties like a fire. You need to acknowledge them, tend them and not ignore them, or else they'll rage out of control. But you have to keep a distance, stand away from them, not stand IN the fire, and then get consumed by it," I said. "There's a lot more to it, but that's just something to start out with."

That sound byte of therapy seemed to resonate with Iris. I promised to e-mail her the titles of some books that had helped me. I also mentioned how so many investigative journalists seem to actually thrive with stress and controversial topics. "What about Seymour Hersh?" I asked, now adding some forced humor to the conversation. "He seems OK, and he criticized a lot of powerful people. He's alive and kicking. I'm sure they didn't like him uncovering all those atrocities in Vietnam, and now he's writing on Iraq."

In return, she perked up a bit and suggested herself that she would look into how famous investigative journalists deal with their stresses.

Yes, and then when I got back to Chicago, I said, we'd talk. She didn't respond. We talked more, and I said I had to go. She plummeted into a deep sadness, sounding worse than she had when she first called. I hesitated to end the call and we talked more.

Before we finally hung up, she said one last time: If anything happened to her, I had to let people know what she was like before this happened.

And I said I would.

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