I will admit to being a total sap. I am often moved to tears by gut-wrenching tales on Oprah, exuberant families on Extreme Home Makeover, and even 30-second commercials for credit cards.
I have never, however, cried over a newspaper article.
Until today, that is.
There are three men in a downtown Atlanta hospital who have gone unidentified for several months to a few years. They all suffer memory loss from brain damage or illness, and no friends or family have come forward to identify them.
The first story, about a clean-cut man who fell 30 to 40 feet while running steps in a stadium, just breaks my heart. Reading about his impaired functions reminds me of my mom’s condition after her brain surgery. The descriptions of his weakened, wasting limbs and his attempts to speak—without success—were all too familiar to me. So I suppose I have an emotional connection to that man that makes me really want them to find his loved ones. I also have wishes for a full recovery, but those are less likely to come true.
I speak from experience.
I’m glad I have a box of Kleenex on my desk.
I live in Atlanta, Georgia, and work as a 
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