SEGUIMIENTO: THE SACRAMENTO BEE

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THE SACRAMENTO BEE (2004 - 2006).
RENÉE C. BYER (*)
Premio PULITZER 2007.



Racing barefooted after kicking off her flip-flops, Cyndie pushes her son Derek Madsen, 10, up and down hallways in the UC Davis Medical Center in Sacramento on June 21, 2005, successfully distracting him during the dreaded wait before his bone marrow extraction. Doctors want to determine whether he is eligible for a blood stem cell transplant, his best hope for beating neuroblastoma, a rare childhood cancer, which was diagnosed in November 2004.



Cyndie French, embraces her son, Derek Madsen, 10, on July 25, 2005, after learning Derek needs surgery to remove a cancerous tumor in his abdomen. The emotional impact is taking its toll on her. “How can anyone maintain a nine-to-five job and do this?” she begins to wonder.



Derek Madsen, 10, gets a soothing massage from his mother, Cyndie French, at her Sacramento nail and tanning salon.. "I’m going to do whatever it takes to make him happy, to see him smile." Cyndie says. A single mom of five, Cyndie had to give up her salon at a financial loss to care for her dying son. (7/9/06)



Derek playfully taunts his mother as Cyndie tries to coax him down from a wall outside the UC Davis Medical Center in Sacramento on July 27. They are there to admit Derek for cancer surgery the following day.Cyndia, who understands Derek’s emotional meltdown before procedures, spends hours getting him in the door of the hospital



Shortly after his 11th birthday and Cyndie’s 40th, Derek is comforted by his brother Micah Moffe, 17, left, and mom Cyndie, right, as he gets a tattoo in preparation for radiation therapy on November 30, 2005.. Micah often accompanies Derek to treatments even though his schoolwork suffers.



On February 6, 2006, one of Derek’s cancer doctors recommends Cyndie contact hospice workers. She doesn't tell Derek about the conversation, but retreats behind a closed door at home to cry. "I don't think it's important to tell him," she says. "Why? What for?“ Sensing her sadness, Derek tries to cheer up his mom.



Realizing that Derek may never have an opportunity to get his driver's license, something he's told her he is anticipating, Cyndie French defies the rules and lets him drive up and down their street in West Sacramento. On the same day, Feb. 9, 2006. Cyndie met for the first time with hospice workers, and learns there is little time left for Derek.



Derek is tearful as Cyndie tries to reason with him at the UC Davis Cancer Center on Feb. 14, 2006. She and Dr. William Hall argue that Derek should have a series of radiation treatments to shrink tumors spreading throughout his body and alleviate his pain.. "Derek, you might not make it if you don't do this," Cyndie tells her son. Derek fires back: "I don't care! Take me home. I'm done, Mom. Are you listening to me? I'm done."



Cyndie always tries to have something at hand to take the sting out of her son, Derek's doctor appointments. On March 8 after undergoing radiation treatment, they make the most of a dollar can of Silly String - and Cyndie then meticulously cleans up every bit of the stuff from the ground.Cyndie is a big fan of the Dollar Store.



Cyndie consoles her best friend, Kelly Whysong, left, on April 24, 2006, Fearing Derek's time is near, Cyndie wrote a letter to Derek about how brave he's been during his battle with cancer. She reads it to her youngest son repeatedly, hoping he can still understand.



After placing a flower beside her son’s head, a sobbing Cyndie drops to the floor on April 25, as her best friend, Kelly Whysong, left, and another friend, Nick Rocha, comfort her. Derek is too weak to acknowledge his mother’s presence as she keeps a 24-hour vigil by his bed.



Derek has a final burst of energy after days of Cyndie keeping vigil at his bedside. She helps her anguished son walk on April 26. A cancerous tumor has distended Derek's stomach so far that his pants no longer fit. Another tumor in his brain impairs his eyesight making navigation difficult inside their rental home.



Derek refuses to take pain medications because he fears further damage to his organs. He rages at his mother on April 28, blaming her for not making him healthier. "You have to calm down and help me help you," Cyndie says.



On May 1, after days of little sleep while caring for Derek, Cyndie confronts longtime family friend “grandpa” Patrick Degnan, about whether he'll be able to help with rent and funeral expenses as Derek is caught in the middle. Cyndie hopes to set up a non-profit organization so families don't have to endure the same financial struggle and chaos they have experienced. “I just wish that some of the percentage of money that goes to cancer research can be diverted to families going through this because many people will never benefit from the research,” says Cyndie.



Derek kisses his mom at the Relay for Life benefit, as his 6-year-old sister, Brianna, stands by. Wanting to contribute something to the cause and to “give back,.” Cyndie recruited volunteers for the benefit. Before the race, Cyndie speaks to the crowd about her pride in her son’s bravery during his battle with cancer. (7/12/06)



Cyndie holds Derek on May 8. He is on medication that hinders his speech and keeps him awake at night. Except for a few minutes while hospice nurses are with him, Cyndie spends nearly every moment of the day at his side.."I was exhausted beyond belief but I had to do this. He would call my name and always expects me to be there," Cyndie said.



In an effort to get Derek outside, Cyndie wheels him through the front door passing by artwork and cards given to her son by classmates at Bridgeway Island Elementary School. “Just like a newborn, he needs to get out and get some air,” she says. It was his last trip outdoors.



Cyndie French fights her emotions May 10, as she prepares to flush out Derek's catheter with saline solution before hospice nurse Sue Kirkpatrick, left, administers a sedative that will give the 11-year-old a peaceful death. "I know in my heart I've done everything I can," Cyndie says.



Cyndie rocks her dying son as the song, "Because We Believe," plays on a cd. She sings along with Andrea Bocelli in a whispery voice. “Once in every life/There comes a time/We walk out all alone/And into the light…” From left, family friends Ashley Berger, Amy Morgan and Kelly Whysong offer comfort as Cyndie tells Derek, "It's OK, baby. I love you, little man. I love you, brave boy. I love you. I love you.“ Derek died soon after in his mother’s arms on May 10, 2006.



Cyndie leads Derek's casket to burial with assistance from her sons Anthony Moffe, foreground, Micah Moffe, opposite him, and Vincent Morris, who is not visible, as well as several friends. "I will forever carry your memory in my heart and remind others to give of their time, energy and support to other families like ours," Cyndie says at the funeral. Derek was buried in Mount Vernon Memorial Park in Fair Oaks, California, on May 19, 2006.


(*) LA FOTÓGRAFA



With over 20 years of experience in the media industry, Renée C. Byer is an award-winning photographer, designer and picture editor.

She has taken honors from the National Press Photographers Association, Society of News Design, Associated Press, and the Best of the West photo and design contest. She has twice been featured in Photo District News magazine for photo stories while working as a staff photographer at The Sacramento Bee. Most recently in the September 2006 Photojournalism issue for her yearlong story "A Mother's Journey."

Her series of photographs on biotechnology titled "Seeds of Doubt" won the Harry Chapin Media Award for World Hunger in Photojournalism in 2005. The series also won first place in the Best of Photojournalism contest sponsored by the National Press Photographers Association.

In 2005 she was awarded the McClatchy President's Award for her photographs in the "Women at War" series. This was the first time that a Sacramento Bee photojournalist was the sole recipient of the award.

Byer has been a staff photographer at The Sacramento Bee since 2003. Previously she worked at the Seattle Post-Intelligencer where her photography was a finalist for a Dart Award for excellence in reporting on victims of violence. Byer is a long-time newspaper photographer who has worked around the country at a number of top dailies.

She recently served on the faculty of the Mountain Workshop for photojournalism sponsored by Western Kentucky University.
______________________
Jurado compuesto por:
-Kenneth Irby, visual journalism group leader and diversity program director, The Poynter
Institue, St. Petersburg, FL (Chair)
-Ronnie Agnew, executive editor, The Clarion-Ledger, Jackson, MS
-Hai Do, director of photography, The Philadelphia Inquirer
-Liza Gross, managing editor, presentation, The Miami Herald
-Karin Winner, editor, The San Diego Union-Tribune.

http://www.pulitzer.org/year/2007/feature-photography/works/

SEGUIMIENTO: HISTORIA DE DUL, UN PERRO ABANDONADO.

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HISTORIA DE DUL, UN PERRO ABANDONADO (1999)
© FLORENCIO SÁNCHEZ. © All rights reserved.


















Dul, fue encontrada en abril de 1999 por un veterinario a un lado de la autopista que circunda Madrid (M-30), con una pata rota y múltiples contusiones, presuntamente producidas por malos tratos de su anterior dueño. Estimó que Dul no contaba ni con dos años de edad.

Este la curó y enyesó, entregándola temporalmente a Adela para su cuidado, hasta poder encontrar un lugar más adecuado para un galgo y que no fuera un piso en Madrid. Adela le llamó "Dul" (Dulcinea), por ser hembra y por aquello de que tanto los galgos, como "Dulcinea del Toboso" están íntimamente ligados a la Mancha y como recuerdo a Don Quijote que poseía "un rocín flaco y un galgo corredor".

En el tiempo que permaneció en Madrid, Dul tenía mucho miedo a las personas. Se escondía en el último rincón de la casa y jamás expresaba alegría por nada. Mientras que cualquier perro desea salir a la calle en todo momento, a Dul había que cogerla en brazos para sacarla de la casa. Y una vez fuera, huía de cualquier persona que se encontraba a su paso.

En aquel momento la conocí yo, y desde el principio sentí deseos de fotografiarla, motivado por la expresión de su mirada y la tristeza que me produjo el contraste del yeso en la pata de un galgo. Dos meses después y curada de sus lesiones, Adela contactó con Milagros, dueña de una pequeña casa en el campo, donde no existía ninguna otra vivienda habitada a excepción de una vaquería próxima.

Una vez instalada allí, conoció un perro llamado "Friqui" y una perra blanca llamada "Moa", pertenecientes a la vaquería. Tal vez los días que llegaron a continuación fueron los más felices de su vida. Tenía campo para correr y amigos con los que compartir sus salidas. No existían personas de las que asustarse. Un día llegó a traer una liebre a casa. Poco a poco, Dul fue ganando fuerzas y seguridad en sí misma.

Sin embargo, seguramente Dul jamás olvidó a las personas que cuando era un cachorro la trataron mal. Tanto es así, que acabo no diferenciando éstas con su última dueña, de tal manera que todos los síntomas de agradecimiento que tuvo al principio, los cambió por agresividad hacia las manos que le daban de comer.

Hace poco, escuché en la radio que los primeros seis meses de vida de un perro son fundamentales para la educación e identificación de su dueño. También me enteré que Dul no tuvo solución y finalmente hubo de ser sacrificada.

En el campo la echan de menos sus amigos "Friqui y Moa".


***Este reportaje ha sido realizado integramente en laboratorio tradicional de blanco y negro.Las fotos han sido tomadas con una cámara Nikon F90, película kodak tri-x 400 ISO y reveladas en papel baritado Ilford multigrado FB warmtone. Revelador de película Kodak D-76 y revelador de papel Agfa neutol WA (en tonos cálidos) Viradas al sulfuro con ligero tono sepia.

http://www.florenciosanchez.com/a/historiadedul.htm

SEGUIMIENTO: COUNTRY DOCTOR

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COUNTRY DOCTOR (1948)
W. EUGENE SMITH (*)

Seguimiento al Doctor Ernest Ceriani en el pequeño pueblo de Kremmling, Colorado. Considerado como el primer ensayo o "foto historia", corriente del fotoperiodismo moderno.


HE MUST SPECIALIZE IN A DOZEN FIELDS

THE DAY'S FIRST OFFICE CALL is made by a tourist guide and his baby, who have come to Kremmling from an outlying ranch. Ceriani's patients are of all ages and income groups and come from doctorless areas as far as 50 miles away.


HOME CALL at 8:30 a.m. starts Ceriani's day. He prefers to treat patients during office hours at the hospital, but because this printer had a fever and symptoms of influenza Ceriani thought it would be unwise for him to get up and make the trip.


X-RAY PICTURE is explained to a rancher by Ceriani, who developed the negative himself. In addition to the X-ray machine, the hospital contains about $10,000 worth of equipment, including a $1,500 autoclave and an oxygen tent.


MINOR EMERGENCY disrupts Ceriani's office routine. This 60-year-old tourist, suffering from a heart disturbance aggravated by a trip through an 11,000-foot pass in the Rockies, came to the hospital to get an injection of morphine.

BROKEN RIBS, the result of an accident in which a horse rolled on this patient, are bound with adhesive tape by Ceriani. Many of his hardy patients walk in with injuries which would make city dwellers call at once for an ambulance.


ANOTHER HOME CALL turns up a feverish 4-year-old suffering from acute tonsillitis. Although a large proportion of his patients are children, Dr. Ceriani is still inexperienced in pediatrics and studies it whenever he has an opportunity.


PROBLEMS OF AGE—in this case a slight deafness complicated by deposits of ear wax—are daily brought to the doctor. Here, in an operation chiefly important for its effect on the patient's morale, Ceriani removes the wax with a syringe.


AN ACCIDENT INTERRUPTS HIS LEISURE
AT 4:15 two friends start to give fisherman Ceriani a ride to Gore Canyon in a railroad motor car. Dr. Ceriani's moments of relaxation are rare and brief. Last month, taking a chance that he would not be missed for three hours, he asked two employees of the Denver and Rio Grande to take him out on a railroad gasoline car to Gore Canyon.


There he fished alone in the rapids of the Colorado, working expertly over the white water for almost 30 minutes. Suddenly he saw the car coming back up the canyon far ahead of time, and automatically he commenced to dismantle his fishing rod. Ceriani had no feeling of resentment at the quick end of his excursion; he merely stood still waiting for the car to reach him, wondering what had happened and hoping that it was not serious. When the car arrived Chancy Van Pelt, the town Marshal, hopped off and said, "Little girl at the Wheatly ranch got kicked in the head by a horse. Can you come now?"


AT 5:00 Ceriani begins his day's fishing in the boiling, trout-filled rapids of the Colorado River.
Lee Marie Wheatly, aged 2 1/2, was already in the hospital when Ceriani arrived. While her parents watched he looked for signs of a skull fracture, stitched up a great gash in her forehead and saw that her left eyeball was collapsed. Then he advised the Wheatlys to take their child to a specialist in Denver for consultation on removal of the eye. When they left Ceriani was haggard and profoundly tired. He did not remember that he had been fishing at all until, on his way out of the emergency room, he saw his rod and reel lying in the corner where he had thrown them.
AT 5:30 Kremmling's town marshal has come after Ceriani and they start back to take care of an emergency case.


THE CHILD'S PARENTS watch in anguish (left) while Ceriani examines their daughter. The hospital's two nurses, one of whom is on duty in the hospital at all hours, had tried to check the flow of blood from her forehead and had given her a dose of phenobarbital while Ceriani was on his way back from fishing trip.


HAVING DONE HIS BEST for the child, Ceriani is worn out and tense as he completes the emergency treatment. He has stitched the wound in her forehead so that she will have only a slight scar, but already knows that nothing can be done to save her eye and tries to think of a way to soften the news for her parents.


HE SETS A BADLY DISLOCATED ELBOW
CERIANI HELPS carry the painfully injured boy into the hospital.
Young Robert Wiggs had a dislocated left elbow. He had been to a rodeo in nearby Granby, had a few beers and tried to ride a wild horse. When he was brought by his friends to the hospital, he was in great pain and swearing loudly. "Don't tell my mother," he said.
Dr. Ceriani X-rayed the arm. Then, because it was necessary to give Wiggs ether, he questioned him about the beer he had drunk. Wiggs said, "Only a few," and the operation proceeded. The boy's friends and a nurse held him while Ceriani set the joint (next page) and made a cast for it.


HE PULLS AT THE BOY'S ARM to bring the elbow joint back into place.
As the effects of the ether began to fade, Wiggs began groggily to repeat, "Don't tell my mother." At this Ceriani glanced across the table. There stood Mrs. Wiggs (next page), who had been notified of the accident and had rushed to the hospital in time to hold her son's hand during the last of the operation. Ceriani grinned at her, trying to convey two ideas. One was that her son would be all right. The second was that Ceriani himself was a man who might not long ago have had a few beers and tried to ride a wild horse, and therefore did not think this affair was one of the utmost gravity.


THEN CERIANI APPLIES A CAST while the half-conscious boy murmurs, "Don't tell my mother," not realizing his mother his holding his hand.


BEFORE THE AMPUTATION Ceriani checks Mitchell's blood pressure.
Old Thomas Mitchell had a gangrenous left foot. He was 85, and when he was brought to the basement emergency room three months ago it seemed unlikely that he would live long. But he survived, and when Dr. Ceriani came to tend him he would say, "I want to see the mayor. When is the mayor coming?" as though such a visit would clear up the trouble.
For a long time Dr. Ceriani postponed the inevitable amputation, afraid that the old man could not survive it. Twice he told the nurses, "Tomorrow I will do it," but when tomorrow arrived Mitchell had grown weaker


IN THE OPERATING ROOM the old man receives a spinal anesthetic.
Finally the old man rallied and Ceriani hastily made his preparations. With great gentleness he carried his patient up to the operating room, gave him a spinal anesthetic and cut off his left leg below the knee. The old man, conscious but with his vision blocked by a screen, was not aware of what was being done and did not discover that this leg was gone until long after. He continued to say, "My foot hurts," while Dr. Ceriani, busy now with other cases, sighed in relief. Last week the old man was much improved and asking with increased spriteliness to see the mayor.


...AND AMPUTATES A GANGRENOUS LEG
BECAUSE THE HOSPITAL HAS NO ELEVATOR, Ceriani picks up his patient in the basement ward to carry him upstairs to the operating room.


AN OLD MAN DIES AT NIGHT
IN THE PARLOR Ceriani tucks a blanket around the dying man before taking him out into the night.
A few minutes before midnight the people in Joe Jesmer's house called Dr. Ceriani to tell him that Joe was very sick. Ceriani put on a cloth jacket, went over there quickly and found 82-year-old Joe dying after a heart attack. He was still conscious, but in his pain and bewilderment he felt that he was somehow trapped and needed rescuing. He continually said, "Please, please get me out of here."


IN THE KITCHEN, while the women whisper, Ceriani telephones the priest to tell him that the old man will not live through the night


AT MIDNIGHT Joe Jesmer's womenfolk stand silently around the door to see him taken away.
Ceriani and Chancy Van Pelt got Joe onto a stretcher (left), while Helen Watson, a roomer in Joe's house stood watching quietly and without tears. Ceriani called the priest, asking him to come to the hospital. Chancy and he carried Joe out to the ambulance and drove off. There was nothing Ceriani could do except make Joe comfortable and watch him die. At about 2:30 it happened. He left the hospital then and went home, finding his wife asleep and his own house as quiet as all the rest in town.


COMMUNITY ABSORBS MOST OF HIS TIME
THE HOMELY WOODEN BUILDINGS and wide treeless streets of Kremmling stand on a 7,000-foot plateau beneath the towering Rocky Mountains.


THE DOCTOR AND FAMILY watch a parade in Kremmling. Ceriani holds 11-month-old Gary, while wife Bernetha steadies 3-year-old Philip on the rail.


THE HOSPITAL, one block away from Ceriani's house, is a neat white wooden building with three separate wards which can accommodate a total of 14 patients.

Kremmling lies on a 1 1/2-mile-high plateau on the edge of the Rockies. Tourists and transcontinental travelers find the country beautiful, as does Ceriani, who also finds it advisable in bad weather to take chains, blankets, an ax and a can of beans with him on trips to ranches in the hinterland. The town itself consists of about 150 small buildings, including the hospital (left, bottom), and a few old log cabins. Mrs. Ceriani, who came from rural Colorado, was already familiar with this environment and adjusted easily to it. She faithfully reminds him to send out his bills — which are far lower than those of an urban physician — and has long since grown used to emergencies at all hours and to the sudden collapse of her plans to see a movie or play bridge. She has learned to accept all the problems of her husband's career except one. Even after four years of marriage, she is still unable to reconcile herself to the fact that his time is not his own. She and her two young sons must see him at unpredictable intervals, on special occasions (left, top) or simply fall asleep waiting for him to finish his work.


AFTER MIDNIGHT
After an operation which lasted until 2 a.m., Ceriani had a cup of coffee and cigaret in the hospital kitchen before starting home. The nurses constantly admonish him to relax and rest, but because they are well aware that he cannot, they keep a potful of fresh coffee simmering for him at all hours.

(*) W. Eugene Smith, reportero gráfico, nació en Wichita (Kansas) en 1918 y falleció en Tuscon (Arizona), en 1978.
Smith se graduó en la Alta Escuela del Norte de Wichita, en 1936. Empezó su carrera realizando fotografías para dos periódicos locales, "The Eagle" y "The Beacon". Se mudó a New York y comenzó a trabajar para el Newsweek y comenzó a ser conocido por su incesante perfeccionismo y su personalidad. Eugene Smith salió de Newsweek por rehusarse a usar cámaras de formato medio, uniendose a la revista Life en 1939. Pronto dimitió de su puesto en la revista Life y fue herido en 1942 mientras simulaba una pelea para la revista Parade.
Trabajó como corresponsal para la publicación Ziff-Davis, y de nuevo para la revista Life; Smith fotografió la Segunda Guerra Mundial desde las fronteras de las islas americanas, realizando las fotografías de la ofensiva americana contra Japón y tomando fotos de los marines norteamericanos y de los prisioneros de guerra japoneses en Saipan, Guam, Iwo Jima y Okinawa. En Okinawa, Smith fue herido por un mortero. Una vez recuperado, continuó su labor en Life y perfeccionó el ensayo-fotografía, desde 1947 hasta 1954. En 1950 viajó hasta el Reino Unido para cubrir las elecciones generales, en donde salió victorioso Clement Attlee, del Partido Laborista. La editorial de la revista Life se mostraba en contra de un gobierno laborista, pero los ensayos de Smith sobre Attlee eran muy positivos. Finalmente, un número limtiado de fotografías de Smith de la clase obrera británica fue publicada en Life. En la década de los 50 se une a la Agencia Magnum.
Smith se volvió a separar de Life porque la revista había usado sus fotos sobre Albert Schweitzer. Empezó un proyecto documental sobre Pittsburgh, y una serie de libros de sus foto-ensayo. En estos libros, Smith tenía un auténtico control sobre el proceso de edición del libro, llegando a tener una gran fama de incoformista. Murió en 1978 debido al consumo masivo de drogas y alcohol.
En la actualidad, la fundación W. Eugene Smith promueve la "fotografía humana", que desde 1980 premia a los fotógrafos comprometidos en este campo.