Natural Disaster

by Ginger Zee

  I kept that job the rest of my time in college, cohosted a radio show, and took on two more internships before graduating with a bachelor of science in meteorology and minors in math and Spanish, and I did it in three and a half years. At this point in my life, I had all the confidence in the world. Looking back, I may have had a slightly natural-disaster inflated sense of my accomplishments. I felt like I had so much experience and what I thought was a pretty awesome demo reel. So I went out and bought ninety-nine VHS tapes, each carefully labeled with what I believed to be my best-looking head shot, next to my name, e-mail address, and phone number, and I sent them out and waited for the network calls to come flooding in.

  But all I got was silence. No job offers. Zero. Zip. Nada. Crickets, as they say.

  I was humbled, but I knew my destiny could not be denied. So I did what any aspiring TV anchor with no prospects does: I took a job in radio and bartended on the side to pay the bills. That radio gig was a favor paid to my guardian angel, Ed Fernandez. Ed was the general manager at WXMI, where I had had one of my internships. He said he saw something in me and wanted to make sure I got into media. He introduced me to the radio legends who worked at WLAV. WLAV was a classic rock radio station in Grand Rapids where the other hosts were nearly three times my age, and I loved it. I felt like I was “cutting my teeth” in the real world. I learned how to tell a weather story in fifteen seconds without pictures, and to do it in front of gruff classic-rock dudes who must have been so perplexed as to how or why I was sharing their booth. It was that booth where Ginger Zuidgeest became Ginger Z.

  Zuidgeest is a long, extremely Dutch last name. And as much as I love my dad and our name, Tony Gates, Uncle Buck, and the crew at WLAV told me, “You only get fifteen seconds. We aren’t going to waste half of it on saying your name.” And that is how Ginger Z was born. A few years later, I would tack on the two Es to make it sound more legit (thanks, Peter Chan), and it’s worked out pretty nicely. Nobody ever says, “Hey, Ginger!” They always say, “Hey, Ginger Zee!” It has a lot of bounce to it, I guess. In fact, several viewers have named their dogs Ginger Zee after me.

  While I worked at the radio station, I kept sending tapes out to every job opening I saw. I sent tapes to Lima, Ohio; Fargo, North Dakota; and even Flint, Michigan, the home of Michael Moore’s Roger & Me and unfortunately the lead-pipe contamination capital of America. And at the age of twenty-two, my dream came true when I was hired as a full-fledged meteorologist at WEYI in Flint.

  In the six months after graduation and before I got the call for Flint, I encountered my first real bout with depression. For anyone that has ever struggled through the hopelessness that defines most depression, you know that transitions can be a major trigger. That period after college and before I started my job felt (as it is for so many young people) like a loss of control, a loss of faith in my talent, and for me, the first time I remember feeling low. Not like, “oh I’m having a bad day,” or “I’m in a funk–low,” but the kind that keeps you from friends and family, chains you to your bed, and had me thinking food was unnecessary.

  During my final semester of college in the fall of 2002, I was traveling back and forth to Valpo one day a week to finish a class there while living and working in Grand Rapids. I would often find myself falling asleep in class and even falling asleep driving. For a type A person, falling asleep was just about the most disappointing thing I could do. I had too much to accomplish to sleep this much. And even when I slept, I felt like I was never getting rest. I would get so angry with myself for not meeting my insurmountable goals.

  My alarm would go off at 4 A.M. I wasn’t yet on a morning-show schedule, but rather, I had filled my Valparaiso University planner hour by hour.

  4 A.M. Wake-up, sit-ups, push-ups

  4:30 A.M. Bed and breakfast work

  5–9 A.M. Work

  10–11:30 A.M. Class

  11:30 A.M. Lunch

  12:15–3 P.M. Class

  3–5 P.M. Run, weight workout

  5–6:30 P.M. Shower, study

  6:30 P.M. Dinner

  7–10 P.M. Study, push-ups, sit-ups, bed

  Every day was filled, every moment planned. When something got in the way of me making money, or more importantly, me working out for at least two hours, I would be furious. I constantly told myself I didn’t have time to waste. Especially on sleep, or car accidents.

  Fast-forward to one bad car accident later where I almost crossed the median into oncoming traffic on a highway; I knew I needed to get help. I thought I had a heart problem so I went to a cardiologist. Several tests later they assured me I was in tip-top physical shape. They referred me to a neurologist who suggested we do a sleep study. With all the cords attached from scalp to ankles, I fell asleep for eight hours. They then woke me and I was told to take four half-hour naps every two hours. I fell asleep within minutes of each nap and they didn’t even need to finish the testing before they told me I was narcoleptic. I was prescribed a drug called Provigil and suddenly the world became clear. I always describe my first day taking Provigil like the scene in The Wizard of Oz when everything turns to color, or when the black bars on a movie are lifted and the picture fills the screen. It isn’t a stimulant, but an alertness medication I was told. I could smell, see, hear, and most significantly, I could feel.

  I often think that narcolepsy was God’s way of protecting me from myself. I was such a serial perfectionist that the dullness I felt as a narcoleptic in my later teen years (when the disease usually develops) probably protected me from self-harm. As pleased as I was to be on the drug that allowed me to finally feel alive, there were consequences. All of my feelings were amplified. My highs were even higher and my lows felt as deep as the Mariana Trench.

  Wallowing in my sea of rejection when no one had responded to my résumé tapes, I filled my newfound awake time juggling work, friends, and boyfriends.

  I had been a serial dater from the age of fifteen beginning with my high school boyfriend. He was a terrific guy, an awesome influence (we didn’t drink because we were both in sports and made a pact with each other). He tucked me in every night, rubbed my head and feet, and called me Princess. He and I stayed together through the start of my sophomore year in college. I think we both believed that we would be together forever, giving in daily to the delusion and pressure that surrounds the phrase “high school sweethearts.” We didn’t make it forever, of course. But the attachment I had to him kept me always looking for someone to be by my side. Someone that loved me like he did. My Aunt Darci explained it to me once as “my imprint.” At that crucial time when we are developing into women, the man, or dating experience we have, makes an imprint on your life. He was my imprint, and from that moment on I was always in search of that fairy tale he and I had drawn up.

  I had an insane fear of being alone. I found such comfort in having a boyfriend; they validated me and bolstered my suffering self-esteem. I needed them. Or so I thought.

  When the career radio silence combined with the end of my relationships, I moved home single and feeling hopeless, the life I had dreamed for myself shattered. I was supposed to be this big time TV meteorologist with a handsome guy who would likely become my husband so I could soon have a family. That was the type of lofty expectation, of perfection, that drove me but also caused major harm.

  When the going got tough, I broke. I believe my new drug enhanced the low feeling, making me feel like life was not worth living.

  One night I snapped. My high school sweetheart was back and wanted to try being together again. He had come over to discuss this possibility and I couldn’t be honest with him. I still hadn’t learned how to say no and tell people how I really felt. I felt trapped by my inability to speak my mind. I didn’t want to upset him and I didn’t want to lose him forever. Suddenly there was this loud voice screaming at me, telling me that I was not strong enough, not good enough, and assuring me that my life was worthless. I was mentally transported to a strange dark room I had never been i
n. I felt imprisoned there. I couldn’t see light anywhere. It was cold and damp and no one could get in; yet oddly I didn’t want out. This is what depression looked and felt like to me. While all of this mental bending was going on, I listened to that voice. I locked myself in my bathroom and took out every bottle in my medicine cabinet and consumed every last pill.

  Thankfully my roommate and ex-boyfriend begged me to come out of the bathroom; they saw that I had taken everything and called 9-1-1. Thankfully the concoction I had taken was not lethal, and at the hospital they told me how lucky I was. “Had you taken this quantity of acetaminophen, this would have been a different story. Thank goodness it was mostly Benadryl and other relatively benign substances. Either way, I believe you need some help.”

  They suggested counseling and I went. I eventually ended up going to counseling a lot, but I don’t think I ever went there ready to listen or to enact change.

  My mom took me back to our house after my suicide attempt and insisted I stay with her until she felt I was safe. When I went to the bathroom, she asked me to keep the door open. It was so odd when I looked at myself in the mirror. I didn’t see the girl who had taken all those pills. I saw me again—as if it never happened. I wasn’t loving life by any means, but I couldn’t believe a day before I had tried to take my own life. That’s one of the wildest parts of depression. It can be so fleeting. Fickle, really. And very difficult to plan for. In the years to come, I would pop in and out of that dark room effortlessly. I would be having a fabulous day, whistling Dixie, and all of a sudden the windows would shut and the darkness would settle in like a fast rolling fog, obscuring all the light. The dark room usually came when I was confronted with conflict, making difficult decisions, or going through transitions. And just as quickly as it had settled in, I had an uncanny ability to pretend that dark room never existed as soon as the lights flickered back on.

  We have these scary bugs in our new house called sprickets (a spider and a cricket combined). They remind me of depression. They live in dark, damp places and jump at you when you least expect it. Unlike the spricket, which can’t really hurt you, depression can.

  Soon after the suicide attempt, I got the call from Flint, and for a short time my life had purpose again. I left behind the memory of the desolate girl in the cellar without windows and moved on—forgetting any of it happened, focused on the future. But it, my dark room and that other version of me, would return—again, and again, as sure the seasons.

  Every natural disaster needs a sidekick. Mine was Otis.

  Otis was a black lab who passed away just two weeks after my son was born, only a few weeks short of his own fourteenth birthday in early 2016. This dog was with me through every job, every city, every boyfriend, every apartment, and every natural disaster.

  I got Otis by sheer coincidence. A friend had heard from a friend that a dog breeder had two puppies left over from a litter that were not going to be showable because there was “something wrong with them.” But when I went to meet Otis, there was nothing wrong with him. It was love at first sight. That dog was meant for me. He whimpered as we drove home from a farm in Holland, Michigan. If I hadn’t taken him, the breeders were getting ready to drop him off at the Humane Society, which wasn’t a terrible place, but it wasn’t home with me.

  Within days, Otis’s unique personality started emerging. For instance, there was the time I woke up to the sound of an entire forty-pound bag of dog food cascading into his crate. Otis had gotten just tall enough in one week to nibble at the bag, which I had carefully placed on top of his crate away from him—or so I thought. The nibble opened a hole that kept getting bigger under the weight of the bag, and this waterfall of kibble was my fat puppy’s dream.

  The look Otis gave me when I busted him for his kibble hijacking was a lot like the look my son gives me when he gets caught—equal parts guilt and charm. This dog had a twinkle in his eye, and if dogs could have dimples, Otis did. He stole my heart in every moment we got to spend together. He never needed a leash. He was the funniest unfunny dog I’ve ever met, and he ended up being a tremendous source of calm for me in the middle of a lot of personal and professional storms.

  In the summer of 2003, just a few months after I got Otis, I finally got the call that someone was interested in my résumé tape. It was WEYI Flint/Saginaw/Bay City/Midland. The station covered all those cities but was based in Clio. I drove across the state from Grand Rapids for my first grown-up career interview. What does a natural disaster wear to her first real interview? The highest-waisted pink linen pantsuit on the market, of course. It was summer, so I thought it was appropriate to don the matching Casual Corner low-heeled sandals with the leather carnation between my big toe and second toe. By the time I arrived after the two-and-a-half-hour drive, I learned the lesson that there is nothing about traveling, being nervous, or job interviews that goes with linen.

  There’s a saying in the Midwest for those raised in a really rural area: “I grew up in a cornfield.” Most of the time this is an exaggeration, but as I exited Interstate 75 at Birch Run, I took a left onto a bumpy road that was legitimately in a cornfield. I could see the broadcast tower in the distance, and it was huge! (The tallest in the state of Michigan at the time, I believe.) The street leading to the station off Willard Road was marked by a giant peacock sign (for NBC) that read WEYI 25. I was early, and that was a good thing, because just as I was about to turn at the NBC peacock sign, a train of wild turkeys started crossing the road. Despite the farm surrounding it, it was surreal to pull into a television station where there was an actual possibility that, if I didn’t screw it up, I might have a job. The building looked sad and gray, and the receptionist inside looked even sadder, but the news director who had invited me to the interview was glorious.

  Her name was Valerie Roberts. Valerie was a tall, stately, beautiful black woman with the kind of short hair that makes you want short hair, even though you know you could never pull it off like she did. Valerie led me back through the hallways, past a real control room and a real studio, and then to the real newsroom. Her office was in the back corner, understated and with one window that overlooked the woods and cornfield.

  We chatted in her office and she introduced me to several of my potential coworkers. I left feeling pretty good, and within a week, Valerie called with a job offer. I was going to be Mid-Michigan’s newest weekend meteorologist, working the Saturday- and Sunday-night shows as well as reporting three days a week. Valerie told me that she was looking forward to having me at the station and that she would see me as soon as the contracts were signed.

  Well, as a twenty-two-year-old with very little professional experience, I hardly read the contract. I saw $22,000 and $23,500 respectively for years one and two and thought, Sure, why not? I just want to work in TV. No problem that after taxes that salary would barely cover my mortgage even after I got two roommates. No problem that I would have no extra money to pay for my school loans or food or even a rental at Family Video. No problem that all I would eat on at least five days a week for two years was a bean burrito at Taco Bell for seventy-nine cents. No problem. Because I was finally going to be on television full-time.

  I was pretty proud of myself for not screwing up the interview and for getting this dream job. So proud that I let down my guard, and natural-disaster Ginger reared her ugly head and made a huge mistake. For some reason, I thought that since I now had my first grown-up job, I needed a grown-up living situation. As far as natural-disaster Ginger was concerned, grown-ups buy houses when they have grown-up jobs. Never mind that this particular grown-up, me, had student loans and a car payment and an annoying desire to eat every day. And never mind that in my line of work, I was probably going to be moving every two years when my contract came up. I was going to buy a house.

  As if my lack of ability to handle a house wasn’t ridiculous enough, the house I chose was even more absurd. I thought I’d get a house I could flip and make money on. I knew very little about doing this
work myself, but my mom and stepdad are experts, and they would drive across the state of Michigan every weekend for the length of my contract just so the renovation would be done in time for me to sell it and move on. Sometimes I think it’s really a miracle I survived myself.

  The house was in Flushing, Michigan, and it cost $113,000. It was a corner lot and had a huge backyard for Otis. I put the offer in just days before I had to officially start the job. In my first real-estate lesson, I learned that closing can take up to two months.

  But where would I live? WEYI had a solution: they put me up in a bed-and-breakfast in Clio.

  So, back in Grand Rapids, I packed up what I believed I would need for my first week on the job, figuring I would go back to get the rest on my days off and move it all when I finally got my house. I kissed Otis goodbye (I left him with my parents until I closed on the house), assuring him that I would be back for him in just a few short weeks, and made the drive blasting music and feeling like my life was really about to begin.

  I arrived late in the evening to the modest house where I’d be staying and was greeted by a nice couple that owned the place. They brought me up to my room and I proceeded to dance in the mirror and sing a few of my favorite songs to celebrate this momentous occasion. In the middle of my “Leader of the Pack” rendition, as I was prepping my outfit for my first day, I realized my shoes were missing.

  I ran to my car in a panic, but the shoes were nowhere to be found. All I had were the sneakers in my bag and the flip-flops I had on. Oh, my goodness. I was less than twelve hours from starting my first day of my first salaried job, and I didn’t have shoes. It was eleven at night, so all the stores were closed, and I needed to sleep.

  So I showed up for my first job in television wearing my favorite pantsuit and flip-flops. The looks I got from my new coworkers varied from snarky to mildly amused to confused. Valerie took me through the station and introduced me to everyone, including the chief meteorologist, Mark Torregrossa, a staple of Mid-Michigan weather coverage, who seemed really happy and grateful to have me on the team—even if I was nearly barefoot. He ran through the graphics system with me and gave me a wink as he coughed and said he wasn’t feeling that well. I didn’t know what that meant, but I did know I liked him. He had been working for twenty days straight, waiting for them to hire me and was ready for a day off. We talked, laughed, and worked, and all of a sudden I saw the time. It was eight P.M. The day had flown by and the stores were closed again! Oh, well, I thought. Tomorrow I’ll make a run to the store as soon as I am done with my second day of training. Everyone already met me in flip-flops. It’s not going to hurt to wear them one more day.