The story of wonder-anchor Bob Woodruff got deeper for me after he woke up from his IED-induced coma, although I'll admit to being reduced to sobs by the sheer mechanics of the attack. I have long admired those who maintained their dignity through humbling situations -- and losing the ability to think, to speak and to perceive is an identity-stripping situation for someone who surely must identify himself, in a fundamental way, as a journalist.

It was sweet and painful to see Woodruff play learning games with his children ... diffusing tension by singing about his rehabilitation work while dancing with his wife ... talking with a young serviceman who also has severe restriction of his field of vision about having one good set of eyes between them.

As my friends no doubt know, I bumped my head some years back hard enough to crush my C-7 and, despite testing that assures me I'm still oh-so-brilliant, I can feel the loss of function. And I feel my own frustration. I admire Woodruff's ability to maintain his equanimity while being filmed at less than peak performance, and I admire his ability to admit that he is still not fully firing on all 12 cylinders. Part of me feels inadequate, like a slacker or a whiner, for not just standing up and doing what he is now doing. The fact of the matter is that it didn't go so well for me when I took the same robust approach, and my traditionally overexuberant confidence level diminished substantially as a result.

I worry, too, that Woodruff is pushing himself too hard for the sake of his recovery, the sake of a crucially important story and for the sake of other noble goals which I can only project onto him. I try not to play the celebrity game. I try to realize that those in the spotlight are every bit as human as the people I meet on the street every day, and that fame gives no one a right to guide my life. But we can't help but pick out both the cautionary tales and the role models in the media.

I cannot help but adopt Bob Woodruff as -- at the very least -- a mascot as I continue to insist that I will not only survive the challenges of life, but that I'll also succeed at thriving.

[This may lower my street cred, but, believe it or not, it was Latin pop superstar Gloria Estafan who was a role model for me when I first broke my neck. A tour bus accident had broken her back around the same time, and she came out of the experience with such strength and grace, releasing a musical work (Mi Tierra) of depth and beauty as she did. She helped me motivate to keep my mind and body active and to get back as quickly as I could to good, hard, productive work.]

I've already sweated for one journalist, a colleague and penpal, when he was embedded some years back in the Iraqi engagement. I've had the privilege of fullfilling a promise to buy a New Jersey Reservist a beer when he finished his tour. I also offered to buy -- and ship -- a dress to the guy who was getting the nickname "Klinger" for his devotion to getting back home to his kids at the end of his civilian commitment there. I was a footnote at one of many media gatherings that celebrated the spirit of writer and editor Michael Kelly after he was killed in theater. Let's just say sometimes I delude myself into thinking that it might have been less exhausting to have gone ahead and enlisted.

And I do drag around this sad little bag of guilt for identifying with the "signature injury" of this miltary action without ever having served. Whatever closed head trauma I suffered is nothing compared to the violent percussions and concussions these men and women have.

Yet despite a staggering catalog of objects that were imbedded in and travelling through his body, our favorite embed talks about each near miss as a miracle. And he has been deflecting death and disability at every turn. I want to cultivate his ability to touch base with the positive, to recognize the luck that lets him see his loved ones and lets him return to his life's work. We are lucky to be able to listen to his stories again, and we are luckier that his story right now entwines with the lives of our veterans.

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On other, lighter note: As soon as my buddy can set up his account, we'll see a posting from him -- a romantic meal field tested on St. Valentine's Day but suitable for wooing your sweetie whenever the mood strikes. And don't let the fact that he splurged on some cheap bubbly fool you. This guy knows how to eat and drink. I wouldn't call him a role model in that respect, but more of the kind of guy you'd love to have hosting (or attending) your dinner party, at home or out on the town.

Enjoy.

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I have plans to enrich the above post with a few links. Until then, gentlemen, start your search engines ...