Want to Join the Save the Children Team?
WRAL Weather app is want to Join the Save the Children Team? better! What is an Elder Law attorney? A friend wanted you to see this item from WRAL. Jeff Hogan, an award-winning reporter and anchor who spent the past 20 years at WBNS in Columbus, Ohio, will join the WRAL Morning News team in January, and will take the baton from Bill Leslie when he retires next summer.
Hogan is a graduate of the University of Rhode Island who started his career as a sports reporter, working in New Jersey, New York, Texas and Virginia before landing in Columbus. Jeff is a seasoned and accomplished anchor who has a real passion for news. He excels during breaking news and continuous coverage, and I’m confident viewers will find him to be personable and engaging. We’re really excited about adding him to the morning team,” said WRAL-TV News Director Rick Gall.
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Hogan’s morning news philosophy is to deliver necessary information without wasting precious time. Some of the most important aspects of morning news include getting your day started with information that is going to serve you throughout your day,” he says. News you shouldn’t be without, news that will make you smarter, more insightful and maybe even help you win a bet at work. WRAL-TV General Manager Steve Hammel said, “Our morning team is dynamic. Jeff’s addition to our team will give viewers yet another reason to get their day going in an upbeat, enjoyable way.
We are delighted Jeff is joining the WRAL family. Hogan is married with two teen daughters, and is also a self-confessed “avid endurance junkie” and finisher of triathlons and ultra-marathons. I once ran 100 miles in a day and thought it was fun,” he says. I plan to continue punishing myself in North Carolina. Hogan’s first day at WRAL will be Jan.
Copyright 2017 by Capitol Broadcasting Company. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed. Free Credit Score – No Card Required! The “as low as” rate is at 3. The ‘as low as” rate is at 3.
Please sign in with your WRAL. You also will need a Facebook account to comment. Can we bring back Lori Clowers I miss her. I have a feeling that Jeff will be a welcome addition. Something is going on at WRAL.
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The browser you are using is incompatible. Her girls tripped over toys on the floor. Their grandfather said he couldn’t teach them to pedal their tricycles. Hempel watched a younger child jump off a sofa and realized her own toddlers never tried such stunts. Addison and Cassidy Hempel, her identical twins, shared a crib, sleeping side-by-side on star-and-moon sheets, in a room painted yellow, toys everywhere. Hempel and her husband, Hugh, woke to the girls chattering over the baby monitor.
The twins loved pretending to talk on the phone. After the twins were born on Jan. 23, 2004, the Hempels bought land in Reno, Nev. Hempel said, for the girls to bring all their friends. The winter the girls turned 2 marked an end to all that. The twins first had fevers and vomiting. The pediatrician found their spleens were enlarged, and she treated them for mononucleosis.
After the mono was gone, their spleens remained abnormal. Their parents took them to a children’s hospital at Stanford University. Friends tried to be reassuring: The girls were born five weeks early, they said, maybe they had a developmental delay. Or, they were taller than average, perhaps this explained their awkwardness. The twins got another virus when they were 3 years old.
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This time, their livers were enlarged, and the doctor suspected something called a lysosomal storage disease. Hempel learned these diseases included more than 50 inherited disorders, marked by the failure of cells to process and recycle waste. The materials accumulated in cells, eventually triggering a range of problems, including seizures and dementia. Doctors ordered a skin biopsy to test for a particularly rare disease called Niemann-Pick Type C. There are an estimated 500 cases of NPC disease diagnosed world-wide, mostly children.
It gradually steals mobility, speech, the ability to swallow. Patients who take ill as children rarely live beyond their teens. But in my heart, I knew. The tests came back positive, and Ms. For three months, she needed pills to sleep.
After the diagnosis, the couple spent more and more of their time online. They looked for experimental treatments, a potential drug in the pipeline, promising research, anything. Chris Hempel found condolences but little hope. Hempel learned, the more upset she became. Some labs were testing different compounds, but the work was at its very early stages. Until their twins got sick, Hugh and Chris Hempel knew little about science. But they knew how to work and how to win.
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As teenagers, they each pursued sports. Hempel lived in Denver, where he played hockey. He grew to 6 foot 4 inches and joined the University of Vermont team as a freshman. He quit to have more time to study engineering and business. Outside class, he waited tables to pay his way through school.
Hempel’s view of medicine was shaped by his grandfather, a plastic surgeon. The older man would sometimes stitch up his grandson after games, and Mr. You’re Welcome To Go Get A Second Opinion. Hempel was the shooting guard on the basketball team at Mills High School in Millbrae, a Northern California town. Sports were a way out of a difficult childhood.
Hempel’s mother was 17, and they divorced when Ms. Hempel, the youngest of four children, was 7. Hempel as popular and pretty, with blue eyes and long, jet-black hair. She devoted her time to playing basketball and studying game tapes.
Her obsession was winning a college scholarship. Hempel moved in with her father, who let her practice three-point shots at all hours. She made the all-state team and won a scholarship to the University of California, Berkeley. In college, she studied political science and broke records for three-point shooting. She joined Netscape in 1995, employee No. 132, a low badge number that carried status in Silicon Valley, along with generous stock options.
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Hempel helped run Netscape’s PR department, forging a tightknit group of women there. Selling the World Wide Web barely left time for lunch. Dish,’’ a hilly route above Stanford University named for the radio-telescope at the summit. Do something first, apologize later, was the Netscape way. Hempel’s colleagues said she was a good fit. When a new boss ordered an 8 a. Hempel refused, saying her morning workouts made her more productive.
The boss agreed to 9 a. Hempel also joined Netscape in 1995—employee No. 161, in charge of electronic marketing. They were only work acquaintances until a late-night party at the house of Mr. Someone suggested hiring a limousine to take everyone dancing. In the hired car, they sat side-by-side.
Hempel said she felt a jolt when they touched and was certain he felt it, too. They married in 1999, and a business magazine noted the couple sent their invitations by email. The Hempels didn’t know that they each carried a gene mutation that in their twins yielded the NPC disease. The couple discovered online a small community of families, researchers and doctors linked by NPC disease. Hempel created a blog to post medical updates about her girls and to share scientific papers.
She tapped into a stream of discontent flowing through chat groups and patient sites, complaints that science moved too slowly to keep up with the symptoms progressing in loved ones. The Hempels learned of people who called themselves citizen-scientists. Many shared research papers and their day-to-day experience. Some talked of their willingness to try any promising drug.
Others sought a role as equal partners with researchers. Scientists, while sympathetic, generally believe their work should be left to experts. Families are encouraged to raise money if they want to help, but the traditional view is that amateurs can’t shape research or find cures. The Hempels found a maddening gap between the search for scientific knowledge and the search for treatments.
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Hempel said, but too many are hobbled by secrecy and rigid tradition. To change that, the Hempels needed to find allies. In October 2007, the Hempels flew to Minneapolis with the twins to see Marc C. Patterson, an expert in NPC disease at the Mayo Clinic. Many young patients and their parents had passed through his office in Rochester, Minn. Without a cure for NPC, Dr. Patterson said, doctors could treat only symptoms, prescribing medicine for seizures or asthma drugs to ease breathing.
He told them about a doctor named Forbes D. Porter at the National Institutes of Health, who examined NPC patients each year to record their progress. The information would help researchers see if a drug was working in a future clinical trial, and his patients would be likely trial candidates. The Hempels wanted to sign up the girls. Chris and Hugh Hempel sat on a couch, the twins on their laps clutching stuffed dogs, as Dr. Patterson began speaking about the idea of scientists and families working together to accelerate the search for a treatment.
Patterson told them he had joined forces with two scientists and a parent seeking to reshape traditional research. The men wanted to link the observations of families with the work of scientists. They named their collaboration SOAR—Support of Accelerated Research for Niemann-Pick Type C—and hoped others would join them. Patterson said the group and some of his colleagues planned to meet the next month with other parents to talk over their ideas at the NIH, the U.
Lured by the promise of science, families of patients with rare diseases began making their way to the laboratory of Christopher P. He was director of the NIH Chemical Genomics Center in Rockville, Md. 20 million, 30,000 square-foot system of refrigerators, automated incubators and computers. Machines work around-the-clock, testing hundreds of thousands of compounds against a variety of mostly rare diseases. One of the first parents to visit was a woman whose college-age son had a rare cancer. During a tour in 2006, Dr. Austin told her that instead of 17 years to develop a new drug, the new lab could cut the time to 10 years.
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I love your technology,’ ’’ Dr. But for my child and this disease, 10 years, 15 years, isn’t going to work. Isn’t there something else we can do? It was a question he would hear again and again. Even with robots working day and night, Dr. Austin said, the arithmetic was discouraging.
Pharmaceutical companies were the primary organizations with the resources to support large clinical drug trials, and Dr. Austin didn’t think they were doing enough for rare diseases. If the NIH didn’t do more, he said, many patients would be left to die. Researchers worried it would shrink the pot of NIH grants for basic science. Austin loved the elegance of lab work, but he believed basic research was too often removed from patients.
Austin shuttled between the genetics department of Harvard Medical School and the New England Conservatory of Music, where he sang bass baritone. Now, as head of the robot lab, Dr. Austin wondered how science could build a better partnership with the sick. With that in mind, he hosted the meeting of NPC scientists, researchers and parents in November 2007. The room that day filled with the makings of a fragile alliance of parents and scientists.
Chris Hempel sat next to Dr. Sitting nearby was Phil Marella, of Greenwich, Conn. Porter, of the NIH, joined the meeting. Patterson was there with Daniel S. Ory, an NPC scientist and Harvard classmate of Dr.
Walkley, a tall, bearded researcher who had worked on NPC disease since the late 1980s—all three men founders of the SOAR group. The meeting set the stage for six years of debate over which experimental drugs to pursue and whether any was safe to try on children. Scientists urged families to delay promising treatments until they learned more. Researchers worked under the pressure of helping young patients they knew by name. All sides faced risk and sacrifice.
Despite the challenges, the group came to believe their work would one day yield a treatment, and, if successful, they just might steer a new course for medical research in the U. The 2007 meeting ended in a small victory. NIH officials agreed to use Dr. Austin’s lab to test drugs on skin cells from children with NPC disease. It was only a first step. He thought these parents and scientists might be the right group to test his ideas about greater collaboration.