knock, knock

Sometimes this job is really hard.

It has nothing to do with deadlines, heavy equipment, or (in this state) heat. Well, okay; sometimes it does- but reporters are often put to a task that makes hauling 40 lbs worth of cameras, cords and tripods through 90 degree heat with four minutes til slot seem like cakewalk.

We knock on the doors of the mourning.

We call them victim’s families, next of kin- whatever it takes to sugarcoat the fact that they are about to bury someone they love. It’s the absolute worst part of the job. My palms sweat, my stomach turns, I feel like I’m going to pass out. I am not scared of much, but I am terrified in the moments walking up the sidewalk and waiting for the knob to turn.

It doesn’t get easier with time.

Today, I met a man whose whole life has turned upside down in the past 48 hours. He was having a weekend cookout with friends and family while his kids played in the yard. His toddler ran too quickly toward the rest of the group and suddenly, he was underwater in the community lake.

This man’s two-year-old is now a statistic. More toddlers die of drowning in Florida than any other state in the nation. Since going on the air here less than three weeks ago, I’ve covered two toddler drowning stories. It happens too often.

But to a father, a son will never be a statistic. I usually keep it together pretty well at work; I have never felt so heartbroken during an interview than I did with this man. He didn’t need to go on camera and talk to us. He owed us nothing. He simply didn’t want what happened to his family to happen to any other family, and that gave him the strength to get the words out. I can tell he is a great father, no matter what people say about these circumstances.

This afternoon, R and I were put in a pinch. We had a live hit at 4, but the satellite truck didn’t show up at the lake until 3:40. I hadn’t gone through my interview yet to log the sound I needed to send back to the station- I hadn’t even thought about a script for my 5 o’clock package. For the first time in a long time, I worried about missing slot. I felt like puking.

Somehow, it all got finished, and I managed to catch my breath long enough to get out my live intros and tags in both the 4 and 5. When we finally tore down to head back to the office, I slumped in the passenger seat and for a split second thought about how exhausting my day was.

That’s when I realized—compared to the man in this video, my day was a walk in the park. All I had to do was tell his story; he had to live it.

I hope knocking on those doors never gets easier.