Nothing is worse than losing a child; that's what I've always heard.
To outlive your child is torturous. It's pain no parent wants to think about.
As another story about a young Winthrop student who died in a car accident ran on the front page this week, I sat in front of a computer thinking about the pain families go through.
I haven't lost anyone close to me since I was eight or nine years old when my grandpa died.
But he was old and had emphysema. He was in and out of the hospital the last year of his life. I know he was ready.
Our family was prepared.
But Hannah Floyd's family was not. She was 24-years-old. She had just graduated from Winthrop, a double major in biology and psychology.
She was young, like me, right on the edge of everything that laid ahead of her.
But all of those plans I'm sure she made, and the hopes her friends and family had for her were torn away as the car she was a passenger in slid off of northbound Interstate 85.
Over one year ago, a similar situation claimed the life of a Winthrop student, DJ Watson. He was headed back from Columbia, his hometown, in the early hours of a Saturday morning when his tire blew out and the SUV rolled over.
As news editor at that time, I had to call his family and friends.
Less than 10 hours after DJ's death I was dialing his dad's cell phone number. I remember not knowing what to say at all.
Somewhere in between picking up my phone and dialing the last of the ten numbers, it occurred to me that although I was making the hardest call I've ever had to make as a journalist, it had to be harder for the family member on the other end.
Us journalists spend a lot of time sitting behind our computers, filling our contact lists with sources and reading lots of reports and press releases. We typically are quick-thinkers, smooth-talkers and analytical people.
But some situations can't be scripted, can't be prepared for and have no clear "right" answer.
It's in these moments that the best--perhaps the only--thing we can do is to just be human; to say to the person on the other end of the phone the thing we would most need to hear if roles were switched.
By the time the phone rang a few times and DJ's dad answered, I still felt almost speechless. I introduced myself and asked if he would be willing to talk with me about his son.
He agreed to the interview, saying I was the first reporter to call since his son had passed away and that he didn't know what information I needed.
I explained that I'd talked with DJ's friends and his girlfriend but that I had never met him. I expressed my sympathy and said I wouldn't take much of his time.
But nothing I'd said at that point made me feel that I was making DJ's dad feel any better.
What would I want to hear from a journalist writing a story had I just lost my child?
Finally I think I said something "right...."
"Mr. Watson, I don't want to write a story about DJ's death. Can we talk about his life?"
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