deadlinediva's Blog

I've never been a circus performer, but I do know what it's like to walk a tightrope.

All too often we tell tragic tales... stories of real human tragedy... of families that shed real tears... whose cries and wails tear at the very heart and soul of anyone who stands in their presence.

Today was one of those days.

I inately knew when I walked into our morning production meeting that I would tell the story of a little boy... and 11-month-old... whom police say was murdered at the hands of his mother's 18-year-old boyfriend.

After getting the hard facts from police - real men, most fathers themselves who were sickened at the sight of a child who died so tragically - I found out where some of the family members lived.

So, photojournalist David Weatherly and I locked the address in to the GPS, and drove to the family's home. On the way we pondered how we'd be received. In some cases, we are welcomed. In others, we are turned away harshly. Everyone deals with death differently.

As we pulled into the driveway, I took a deep breath, opened the door and walked toward the front porch of the home. There a young grandfather met me. He was gracious and kind and thankful that I cared enough about his grandson that I would come and want to honor him. You have no idea how rare that reception is. I told him how sorry I was for his loss and assured him we were there to pay respect to this little boy. As I apologized for having to be there in the first place, I also let him know how his words about his grandson would be an open tribute to him and his short life. Then I saw the child's mother - a young woman herself who was obviously broken-hearted. There was a hollow void in her eyes, a quiver to her lips, a sadness from her soul that permeated the porch.

I asked her if she wanted to tell the story of what happened. At first she shook her head "no". I understood. It's a lot to ask anyone  to recount such a horrible event, much less the woman who had given birth to him only months before. Then, she recanted. She didn't want the microphone on her, which I held in my hand instead, but she would tell the story so other young mothers would not make her mistake. Her message was for mothers not to leave their children with just anyone. She said she walked outside the motel room for a few minutes to smoke a cigarette and while she was outside her boyfriend became enraged with her baby's crying. She says he admitted to her later that he didn't mean to do it, but he got so angry. She says she did not know when she walked back inside and saw the baby "twitching" that he was actually dying. Hours later she says she awakened to change the baby's diaper and found him still and lifeless. He was pronounced dead at a hospital that was only about 500 feet away.

It is a tightrope when telling these stories. As a journalist, you don't want to exploit a family's grief, ever. Never. But you realize stories have a short shelf-life and you have an obligaton to viewers to share as much about the story as you possibly can from those who were there, who can shed light and tell the story acurately.

As a mom myself, I can tell you I am heartbroken for this family that they would ever have to go through such grief. I ache for a child who will not take his first step, speak his first word, grow into a man and have his own kids. Being the conduit between the victims and the viewers is not always easy. But it is an honor and a privilege I do not take lightly.