Tragedy

25 years ago today, I sat on the couch and watched the space shuttle lift off magnificently, only to transform into an enormous line of flames and smoke.  It is an image so clear in my mind, it is hard to imagine 25 years have passed.

It was a snow day, which meant we were home from school.  We gathered around the family room television because we knew the launch was scheduled to take place.  Just seconds before the explosion, I was thinking about how exciting it all was…and how I would love to be the person explaining what was happening as the big ship lifted into the air.

After we realized what happened,  I cried and began feeling so sorry for the astronaut’s children who were probably watching as I was.  There could be no more horrible way to learn of your loved one’s death than to see it live on television or in person.  But while my brother and I were so saddened by what happened, I was also transfixed on the coverage.  I couldn’t get up.  I sat and watched for hours long after he went to play with his toys.  It was morbid, yet I wanted to hear from everyone and see their reactions.  I decided then and there that reporting was what I would do for a living.  My parents bought me a tape recorder so I could practice my interviews.  Eventually, I became a television reporter who had to seperate myself from tragedy.  It isn’t nearly as glamorous as it sounds.  Campus shootings, murders, death and despair.  I covered 13 years of horrible and wonderful events.  9-11 was the worst for me.  Every American had to find a way to push their fears, saddness, and other personal emotions deep down while we kept moving.  Those in the news business never had the time to heal from our hurt, to call those we were concerned about.  We had to find a local angle – other than our own.

Now, 25 years later, I see these tragedies so much differently.  I think about each year that has passed and how difficult it must be for those left behind.  I think about the editorials and the one-liners and how hurtful they can be to the families.

Now that I am a parent, the worst mental image is that of my son’s depair.  The look on his face if he was to suffer such a loss.  It is heart wrenching, to say the least.  The feeling of being powerless to stop something bigger than us is so overwhelming to me.

In the last few years I covered news stories, they became so silly.  I hated  asking people how they felt after a tragedy.  I knew it was time for a change.  I still want to reach for a microphone when some big story happens, but I also want to send a check, condolences, something…ANYTHING to help those who are the victims.

It is so hard to understand why these things happen to anyone.  Yet, they do.  Every day. 

I remember the astronauts, the shooting victims, the families of tragedy.  I don’t remember all of their names, but I pray for them.  We all should for we are still here and are blessed to enjoy all we do each day.