Death

If I were to stay in journalism for a long time, I suppose I would gradually not remember all of these people I have covered. There are many that I have already forgotten. Deaths have a way of sticking in my mind though. Sometimes it is the unusual cause of death that burns it in my memory. Other times it is the one who has gone or the ones that remain that are forever with me.

The first obituary I ever wrote was for Jackie Watkins, the longest tenured professor at Midwestern State University. It was on deadline -- he had passed away on deadline day at the newspaper. I interviewed his widow and a family friend. His wife was so gracious to speak with me, and I think for my first obituary it worked out fairly well. I remember how nervous I was and how I had to muffle the urge to say "have a good day" as was my common way to hang up the phone back then. I don't do that anymore.

Since then it has been a flurry of people that my words have announced the parting of lives from this world. 15-year-old Zachary Weir and his adult assailant Eloise Evans' suicide was the first murder I ever covered. I can still remember the day clearly. I was the only reporter on duty and had spent most of the day at a gas leak in another part of Amarillo. When I got back no one had checked the paper-jammed fax machine. At 5:30 p.m. that evening the news editor handed me the fax and I looked at it in disbelief. And then I hopped into action. I didn't get much more information than was in the press release, but I learned a lot. But the thought of that little boy has never left me.

I didn't do many obituaries in Amarillo, especially once I had moved to the features department. Here at the PDN, I have written many.

Kaylee Springfield. When this smiling little girl died, I took a break, went to my car and cried. I know it is looked down on by many in the business to be emotional about the deaths we cover, I think it makes me better at my job sometimes. Certainly a better human. Kaylee died from complications from leukemia. Her mother suffers from brain cancer, had breast cancer and ovarian cancer. When her mom came in to tell us that Kaylee had died, she asked for me and we went to the conference room and she told me about her daughter's last minutes. Unfortunately she had been in a medicine-induced coma because the pain from the treatment was too much to handle. When I asked her mom what she wanted people to remember about her daughter, she said, "Her smile." I think when the story was through with editing the quote ended up at the end. I hope some people made it there. Kaylee's smile was something special. It is hard to believe that I knew so much about the child and yet I never met her or even spoke to her. It was her mother that really impacted me. The raw grief that was void of tears while we sat in the conference room vibrated through me. The way Kim's tiny body trembled when she hugged me and said, "thank you" for the stories I had written. I talked to Kim the other day and I still feel a connection, though I'm fairly sure that I was far more impacted by her family than she by me.

Christin Stock. This murder-suicide was so alarming and emotional to cover that I briefly considered quitting journalism right then and there. The young mother was making her way through school on the way to her teaching certificate when she was brutally murdered by her ex-boyfriend who also killed himself in the process. Her two daughters were upstairs at the time. Their faces when they ran out of the house under the cover of police and into the arms of family friends (their only surviving relatives were all out of state at the time) are burned in my mind. I was choking up interviewing neighbors. Through the next week I think I proved myself to my bosses by getting the stories done. I also proved myself to the law enforcement. Since this time, I have continued to have a good relationship with them. I doubt they remember this incident in particular, but it really was an important time to show sensitivity while maintaining a composure. I also proved to myself that I was stronger than I thought.