I didn't question whether I could handle the deaths
of two little girls in a Hopkinton house explosion last Wednesday, believing
I would and could cover this story like any other horrific fire, accident or
murder.
I should have wondered - maybe then I would have been prepared for the
feelings that took over like a powerful wave the night after the explosion.
I fought the sadness while I rinsed hummus and cheese off a dish in my
kitchen sink, but my battle only made the emotions stronger.
The plate dropped and my head fell, shaking with the rest of my body as
tears welled in my eyes and slid down my trembling cheeks. I held onto the
edge of the sink and slid to the floor. I sat there for what seemed liked
hours - it was no more than 10 minutes - and played the movie in my mind.
There was a smiling Violet Carey, 51/2, cradling the head of her baby
sister, Iris, 4, as the happy pair cuddled together. I flashed to their
mother, Tara Carey, and could see her recount the horror of hearing her
girl's last desperate gasps for air.
It had happened. I lost all sense of control and gave in to my emotions.
As a reporter trained to fight back any attachment to a story, I knew I had
failed. But I just couldn't help but feel the absolute desperation and
devastation of losing two children so young and full of life.
I don't even have children, but I felt it. I felt it when I saw my
boyfriend that night. I hugged him so hard and didn't want to let go. I felt
it when I called my mom and dad the next day. I knew it when I lay awake in
bed, afraid to sleep. Life is so precious and fragile. It finally got to me,
my awareness of mortality.
And it continued for the next few days. My heart pounding, my palms
clammy and my chest tight. As a 25-year-old marathoner in great health,
there's no way I could have had a heart attack. It's anxiety, my doctor
said. I told her it started a day after I was assigned to cover the
Hopkinton explosion. "That would do it," she said.
Being a reporter is a tough job and I've always loved it. As a sensitive
softie, I know I let things in my professional life affect me more than I
should. But I'm proud of my ability to feel so deeply. It takes its toll,
however, when I cover stories about children like Violet and Iris.
It's not just a story, at least for me. I get to know the family. I see
their pain as I stand helpless. I want to help. I want to hug. I want to do
something other than just stand there and ask questions that put them in
more pain. But I continue to do my job, knowing that ultimately I am doing
something good.
That realization came on Thursday afternoon when Tara and Heath Carey
told me they didn't want to rehash their story again for another reporter.
The couple had already given an informal press conference, but I only caught
the end of it.
I told them I didn't want to put them through the ordeal again, and only
had a few questions to ensure my facts were straight. They agreed.
So I started talking. I asked if they were in the same bed with their
daughters and whether they smelled gas the night before. Tara started
talking first. Heath just stood by and stared. They didn't seem pleased with
me and, frankly, I didn't blame them. I would have told me to go jump in a
river, but in more colorful language.
I was going to wrap up and leave when Heath started to explain how he was
trapped and could reach out and touch one of his daughters.
The couple continued to talk in an animated way about frantically
searching for their children and trying to get out of the house. I was
surprised, although I shouldn't have been. I've seen it enough to know that
people dealing with tragedy often don't even know they need to talk until
they start talking.
So I drove back to the newsroom thinking about how I had to do this
family justice. I had to show the love as best I could. They deserved to at
least get that out of all this intrusion into their grief. I hope my own
feelings of sadness, the ones I'm not supposed to have, helped bring out the
despair of those who loved Violet and Iris.
Most of all I just want people to understand how precious those two girls
were and how with just a smile and cuddle they affected someone they never
met who tried not to care. I know I'm not alone.
(Jennifer Rosinski is a News staff writer. She can be reached at
508-626-4416 or jrosinski@cnc.com)
