Tuesday, January 6, 2015

Sometimes I hate my job...

We all live in our own private hells. 

As I spoke to a gentleman this evening I was left pondering over the following questions: Can parents ever get over the loss of their child needlessly - to a road accident? Dreams, hopes, all crushed?

And what is worse? 

That someone from a newspaper calls you to talk about your decision to donate your child's organs and she may also need a photo? 

Or that she may be so sickened by the thought of even asking those questions and noting their answers down in a note pad that she may want this story reassigned to someone else? 

How is this reporter going to talk to the mother of that 18 year old tomorrow? 

Sometimes I hate my job. And I live in my own private hell knowing that I have stoked wounds that are still fresh.
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