Inspiration for the road ahead

It is October 27th, which means that I have something like 54 days until graduation. That's 54 days until I can work full time, and 54 days until I can have my life and sanity back. Of course, there's no guarantee that I can find "real" job in the next 54 days, especially given the state of the economy and Colorado's freeze on all public safety jobs, but at least I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. But where I'll go after I reach the end of that tunnel, I have no idea.

Many people have asked me, and I'm sure will continue to ask me, why in the HECK do I want to "work with dead people"? My joking response is typically, "they are patients that don't talk back". But in truth, there is a much larger and more important story behind my interest. As I sit here watching a Today show segment on the murder of KATV newsanchor Anne Pressly in Arkansas, I'm reminded that telling my story is therapeutic for me in a world of violence and death. So here goes...

It was my Sophomore year of High School. I think it was a Tuesday night, but I can't remember exactly. My brother had hockey practice, and him and my dad weren't expected home for another hour or so. It must have been around 9 or 10pm, mom and I were turning off the lights in the family room & closing the blinds before heading to bed, when mom saw people with flashlights in our neighbors' backyard. My parents' house sits just a bit higher than the houses behind it, so we had a pretty good view of this yard & even the col-de-sac that the house resided on. We knew it wasn't normal for random people to be rummaging through a friend's yard late at night. Then they started coming into OUR yard. More flashlights, as if they were searching for something, not just trying to guide themselves in the dark. We quickly called our friends who lived next to the house whose yard was beind searched, but they too had no idea what was going on. Over the next hour or so we watched these strangers continue to search, even shining their lights onto the roof of the home. What seemed even more odd was the fact that they weren't entering the house for more than a few seconds at a time. The lights in the kitchen were on, the back door was wide open, but no one would stay in the house.

Eventually, my dad and brother came home, but since they are less nosy than my mom and I, they ignored the strangers crawling around the perimeter of the backyard. Then the phone call came. Minutes after we had called our friends to see if they knew anything, their own doorbell rang and they were confronted by two police officers. One of the officers asked to use their bathroom, and our neighbor bartered with him - "You can use my bathroom if you tell me what's going on". Quite forwardly the officer responded, "The sonuva bitch shot his wife and kids, that's what's going on". When we got the phone call, all I remember is hyperventalating for the first and only time in my life.

Despite sharing a fence with this family, we hadn't spoken to them in depth for almost a year before hand. They had children considerably younger than my brother and I, and I got the feeling that they felt they no longer had anything in common with my family. Before kids, my parents threw them their first baby shower. Years later, my brother and I used to cross into their yard and play on the swingset with their son, or watch videos with him. But once their twins were born, and my brother and I of course got older, we socialized less and less. Regardless of these changes, never in a million years would we suspect problems.

The night the bodies were found, the details began to unravel....messy, disturbing, mysterious details. He was on anti-depressants after coming into financial problems. He told his coworkers that him and his family were going on vacation, so they wouldn't hear from him for a few weeks. His wife, a school teacher, had those next few weeks off anyway from class...and so did his kids. Perfect timing. He used a silencer, possibly sedated his family beforehand so no one woke up mid-massacre. And once it was all done, he climbed back into bed with his deceased wife and shot himself.

We later found out that the police were searching their yard, our yard, and roofs for evidence. As any good forensic practitioner would know, you must treat every scene as a homicide, and as if the murderer is not one of the victims but rather is running around town. So, they searched for shell casings, a knife, clothing, anything dropped when this supposed murderer left the scene. Eventually, once a search warrant was obtained and they could enter the home to inspect the scene, details showed a different story. It was apparently quite clear that the head of the household was responsible.

That night I obviously couldn't sleep. It wasn't just the images going through my head, it was that my bedroom window faced this house and was being intruded by local newscasters' bright lights as they did their nightly report in front of this now-crime scene. Highlands Ranch wasn't supposed to be the home of stuff like this. This was BIG news.

Weeks later, in my journalism class, we were asked to write an opinionated piece about our view of the media. I wrote about my original disdain for the newscasters in front of the house that night, their freedom to intrude & twist the facts as time went on. However, in the end, I realized...these newscasters - though there to promote a sensational story for the benefit of ratings - were one of the last voices for these victims. They graciously told the story of precious lives cut too short. I knew I could never, ever be one of them, though. The camera just isn't for me. So how else could I speak for the victims? Forensic science, that's how. My passion for science and justice was ignited.

And now, 8 years later, this passion remains...though dampened a bit by a disappointing graduate program, and by too many hours conducting autopsies (even for those with a strong stomach, this task wears on you more than you realize in the moment). I still have a desire to fight for those who can't speak. But, if I don't want to work in a lab, and I don't want to conduct autopsies, nor do I want to work as an investigator spending all day calling family members to tell them their loved one is dead...where does that leave me?

It's taken me years of internal debate and frustration and school loans to determine my long-term path, my "calling" if you will. While I have no idea what I'll be doing post-graduation for the immediate future - there are little to no forensic opportunities in this state - I do know that one day I will go back for my RN. Conversations with mentors, family members and professionals have shown me that I have this amazing balance that I need to tap in to: My years as a pediatric patient at Children's hospital has taught me the impact and importance of nurses. But my forensic exposure has taught me the importance of respecting the deceased, preserving evidence, and still fighting for the victims. One day, I will work as a forensic nurse. In an odd way, I think that I have been blessed to have been exposed to such traumatic experiences over the years - whether it be as a friend of this murdered family or a long-term patient who spent most of her childhood in a hospital. Both times in my life have helped to provide me direction and remind me that I am indeed a very, very lucky girl.