Telling the
Parents:
A Trooper’s
Story

	

Cherie Berry
Commissioner of Labor
Education, Training and
Technical Assistance Bureau
1101 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-1101
(919) 807-2875
1-800-625-2267
www.nclabor.com
Printed 11/11
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N.C. Department of Labor
	
	

Cherie Berry
Commissioner of Labor
p Telling the Parents p
The story you are about to read occurs with
countless regularity in North Carolina. Although
this story centers on the highway death of a teen,
these kinds of stories cut across all age, gender and
economic strata.
As a part of their never-ending effort to make
North Carolina a safe place in which to live, work
and play, law enforcement authorities across the
state also have a very unpleasant task to perform:
delivering the message of sorrow to families.
As you will read, there is no “easy” way to
deliver this message. A death occurs or a serious
injury happens and a family must be notified.
The shock of first, seeing a law enforcement
official at the door and second, hearing the message
is devastating.
The impact of the message never settles.
If the victim is the primary household support,
the family faces the question of survival both
emotionally and financially.
If the victim is a valued employee, the business
owner is faced with the loss of leadership, strength
and economic support.
p p p p p p
Life is priceless. And, in many instances, the
taking of a life on North Carolina highways is
totally unnecessary.
Attitude determines behavior.
Behavior determines driving habits.
Driving habits determine survival
on our highways.
Download your copy of
Guidelines for Employers to Reduce Motor Vehicle Crashes at
www.osha.gov/Publications/motor_vehicle_guide.pdf
Stay in touch with today’s workplace issues.
Sign up to receive a free subscription to the NC Labor Ledger at
www.nclabor.com/news/ledger.htm
Adapted with permission from the
Vermont Network of Employers for Traffic Safety.
dance. Kids experimenting. Kids playing with
speed. Kids who lost. I know who they are.
The evidence is gathered. The car is on the
wrecker. The decedents are in the hearse. The
most dreaded task lies ahead.
How do I tell them? What do I say? I have
done this before. I hate it. Fifteen miles to go
and I’ll be at their home. I rehearse, again and
again, the technique that I’ll use and the words
that I’ll say. The images of their lifeless bodies
and their horrified expressions haunt me.
I don’t know these people. Mom’s a
stranger. Dad’s a stranger. I can’t call on the
clergy. I don’t know their faith. I can’t call on
relatives. They’re strangers too. I’m on my own.
The 15-mile trip is going too fast. I don’t want
to go. I don’t want to tell them. I hate my job.
A half mile to go. I’ve memorized and
rehearsed the words along the way. It will be
easy now. I just have to remember my lines.
My training has taught me one thing about
these kinds of tasks. When Mom and Dad
answer the door, don’t dilly-dally. They know
it’s not good news and you’ve got to get it out.
There’s the house. The outside light is on.
A car is in the driveway. I wish they were
away. I wish someone else could tell them. I
exit my car and walk up the front steps. My
heart pounds. I can’t breathe. I take a deep
breathe. I take another. I knock on the door.
Seconds seem like minutes. The world slows
down around me. I need to get this behind me.
A woman peeks through the front window.
She opens the door with a nervous grin and
gazes at the man in uniform. “Good evening,”
she says. “How may I help you?”
“Ma’am, is your husband home?”
She calls to her husband and the three of
us gather. I can feel the anxiety building.
I begin to convey my message and only
shudder. I’ve forgotten my lines. “Get it out, get
it out,” I say to myself. They know. They’re
reading my face. Her eyes begin to water.
All time has nearly stopped. Struggling to
form the words, I finally say it. “I have some
terrible news.
“Your son has been...”
They know the rest. I don’t have to continue,
but they need to hear me say it.
She weeps. She collapses. Her husband
holds back his tears. He pretends to be
stronger. He comforts her in silence. Moments
pass and then we talk. I explain. I justify. I
apologize. I offer help. I can’t help. They’ve
just lost their son.
My shift is over. I pull into my driveway and
sit in my car. I think. I question. I curse. I’m
angry at what those kids have put me through.
I’m angry for what those kids have put their
mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters through.
I yell at them, “Look at what you’ve done!”
I sit in my patrol car and I cry and I curse.
I don’t like my job tonight.
Telling the Parents:
A Trooper’s Story
by State Police Sergeant
John Wilder (Ret.)
It’s a cold and blustery Friday night in
December. The wind blows and a chill settles
into my bones. I’ve been at the crash scene for
over an hour. Rescue personnel have just
extricated the last victim. But my work is far
from over.
The wreck, a family station wagon, is man-gled
and in a heap resting against a tall, lone
pine. Two of its former occupants lay silent on
the cold, snowy ground. Both were ejected
from the car on impact.
I may seem a little callous right now,
because my mind tells me to ignore the sight
of death while I conduct my investigation of the
crash. The medical examiner has pronounced
them dead.
There’s nothing more that can be done.
But my conscience struggles with it. I do my job.
I take the measurements. I take photographs.
I look at the skid marks. The bodies lie there
covered with white sheets.
Spectators gather and gawk. They make
unintelligible comments, shake their heads and
walk away.
Some boldly ask, “Who are they?” Others
don’t care. I can’t tell them. Next of kin don’t
even know.
But I know who they are. Kids, 16 and 17.
Kids out having fun. Kids who just left a school