Warning: this story mentions violence and death
I was talking with my sister the other day when she asked me how things were going at work.
I responded, “Well, right now I’m writing about how I got secondary trauma from reporting on secondary trauma.” We laughed. Then she gave me a serious look, “Are you OK?”
A few weeks ago, I spent a night in MetroHealth Medical Center’s emergency room. I was there with a photographer to capture the impact increased gun violence is having on emergency room staff. Since the pandemic’s start, gun violence has spiked across the country, Cleveland included.
Before I went, two editors and a colleague told me to make sure I was taking care of myself. Even one of my sources, the trauma medical director, checked in to make sure I was mentally ready for what I was about to see.
I said, “I’m fine,” brushing them off. I thanked them, and went to work.
As a journalist, I’m used to entering spaces I don’t usually go, communities I’m not usually a part of. But I was not prepared for the world of an emergency room. In one night, I saw a child with severe burns, an overdose patient who nearly died and a gunshot wound patient who did. I was in a state of shock the whole night.
People who work in the ER see the aftermath of violence every day. Few of the workers I talked to said they’d even noticed the uptick in the number of trauma patients they've seen in the last few years. But they acknowledged there are so many patients, so many stories, they tend to blend together.
There are some experiences that stick with them, though. I talked with Staley Johnson, a smiley 40-year-old Liberian immigrant who cleans and readies the trauma bays after patients are treated. He told me seeing the family of the victims, who lash out in anger or tears at seeing their loved ones gone, affects him the most. The number of gun deaths he sees in the ER, has also made him change where he goes at night. It’s made him worry for his girlfriend’s safety.
As I listened back to the tape of that night, I remembered how fast everything changed. Doctors worked quickly on a patient, appearing confident, but the patient was just too injured, and the patient died. The doctors were forced to move on to their next patient and soon, the cleaners were in the room, erasing all traces of the last few minutes. The clothes, cut off from the gunshot victims' body, were swept away. The boots from an overdose patient were carried to another room.
Over the next few days, I was in shock and had difficulty processing what I saw. I was more stressed with managing my work than usual. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was likely experiencing a kind of second-hand trauma response.
“We don't talk about it, but reporters are at high risk of secondary trauma, too,” Dr. Jennifer King, an expert on trauma at Case Western Reserve University, told me when I interviewed her for the ER story. I hadn’t even asked her about journalists, but I was now starting to see a pattern.
Just this year, my colleagues at Ideastream were pepper sprayed while covering the Jayland Walker protests in Akron, reported in East Palestine where the air still smelled strongly of chemicals after the toxic train derailment there and faced harassment online for just doing their jobs.
Studies show journalists face high rates of post-traumatic stress disorder, depression and alcohol use, and those rates are higher for those who cover war, natural disasters and death.
We need people to help us understand what's happening in our communities. But just like thinking of our first responders, it’s worth remembering the work reporters do carries hidden costs as well. Next time, I’ll remember my colleagues’ advice, and look out for others too.
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