Don't Take the Girl

It was a Monday night.  The whole family was making dinner together and discussing sad country music songs.  When someone came up with one, another pulled it up on the phone and played it.  My husband said to my daughter, “Do you know what song was playing when they rushed your mom into surgery?  It was ‘Don’t Take the Girl’”.  Now I don’t know if it was actually playing on the radio at the time, or it just played in his head – but that’s how he remembers it.  My daughter turned on the song and my husband pulled me into a slow dance in the kitchen – complete with a few turns, spins and dips while he sang it to me. 

For some reason, the sweetness of the moment, the idea of him being so scared as I was wheeled into an emergency c-section or him dancing with me in the kitchen for my daughters to see – I was moved to tears that came from nowhere as he snuggled me and danced.  How in the world did I get so lucky?

I tell myself every day that I’m the luckiest girl to have found someone as wonderful as him.  He’s the sane to my crazy.  The quiet to my loud.  The rock to my sap. He puts me into focus when I spin into a crazy fog.  He’s been the one to make the transition of our girls growing up look normal, when all I want to do is wrap them in a blanket, snuggle them and sing them to sleep – just one more time.  And when I strain to remember when the last time was, I can’t come up with it.  The last time they curled up in my lap and slept, I surely didn’t realize it was the last or I would’ve cherished it. 

I’m sure he tires of my hysterics when I worry about things that I have absolutely no control over.  And he never rolls his eyes when I cry over things that were none of my business to begin with.  He always tries to fix it, even when I can’t even tell him what it is that’s crushing me at the moment.  Sometimes fixing it means letting me cry it out.  Or laugh at how ridiculous I sound.  Or tell me that it’s part of life and we can’t change it.  But he never makes it sound harsh or unforgiving, he points it out and makes it look normal. 

He is my world.  The love of my life.  And by virtue of the badge he wears, people hate him enough to kill him.  I find myself taking mental snapshots of the moment, or the song, or the day – just in case it is the last.  At least I’ll have it to cherish. 

It’s not something that I stew about or worry about or lose sleep over.  Not at all.  It’s just a part of our lives and a possibility that exists.  But I never give myself the luxury of being mad, because in the scheme of things – anger is pointless.  And if loss comes, it will be permanent.  I would rather have slow dances in the kitchen logged in my memory bank, than anger filled words playing back. 

If it were my song, I’d change it up just a bit.  It would be called, “Don’t Take the Man”.

Where Do Cops Come From?

There seems to be some very different schools of thought on where police officers actually come from.  As it turns out, they come from just about everywhere.

Society would like to tell us that they were the kids bullied in school.  The short, cocky guys with no friends that had a universal grudge match to settle.  Or the bullies that need to be in control of everything to feel important.  Or people that are just plain a-holes.  I’m certain that there are actually a full set of these people wearing badges and carrying guns.  But they are definitely the exception, not the rule.

I can tell you that from what I see from the inside of a police home – they are much different than what society would like everyone to believe.  They are the fixers, the helpers, the ones that raise their hand first in a crisis.  And suit up when everyone else is still looking around the room for someone to step up.

I’ve heard many police wives say that their husbands were “called” to serve.  Much like our military.  It’s in them and they go.  It takes a very specific kind of person with a gentle soul to be able to navigate what gets thrown at them in a single day.

Police officers are all very different from each other, as well.  There are the big, angry looking officers that bark instead of speak.  There are the average-sized, pleasant faced officers that you wonder if they’re actually officers.  And everything in between.  As it turns out, police officers are just regular people and they come in an infinite variety of personalities.  But one thing they all have in common – they run in when everyone else is running out.

Police officers don’t all come from two-parent households with formal college educations and letterman’s jackets.  Some do.  They don’t all come from the ghettos of the city where they were raised by single mothers and avoided getting in trouble.  Some do.  They aren’t all brothers or sisters or aunts or uncles or parents.  Some are.  They aren’t all military veterans or kids of military veterans.  Some are.  They aren’t all kids of first responders.  Some definitely are.

Society would have us also believe they are all seeping in hatred and racism. They’re not all white bread, white privileged, racist cops.  Some are.  But those are typically dealt with swiftly.  The thin blue line can be quite intolerant of smudges and dings on its integrity.

Hide and Seek or What?

For households with children, you know how it goes…you don’t realize how much the kids are picking up on what you’re saying – especially since they don’t appear to be paying attention – until they place a well-timed f-bomb at the dinner table, or worse, at church.  Police officer’s kids are no different.

In our city, we had a very high profile missing child.  Our officers looked for her for days. They scoured the entire city, went door-to-door and looked under and behind literally everything.  Our officers weren’t going to stop until they found her.  After several days and behind-the-scenes police work, the focus changed.  Our officers had reason to believe that her mother had killed her, loaded her into a suitcase into the trunk of a car, drove her across town and left her in an apartment complex dumpster.  The search of our city would turn into the search of a garbage dump nearly an hour outside of town.

Our officers suited up in haz-mat suits, masks and duct tape.  They stood shoulder to shoulder with small rakes and scoured the landfill for this beautiful child’s body.  It was back-breaking and emotionally exhausting work.  What if they found her?  But worse – what if they didn’t?

Our officers would come home at night smelling like old disgusting garbage.  The sour smell of rot permeated literally everything.  The only thing worse than the smell was the exhaustion they dragged home with every day.  Every day ended with a defeated “we didn’t find her today”.

As wives and moms, our hearts hurt thinking of our officers out there digging for a child…all the while, wondering what kind of animal could do that to her baby.  We talked about it.  A lot.

One weekend, our local department’s spouse group was holding a fundraiser/garage sale.  Moms had brought their kids while they worked the sale.  It was being held in a large back yard, so the kids were allowed to run around and play.  We were watching them, but not really paying attention to what they were saying.  It appeared they were playing a fun game of hide-and-seek.

One of the moms called out to her daughter to ask what they were playing.  The sweet little cherub yelled back, “Dump!”  What?  They knew their daddies were looking in the dump for a little girl – so they would do the same.  I just don’t think they realized the rest of the story.  

The Thin Blue Line

The thin blue line is described as a symbol that represents our law enforcement that stand between good and evil.  It is the line of integrity that officers keep that separates them from the masses.  They are held to a much higher standard than most.

As police families, it’s a beacon.  It’s how we can identify each other as ‘safe’.  Like a hidden language that we can understand.  It feels like home.

In the last couple of years, and the onslaught of ugliness on social media – many people seem to think that the thin blue line is one of corruption and a secret boys club.  That somehow this line is something to be abused and to hide behind.  Nothing could be further from the truth.

Because our officers are held to such an incredibly high standard by society, they also feel it necessary to hold themselves to a high standard.  Without their integrity, they are nothing.  It can remove their ability to testify in court or save people from devastating situations.

Officers will definitely have each other’s backs.  They are a team that fights together.  They have to have that camaraderie or they can’t feel safe in battle.  But when that battle turns into a question of integrity, that thin blue line will turn its back on the offending officer quicker than you can imagine.  It’s like throwing a rock into an open sewer – nobody is going to stand close enough to get splashed.  Nobody is willing to scar their own integrity over the loss of another officer’s integrity. 

The other things that officers will typically do is investigate.  They work on facts and evidence, not emotion.  They will wait to see what really happened, not someone’s tilted version of the facts.  They log off of social media and wait for the findings, not subscribe to the hysteria of each side shouting their own brand of hatred.

Society will scream that ‘blue’ shouldn’t investigate ‘blue’. I can tell you that they will be harder than most on their own.  Again, their integrity can’t ever be called into question.  And many departments are turning their bigger officer-involved investigations over to other departments so they can get a fresh set of eyes on the situation.

Do they ever get it wrong?  Sure.  They’re human.  Officers do things wrong.  Their investigations sometimes don’t net what we thought they would.  And sometimes punishments are too harsh.  Or not harsh enough.  And sometimes they never fully get recovered from.  It’s the nature of the beast of humanity.  But the worst possible scenario is when the department has what they need from the investigation, yet cave under the pressure of society.  That’s when real crime has occurred – the murder of a good man’s career and the death of his integrity.

I'm Gonna Love You

The song lyrics say “I’m gonna love you like I’m gonna lose you”.  I’m not sure what the songwriter was referring to, but it feels like an anthem to me as a police wife.  The first time I heard the song, it hit me.  Now I can’t listen to it without choking back the tears or the lump in my throat.

Things that used to feel like a big deal – not getting enough attention, him forgetting to stop by the store or dressing the kids in the wrong thing – now look as petty as they actually are. Anger feels like a luxury that I won’t afford myself.  I couldn’t live with myself if I sent him off to work angry about an unmade bed or something equally as trivial and have something happen to him.  

More times than I can count, a “regular boring day” ended in a hair-raising tale of things that turned quickly.  Sometimes right after the text of brief phone call about the boring day.

Dirty clothes?  Abandoned boots?  Dishes left in the sink?  Yep – all of it.  Annoying.  Just not worth mentioning. God forbid something should take him from me – the last memory won’t be of me nagging.  It will be of one more kiss.  An extra “I love you”.  And that goofy little thing we do with our hands that’s part I love you, part blown kiss.  

The Shot Heard 'Round the World

August 9, 2014 was the day the shot was heard ‘round the world – at least the millennial version.  Ferguson, Missouri was now on the map and everyone suddenly knew the names Michael Brown and Darren Wilson.  Before that day, those three things were only known to those who lived there and those who knew these two men.

Having never met these two men, and having never visited Ferguson – I can’t say much about what any of it is like.  What I do know is that those two men lost their lives that day.  Michael Brown was killed in the street. Darren Wilson was killed in the media.  They were both buried in that town.

That was the day that it became fashionable to hate police officers.  Now everyone was free to throw hate from every direction. And even after the multiple autopsies, recorded testimonies, surveillance tapes and federal investigations – hating on cops was en vogue.

News media never misses an opportunity to highlight an officer caught being human.  And the keyboard warriors on social media troll every support site for law enforcement citing the same twisted statistics and calling the supporters ‘boot lickers’. 

Call me whatever you want.  It doesn’t change my view of my officer husband.  Is he perfect?  Far from it.  Is his department perfect?  Of course not.  Are there cops there that shouldn’t be?  Probably. 

Our society has warned us not to stereotype.  Not to dislike a person because of their color, language or neighborhood.  We’re supposed to be nice.  We’re not supposed to make assumptions about people we meet – or people we may avoid.  But when it comes to police officers, the same people demanding those things will fight to the death to prove that they’re right and cops are bad.  Some take to their keyboards and call officers and their supporters names.  Some take to their video record button on their cell phones and taunt officers.  Some actually die in the street demanding to be right – then are celebrated as martyrs for the cause. 

There are two words than can solve a whole bunch – PERSONAL ACCOUNTABILITY.  Get some.  And if you have it, use it.  It doesn’t matter if you’re an officer or not.  It doesn’t matter if you’re a speeder, pot smoker or heroin dealer – find some personal accountability and use it.  You’ll be amazed at the outcomes.

First Responders

He sent a text with a photo of a large fire.  Occasionally we get a glimpse into his world.  The next text said, “The homeowner died in that fire.”  He doesn’t share very often, but when he does – it means that it was something big.  He is my baby brother.  And he’s a firefighter.

 

That will be the sum total of that conversation between us.  A text message.  A glimpse into the horror that he faced in the darkness of that night.  We will go on with our day, occasionally thinking back to the text with a shudder.  He will file it with the rest of the horrific images he has seen in his 30 years as a fire fighter.  Then he will work on pushing it down and never referring to it again. 

There have been babies crying for their mothers.  And mothers crying for their babies.  He’s called me at strange hours of the day and railed me about buckling my kids into their car seats.  And buckling myself into mine.  I don’t ask, but I know that he’s seen something that he’ll never be able to un-see. 

I’ve gotten bits and glimpses of horrific car accident scenes from my husband, as well.  He’s a police officer.  One in particular, I can recall in great detail – like I was actually there.  But I wasn’t.  I saw the whole thing on his face.  There were small kids and babies.  Lots of them.  They were scattered to the winds.  I don’t see the ones that were crying.  I see the ones that weren’t.  He has those images filed in his safe place, too.  When we drive through that intersection, we’re both always silent – even all of these years later.

Our first responders see more than we’ll ever imagine.  And as families of these first responders, we hear more that most ever realize.  The burdens are real.  Post traumatic stress is real.  Vicarious stress is also real.

So, before you are quick to criticize a firefighter with his team shopping in a grocery store.  Or before you jump on the police brutality bandwagon.  Pause and ask yourself this – Could I live my life carrying the burden of grief, the burden of those images flashing and the burden of knowing I’m being criticized at every turn?  If your answer is yes – you are one of the chosen.  You should rise to your calling and go do your best to serve.  If your answer is no – I implore you to be a little kinder, and a little more thankful that these people actually exist in our worlds. 

My name is Natalie Stahl, and I support our brothers and sisters in Fire Service, Law Enforcement and Emergency Medical Services.  Thank God they exist.