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.  

#mylifematters

We’ve all seen it.  The debate over what lives matter.  The arguments go on for days each side getting louder and more aggressive with each response from the opposing side.  I’ve seen article after article about #blacklivesmatter doesn’t mean that all lives don’t.  I’ve seen #bluelivesmatter as a retort asking to be given the same allowances – by not being painted with the same broad brush they are being accused of using themselves. 

We’ve all seen the videos.  We’ve all taken “sides” on whether or not we thought good or bad prevailed on those days.  But what we haven’t done is waited for the investigations to be finished.  You know, the ones where all of the evidence is collected and analyzed.  The investigations that are not driven by public outcry or keyboard warriors, but by facts.

The “other” side will yell that “blue” shouldn’t be allowed to investigate “blue”.  Let me tell you, nothing turns their back on their own quicker than officers who think one of their own did something wrong, or bad, or with malice.  That blue line is thin, but it’s built on integrity.  All of the officers that I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting and knowing would tell you the same thing.  If you tarnish the badge, there is no room for you on that line. 

So here’s where I have arrived.  My new hashtag is this - #mylifematters.  It does.  It matters to me.  It matters to my husband, children, parents, siblings, in-laws and friends.  And for my life to matter, I have to take certain measures to make it matter.  I have to live my best life and serve others as I can with love.  Not debate them over hate.  We can only control ourselves.  It’s as simple as that. 

We have no control over rogue cops, street criminals, hate groups or even our own children.  Everyone has been given the freedom to operate on their own free will.  That doesn’t mean there aren’t consequences to those choices – there always is.  Some of those are good.   Some of them are not. 

So I will do my best to walk away from the television, log-off my computer and put my phone down and live my best life.  The only person I can change is myself, but I can affect a whole lot of people I come in contact with by living kindly and without anger in my heart.  

Officer Down

Officer Down – May 2016 by Natalie Stahl, police wife, Glendale, AZ PD

Those days start like all of the other days.   Alarm clocks. Jobs.  Get the kids to school. Is there gas in the car?  Is there food in the fridge?  Did the water bill get paid?  When was the last time I called my mother? 

It moves quickly from the minute the alarm goes off – we tap his side of the bed to make sure he’s there.  He is.  You can’t really remember what time he came home, but you heard the sound of the Velcro just before you went back to sleep.  The morning is a full melody of mommy nagging, with a recurring chorus of “ssshhhhh! Your dad’s asleep.”  You trip over his big black boots and curse him under your breath for leaving them out again.  You glance into the laundry room and see his uniform in a black bag.  Your inquisitive side wants to peek inside - your experience tells you to wait until he wakes up to ask about it.

When he gets up to leave for work, you stay out of his way.  You know he has a routine that can’t be disrupted to get himself in his “zone”.  When he pulls from the driveway you go through the secret hand motions that are part “I love you” and part blown kisses.  As you close the garage door, sometimes the thought creeps into your thoughts… “Was that it?  Was that the last time I’ll see him?”  But you push the thought back down, because if you let it live on the surface – it would control your every action today.  Not today, we convince ourselves. 

We subscribe to text message alerts from radio stations and push notifications on our phones from the local news channels.  Police situations are always “breaking news”.  We’ll get a heads-up if something goes south, right?  When the phone buzzes or dings – we grab for it immediately.  Does the scrolling message say anything about an officer-involved-anything?  If so, we click on it desperate to see what they’re reporting.  We park ourselves in front of the television waiting to see what it is.  The new wives listen to the reporters and believe what they’re saying.  The experienced wives read the scene, the officers, the speed of the ambulance and the looks on the officers’ faces in the hospital shots.  We know almost immediately if the situation is grave. 

But we still hope and pray that we’re reading it wrong.  That through a miracle he’s really going to be okay.  The phone rings, the texts buzz, the information finding frenzy begins.  Who was it?  Where did he get shot?  Was he awake when they got to him?  Does his wife use an alias online?  Is she one of us? 

We listen to what the reporters have to say, but we gauge our reactions on the chief’s words, then the mayor’s.  Is their face saying what their mouths are?  Sometimes yes.  Sometimes no.  Did they slip and use the word “was” when telling us he’s fighting for his life?  But deep down, we already know. 

Our officers come home in a much different place.  They are broken, but trying not to look it.  One of their own got gunned down today because of his badge.  Not his actions or his words, but because of his badge.  That badge got really heavy on their chests today.  They talk about it excessively with their squad mates at work, then they spend their home hours glued to a group text talking about the same stuff – with the television playing in the background. They try to analyze and see what went wrong.  Could anything have been done differently?  They are careful not to blame the officer for his own demise.

They don’t sleep tonight.  Or the night after that.  Or the night after that.  Their moods range from angry to scared to sad and back to angry again.  They hug us a little tighter.  Or don’t hug us at all.  They move to a dark place that we aren’t allowed to visit.  We try our best to keep things normal – whatever that means today.  And that will mean something else tomorrow. 

Then come the fundraisers.  Do we go?  Do we stay away?  We should go.  We’ll just stay a little while.  We end up staying the whole day.  It’s a relief to see people lined up for miles to get their cars washed or buy a BBQ lunch.  Or to just see people drop fists full of cash into the buckets.  See?   They don’t all really hate law enforcement officers, right?

As the funeral day ticks closer, the anxiety builds.  Do we go?  Will he volunteer to work traffic?  Will I go with him?  Will I go without him?  Can I stomach another funeral?  Another wife drag herself down the aisle in the church?  Another slide show of a life lost?  Another riderless horse?  Another missing man formation?  Another chord of Taps?  Another bagpipe? Another 21-gun salute? Another little kid asking his mommy about the folded flag as they place it on her lap? And please, not another last call.  I just can’t. 

As the officers stand in formation at his graveside, we’ll see resolve like we’ve never seen it.  They can stand at full attention and sob without making a sound.  The tears run down their faces like something foreign that doesn’t make that trip often.  Their hearts break.  And we can do nothing for them.  Not a single thing.  We stand behind them, but our sobs make a sound and our tears know the way.

And as the final officer removes his shroud and places it on the casket, they go.  They go back to the street that killed him.  To the people who hate his badge enough to kill him for it.  Away from the wives, children, moms, dads and siblings that love them.  They don’t go because they are arrogant and cocky.  They go because they’re called. 

And we go back to our homes.  And our jobs.  And our kids.  And our choruses of silence.   This time, we’re not so quick to curse him under our breath about his boots.  We know that another wife – one of us who woke up in the same world we did that fateful day – doesn’t have boots to trip over.