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.  

I'm Offended

Is anybody NOT offended? Seriously.

It seems like it’s impossible to turn on the TV or log on to social media without something that was “offensive” that is being talked TO DEATH!

Just this week, people have been offended by a red cup, a Christmas sweatshirt, a white university president, gay Mormons and a coffee shop in Mesa – just to name a few. I’m not sure if it’s about attention or the need to be a victim of something. Perhaps is the need to “win”. (Win what, I’m not sure. Is “viral” considered a win?)

I’ve got two theories about these things – either people have perfect lives and they have nothing else to worry about or can’t believe how craptastic their lives turned out and need some misery for company.

We have people for any number of reasons jumping on the “red cup” bandwagon. (I guess I’m jumping, too, even though I swore I wouldn’t jump into the fray.) The rally cries are everything from taking Christ out of Christmas to shunning Christians. Nope. They opted for a red cup this year. The end.

Then there’s the ever-present OCD (Obsessive Christmas Disorder) backlash. I’ve seen sweatshirt with the F-word on them. I just didn’t buy it. And people who actually have OCD know they have it. And work through it. Like everyone else should.

I’m not following the situation on the Mizzou campus very closely, but here’s what I’ve been able to glean… the white president is being accused of being white and the students have demanded that he acknowledge his “white privilege” at the same time demanding that they not be accused of being black. Huh? (For the love of everything holy, please do not be offended by this. I don’t hate black people.)

Gay Mormons. The church came out with a rule. Don’t like it. Don’t join. Any questions?

Bikini baristas in Mesa. There’s a Mesa city councilman that can’t stay off the television spewing his venom about this business. Demoralizing to woman? Perhaps. It’s their choice and they’re employed. Don’t want to see it? Take another route. You also don’t have to go into strip clubs if you don’t want to. Problem solved.

We have women’s groups lashing out at stores with mannequins that are too skinny. Then the fashion world calling “normal sized” mannequins obese. What size are we supposed to be? I keep forgetting.

We have Dunkin Donut employees offended that an officer came in to, wait for it – BUY SOMETHING - then thought it best to write something ugly on the cup. Then we have police families urging everyone to boycott every single restaurant, coffee shop or gas station that ever hired an idiot employee.

So, here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to take my normal-sized white Mormon butt into a local shop and buy something. It may be in a red cup. It may be in a bowl. I probably won’t buy something with a saying on the front of it. (And for the record, I DO have Obsessive Christmas Disorder and I’m proud of it – stop in and see my 12 full decorated Christmas trees this year.) I’ll hope that the Mizzou situation is resolved peacefully and I’ll hope that someday people stop hating cops. In the meantime, I’ll love my take-home cop with all I have – just in case someone hates him to death.

They Were Just Doing Their Jobs

“They were just doing their jobs.”  For some reason, that statement made me mad.  Anger came from a deep place.  I couldn’t even explain it – it was visceral, and instantaneous.  The words were first uttered by the grief-stricken station manager after his reporter and cameraman were shot on live television. 

  

How many times have WE, as police families, said these same words?  However, they never end here. Somebody almost always responds with “they signed up for it”, or,  “with all of the police brutality, what did you expect?”, and finally, “cops should know better by now.” 

Really?  I also noticed that when replaying the video of the murder of the journalists, the media was sensitive enough to freeze the frame one millisecond prior to the shots ringing out “out of respect for their families."
 
Wait – aren’t these the same group of people that will stand and scream about freedom of the press until police departments release 911 tapes, radio traffic and body camera footage?  Aren’t these the same people that show photos of crime scenes, beaten and bloodied officers and mourning families?  What about respect for OUR families?  You know -- the ones that were just doing their jobs and supporting those who do those jobs.

And every single time there’s an officer in the news, the media makes sure they mention the color of everyone’s skin and reminds everyone of the unrest and ongoing cries of police brutality.  Is there actually more?  Or is it just being reported more?  I truly don’t know.  And have we bastardized the word “brutality”?  Most of them were just doing their jobs.

I haven’t been able to turn on the radio, local or national television without hearing about what a tragedy yesterday's on air killings have been to the media family.  And I agree absolutely. It’s tragic.  It is always a tragedy when innocent people are destroyed and their families ripped part by senseless violence.  But are you aware that there have been ELEVEN police officers killed in the line of duty in the last 26 days?  FIVE of them by gunfire.  Just this last Monday, Trooper Steven Vincent was just doing his job when he stopped to assist a motorist stuck in a ditch.  And then took a shotgun blast to the head and was taunted by his killer while he lay dying.

The station manager also said that the media family would continue to do what they had to do – report on this tragedy, because it’s what they do.  And they were heartbroken doing it.  How about the officers that spend hours upon hours on the crime scene of their fallen brother so they can investigate his death?  It’s not for entertainment or the top-of-the hour ratings grab – it’s to make sure the beast that killed their brother is found and dealt with.  They have to be careful not to make any mistakes, knowing full well that a defense attorney a year down the road will question every single microscopic piece of evidence they procured.  After all, they’re just doing their jobs.

I heard many anchors talking about how it could’ve been any one of them in that situation.  And how many of them had been scared or in the middle of a volatile scene.  I agree.  I’m quite certain that when you show up to an active shooting scene or a horrific murder or the side of town nobody talks about – you were scared.  But, didn’t you sign up for it?  Were you there to assist with the loss or damage?  Or were you there to capitalize on someone’s loss and pain?  Probably just doing your job.

The stories on the news this morning were of a young reporter who was considering marriage.  And a young cameraman who had just gotten engaged.  They were both in their mid-twenties.  It is inspeakably sad, and wrong. I am heartbroken for these families and these sweethearts that will never know how their lives would have been had the events of yesterday not unfolded.

Have you ever noticed that many officers that die in the line of duty leave behind young spouses and even younger children?  Babies who never knew their daddies or mommies?  I made a cursory calculation and found that 117 children were left without parents who were just doing their jobs this year. 21 of these children experienced this life-changing separation just this month.  There have been 79 line-of-duty deaths this year – the latest being yesterday in Louisiana.  But you probably didn’t hear about him – he got upstaged by two other tragic but more media-worthy deaths.  And he was just doing his job.

So, my message to the media is this -- I’m truly sorry for your loss.  And I am genuinely heartbroken over the senseless act of misdirected rage and cowardice that took your two media family members.  Now that you know how it feels to lose family members to gunfire – do you think you could be a little more gentle with my family?   They run towards gunfire, search the dark for the boogey man, help stranded motorists, rescue children, abused women and wounded animals.  They love, they laugh, they bleed.  And they die.  But, they signed up for it.  And they’re just doing their jobs.


Natalie M. Stahl,
Glendale, AZ
Proud LEOW

My Take-Home Cop

With the media perpetually making our men out to be the bad guys, it's up to us to show who they really are behind the badge.

I’ve been with Scott for 21 years, married 20.  He’s not perfect.  I’m not perfect.  But we’re perfect for each other.  I can’t imagine a single minute without him in my life.  We have two beautiful daughters that were lucky enough to inherit his kaleidoscope blue eyes – truly, they sparkle.  He didn’t run for the hills when I suggested (after two years of marriage and a newborn) that we buy an 85 year old house for me to turn into a business.  He let me chase my dream of small business ownership – of which I’ve been able to do for going on 17 years now.  It allowed me to stay close to my girls as they grew up.  He’s a very patient and kind man – it takes a lot to rile him up.  He’s helped ground me and make me less of a spaz. I’ve always said that he hums at a very low frequency – mine is MUCH higher.

He started with Phoenix police academy when he was 21.  He failed a test and got “washed out” of the academy.  He decided that it was his “omen” and he should pursue other things.  We were married when we were 27 and I could tell that he still longed for the LEO life.  I was working close with Glendale PD on a federal grant project and it became too much for him.  He finally decided that he would pursue the dream – with a full blessing from all of us nearly 15 years after the original start.  He was “old” coming out of the academy at 36.

I have witnessed from where I sit so many things that it’s hard to narrow it down to just a few reasons why I think he’s a GREAT man and officer.  I sat and listened to him recount the horrific accident where several small children and infants were thrown from a vehicle because they were not properly restrained.  And kissed him goodbye as he headed to the morgue the next day to identify them.  I sat with him when he told me about the drowning call of a 3 year old girl who looked EXACTLY like our 3 year old girl.  The words barely came out.

We lived without him for days as he and his fellow officers searched Glendale for a missing 5 year old girl, then sent him off to Maricopa for months while he dug for her body in a landfill.  He truly believed in his heart of hearts that HE would find her.  And was devastated that he didn’t.

I sent him to the hospital the morning Officer Holly was killed to be with his brothers.  And waited until the wee hours of the morning for him to come home after another brother, Officer Jones was gunned down in a parking lot.  I stood behind the rank and file of officers dressed in their class A uniforms with their badges covered in shrouds – even though they stood at attention, their bodies wracked with sobs.  

He witnessed his good friend and his K9 being shot in our friend’s backyard.  And after he helped remove the officer and the K9 from the scene, returned to give the suspect CPR – even though he had tried to kill his friend.  Then returned days later to make sure the kids who lived in the house were doing okay after what they had witnessed.

These are a very few reasons that I think he’s amazing.  He’s very tall.  He’s very quiet.  And his heart is so incredibly large – the badge barely covers it.

They're truly NOT the bad guys.  People just tend to meet them on the days they made their worst choices.

Darren Wilson Fired a Shot

August 9th was 133 days ago – the day Officer Darren Wilson fired the shots heard 'round the world. Since then, 49 police officers have been killed in the line of duty. Again, that’s FORTY-NINE police officers killed. Thirty of those deaths were by violent means (gunfire, assault, vehicular assault). The other 19 were auto accidents and heart attacks. THREE of those murders have occurred since the sun came up yesterday. Yet, our media and politicians want to scream from the rooftops about THREE OTHER deaths – the ones of felons fighting with officers. It feels like open season on officers. The hate mongers are getting their way while the news channels talk about Sony’s movie about a dictator.

For the year, 113 officers have given their lives. That’s up 11% over last year. The gunfire deaths alone are at 46, an increase of 56%. Have you seen any protests? Any outrage from “the reverends”? Our president? I haven’t. And I’m mad. But I’m more scared than mad. And more sad than scared. If mine gets killed or injured, he’s a statistic and they’ll say he signed up for it. Or he had it coming. Or that another pig got wings today.

People want to be furious and outraged over being stereotyped and profiled, yet these officers are dying because of the uniform they wear. A color that sets them apart. And a brass badge that weighs heavy on their chests. It seems like I’ve been cracked on the head and have woken up in Oppositeville.

I urge you to go out of your way to say ‘thank you’ to any officer you may see. Put a blue light in your window. Wear blue in support. And if he asks you to get out of the street – do it. It seems so simple.

A teenage boy and a new bride will lay their officers to rest this week while the rest of us celebrate Christmas with our families. Thousands of officers across America have put on their uniforms like a target on their back and gotten back out there. Hate is the Grinch that stole Christmas this year.

If Officer Wilson died in the street 133 days ago, nobody would've known his name.

Hate.

HATE.  I hate the word.  I’ve seen it so many times in the weeks since the officer involved shooting in Ferguson, MO.  And most of the time it was directed at officers.  Or those who were defending officers.

I’ve always thought that you could passively love a person, a thing, a memory – but you have to actively HATE.  You have to plead your hate case, get people on your side and spread the hate far and wide.  For what?  Hating for the sake of hate?

Well, I guess I’ll get on the hate bandwagon and tell you a few things that I hate…

I hate that our officers EXPECT to be shot.  I hate that is why their standard issue uniform includes a bullet-proof vest, a gun and ammunition.  I hate that the vest can slow down a bullet, but is worthless against a knife.  I hate that every time something ends badly, everyone is an expert in police tactics.  I hate that our society doesn’t hold individuals accountable for their own actions.  I hate that drug use is a defense.

I hate that our officers live in a hyper-vigilant state.  ALWAYS.  I hate that there’s no such thing as “off-duty”.  I hate that they are required to assess a situation and act in fractions of seconds – only to be second-guessed by everyone.  I hate the never ending questions of “why didn’t he just shoot him in the leg?”, “he should’ve punched him, tased him, etc.”  But when they do punch him, tase him, etc. – the question still turns to excessive force.  I hate that every time an officer defends him/herself – they are made out to be aggressive bullies.  I hate aggressive bullies.

I hate that the life expectancy of an officer is mid-fifties – that is, if they aren’t killed in the line of duty before then.  I hate that they age quicker, burn out faster and die younger than members of most other professions.  I hate that officers are afraid to ask for help – out of concern of being labeled weak.  Or just being labeled, at all.  And knowing that if that officer is ever involved in anything – that record will be made public.  I hate that society believes in police-issued divorces.  I hate that officers see so much darkness, they sometimes forget there’s light.  I hate that an officer’s suicide is not considered job-related.  I hate that heart attacks are.

I hate that people complain about racism, stereotyping, etc. of groups of people, yet will lump anyone with a badge into the same pile of hate.  Are there bad cops?  Sure.  But a very limited few.  And when a  cop does go bad – that thin blue line is the FIRST one to push them away from the pack.  I hate that, too.

I hate that when an officer-involved anything gets reported on TV, the police wife fields multiple phone calls from family/friends asking if her officer is okay.  Even if the incident happened in a different jurisdiction.  I hate that we have to discuss with our officers what we expect from them if the media shows up.  I hate that the media reports how incredibly sad it is when an officer is killed, yet will top the newscast when it looks like they found one being an aggressive bully.  Even if they don’t have all the facts.  Or any of the facts.  I hate that they get most of the story wrong.  #Ihatehashtags.

I hate that citizens demand officers be cited for speeding and parking violations, then demand answers on why it took so long for an officer to respond to THEIR crisis. I hate that they will be blasted later for not handling it the way the citizen wanted it handled.  I hate that our officers are expected to be kind, yet tactical; efficient, yet thoughtful; command present, yet not militaristic.  I hate that they’re expected to be family counselors, accident investigators, burglar catchers, baby finders, old person locaters, drug house eliminators, sex offender counters, dead-body finders, homicide investigators, things-that-go-bump-in-the-night locators and dark-side seers – but not to be affected by ANY of it.

I hate that our officers get heckled wherever they go – especially if they stop to grab lunch during a regularly scheduled 10-12 hour shift.  And when they do grab lunch, it’s either someplace where the food is already made and wrapped. Or where they can see the person make it for fear that someone might do something to it.  I hate that most of the time, they don’t even eat, at all. 

I hate that people say to their children, “That cop is going to take you away”.  I hate the clown in every room that says, “Don’t arrest me, bro!”  I hate that anyone anywhere thinks it’s funny.  I hate even more that they think it’s original.  I hate the phrase Y.O.L.O.

I hate that politicians feel the need to get involved in situations.  I hate that chiefs are afraid to investigate their own officers’ shootings. I hate that city councils will rage against their officers – then try to convince people at election time that they support law enforcement.  I hate that those same politicians paint a picture of officers screwing the pension system.  And insist that officers are paid too much – while taking their own political paychecks and drawing from the same retirement system…while not wearing a single item with Kevlar in it.  Even after serving only one 4 year term.  I hate that cities/states/municipalities see officer deaths as a cost of doing business.  I hate that they see badges, not faces of those who protect them.  I hate that they balance their budgets on the backs of first responders.

I hate that every 50-something hours a police officer is killed.  I hate when any officer is killed – someone somewhere always says, “Well, they signed up for it.”  I hate that we have to decide who gets to come get us if something happens to our officer.  I hate the panic every time we see that person. I hate that my police widow friends have had to go up against state legislators.  I hate that bills and laws have been named after their officers.  I hate the fact that police widows exist.  I hate that I know so many.  I hate that we all know deep down inside that someday they may come for us.

I hate that police spouses sleep alone most of the time.  I hate that they worry about impending births of their children at home alone – especially when they can only afford one car on his salary.  And he’s got that car on the other side of town for his graveyard shift.  I hate that sometimes they feel “married single”, but wouldn’t do it any other way. I hate that they sleep with their cell phones so they don’t miss a call from him – just in case something happened.  I hate that they know not to touch the uniform that came home in a black trash bag.

I hate that our kids go from thinking that their daddy officers are super heroes to thinking they’re a liability when it comes to dating – nobody wants to date the cop’s daughter, right?  I hate that police families celebrate Christmas every day EXCEPT for December 25th.  I hate that birthday parties are typically missed.  I hate that wedding anniversaries are normally spent on a ride-along with the officer with a romantic dinner off the roll-a-grille at the 24-hour convenience store with the cleanest bathroom.  I hate that our “weekends” no longer include concerts, festivals or anywhere that large groups of people gather.  I hate that Tuesdays are Fridays and Thursdays are Mondays – or multiple versions of complicated weeks. 

I hate that when a “bad guy” gets killed – we’re not allowed to talk about what happened moments before, or even look at their rap sheet/track record. I hate that if an officer is involved, their personnel file is pulled within the hour by the media.  I hate that their crucifixion starts immediately.  I hate that officers are the only ones not innocent until proven guilty.

I hate that police families are not treated to a “speedy trial” when one of their own is killed in the line of duty, but the suspect can drag it on as long as he’d like.  And I hate that when it finally does go to trial, the family has to hear and see all of the gruesome details of their officer’s death and the defense can decimate the surviving officers as he paints an ugly picture of the suspect being a victim.  I hate that cop killers’ defense is they were spanked as children.

I hate that cop killers are heroes in prison.  Regular royalty amongst their prison peers.  I hate that we live in a society where the death penalty exists.  I hate that I'm glad that it does.  I hate waiting for juries to return verdicts.

I hate that when something like Ferguson, MO happens – people automatically assume it was race-related, when in actuality – that officer just wanted to go home that night.  I hate that officers put their badges on at the beginning of a shift – realizing that they might not live long enough to take them off. 

Really…I just hate HATE.  And if “cop” were a skin color – imagine THAT racism. I hate that officers and their families already know that hate-ism. 

Do You Know Her?

  When an officer dies, the question is always, “Did you know him?”, like somehow it can diminish the pain of a fallen officer if you had never met them.  As the spouse of a police officer, I get that, as well – with an added twist, “Do you know his wife?” 

     My response?  Yes.  I know her. 

     I know that she finds herself alone a lot.  I know she spends a lot of time explaining to family members, friends and co-workers why her officer husband is not with her.  I know when someone asks what her husband does – she may have an alternative answer like ‘he works for the city (county or state)’ or ‘he’s a trash collector’, yet someone in the room always clarifies for her – he’s a cop.

     I know she cringes every time she hears the words “officer involved” and HATES the words “routine traffic stop”.  I know she spends a lot of time defending her husband’s career choice and sometimes realizes that her silence is necessary. I know the justice system frustrates her, yet she relies on it anyway.  I know that people feel it necessary to tell her of every contact they’ve had with LE – especially if it was bad, yet never seem to remember to tell her when they saw one do something nice.

     I know she sleeps alone a lot, spends her birthday, anniversary and her children’s birthdays wishing he were there. I know “date nights” on Wednesdays are better than a Saturday every single time.  And I know when on that date, he will have to sit facing the door.

     I know when they do get a chance to go out, she’ll let him drive so as to not have to hear about her “escape route” or recite portions of the traffic code.  I know that he’ll always recognize someone somewhere that he’s arrested.  I know they probably have a ‘code word’ that means grab the kids and head the other way – I’ll meet you at the car.

     I know when her children are little they are proud of their super hero.  And as they grow into teenagers, they no longer offer what their dad does for fear it will make them unpopular.  I know high school boys don’t want to date cop’s daughters.

     I know that she finds things in her washer that most people don’t have in their homes – from blue gloves to bullets – and thinks nothing of it.  I know she’s picked a handcuff key out of her dryer more than once.  I know she has learned to ignore the smell of his vest in July and buys Febreeze by the gallon.  I know her biggest load of laundry is black (or tan or blue). And they’re usually washed separately to make sure that any bio-hazard he’s come in contact with doesn’t end up in the baby’s clothes.

     I know that she wants him to eat better, but knows a ‘good day’ for him means more than one trip to QT.  I know that she buys Tupperware by the case to store leftovers in hoping he’ll eat a ‘real’ meal when he gets home.  I know she’s watched him age, his hair gray and the sunspots show up on his left arm and neck.

     I know she has a hard time scheduling vacations because shift change is coming.  I know that when one of his brothers is hurt – his vacation time will probably get donated to him anyway.  I know that when it’s his regular day off, he will probably still get called to court – even if he worked all night.

     I know that a text message with two words – "I’m okay" – is like a sonnet or love song to most... especially when we see “breaking news” flash on our TV screens.

     I know that her favorite sounds are the garage door and the sound of Velcro.  He made it home safely. And I know she can tell by the sound of his boots on the floor whether or not to ask how his day was.

     And I know that even though she knew his job had risk, and officers are dying in the line of duty – she never TRULY believed it would happen to hers.

     Do I know her?  Yes.  Have I met her?  No.

     But when I do – you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.