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.  

#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.