"A Cop's Christmas"

I've held this story in my files for many years now. It's a story by a Long Island Officer's experience several years ago. I found it when I was a Deputy and haven't had the heart to throw it out, as every time I read it, it gets to me. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays from us at the Chico Blue Review.

"A Cop's Christmas"

Sgt. Stan R. Kid of Long Island

One of the first things a new police officer learns is that cops work on holidays. It's a fact of life. Crime never takes a holiday. In 1974, when I first joined the police department, I knew there would be special occasions my family would spend without me. Knowing that didn't make the task any easier. The celebrations I missed during those first years depressed me and sometimes made me feel bitter. Working on Christmas Eve was always the worst. It felt like a thankless job. On Christmas Eve in 1977, I learned that blessings can come disguised as misfortune, and honor is more than just a word.

I was riding one-man patrol on the 4:00 p.m. to midnight shift. The night was cold. Everywhere I drove I saw reminders of the holidays. Families were packing their cars with presents. Beautifully decorated Christmas trees in living room windows and roofs adorned with tiny sleighs made me feel even more sorry for myself.

The evening had been relatively quiet. There were calls for a barking dog, a minor auto accident, a false burglar alarm. There was nothing to make the night go faster. I thought of my own family and sank more deeply into depression.

Shortly after 10:00 p.m., I got a radio call to the home of an elderly cancer patient. I stopped in front of a simple Cape Cod style house. First-aid kit in hand, I walked up the path to the front door. As I approached, a woman who seemed about 80 years old opened the door. "He's in here, " she said, leading me into the back bedroom.

We passed through a living room furnished in a style I had come to associate with older people. The sofa had an afghan blanket draped over its back and a dark, solid colored Queen Anne chair sat next to an unused fireplace. The mantle was cluttered with an eclectic mix of several photos, some porcelain figurines and an antique clock. A floor lamp provided soft lighting.

We entered a small back bedroom where a frail looking old man lay in the bed with a blanket pulled up to his chin. He wore a blank stare on his ashen, skeletal face. His breathing was shallow; he was barely alive.

The trappings of illness were all around the bed. The nightstand was littered with a large number of pill vials. An oxygen bottle stood nearby, its thin plastic hose, with facemask attached, rested on the blanket.

I asked the woman why she called for the police. She simply shrugged and nodded sadly toward her husband, indicating it was his request. I looked at him and he stared intently into my eyes. He seemed relaxed now. I didn't understand the suddenly-calm expression on his face.

I looked around the room again. A dresser stood along the wall to the left of the bed. On it were the usual memorabilia-ornate perfume bottles, a white porcelain case and a wooden jewelry tray. There were also several photos in simple frames. One caught my eye and I walked to the dresser for a closer look. The picture showed a young man wearing a police uniform. It was unmistakably a photo of the man in the bed. I knew then why I was there.

I looked at the old man and he motioned with his head toward the side of his bed. I walked over and stood beside him. He slid a thin arm from under the covers and took my hand. Soon, I felt his hand go limp. I looked at his face. There was no fear there. I only saw peace.

He knew he was dying; he was aware his time was very near. I know now that he was afraid of what was about to happen and he wanted the protection of a fellow cop on his journey.

A caring God had seen to it that His child would be delivered safely to Him. The honor of being his escort fell to me.

Since that night, I have considered it a high honor to be present at the moment of a person's death. As a cop, I have had that honor many times and feel I have been given a very special responsibility: ensuring someone's safe passage home to his or her Father.

I no longer feel sorry for myself for having to work on Christmas Eve. I have chosen an honorable profession. I pray that when my time comes to leave this world that there will be a cop there to hold my hand and let me know I have nothing to fear.

I wish all my brothers and sisters who have to work this Christmas Eve all the Joy of the Season.