"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.

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Death.

Her once bright and vibrant red hair had thinned and faded. Her breathing was shallow and would occasionally break into short fits of coughing. Her pupils were constricted from the morphine given to ease the pain. The cancer had taken hold and her time to leave this world was near.

I sat this afternoon for a few minutes with a woman I have known for almost all of my life. The mother of the man who married my oldest sister. I met her when I was five years old. I swam in her pool and she made me peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and Koolaid.

I left the care facility and rode away on a motorcycle I'd borrowed. I stopped by my own father's grave and cleared some weeds from around the headstone. I rode for some time thinking about these events. I realized that I was not wearing any of the usual protective gear that I make a habit of using. I thought of the road as it passed by and saw mental glimpses of what a crash at these speeds would do. I've seen enough riders injured and killed to know what that's like. For a moment, death seemed everywhere.

I caught a glimpse of my shadow on the roadside. I looked up at the beautiful hills and quickly cleared my head. Life was beautiful and life went on.

Law Officers deal with death on a regular basis. Whether it is in investigating natural death, suicide, homicide, or the thought that you may be required to cause the death of another in order to protect yourself or others.

One of the less enjoyable things in Law Enforcement is notifying families that their loved one has died. Despite the difficulty and unpleasantness of this task, it's always interresting seeing the different reactions of the group. What is certain is that everyone will be at a different stage of grief.

I was taught the Kubler-ross model of grief in Parmedic school. This model states that there are five stages of grief that people go through when faced with the loss of a loved one. They are as follows:

1) Denial.

2) Anger.

3) Bargaining.

4) Depression.

5) Acceptance.

How fast a person goes through these stages depends in large part on their own environment and psyche. According to some who have gone through the loss of a loved one, sometimes you can cycle back through some of the stages.

Early one morning, while working as a Paramedic, my partner and I received a "man down" call. We responded and found firefighters giving CPR to a male in his 60's. There were several signs indicating that this man was dead. I received an order from the Emergency Room Physician to cancel life saving efforts.

I went outside and met with the wife who was sitting on a chair. I asked her what her husband's name was and told her that he had died. What was intriguing about this woman's response was that she cycled through the stages of grief within about 30 seconds. She said something to the effect of, "No it can't be true. Damnit, why did you have to die? Please, is there anything you can do? I don't know what I'm going to do. Alright, what do we have to do?" Hopefully she didn't notice my jaw, which had dropped as we listened to her going through the stages of grief right before our eyes.

Death makes men human. I sat with a young father recently who's infant had died in it's bassinet. It was a particularly difficult and emotionally draining call. Despite all this man's rough exterior, being raised in a harsh central California city, and past run-ins with Police, we were able to sit and talk as just two people. All of the external veneer had fallen away exposing a person who was hurt and didn't know what to do.

When I was a young Deputy, I was called on to help recover the body of a 12 year old Hmong boy from the river. The boy had drown trying to cross the river while fishing two weeks previous. His body had not been found until that morning. My partner and I responded and recovered the boy's body. I went to the home of the young boy and found his father who was surrounded by approximately 30 to 40 family members. I told him that we had found his son and that he had died. The man held back tears as he thanked me and pulled back into the group. He was literally enveloped in the love of his family.

Our bodies are like a cup holding water. If the cup breaks, then it cannot hold water anymore. So too are our bodies. If disease or trauma damages our bodies enough, then it can no longer hold life.

I don't have a great closing for this post. It's something that's been on my mind for some time. I dedicate this to Donna who made me the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches as a little boy and loved me all of my life.

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