Scattered Little Parts

Dear Part,

I always knew that I wanted to be a mom. A good one. Not any plain old mom. A mom who would try to be the best example of love, kindness, forgiveness, patience, integrity, and so much more…for them, my kids. A mom who would not only be a constant support to each one of them, but also a voice of reason and “truth” when they needed it. A rock. A protector. A pillar of strength for our little family.

I worked tirelessly for them over the years, and through many of those, I put my own needs last. Well, you helped me with that. When the kids wanted something we could not afford, Butch and I worked harder and longer, to make it happen. I gave up hobbies, sleep, and even sold my belongings to give them more. I cooked homemade meals and baked our bread and buns to avoid rising store costs. And I stood, head hanging, 4th person down in the food bank lineup, when even that was not enough. Why? Because I loved them that much, and that is what I believed a good mom would do. Wholeheartedly though, I was embarrassed to admit that we needed help and were unable to do it on our own. My job was to be “not any plain old mom,” but the best mom I could be.

Years later, you helped me step out of the mom role, to fulfill my dream—more so, an intention—of becoming a police officer. I waited until the moment Butch was supported emotionally and settled into his new job, and until I believed that he would be “okay” to parent the kids alone, while I was away at training. Leaving them was the hardest thing I have ever had to do, but I stepped out in faith that they would be okay without me. You helped me become a police officer. A good one. Not any plain old police officer. An officer who would try to be the best example of love, kindness, forgiveness, patience, integrity, and so much more for my community, and for them, my kids. To stand tall, and eager to share all those Parts of me with people who never got to feel loved, respected, heard, or forgiven. For those people who got left behind. For those who fell through the cracks. I realized that my purpose in life was to do just that.

Over the years, there were many times I could have “hung up the cuffs.” Not because I did not want to do the job anymore; instead, I was physically broken. Yes, a few people’s bad decisions helped break me. I have faced setbacks. I have undergone countless surgeries, stitches, bruises, and broken bones, which have all taught me, even more so now, just how much our world needs people who really care out there. Police officers who care. “Moms” like me who are committed to standing tall and being that rock our society so desperately needs.

If I had given up, I would not have been there to hold a little girl’s hand when her daddy died, sitting with her on the living room couch while her mom said goodbye to the only man she had ever loved. I wouldn’t have lain on sheer ice, out on the highway under a crumpled pickup truck—on a -20 degree night, tears running down my cheeks—as I held onto a girl’s bloody hand through twisted metal. I remember waiting for the Jaws of Life and telling her, “Just hold on. Listen to my voice, and breathe with me…everything’s going to be okay,” even when I didn’t believe it myself. Or the time I held my service pistol up to a 16-year-old boy after he had just slashed a rival’s face open with a switchblade. I remember looking at him and thinking, “He is the same age as my own son,” and in that moment, while doing my job to protect the public from further harm, feeling so sad for him that his own mom had given up on him. Moms are not supposed to do that. If I had given up, I would not have been there to sit with him later in his jail cell, and learn that although he was a gang member, he had hopes and dreams like any other teenage boy.

You see, I could go on for days, dear Part. I could share many reasons why it was important for me to never give up the job I love. So many lives saved, so many people to care about. “I” was never included in my reasoning though—to me, it was about my giving everything I had to my job, my kids, and to those around me. For whatever reason, I once again put my own well-being last. Unfortunately, in policing, that is equivalent to a slow death sentence. You knew that.

I could easily blame others around me—Supervisors, Watchmates, detachment leaders…even Butch. It would be easy for me to do that, to pass on the accountability for my own health, for not debriefing timely enough or at all. I could. But, the blame wasn’t on them. I knew the symptoms…I knew that panic attacks and nightmares were not normal. Instead, I made excuses for being unable to sleep and waking up drenched through my nightgown, after reliving the moment a man took his last breath in my arms. Or for the way I quickly prayed for God to look after my kids, when I believed that I only had seconds to live one night out on the highway. It began slowly, like that. Then, the fear set in. I was “switched on” all the time, never turning my back on anyone, becoming highly vigilant of my surroundings in case I was required to save a life or protect my own. The trouble is, it consumed me.