I Have a Voice

The time has come to write about what held me together as the man I loved, driving to his duties in the darkness where he knew there were dangers, took off his hat and hung it on the wall of his mantle, as though the police car had become his home. He told me he would return, but if I needed him he sang out the numbers of the police car where he is going to meet the Angel of Death. Nothing shouted out to me from my brain where often the sounds of angel voices speak to me saying, "Turn right" or "Turn left", but not until we give you the signal. No signal was given to me. It was New Year’s Eve, but I didn’t wait to bring in the year by myself so I climbed the stairs to find my bed. The children were soundly sleeping, and soon I was in some dream land as well. Then the phone started it's loud, long ringing, a sign that the volunteer fire department needed all of their monitors to be alert to made the calls for the men on their call list to assemble at the fire station. As I picked up the phone I heard, Chihil is down! My heart leaped into my throat, and time stood still as I learned that my husband had been put down by the blow to his body from a bottle of gin and tonic that had hit him head on, pushing the steering wheel into his lungs, and his body against the medal bars that separated the officer from the law breaker that would be in the back seat. There in the night, a young man sits, inebriated behind the wheel of a car. His father had loaned him his car so he could enjoy all the holiday spirit in style. Surely the young man sits stupefied over what he has done.  Run, he wants to run, but his legs are mangled so he is trapped by his ignorance of drinking and driving. He has caused a young officer to lose his life.  Never again will he hear his wife's singing, or the sound of his children playing. Did these memories start to fade as he  left his earthly body trapped inside his old self there in the darkness? They find him, his comrades, who lift him from this sleeping danger they call death. Did he hear their frantic voices as they tried to rip away the cold medal with their bare hands? They use the Jaws of Life to rip off the parts of the medal holding his body trapped. The tin star is seeping with his life’s blood. These are the memories his comrades will carry as they move swiftly to free him, hoping to God he isn't so broken he cannot be repaired. His buddies, these fire fighters are fighting for one of their own. They work, hoping for distance to come  so they won't feel the anguish of this dark night that turns into more than they had bargained for. Now is the moment when they all turn away hoping to God not to be the one chosen to  tell me, his wife, who they left screaming on the now dead line, that her husband is dead.



I had hurriedly dressed and awakened our foster daughter to stay on watch for the children should they wake while I was gone.  She was thirteen, and terrified of what the news would be. I was at the door before the knock of an old friend could leave a sound at my door.  He said, “We have to get to the hospital. Mike is there, he will be needing you.” I hurried across the icy ground to his truck.  He held my shaking fingers in his gloved hand. I wondered why we were driving the back roads. Perhaps he knew a short cut to the hospital. I didn’t realize he was protecting me from the sight of blood and glass on the roadway where the wreck had occurred. The drunkard had killed my husband. I felt like I was in a dense fog. I was in shock. My brain was working to slow for my emotions to show. I stood at the feet of my husband, touching his toes through his socks. Doctors and nurses were working trying to bring back breath to his lifeless body. They didn’t know I was standing there listening to them shouting orders. A doctor sees me there and shouts for someone to remove me from the room. Laying on a bed close by was the man who had caused this horrid scene.  He moaned in his own pain, oblivious to any other. 



Once during the storm of emotions my head felt like it was bursting, but this had to be tucked away for there were others this day that had to be held and tears had to fall as we all snuggled together and I told my little daughters that their Daddy was dead. Somewhere in dreamland they went back to sleep, but for me this would be forever the memory that wouldn’t go away. I choked on my own sobbing as I dialed the telephone to tell the family that Mike was dead.





Time is a passing thing and while it cannot cure all ills it helps the mind to build some tissue to scar over the wounds so we think we can heal.  Yet time can turn on a dime and something can bring to the mind the hurts from the memories we all have stored there, but sometimes memories are too great to bear. When my knight lay there dressed in his police officer's blue’s  I never second guessed what I had to do. For myself I wanted to die. The mountain was just too high to climb this time, but I knew the children needed me too.  So I held each one by the hand. With a flag draped on my arm, we watched as the firemen laid white gloves on his coffin and he was given one last salute.



The years have passed and I am an old woman now.  I’ve lived many experiences in my life time, but to this day, this is still my hardest.  I’m married to a good man and my little girls are now middle aged women themselves.  I feel that I have a voice and I have the need to continue to speak out against drunk driving.  I don’t have a solution for this crime.  If Mother’s Against Drunk Driver’s can’t be heard, then how will my words make any difference.  Perhaps by speaking about what it does to a family to lose a loved one for such a pathetic reason it can become more personal. Within my family of inlaws I have known of this condition. It causes anger when I speak my voice. People die every day from a variety of causes. Cancer takes lives, and I have experienced loss by this dreadful illness. Research is being done daily to eradicate diseases from our lives. To lose my grandchild by cancer was different from losing my husband to a drunk driver. How can I speak to an illness and through reason make it go away. Alcoholics have an illness as well, but they also have the choice not to involve someone else in their illness. They also have the opportunity to seek help for their illness.  If I can change the thinking of one person, then I have made a difference. I have a voice.