Category Archives: On Life

Collateral Damage

On Life, , , , , ,

Death danced outside our door again.

His fingers long and reach beyond

the body that they claim. 

When my husband got home last night, he shared about his day. It began with a roll-over of a van full of kids and ended with a ninety-year old man being struck and killed by a motorist.

He posed a question. “What do you call it when you do the right thing but pay a price anyway?”

Two young boys witnessed the old man breathe his last. Their mom had stopped to be a witness. A good Samaritan. Death’s fingers found their way into her minivan and touched her sons. A picture they will never forget. An horrific image.

Collateral damage.

I have often thought to myself, “And that’s the last post on PTSD. Because, seriously, how many more can I come up with?” And then something happens.

“Unintended damage, injuries, or deaths caused by an action…”

Oh yeah. That happens.

Unintended damage.

Death takes one life but touches a sea of others.

Collateral damage.

I’ve struggled to explain what PTSD is like. Or better, what living with someone who has PTSD is like. In order to convey the width of impact it has in our lives as a family I end up sounding dramatic. I start talking about death and destruction and people’s eyes glass over. Who wants to deal with that?

Exactly. Who wants to? But some of us still get to.

And then I back off a little and talk about the affects instead of the causes and I sound like a victim. Look what it’s done to our family? Whine.

So when these two words came out last night as my husband was reliving his day, a light bulb went off.

What do you call it when you do the right thing and pay for it anyway? He was talking about the woman. The good Samaritan. She stopped to help but paid a price. But as he was talking, I realized he could just as easily be talking about himself.

What do you call it when you serve the community and do your job well and you end up dealing with unintended injuries?

Collateral damage. 

May we learn to respond to life’s unintended injuries.

 

God, give me grace to accept with serenity

the things that cannot be changed,

Courage to change the things

which should be changed,

and the Wisdom to distinguish

the one from the other.

Living one day at a time,

Enjoying one moment at a time…

-ReinholdNiebuhr

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The thinnest part of the blue line

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Not being one to take things at face value, I looked up the “thin blue line.” Generally accepted as a symbol used to show solidarity with law enforcement, there is a fair amount of controversy associated with the symbol. Controversy? Related to law enforcement?

Perhaps the most current controversy involving law enforcement is whether they should continue to be compensated for the work they do whether in wages or retirement benefits. But don’t be deceived. There seems to have been a hazy cloud of controversy surrounding the shiny badge for some time. And to prove my point, I give you two words, Wyatt Earp. A law man of the wild-west and best known for his part in the shoot out at the OK Corral, his past is hardly exemplary.

Controversy. 

It has become a standard part of our culture. When asked what he does, my husband never says, “I’m a police officer.” Can you guess why? What follows is typically a story of unjust ticketing or “speed traps” or a whiny interlude about the total jerk officer that pulled them over last week. The Andy Griffith mentality has faded out like black and white television and in it’s place is high def.

Controversy.

My husbands professional experience has been dealing with people who break the law, snotty and rude people, and some who would rather see him bleeding out on the sidewalk. For him, life is measured in potential threats and worse case scenarios. It changes the way he views the world. That’s his training. And his training and experience do not shut off the moment he walks through the door at home. His badge is off, but his vigilance is not. And such a condition means that he will ask me to do things that seem strange to outsiders. And guess what comes from that?

Controversy.

Even being married to a police officer opens the door for some dissension. A law enforcement family, or any first responder family, seem to have a unique set of rules. And there are instances where this causes controversy among friends and family members.

There are times when the rules that govern our home are challenged. “Why would he ask you to call him before you are on your way home? Don’t you think that’s a tad controlling?” Or, “Really? You aren’t allowed to open the front door in the middle of the day?” I could list the different customs that keep the peace in our home and that “normal” people deem crazy. I have plenty of fodder. But that’s not the point. The point is this–stop the controversy.

We all have a degree of crazy. Superstitions. Habits. Traditions. The difference is, most of us don’t wear our crazy on a clean pressed uniform, marked by a shiny star on our chest. By following a few “rules” around the house, I help put my husband’s mind at ease so that he can focus on his job and come home safe. Seems like a fair enough trade to me.

The thinnest part of the “thin blue line” is where crazy seems unnecessary and pointless. But sometimes the crazy is necessary. Then we call it something different.

Heroism.

 

Insight from Pirates

On Life, , , ,

“Life is pain highness. Anyone who tells you differently is selling something.”

Can you name the movie? It’s a brilliant movie but not exactly the most uplifting quote.

Life is pain? Really? We don’t want this to be so but can we disagree? Even the most staunch optimist must admit that life is full of pain. So, if life is pain, what now?

There seem to be two sides to this coin. On the one hand, we avoid. Run. Pretend it doesn’t exist or that it’s not that bad. And on the other, we wallow. Crawl back into bed, curl up in the fetal position, and pray to be left alone until it’s over.

Life is pain.

And pain hurts. It’s uncomfortable. Can you blame me for running or wallowing? But running and avoiding pain means I’m convinced it has no value. And, if I cringe and hold my breath until it’s over, in essence, I declare the same. Pain has no value. We only embrace things that we declare beneficial or profitable.

But if I act as though pain has no value and I know that life is full of pain then I have sealed my fate. My life will have pain, the pain has no value, therefore, life has no value. The only days to be celebrated are those lived on the pinnacle of health or happiness. All other days should be endured until we crest the mountain once again.

But let’s live radically. What if we could believe something else. What if every day counted? What if we could believe that…

Pain has value.

Don’t worry. I didn’t make this up.

“Pain insists upon being attended to. God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our consciences, but shouts in our pains. It is his megaphone to rouse a deaf world.”  ― C.S. Lewis

“There is a saying in Tibetan, ‘Tragedy should be utilized as a source of strength.’ No matter what sort of difficulties, how painful experience is, if we lose our hope, that’s our real disaster.”  ― Dalai Lama XIV

“Let me explain. Wait, there is no time. Let me sum up.” Life is pain. Pain is God shouting at me. But His message is hope. And if I’ve learned anything in the last few years it’s this–

The beauty of hope is seen best against the darkened back drop of pain.

We are planning to move away. My heart grieves at the inevitable good-bye that is coming. I want to hide. I want to withdrawal. I want it not to be so.

Life is pain.

May the pain of goodbye deepen my resolve to live in relationship. May the hurt of separation open my heart like the seed that waits for spring. May the breaking of our hearts, create a capacity in us to love even deeper. May we have ears to hear God’s message of hope. He is shouting after all.

But those who suffer he delivers in their suffering; he speaks to them in their affliction. – Job 36:15

 

Stress is like Gangrene

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“Gangrene may be prevented if it is treated before the tissue damage is irreversible. Wounds should be treated properly and watched carefully for signs of infection.”

Stress is like gangrene.

As I have mentioned, our family is familiar with PTSD. An intense stress disorder. But we are also familiar, along with probably everyone else alive, with good old fashioned, every day stress. You know. The nausea, insomnia, increased appetite, head ache, and neck ache inducing variety. Often caused by, but not limited to moving, having children, working, family members, deadlines, buying houses.

Even getting this blog out today has been a point of stress. And that is irony, my friends. But, in the course of having to climb out of the stinky pile of dung I’ve been buried under this week, I discovered something.

A quote. The philosophy of a man well acquainted with stress and suffering. He endured four different concentration camps during World War II. If anyone has the credentials of experience to talk about living in the midst of trial it would be him. And this is what he says.

“…the world is in a bad state, but everything will become still worse unless each of us does his best.” (Viktor Fankle.) His idea is that regardless of what happens to a person, we all retain the right, and even the responsibility, to choose how we respond. One does not require suffering to find meaning, but meaning can be found in spite of suffering. Or maybe even in spite of stress.

Stress is like gangrene.

It isn’t going anywhere. It’s like a bacteria. We will be bombarded until we breath our last breath. No amount of pretending or wishing can change that. But we must learn to treat it properly. Why do I give it so much power to rule over me like an evil tyrant? Instead of making it my master, I have to learn how to make it my teacher. It is an opportunity to learn to chose differently. But left unchecked, it can cause irreversible damage.

An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.

Stress is like gangrene. 

It’s time to start addressing the stress in my life.

So tomorrow, I’m getting out of bed and going for a bit of fresh air and exercise. And, I’m going to scream at my stress. I’m going to confront the tyrant and treat it like a drill instructor. “Bring it on! Teach me something!”

May the stress in my life point to areas that need correction and may it strengthen my resolve to make the world a better place.

At least, I’m going to try. How about you? Stressed lately?

Donuts and Darth Vader

On Life, ,

We have found reason to celebrate a vast array of things.

The first Friday of June is National Donut Day.

May the fourth is officially Star Wars day. (If you don’t get it, say “May the fourth be with you” out loud.)

And this last Tuesday was September 11th. A National Day of Remembrance. I bet you could recall exactly where you were and what you were doing when you heard the news.

But what about September 15th? What significance does that day have you ask?

It’s National Tell a Police Officer Thank You Day!

My husband, a police officer, recently introduced our son to an old sitcom from the 60’s, “Adam-12.” As we watched an episode, LAPD officers stopped a woman for a traffic violation. As soon as the officers made contact with her, she began ranting about quotas and how the officers shouldn’t be harassing upstanding citizens. My husband looked at my son and informed him that not much has changed in 40 years. Imagine approaching a car and having no idea what awaits. A respectful young man. A snarky old lady. A wanted felon. A routine stop can go from compliant, to ranting, to shots fired in seconds.

I married into the law enforcement family and I still freak out when I see a car behind me with a light bar stretched across the top. My heart seizes and my foot floats off the gas pedal. I remind myself not to rear end the car in front of me as I wait to see if the blue lights are going to start spinning. No one wants to meet a uniform that way. We accuse them of speed traps and having to attain quotas. Maybe they are stopping us in order to take out their frustration over a fight they just had with their spouse or boss. They represent fines and increased insurance rates. An inconvenient visit to a cheesy Comedy Traffic School at best.

Did I mention September 15th is National Tell a Police Officer Thank You Day?

Thank you? Really?

But gratitude is always the fruit of correctly altered perspective.

What if you were in an accident and your car caught on fire? Who do you think would be there to pull you out? Who would risk their own safety to keep you alive? What if you were shot? Who would raise their hand to chase down the madman and submit him to justice? Who can leap a skyscraper in a single bound? Okay so maybe that’s going a bit far but you get the point right?

Maybe you haven’t needed to be pulled from a burning car or maybe you’ve never been shot or accosted by a criminal. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe if we didn’t have men and women willing to wear a uniform and risk their lives and listen to our snarky complaining, we would be the ones who would have to confront the evils of our society. They have families, dreams and goals. They are your neighbors. They simply wear a uniform and take the risk to be first on the scene.

Isn’t that reason enough to say thank you?

So how are you going to say thank you? Sept 15th is National Tell a Police Officer Thank You Day! Pass it on!

 

 

End of Watch

On Life, ,


17

Alexander is 17.

His father, Officer Youngstrom of the California Highway Patrol, was shot in the head on Tuesday. He made a traffic stop in Walnut Creek. Just doing his job.

Maybe that morning, Alexander’s dad drove him to school. Maybe the night before, they had talked about who gets to use the car this weekend. As of 6:05 pm last night, Alexander’s life is forever changed. He’s only seventeen and he lost his dad.

17 weeks.

The countdown has begun. At the end of seventeen weeks, I can lay that fear aside. In seventeen short weeks, my husband turns in his star and his gun. Retirement. The uniform will hang lethargic in the closet. No more traffic stops. No more wrecks. And we will step around the thin blue line. But, there have been countless days that I have embraced the chance that I could be in Alexander’s shoes. Saying goodbye to a hero.

17 weeks.

I think of Alexander and his family and I hold my breath.

But prayers aren’t prayers unless they are exhaled. Breathed out. Spoken. So I force myself to breath and I pray.

17 prayers.

God, grant your peace.

May your presence reside around the Youngstrom family.

May the tears of Alexander’s mother be counted.

May the tears of her children water their hearts and bear the fruit of wisdom.

May Alexander know that his father is a hero.

 

God, grant your provision.

May the family feel the prayers and thoughts of all who hear.

May the arms of the community embrace Alexander and his siblings.

May Officer Youngstrom’s wife know that she is our sister.

May there be strength in unity.

 

May Officer Youngstrom’s brothers in tan, be granted the gift of grieving.

May we find compassion for the perpetrator and his family.

May God give us the grace to count each day.

May we never forget those who risk so much to serve us.

May we know gratitude.

 

God, we ask you for your Grace.

May you grant us the eyes to see.

 

End of watch. 

Officer Kenyon Youngstrom, after a valiant fight, succumbed to the injuries he sustained after being shot on Tuesday morning. Officer Youngstrom was a dedicated officer and soldier who gave his life serving the people of California. He now joins a distinguished group of heroes whose names are engraved upon the CHP Memorial Fountain and who will forever be remembered for their valiant service and sacrifice.

Death and taxes…

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“…But in this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes.”

-Benjamin Franklin, in a letter to Jean-Baptiste Leroy, 1789

I would have to add to that short list.

Change.

I think change is certain. Empires rise and fall. Flowers bloom and fade. The years tick away, absorbing our youth and elasticity. Says the woman who just had a birthday.

Change seems to be as certain as death and taxes. We all live on the cusp of change. And it doesn’t really matter what the change is. Change just is. It happens often and in varying degrees. The addition of a child, the loss of a loved one. A new address, job, direction. I’ve spent some time recently, struggling to embrace the excitement and heartache of change. And I’ve discovered that change hits me in one or all of the following areas.

Change disrupts comfort.

Last December we moved to a new house in a new city. Not far from our old house but definitely far enough away to leave me looking for a new grocery store. And finding a new grocery store is obnoxious. It sounds petty but you know I’m right. Walking into a giant warehouse size space with no idea which direction to go to find mayonnaise. It can be intense. Not to mention moving away from people you love. It’s uncomfortable. Then I’m reminded by that annoying often faint voice of reason that maybe the pursuit of comfort is not the highest or noblest ambition. I doubt Mother Teresa was concerned with her comfort. I hate that voice sometimes.

Change disrupts control.

I’ll admit it. I’m a control addict. There’s a certain high that comes from watching a great plan come together. But trying to control life is like holding water in your hands. Even if you are strong enough to sustain it safely in your cupped hands, it will eventually evaporate. Loosing my grasp of the circumstances around me means I’m back to controlling what I was meant to control. My tongue and my attitude.

Change disrupts confidence.

There are no guarantees. The inevitable “What if?” What if it doesn’t turn out? What if I fail? But those aren’t really valid questions. Those are surface questions. I’m not concerned that things won’t work out. They always do. My concern is that things won’t work how I want them to. (See paragraph above.)

Change.

The leaves on the trees change every year. It’s just around the corner. They burn with glorious color to celebrate the sublime summer. This year, I intend to take a cue from them. As this season in my life ushers in change, may I be engulfed in vibrant hues of celebration for what has been and what is waiting for me around the corner.

What change is happening in your life right now?

WHAT?

On Life, , , , ,

Telephone.

Remember that game? Everyone sits in a circle.The beginning of all riveting games. One person whispers something into the ear of another person and it travels the circle. Usually, what is spoken at the end is a far cry from the original statement. Something gets lost somewhere in translation.

I like to call this marriage. Minus all the people in the middle. Unless you have children.

For example, I say one thing. My husband hears something all together different. (All right, and vice-versa.) Communication is challenging. But in our house, there’s another factor in the mix.

The language of law enforcement.

After years of having a toddler or two underfoot, I’m pretty fluent in tantrum and exhaustion. And likewise, my husband’s experience among the less than virtuous in our society has made him fluent in his own language.

Here are some examples. The first statement is something I might say. The second statement is what my husband hears after a lightning flash translation in his head.

Outing to the park. Translation, “ER visit.”

Grocery store. “Potential abduction.”

Solicitor at the front door. “Home invasion.”

The language of law enforcement.

This translation issue came to light again recently. I was returning from a weekend away. (My husband is awesome.) As we got on the freeway, I asked my friend to send a text to my husband so he would know were on our way. He likes to know these things, but maybe that’s another blog. Long story short, the auto correct feature kicked into high gear and the text that was sent was not a correct representation of the situation. It was kind of funny, I thought. So did my friend. We laughed and she asked if I thought he would decipher it. Within seconds, my phone was ringing. My husband was calling. His take on the message was that I had been kidnapped. He was not laughing. Between him dialing my cell phone and my friend answering, he had worked out which office he was going to call to roll out the rescue squad.

The language of law enforcement.

I used to think my husband was paranoid. Or that he didn’t find me competent. Those opinions made for some lively marital conversations. But I’ve come to discover that my law enforcement husband simply speaks a different language. And as I take the time to listen to the incidents that have transformed his thought processes, I find it much easier to give him grace. He loves us. And he fights to keep us separate from the horror he’s seen.

He took an oath to serve and protect. He takes that oath seriously every day. And at the top of that list are the one’s he loves. He doesn’t sit atop a white stead with shiny armor.  Somedays it’s a grungy uniform with just a shiny star on his chest. But the bottom line? I’m trying to learn his language. It’s one way I can show him I love him too.

Can you relate? What languages are spoken in your home?

 

D is for…

On Life, , , ,

Most pictures say a thousand words. But this picture screams one simple word.

“Dauntless.”

I was drawn to this picture. There was something about it. So I bought it. My husband and I had stopped for food and a break a couple hours into a routine nine hour road trip. After hour 13, the routine faded into torture. Our eyes crossed or threatened to shut completely and exhaustion permeated the air like a heavy fog. We wanted to quit, but we weren’t where we needed to be yet. We weren’t home. So we kept our behinds in our seats and we kept driving.

When we finally got home we kissed the ground and then pulled the picture out of the car. As tired as we were, the irony was not lost. We had just lived a dauntless moment.

Stalwart Resolute. Indomitable.

We still joke about that trip and the picture. But as soon as I thought about my journey with PTSD and how I would put it into an acronym, I knew.

D is for dauntless.

It’s one thing to convey an emotion at a pivotal point in the journey. It’s another thing all together to impart a word such as dauntless. I’ve rewritten this post about five times now. As I try to describe what dauntless looks like, it keeps coming up grey and lifeless. Much like the painting. D is for drudgery. Just keep getting in the boat. Day after day.

But I wasn’t drawn to the picture because it evoked a feeling of drudgery. From the first moment I saw that photo, I felt hope. The picture doesn’t show each man bravely taking their place in the boat. It shows them in open water. Moving. Embarking on an adventure. Unshrinking to the challenges that may lie ahead.

The whole point of my last post was choosing to get in the boat. Dauntless has to mean something more. And I think back to the road trip. What about that trip demonstrates dauntless? Was it the drudgery of driving? And then I see it. Yes, there was drudgery involved. But dauntless is overcoming the drudgery in light of the port of call. We fought fatigue and committed to driving for the comfort of home. We looked forward to sleeping in our own bed. We were traveling toward a destination.

D is for dauntless.

I’m staying in the boat. I’m all in. That’s “S.” But more than that. I’m looking forward. I’m resolutely believing that good days are ahead. That an adventure awaits.

It is challenging to believe that the sun will ever shine again after days of endless rain and the darkest of nights. But dauntless means indomitable hope. Stalwart expectation. It’s not just repeating the vows and the commitments. It’s remembering what you believed in those moments. I fell in love with my husband because of who he is. Through the course of the ups and downs of PTSD, I fight to remain unshrinking. To remember the man I married. To boldly love my husband as he is. And to be audacious in my belief that an adventure awaits.

D is for dauntless.

That’s what dauntless looks like to me. What does dauntless look like to you?

S is for…

On Life, , , , ,

Should I stay or should I go?

This blog needs to start with a preface or some sort of disclaimer. I doubt this is concurrent with blogging protocol but some things must be done. So here goes.

I am not trying to offer advice or counsel. This is simply my journey. If you have a similar journey, I hope my words resonate with you and encourage you as you discover you are not alone. If you have an altogether different journey, I hope this gives you a glimpse into the scenery from a different path.

A swift and tragic death is ugly. I’ve shared how there are days it wafts into our home like the faint smell of decay on a spring breeze. You expect to smell the wisteria outside the back door but instead…a fowl stink sends shivers running down your spine.

For so many years I didn’t get it. I pretended it was my imagination. Or it was just part of the territory. I was so blind. So blind to what was really going on. I saw the man I married turn into a different guy. I thought that was all there was to see. And that change ticked me off. And being ticked off lead me to a defining moment. A question.

Should I stay or should I go?

It didn’t take me divorcing my husband to leave. I was ready to pack my emotions in a carry-on and take the next flight out. Intentionally disconnecting and distancing myself from him. Pretend that everything was okay. Go through the motions. Discuss the day to day business of running a home and a family and leave the relationship out of it.

The way I saw it, it was about survival. My survival. Should I stay or should I go? It sounds a bit melodramatic. And I guess when you make a relationship all about yourself, you’re bound to find a bit of drama.

Our relationship had hit a place in time where I felt I wasn’t getting what I needed. And it’s one thing to say “for better or worse.” It’s an entirely different thing to live it out. My marriage got difficult and I wanted to disconnect.

And then I got hit in the head with a two by four. Metaphorically, but it hurt just the same. I was sharing my frustration with a friend and she summed up my situation in a poignant statement. “So, you are upset because he is human.” Going, disengaging, distancing myself was my way of saying that I was better than him. Healthier. And how dare he be human. How dare he be scarred and wounded.

The moment in time, where two people stand before friends and family and declare their eternal love, had faded into the past. Now, two people stood in a living room, staring into each other’s eyes and not seeing the other person.

In between the day we shared our vows and the moment in the living room, a great deal of living had taken place. A great deal of conversations and choices. And I had been just as much a part of those as he had been. But now I wanted to blame him. I like to think that I didn’t cause the PTSD but I can honestly say that for many years, I didn’t help it. I ignored it. But now, with it all out in the open, with wounds ripped open and hearts laid bare, a whisper of hope hung in the air.

Could I stay and be part of the solution? Should I stay and support him? Would I stay and own my stuff too?

I’ve heard it said that the hard choice and the right choice are often the same choice. Aghhh!

So I stayed. Physically and emotionally. I hoped and prayed. I cried a lot. I felt really lonely sometimes. But I chose to stay. I chose to love him as best I could. I don’t deserve a medal. I’m not looking for a pat on the back. Please don’t misunderstand. I’m not trying to judge or make a social statement. This is just part of my journey.

I read this today. “…We are each called to love three people in our spouse–the person we loved first, the person we love now, and the person we are loving into being.” (Heather Kopp, SoberBoots.com) Loving someone in the now and loving them into who they are becoming is sometimes a painful journey. But my husband has done the same for me. So I guess that makes us even. But who’s keeping score, right?

There’s one more letter to go in our PTSD acronym. So next week “D is for…” Can you guess?