Our men and women in blue have a special fraternity. Policeman, fireman, EMT, whatever...they consider themselves "brothers" in the purest sense of the word, even though many of them are women. (I don't take offense to that, as a woman. I totally understand it.) When one of them dies, whether from natural causes or in the line of duty, they have a sort of rite of passage. Online, at least, they each check in with their respects, and then say something to the effect of, "Rest in peace, brother. We'll take it from here."
I don't know why this moves me so. It's an acceptance of continuity, that the work will carry on in their name. A recognition that their dedication and their work will be unbroken, in spite of their passing. It's as if the mourners are taking on the burden of the work yet unfinished. And it occurs to me that I've been there.
The night my grandfather died--long story--he had been in an unresponsive coma for a week. He'd had some sort of bowel blockage that was causing him extreme pain. He was 89 years old. The doctors really didn't want to operate on him because of his age, but the alternative was to have him live/die in excruciating pain. He never came out of the anesthetic. When his body finally decided to give out once and for all, I was the only family member the hospital could reach because his daughters had gone out together after their week-long vigil. I knew where they were, so I called them, then headed to the hospital. The daughters were 25 miles away. I was in the hospital town, so I got there first.
When I arrived at my grandfather's room, the nurse said, "When I called you, I was going to tell you that Mr. Armstrong had expired, but it seems that he has rallied some." He was still unconscious and unresponsive, but his vital signs were still going, monitored by all kinds of sensors on his body. And then, after just a few minutes, his vital signs faded into nothingness...and he was gone. It was as if he was waiting for someone from the family to be there to be with him in his passing, and I was the chosen one by default. It was up to me to be the adult for my mother and my aunt who were on their way. Circumstances had passed the torch to me, as if my grandfather had. "I am passing. Now you need to take care of my children as I once took care of them." I asked the nurse to remove the tubes, etc., from my dear grandfather so his daughters would see him in a more natural state. I shed some tears of my own, then went to wait by the elevator for the arrival of my mother and her sister. "It's okay, Popo. I'll take it from here."
No one will ever, ever convince me that it was all coincidence. When my family stepped out of the elevator, I was there to meet them and said, simply, "He's gone." My mother slumped in my arms, but I think she understood that a huge burden had been delivered from her shoulders. When she and her sister went into the room to see their father in death, she said, "Oh...that's not so bad."
As stupid as this may sound, my own daughter sent her son on an airplane this afternoon to be with his father for 6-8 weeks. Just getting him on the plane was an exercise in patience and stupidity--the airline's, not the kids'. When his plane finally took off, I felt like telling them to relax and let ME "take it from here". I knew that wouldn't happen, but I was willing to try. I love them all that much. I'm old. The burden isn't that hard for me. Sometimes, all we need is to know that someone has our back, supports us, and helps to carry our burdens. We can't really rest peacefully if we think our mission in life will go undone without us. We need reassurance that someone will carry on in our name.
I think the police traditions have something there...
No comments:
Post a Comment