Getting Lost...

On days like today, when I've finally managed to slow down for more than 24 hours and quiet my brain, I wonder if the fast pace isn't what's saving me from myself and the thoughts that usually run through my mind. It's a scary thing, not feeling quite "right" these days. I don't feel like myself....whichever self I used to be. That party girl, crazy Shannon, isn't exactly accurate. I know, and those that are close to me know that persona is mostly surface stuff. Part of my ENFP makeup. But over the past 8 months the lack of routine and stability in my life has left me spinning like a top with no direction and very little to keep me grounded. I long for those days when going to work was fun, when vacations came only every 3-4 months and when I had something to do and somewhere to be on a daily basis. Now I mostly feel like I'm just running....constantly. From one place to the next, trying to put distance between myself and that life I used to know.

I used to feel like I helped people, everyday. No matter how insignificant my contacts at work were....I almost always came away feeling useful and validated. Now I don't know why i'm here or what I'm supposed to be doing....other than indulge myself on whatever whim or adventure strikes me. I'm hopeful that moving to Tennessee and staying with Emily and Kaila for a while will help ground me and remind me of who I used to be. Part of a family... Frankly, I'm too old for most of this shit. It's exhausting...and only fun 85% of the time. I'd trade in the feeling of "fun" for a feeling of satisfaction any day of the week. And I don't know that I've felt satisfied with anything in a very long, long time.

So I will take the rest of 2017 off to "find myself" and figure out what the next chapter in my life will be. At this point I have no idea. I have several options available to me given my skill set, but keep waiting for one to feel right and not just convenient. I want to feel passionately about whatever it is I'm doing...be it raising a family, being a police officer or being in a relationship. Who knows, maybe I WILL go to school and get a contractors license and start building tiny houses. Crazier things have happened. Someone mentioned doing private security and threat assessment for high end targets, but I couldn't tolerate working for some assclown - no matter how much money they paid me. I'd rather live in a small house on 10 acres in the hills of Tennessee on a medical pension and be able to tell assholes to go fuck themselves if need be. Now that I think of it, President Trump should totally hire me as part of his Social Media Team!! Hahahaha. I like his style. Rough around the edges....but I think he gets a bad rap. Kinda like yours truly.

Alright, I'm snowed in in Bryce Canyon Utah (ask me again WHY I thought a solo 3 week Winter Wonderland road trip in a Honda Civic across 5 states would be a god idea?) - so I think I'm going to throw on a jog bra and the most conservative pair of black undies I brought and hit the indoor jacuzzi. For the first time in the past 20 years there are NOT at least 3 bikinis in my go bag. I'm pretty sure I'm one of only 3 people staying in this huge resort this weekend, because you'd have to be half crazy to vacation up here during the off season. For the record, I'm only 5% crazy according to the QME.....hahaha. Only my CALI LEOS will get that reference. So off I go, to sit in the jacuzzi, then eat at the hotel diner, then back to my room to watch Netflix and hopefully sleep. I head out tomorrow on what will surely be more treacherous road conditions, flying by the seat of my pants as per usual. But hey, they are pretty cool Fjallraven pants, so there's that.

Great, I come to the computer room adjacent to the jacuzzi and see there are like 10 people in there! Back to the room I go...a hot bath will have to do.

Purging

Where do I begin. The beginning would seem like a natural place to start, but that spans so many years back I would be writing for weeks…if not years. So many snippets of a life that had led to me to this place, where I seem only vaguely familiar to myself. I will start then at what seemed to be the turning point in my 22 year career as Police Officer, June 21,2002. A jumper on the Colorado Street Bridge in Pasadena Ca. Matthew Ackerman, 22 years old, good looking, silent, and unwilling to tell me what had forced him to climb over the rails and on to the exterior of the bridge. I spoke to him for 45 minutes or so until the “crisis negotiators” got there and relieved me. Relieved me to stand silently by, watching their efforts fail as they talked to him of his church and religion….which I knew in my heart was perhaps the reason he was here to end his life. He leaned forward and let go…and the 5-7 seconds that it took until I heard the dull thud of his body hit the pavement below, felt like it was suspended in eternity.

He made me promise to give his shoes to his brother, which I did. I attended his services and spoke, or rather tried to speak to his eldest brother in my patrol car. Assuring him that Matts 4 brothers were his last final loving thoughts. It’s engrained in my memory as though it was yesterday….and that was not nearly the first time I’d watched someone die. It was simply the most helpless I’d ever felt in my entire life. And responsible. If only I’d confided in him more, got him to open up, got him to understand that darkness touches most of us at one time or another….the overcoming it is the true trick to remaining here…with the living.

There were more jumpers, more close calls, more lives nearly lost then saved….but even more lives lost than saved over the next few years. So I took a break from patrol, in my 11th year as a Police officer I was assigned to Detective Bureau. To the Internet Crimes Against Children Task Force. Investigating primarily the production and distribution of child pornography, along with other crimes against children that occurred in my city. Which were almost exclusively child molestations and child abuse. I spent 3 1/2 years there. 3 1/2 years looking at thousands and thousands of images and videos of children being raped and victimized, writing search warrants, trying to identify and locate victimized children and their victimizers. I had some great successes and sent several monsters to prison for life terms. Several more convicted and mandated to register as sex offenders, so my job was satisfying…..or so you would think. But for every arrest, every identified child molester or child victim, there were hundreds more that remained nameless. The things I have seen in those videos, one can not describe….nor would I ever attempt to. Ignorance is bliss….and it’s best not to know what can only haunt you in your nightmares.

So I eventually left ICAC, at my request, and went back to the simple and satisfying job of patrol in 2010. It was fun again…no more pending cases….no more child pornography or children I couldn't help…just patrolling and responding as needed to emergencies and calls for service. All the while having too much fun with my coworkers playing pranks on each other and meeting for coffee or C-7. Then the suicides and fatalities started coming in increasing numbers again, only this time, they were younger adults and children.

The Daily Do-Gooder

Today has been an interesting and enlightening day, which I've decided to share with everyone. Not because I want to toot my own proverbial horn, or call attention to myself, but rather because I'm hoping to inspire some "paying it forward" do-gooder deads amongst my friends. Now, I know that I have MANY friends that already contribute to society, friend, family and neighbors on a regular basis. Donna, Kate, Vicki, Amy, and probably many more that I'm not even aware of. Because you see, it is the humility of most do-gooders that they never talk about what they've done for others. They don't seel accolades or pats on the back, they do good deeds merely because they are the RIGHT thing to do. I have only my wonderful parents to thank for instilling that virtue in me. My folks are awesome, amazing, giving and humble people. Me? Well, not so humble....but I like to think the rest applies. At any rate...here is how the day went;

I moved to my condo in January of this year. There is a nighbor next to me who has been in a nursing home ever since I moved in. His name is Frank, and I've never met him. His house has been vacant and he has an adult son who comes by every now and again, but I've never met him either. I pass by Franks patio every now and then (my kitty Lucky used to like to sit on his patio wall and bask in the sun) and it always makes me sad that his patio is overgrown and in a state of decay. So today I got his son Tim's phone number and sent him a series of (what he probably thought were odd) messages asking him if I could clean his fathers patio for him. Truth be told, my initial interest in the cleanup was partly selfish. I love gardening and cleaning up old spaces - and I was looking for a new project. Once I had asssured Tim I was not a crazy person - and didn't expect any compensation, he gave me the go ahead. So I started in on Franks old, abandoned and overgrown patio.

I was maybe 30 minutes into the cleanup when I started uncovering the carefully terraced planters, and the many pots and plants that were dying underneath. It struck me that at one time Frank must have put quite a deal of care and time into his patio garden, and it saddened me that it had fallen into such a bad state. I remember my own Grandmothers house and gardens, when she got too ill and old to care for them - and how my brother and I tried to clean it up for her. I thought of Emily's Mamaws garden in Kentucky and how beautiful it must have been when she tended it daily - only to fall into disrepair after she passed away. Time and neglect erasing all the beauty that once gave so much joy to our friends and relatives. And so the clean up of Franks patio became more of a tribute to him, and much less of a hobby for me. I hoped that one day Frank comes home from the nursing home - if nothing more than to see his lovely patio and sit outside in the sun. But if that never happens than at least I've helped my neighbor and that fills me with a sense of warmth and accomplishment.

I'm now thinking of ways to do more of these types of things. Maybe organize a "community cleanup" with some of my friends or police officers I know. Surely there are other elderly or disabled people that need help with their yards and such? Most people don't like to ask for help, I know. But maybe friends or family members can "suggest" or "nominate" someone in need. I've got this idea in my head and everyone knows once I get one of my bright ideas I'm not soon to give up on it! Wish me luck....and help me "pay it forward!"

How NOT to treat your people: A lesson in Police Supervision.

I alluded to something being wrong at work that coincided with the tragic death of my sweet Lucky yesterday. Well, here it is - pretty much the whole story. Rather than repeat it, I will attach the email that I just sent to my departments Command Staff. I have been disappointed by law enforcement supervision many times over the years....but nothing that stings quite as badly as this recent slight.

Staff -

I feel compelled to write this, to engage each of you in what I hope to be an enlightening albeit unfortunate conversation. Please do not mistake my candor for disrespect, but take it to heart and understand that this is a very difficult email for me to write.

I have worked at PPD for 15 years now. I have 10 years left to go until retirement, and I still love this career as much as the day I started. What I do not love is the unnecessary drama and turmoil that is so prevalent at PPD. The ego's, the micromanaging, the inability to treat each other well and with genuine compassion for one another. It is no surprise to anyone who works there that over 20 people are in backgrounds with other agencies. That fact alone speaks volumes. Over the past few months we have all witnessed coworkers behaving in ways that are less than stellar. The gossiping, the infighting, the breakdown in morale, the letters to the Star News, the scandals, the IA's, it goes on and on. I have watched all of this with great sadness - sad because I know we can do better. That we should do better. And yet, the downward spiral in morale and how we treat one another has continued. I come to work happy every day. Happy to have a job I love, happy to make a difference in peoples lives, happy to be alive, and proud of my profession and those I share it with. I dedicate countless of my own hours towards furthering programs at PPD, and I do so not because I want recognition or a pat on the back - but because I care about our department and being effective in how we do policing.

As some of you may know, there was a sudden and tragic death in my family yesterday while I was at work. It was not one of my children, but rather - my beloved pet cat. I make the distinction between my children and my cat for your sake....not for mine. My pet was very much part of my family and like one of my children. For those of you who have lost a beloved pet, perhaps you will understand the analogy and my grief.

In my rush to leave work to collect his remains, I left an arrest report that had not been signed off yet. The report had already been read by Detectives the previous night and was used to obtain a search warrant. So I knew that any corrections that needed to be made would be minor. Once I had transported my cat from my home to the pet cemetery - I sent my Sgt. an email giving him my login information and requesting him to make any necessary corrections to the report. It is not uncommon for other Officers and Supervisors to make corrections to someones report when they are minor typos - it happens frequently. So I was surprised when the Sgt. called me and told me he was going to email me the report so I could make the corrections myself. I was still crying when he called, and clearly upset. I agreed to make the corrections and send them back to him before his EOW. Unfortunately I was unable to make corrections from my iPad and have no computer at home. This, coupled with my immense grief and hysteria over my cat being gutted and eaten by a coyote - forced me to have a rather large cocktail and cry myself to sleep at 5:00. I awoke at 11:00 pm to numerous missed calls, voice mails, texts and emails from this Sgt. asking for my corrected report.

I immediately contacted another Officer and asked them to please log in to my manny files and make the required corrections. The corrections were purely grammatical and a matter of style - rather than content based, and certainly not indicative of anything that would hinder the prosecution of this case. The other Officer agreed to help with the corrections, and that was the end. That is, until I made the mistake of answering a call from the Sgt. - who clearly didn't give a damn that I was at home upset and grieving the loss of a family member. I believe his exact words were, "It's just a cat- right?" He then went on to tell me he should have just "ordered me back to work - like everyone told him to do," at which point I told him exactly what I thought of him in two words or less....and hung up the phone. Still believing that the report had already been corrected, so there was no need to deal with his disgusting level of callousness.

A midnight phone call from Commander Moody and another hysterical conversation later, and now 2 graveyard Officers are being sent to my house with a department laptop so that I can make the corrections MYSELF. While I commend Commander Moody's ability to calmly talk to a hysterical person - I am beyond disappointed that she hadn't even bothered to read the report and corrections in question. I'm not sure the Lt. in charge had either, instead they relied solely on the Sgt's ridiculous and baseless assertion that this case wasn't going to get filed unless these corrections were made. Perhaps I'm the only one who realizes this was more a case of some Sgt's ego getting hurt when I didn't do exactly what he said....rather than the picture that is being painted of me as some irresponsible insubordinate Officer who wantonly jeopardized a critical investigation. The notion that I would ever allow a child molester to go free because of an oversight on my part is both insulting and offensive. I worked juvenile sex crimes for nearly 4 years and am well aware of what is needed to file a case. My report was well written and complete and would stand up in court without any issues. The arrest report aside, the reason I left to go home and was unavailable, was because of the sudden and tragic loss of a family member. What id it HAD been one of my children who was killed? Ir what if I was incapacitated due to an accident or injury? Would you have taken the same course of action then? I doubt it. At least I hope not.

So an A-car was taken out of service and sent to my house at 0230 hrs., so I could make some minor style and grammatical corrections to an otherwise complete report. It took about 5 minutes to do, yet the toll on my emotions will last indefinitely. That no one in the Chain of Command thought to question the course of action that was taken leaves me feeling completely disenchanted, hurt and disappointed in everyone involved. I reached out to several people today, and have heard nothing back. Which again, is hurtful and disappointing. Things can always be done better, but when it comes to blatantly being cruel and the callous disregard for ones feelings - that is where I draw the line.

I have always imagined PPD as my home, and looked forward to the next 10 years there. But I can not stomach this brand of "Supervision" in a job that is difficult enough as it is. I feel that the time has come for me to move on to an employer who values my skills and my dedication to the job, and who treats their people with dignity, respect and compassion. I do not know where I will be going, but I will be actively looking elsewhere for employment beginning today. I hope that you all think about this incident and learn from it. Surely there are better ways to treat people....you just need to be willing to do it.

Sincerely,

Shannon Reece

May 18, 2015. My beloved Lucky kitty is gone.

I got the call while I was at work.

I thought it might be about Lucky because he hadn't come home the night before. I was late getting home from work due to the arrest of a child molester, so when I pulled into my complex at 0230 I expected to see him waiting for me. He always hung around the driveway at 0130...and would sometimes follow my car in when I got home. He was a good boy, who loved his Mommy. But when I got out of the car and walked towards my condo I didn't see him. I called for him, but nothing. I was so tired from working overtime the past 2 days I just wanted to collapse, so I didn't go looking for him. I will forever regret that decision.

When I woke up at 0900, there was no Lucky kitty in my bed. I immediately felt the absence of his weight at my feet...because my little beasty always sprawled out across my bed. So much so that I couldn't even move my legs when he was asleep in "his spot." So when I woke up and there was no Lucky....I got immediately got worried. I tried to quell my panic by thinking maybe he was out playing or someone had kept him inside their own house last night. He was such a lover that everyone liked him and wanted to play with him. So I got up, busied myself with cleaning up after Crazy Belle...and left for work. I texted my next door neighbor Shirley to let her know Lucky was MIA, and asked her to keep an eye out for him. She loves him too, so she went out walking around calling for him..but no Lucky. I called Shirley from work at 1245 and she said she couldn't find him. I told her when he turned up to lock his little butt in the house until I got home. Such is the way with outdoor kitties....they roam, but they always come back home. Except this time.

When I answered the phone call from a 714 area code, I figured someone had found my Lucky. He had probably gotten lost and someone was calling to tell me where he was. Well, that was partially true. The man asked me if I owned a cat named Lucky? I immediately said, "yes, is he ok?" "Well, no....he's...well, oh god...um, a coyote got him." I knew from the tone in the mans voice Lucky was gone. He told me I didn't want to see Lucky how he was now....that it was pretty bad. But I've seen horrible things, and this was my baby. I had to go get him. I asked the man to cover him, which he already had, and I immediately left work to head home. Lucky was killed only a few condos over from our house, in a grassy greenbelt area near the man who called me's condo.

I cried my eyes out the whole way home, still in uniform and reeling from the suddeness of it all. I should have went looking for him....I should have kept him inside....wondering if he was in pieces like other cats I had seen who were killed by Coyotes. The man said it was BAD...that I didn't want to see him like this. I hoped that I could at least recognize my little buddy, and say goodbye. When I got there I parked and started walking towards the greenbelt area. The man had covered Lucky with a red towel. I knew his body was under the towel when I saw it, I just knew. So I walked over, crouched down, and uncovered my baby boy. There he was, his head, arms and legs all still intact, looking like my sweet sleeping boy....save for the hollowed out empty hole where his body had been. The coyotes gutted my baby and ate him....but they spared his face and feets, and for that I was grateful. The man who called me walked over and thought I was an animal control officer because of my uniform. He told me he had already called the owner of the cat. I told him through tears that I was the owner, I just came from work and was a police Officer. He was choked up too. Turns out he has a cat of his own, and knew my Lucky because he would come around the mans patio where he kept catnip. My Lucky was always such a sweet natured boy. He was more person than cat sometimes. I told the man I would be back to collect Lucky in a few minutes...and he handed me his collar which he had removed. It was all a blur....like a bad dream...

When I got to my house Shirley came out and was crying, she lost a cat to Coyotes before and understads. Pets are our family members, the loss feels the same if not worse. I borrowed a box from her to put Lucky in and walked back to where his body was. As I walked up another neighbor lady was outside, in front of her home. She was upset and crying too. Told me another neighbor had heard the fight at 0230 and knew it was a bad one. 0230....just when I was getting home. An hour late. Had I only gone looking for him....maybe....

The man asked me if I wanted gloves to pick him up. I told him no, I didn't need gloves....I've touched worse things at work...and this was my boy. I wrapped Lucky in the towel and carefully picked up my baby boy for the very last time. I placed him in the box so that I could see his little face and paws, but kept his unjuries covered. Aside from the horrible ants on him, he still looked like my little buddy. When we got back to the house I spent a few minutes stroking his little face and feet, wiping away the stupid ants, and telling him how sorry I was that Mommy wasn't home in time. The grief I feel is filled with guilt and regret....If only i'd have been there in time.

I took Lucky to the Seabreeze Pet Cemetary to have him cremated. He didn't like bugs and the thought of ants and bugs all over him didn't sit well with me. So I will keep his ashes in an urn and he will be a part of me always. The sweet boy who I saved from the freeway.....who then saved me from sadness and depression. I hope there is a Rainbow Bridge...and Lucky is waiting for me there someday. He was the best kitty ever.

Behind the Curtain.....

I feel compelled to write this, to explain myself and what I've been dealing with the past few months. Hell, the past 18 months in fact. I know I do not have to explain myself, because the people who know me well, and who know my beliefs, intentions, and weaknesses - know very well without question that I am above all an honest and good hearted woman (queue the Willie Nelson!). Most of my friends have not asked me to explain any details of the incident in question, and why I'm off work on an IOD stress claim - and for that I'm grateful. Most people know how little respect I have for those who take advantage of workers comp and milk the system. So suffice to say, if I'm off work IOD - it's a legit claim.

However, there are other people - not my close friends, and not particularly nice, mature, or understanding people - who don't have the sense to know that being depressed or traumatized isn't necessarily a 24/7 condition. To them, me having fun - or posting happy photos, or silly videos, is somehow indicative of the fact that all is wonderful in my world - and I should be back at work and not off IOD. I suppose I could post pics of me crying, or drinking the day away in a darkened house, or sitting in my therapists office, or taking my PTSD meds and anti depressants - but then, that's not really my style. People don't need to see the bad....because it serves no purpose other than to cause worry and concern. The truth is, I'm doing much better - and I'm feeling happy again. And THAT is what I choose to show people.

So, here it goes. The story. It's horrific, it's heartbreaking, it's depressing, and I won't ever tell it or speak of it again. (And almost immediately - here I am crying again.) UGH.

May 31, 2014.

I took the first half of the day off - to throw my good friend Andrea (Rookie Blue) a promotion pool party. It was a GREAT day, full of fun, friends, and family. I went in to work at 1900 hrs., ready to go. My first call was some nothing 415 in a parking lot - and I was the backing officer. By the time I got there it was already resolved by the first Officer on scene (Aaron) and I didn't even need to get out of my car. So I start driving back to my service area in Old Town....west on Walnut St. and through the green light at Hill Ave. I was there when the call came out..."respond code 3 to Colorado Blvd and Hill Ave. for a traffic collision - vehicle vs. pedestrian." I had already made the u-turn and started that way (it was perhaps 1/2 mile from me) when the second broadcast came out: "victim is a child, numerous callers stating child is still trapped under the vehicle." It was then that my stomach dropped, and the sick feeling began.

This wasn't the first time I've dealt with a child killed in a t/c - Christmas 2012 was another horrific day - that I will never forget. It was a police pursuit, which ended when the suspect vehicle ran a red light and hit the SUV carrying the Ng family. Kendrick Ng, 10 years old, was trapped in the backseat. The vehicle was so crumpled we didn't even realize he was in there initially. We pulled him out of the car where his family was still trapped, his aunt clearly deceased and partially ejected from the vehicle, his sister sitting stunned on the side of the road with multiple broken bones, and his parents in the front seats in shock at the whole horrible scene. We gave Kendrick CPR for what seemed like forever....until a paramedic walked over and immediately declared him dead. Another Officer had to physically pull me away from him - because I didn't want to leave him there, a child on christmas, lying dead in the street. This was the first call of the night - we hadn't even left roll call barely when the pursuit started and we all went running out of the station - eager to catch the bad guy. The collision was only a block from the station and I was there within the first minute. And now here I was, maybe 2 hours after I had left my own children after Christmas dinner, kneeling beside this dead child, holding his head, with his father looking at us from a distance....his face pleading for us to save his son. I will never forget those moments and the overwhelming sorrow and helplessness that I felt. I kissed Kendrick Ng on his forehead and said a brief prayer before the other officer pulled me away. And then I lost it. Sobbing hysterically while crowds of people stood by on the corners watching the whole grim scene. As I walked away I saw the the driver of the suspect vehicle (who was now handcuffed and in custody) watching US - and realizing (at maybe 21 or 22 years old) that he was responsible for the death and mayhem of this child and his family. It was unbelievably surreal. An experience I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. And after 3 or 4 minutes of sobbing off to the side, and composing myself - I was back to work. Helping to set up the crime scene log and logistics - because I seem to have a knack for organization and attention to detail when it comes to these things. It wasn't long before some supervisor relieved me and ordered me to go back to the station. I couldn't tell you who it was. And I couldn't tell you HOW I got back to the station, though I know I drove around aimlessly for several minutes before making it there. And then I went home. The next day when I reported to work the department therapist was there to do the "critical incident debrief" for all those who were on scene. I listened as everyone went around the room sharing their stories and their perspectives, and I remained silent when it came to me. I didn't want to talk about it. I didn't want to relive it. I didn't want to THINK about it. It was enough that my partners saw me crying, that they saw me kiss the little boy, that they saw me HUMAN and as a mother instead of as a police officer. I didn't speak about Kendrick Ng to anyone after that. Not that I recall. But I did think about him. Daily. For weeks. I followed every newspaper article about the collision, I inquired as to his exact cause of death (blunt force trauma - broken neck) - and whether or not we could have saved him (no - he was dead on impact), I even located a fundraising website on GOFUNDME that had been set up by his elementary school in Northern California (his family was only here visiting for the Holiday). I circulated the fundraising site via Facebook and helped raise funds for his family - but that was all I could do. And it was never enough. After a while I had to just let go of Kendrick Ng and move on.....to my own life.

I was the first Officer on scene for two more fatal collisions following Kendrick Ng. Both with witnesses and family members present to witness the death of their loved one, both tragic and heartbreaking, but I handled them as a professional. I did my job, I was empathetic and comforting, and I did not break down in tears as I had with Kendrick. I thought I was ok at last. But I was wrong.

As I drove south on Hill Ave. approaching Colorado Blvd., I saw the stopped black truck facing north in the number 2 lane (nearest to the curb). It was a full size truck, like a Silverado or a Tundra with four doors. I saw at least 20 people along the curb - looking in the direction of the truck. And as I got closer, I saw Aidan Tran. A small boy, lying face down underneath the truck, his face turned outwards (in my direction) with one eye that I could see staring blankly in a fixed stare. No movement, awkwardly positioned arms and legs, and I knew immediately - he was already gone. I positioned my vehicle behind the truck to prevent it from being rear ended - and to contain the crime scene, and then immediately radio'd for motor officers to respond code 3 (motor units are responsible for all fatal collision investigations). As I exited my vehicle I saw his mother and his uncle kneeling beside him. His mothers arms were covered in blood, and there was more blood on the ground than I have ever seen as a police officer in the past 19 years. I don't know how there was so much blood from a 7 year old child....but it was the thick kind of blood from serious injury, nothing superficial about it. His mother was crying and in shock - but amazingly lucid and composed. She was a pediatrician she told me. She told me we couldn't move his neck, we needed an ambulance, all of which I already knew and had requested. But she was in survival mode, doing whatever she could to help her son. And as I assured her the ambulance was coming, and we would help him, and that she needed to remain calm for his sake, there passed a look between us that is engrained in my memory as though it has been burned into me with a searing hot blade. The look of utter despair and helplessness. Of the unspoken knowledge that this little boy - HER little boy - was not going to be ok. As a mother you never want to acknowledge such a devastating loss - and so you go through the motions hoping that a miracle will happen. I saw all these emotions playing out on her face in the span of 2-3 minutes.....and it absolutely gutted me. Aidan Tran was gone....and his parents were caught in the midst of hoping, willing, and fighting against that reality. For me, that was the worst part of the incident. His mother and father. Watching their lives crumble around them in the blink of an eye - and being unable to offer and solace, or comfort, or explanation as to why this happened. As soon as the paramedics got there - I ushered the parents into my police car and drove them code 3 to the hospital.

In these instances, once someone is at the hospital - it's no longer the Officers responsibility to make a formal death notification. The hospital social worker does that. Still, I felt an obligation to stay and see it through. I conducted an interview with the parents for the investigation (the whole family had been crossing the street in the crosswalk after dinner when Aidan and his 4 year old brother bolted out ahead - and Aidan was struck by the truck as is made a right hand turn). I helped his mother clean the blood off herself. I coordinated a room for family members to gather when they arrived. Inquired about clergy and counseling for them...etc. I continued to perform my job and do what needed to be done. When Aidan got there a team of doctors worked on him for 20-30 minutes - trying everything to save him. Being a pediatrician, they allowed his mother to enter the ER trauma room and stand at his side while they worked on him. Myself and other officers and paramedics waited in the hallway outside the room - watching and hoping for a miracle. But it never came. As much as we wanted to believe otherwise - we all knew what the ending would be. And as the doctors and technicians all filed out of the room with solemn and saddened looks on their face - I fixated again on Aidans mother. Standing beside the ER table, with her arms draped over his little body, stroking his hair and holding him one last time. I stood there frozen for a long minute watching this scene. And then someone (fire department? police department? I don't know) asked me "are you ok Shannon?" I believe my response was something to the effect of "fuck no - I'm NOT ok." Everyone was leaving the hospital now - going back to whatever they had to do. I had to write the parents statements and go back to the scene. Business as usual. Only I didn't want to leave without saying something to his parents. There is nothing really to say in such an instance - but just leaving without saying something felt wrong. As I walked into the trauma room Aidan's father was on the phone sobbing - telling someone that Aidan was dead, that he had been hit by a car and was gone. His mother was now away from his bedside and standing numbly next to her husband. I offered my condolences and apologies and told her how very sorry I was.....and then I left. And that was the end - or so I thought.

Many things happened in the next few weeks, I took the next day off. I stayed in bed a lot. I drank a lot. I tried to numb myself from the images of that little boy with the fixed blank stare - and his mother covered in blood and trying to hold on to her hopes. But I couldn't shake it. Of course I called the department therapist that same night - from the hospital no less. Because I knew this was going to affect me deeply. I think I talked to or saw the therapist for the next 4 days in a row. I was given a week off work on "admin leave" to deal with the stress and decompress. Only all I wanted to do was drink myself to sleep, cry, and look at pictures of his family that I saw online. I wanted to go to his funeral, but thought better of it. I didn't want to remind his parents of that night we met - and their lives were forever changed for the worse. Either I had horrible nightmares, or I couldn't sleep at all. When I went back to work I pretty much hid in the substation rather than drive around and find myself back at the scene, staring at the memorial that had been set up for him. I was afraid of the next call I would get. The next TC or the next dead kid. I've just seen too many - and my skin is growing thinner and thinner. On my second day back to work I was so exhausted I asked my boss if I could deduct out an hour so I could sleep an extra hour on my lunch break. I was told "if you need to go home - go home, otherwise get back to work." At which point I basically said FUCK THIS - and walked out. I've been around long enough to know that a patrol cop who is exhausted, is distracted, and is having emotional issues is NOT a safe patrol cop.

And there you have it. I saw the therapist again the following day and after explaining everything to her she placed me off on stress-leave to deal with the issues I'm having. I've seen her every week now for 2 months, and after the initial month of drinking and self-destructive behavior - I'm finally on the right track. I'm not stupid (most of the time), I know that drinking as no way to handle depression, but I didn't want to deal with the incident - and the emotions surrounding it - so it was just easier to avoid it by getting sloshed. But I HATE feeling hungover and lethargic, and I HATE getting fatter just sitting around eating crappy food (I AM still a narcissist you know). So after my pity party ended, I hired a personal trainer, got back into the gym and fixed my diet, and started reconnecting with positive people around me. I rescued Lucky kitty from the freeway - and now I have a kitten, and honestly - there is no better cure for depression than a kitten! I highly recommend it. I also saw a Psychiatrist who prescribed me a PTSD medication that helps with nightmares and inability to sleep (Prazosin) - which I also highly recommend. So now, my sleep is better than it's ever been, my fitness is getting better, and I've made some healthy changes to my relationship with Bobby - that have alleviated extra stress from my life. All in all, I feel good. The only time I get emotional now is when I have to explain the incident to someone (namely a doctor, or a workers comp person). When I have to talk about it - those images and feelings come rushing back and I'm overwhelmed with sadness and helplessness and uncontrollable tears. I hope that goes away eventually.

As for going back to work - well, I'm hoping that's sooner than later. I have this "need to nurture" the therapist says (which makes me LOL - but it's true). So I don't feel very satisfied unless I'm helping someone or doing something for someone else. So going back to work would be awesome. Sadly, I'm far more worried about the stress of dealing with other police officers vs. the stress of critical incidents. I can usually maintain my professionalism and do my job under pressure - but let some asshole coworker pop off to me or talk shit about my "IOD vacation" and I'm liable to lose my shit. God, cops can be such assholes. Makes me happy everytime some citizen or arrestee tells me I'm the nicest cop they've ever met. If only all cops were as compassionate and real - maybe we wouldn't get such a bad rap.

OK. There you have it. If I've left anything out - or anyone has any questions, I'd be more than happy to answer them candidly. As you know - I deleted all my coworkers from my Facebook page (except Rookie Blue and Joe Allard) - because quite frankly - I can't trust them to not talk shit. Which is sad. But I guess I should know better. Here's to hoping I'm back to work on my target date of August 12th and back to doing the Lords work!

Thank you all for your support and kind messages during the past few months - I truly have appreciated all of them.

Your friend -

Shannon

Chronic pain, and the crazies.

I think it's been going on for about a month now, my inability to sleep. I can't actually recall when it started, but I gage the onset based upon certain memories I have. Memories of arguments, or events, or conversations, or thoughts following conversations....that always leave me feeling exhausted, and remind me that I haven't slept a full night in as long as I can remember. My thoughts have always been somewhat fluid - melting from one train of thought to the next, usually with a clear path of understanding on how I got from thought A to thought B. But these days, my thoughts are completely disjointed. I can't determine how or where they come from, why they occur, what they mean, or whether or not they are valid or manufactured by my brain for no apparent reason other than to drive me totally insane.

I've never experienced chronic pain until my disc ruptured back in March. I've had back pain for nearly 10 years, and it's been very bad at times, but this - this is a totally different animal. Pain medications don't help, muscle relaxers don't help, getting drunk doesn't help - there is no break from this. I suppose I should feel lucky that it's not debilitating back pain at this point. The acuteness of the pain has worn off, and given way to a constant numbness in my right leg, and a continual inability to sleep more than an hour or two at time. At least when the pain was acute and agonising, I could stay so doped up on pain meds that the days just blurred one into the next until that excrutiating pain was finally gone. But the meds do nothing for this numbness, and this sleeplessness, except make me feel sick from taking them. I even tried alternative medicine - hoping for relief. No such luck. Just more sickness.

I lay down to sleep, and I toss and turn. I wake up every few hours from the tingling in my leg, and can't go back to sleep. This has gone on everyday for at least 3 weeks. Coupled with the constant stress of my impending surgery, the fear of wondering if it's going to be succesful or not, the dread at the thought of it not being succesful, the realisation that my personality is absolutely gone - and I have become a miserable, irritable, paranoid, zombie of a human being to everyone around me. I'm thankful my girlfriends haven't abandoned me yet, although I'm trying to keep my distance because even I can't stand to be around me these days. Poor Daryl, having to live with me in this condition. I wish I was my old self again, I feel so very vacant. Self loathing is a horrible frame of mind to be in, and it weighs me down like a 100 lb weight.

The other day I tried to remember a recent conversation I had with someone - an important conversation, that had great meaning to me. And for 30 minutes I lye in bed, trying to recall who I had this conversation with. It brought me to near hysteria - not remembering. I could recall the words I said, but not to whom I was speaking. Finally, after 30 minutes and then looking through my calendar to see who I've spent time with, I finally remembered where this conversation took place, and with whom. Sleep deprivation is no joke, it really isn't. There is a good reason it has been used as a means to torture prisoners of war. I feel I'm going insane some days - and whole days, weeks even, have gone by with little or no recollection of where I've gone, who I've spoken to, or what I've said. I look back and read some of my emails to people, and I recognise the words as my own, but the catalyst for sending these emails - I can't even remember what it was. I look crazy to people around me, and having my fractured thoughts continually spinning out of my control is taking a heavy toll on me and my loved ones.

I have family court tomorrow with the boys father. It's been scheduled for a month now, and I just remembered today that it is tomorrow. Yet even though as I'm writing this, and I know it's tomorrow, I'm still afraid I'm going to forget in the morning and miss it. That sounds implausable, but it's not. I don't remember so much lately, I don't even know how I'm getting through every day. Auto pilot I suppose.

I'm hoping, praying even, that this surgery works - that at the very least, I'm able to sleep again. I can't live with chronic pain, no matter how minor it is. I want to stab myself in the leg and hip to tear out the offending muscles that are in spasm. When I wake up and can't go back to sleep and my brain is working in overdrive, I want to gouge out my eyes put my head into a vise grip. I can't go on without sleep, and peace of mind, it's killing me. As soon as this surgery is over and I can take medication again, I will be looking into something to help me sleep. I feel just like one of those creepy zombie characters in the horror movie, "The Crazies" - and if I don't get some relief soon, I don't know what else to do. I can only hole up in my house for so long and avoid people, so they don't have to witness what feels like is my descent into total madness.

This has GOT to get better. Soon.