That Darkness

A child was killed in a tragic accident not far from our home last week.

I heard sirens that night.

The boy wasn’t yet a teenager.

A life ended.

Parents shattered.

When I was about the same age, forty years ago now, something similar happened. Close friends of my mother and father lost a child, struck, and killed by a car, as he delivered papers in Hamilton, Ontario. I knew that boy. He was older than me. My last memory of him is a brief conversation as he fixed his bicycle in the driveway. I remember hearing about his death on the car radio as we drove to their home the day after he died. I remember entering that home – palpable grief. Silence and sobs. I played with his young sister. She spoke very matter-of-factly about her brother being dead, seemingly too young to truly understand.

My current job, much of my career, involves investigating death. What caused it? Who did it? Those investigations span months. Years.

Months and years where families suffer. The source of their intense grief is my 9 to 5 job. It’s a sobering thought. A jarring discrepancy.

I was in a dollar store yesterday. Having fun. Buying birthday balloons, batteries for my daughter’s glowing princess shoes, and 5 pairs of reading glasses for my ageing eyes. I’ve been to that store dozens of times. The lady behind the counter is kind, friendly and we always chat and laugh, although I don’t know her name and she doesn’t know mine. Yesterday she asked me what I did for a living. I told her where I worked. She responded, “I’d never have guessed you were a cop.” I never asked why. The conversation moved on.

This morning I wonder why she never would have guessed. Is it how I look? I’m very thin. I lift weights but never seem to add muscle. Should a cop be bigger – tougher looking?

I laugh in that store. Always. I chase my daughter around. Everything catches her eye. Stickers, sparkles, cards, toys, costumes. She loves everything in that store. Wants everything. I’d like to buy it all for her. Of course, I don’t. But I can’t resist getting her something every time we visit. Should a cop be firmer, stricter, less indulgent? Less joyful? Gruffer. Meaner. Angrier. Bitter.

There are days I feel gruff. Mean. Angry. Bitter. Sad.

Everyone does. Cops do. You do.

I bet that every cop I work with could walk into that dollar store – and the kind woman who works there would never guess they are cops. They are moms, and dads. Husbands and wives. Athletic and not. Calm, and intense. Funny and serious. Not stereotypes. People.

People whose careers expose them to darkness that most people don’t often see.

People who cope with that darkness in different ways.

People who are regularly exposed to death. Sometimes it breaks them. Sometimes it gives them a heightened appreciation for life. Usually, it’s somewhere in between.

I try not to think about what happened close to our home last week. It’s too heartbreaking. And because of that I do think about what happened. Mostly I think about the parents. And the young boy. But I think about everyone who was there. Neighbours, paramedics, firefighters, and the cops.

I think about what happened in Hamilton 40 years ago.

And I think about a comment in a dollar store.

About how television and movie cops have shaped society’s perception of what a police officer should be.

A police officer is a person. It’s you. It’s your neighbour. It’s the person next to you in a grocery store you’d never guess is a cop, because they don’t look the part.

I like cop movies. I love detective fiction. The best of it captures slices of reality. But it’s fiction. Stories.

Stories aren’t life. And life is complicated. So are people. So are cops. Just like you. Just like me.

… If you interested, here’s a link to a podcast, where cops talk about their careers and their lives. I work with these people. Real people. I’m proud to consider them colleagues and friends. True Blue Podcast (buzzsprout.com)

Like my colleagues and friends, I pray for the victims and their families. For peace and healing.

More Things Matter Less

Two people I didn’t know died recently.

I learned about them, their lives, and their deaths, from grieving friends.

Their deaths were unexpected. One from a chronic health problem that deteriorated rapidly. The second also “natural,” but without warning. Both had young children. Both left grieving families, friends, and colleagues

Natural causes. A phrase we’ve all heard thousands of times. Two words that don’t convey the pain death leaves in its wake.

I began to think of death a little differently not that long ago. It was something I heard on a show that has become a big part of my life. The Rich Roll Podcast. Rich is an ultra-endurance athlete, a vegan and an inspiration. He challenges himself and his listeners to be their best selves. His guests share their lives with Rich because he’s authentic, curious, and humble. He radiates warmth and trust. He’s become a fixture in my life. Like a friend I’ve never met. Although I did meet him once. Travelled across the country to hear him speak and met him briefly afterward. Bought a t-shirt which I still have. Very worn, and very torn, I still wear it proudly.

A year or so ago, one of Rich’s guests spoke about aging, and longevity – with a focus on people around my age – forty and fifty. Not old, but not young.

The guest said something like ‘Nature doesn’t need you anymore.’

Thought provoking words. Not spiritual, not healing, not sugar-coated. Evolutionary. We are all animals. Dying is wired into our DNA. And by our forties and fifties, most of us have had children, and aren’t going to have any more. Nature – cruel, merciless – doesn’t need us.

A lot of things don’t need us.

Work doesn’t need us. If we are lucky, we have careers in which we are fortunate enough to make contributions – to our co-workers, to our organizations, to the world at large. But, at work, each of us is completely replaceable, regardless of what we do. You and I might be missed. But we’re not necessary. Not essential. We’d be replaced and the machine would grind on.

Things don’t need us. We surround ourselves with so much that is non-essential. So much plastic, so much made overseas, so much packaging. Inert crap, that adds little value to our lives.

The news cycle doesn’t need us. It gorges, spits out, and moves on. Trump today – gone tomorrow.

The planet doesn’t need us – alive, we drain it, suck out its exhaustible resources. Every second we breathe, we’re part of the problem. Dead, we return to the earth. Giving a little bit back after all we’ve taken.

But if a lot of things don’t need us – a lot of people do.

Our communities. Our friends. Our families. Our children.

Not knowing that I’m writing this – never knowing anything that I write about – my five-year old daughter just started talking about death. She said to me “I bet you die right now.” I reassured her and told her that wasn’t going to happen.

I did not tell her that nature doesn’t need her father anymore. She’s five. She still needs her dad. Needs to cover my face in shaving cream like she did a couple of hours ago. Needs to paint my nails pink and spray me with perfume like she did right after that.

And I need her. For as long as I can hang on.

Which is another reason Rich Roll has become a mentor and inspiration. Nature is merciless. Accidents happen. Diseases ravage. Aging never stops, and always takes a toll. But there are things we can do that increase our chances – increase our chances to live longer, be healthier, and find contentment in whatever path or paths we choose along the way.

More things matter less than ever to me now. Things I used to be passionate about like baseball and politics. Not that long ago they were central to my life, now they exist on the periphery.

But if many things matter less, then a few things matter more. My family. My friends. Seeking rewarding work – not working for rewards. Reading. Writing. Running.

And living a life with pink nails, and a shaving cream head.

A Walk in the Cemetery

I had a few hours of free time this morning. It’s rare for me to be alone, and away from home.

So I went to a cemetery.

A cemetery, near a forest by a church. A beautiful church. An old church.

Smoke from the forest fires raging south of us obscured the sky.

No one else was around.

It was like walking through a P.D. James novel.

Our world feels very obscured. There is no clarity.

Cemeteries provide clarity. Death provides clarity. The on switch is flicked off. 1 becomes 0. Light is dark.

The cemetery was quiet. Peaceful. Tranquil. Mostly grey with splashes of flowers. Immense trees loomed overhead. I saw an infant’s grave. I saw many birth dates far to close to the birthdays of people I love who are still alive. Loved ones I treasure beyond description. The people I do not ever want to lose.

As I write this, our dog is hours away from being euthanized. I’ve written about her in the past. Not always glowingly. But her absence will create a void in my life. In my wife’s life. In my daughter’s life. I will always remember the golden beauty who was with me when I was alone, and lonely, and a little bit scared of what the future held in store. I’ll remember long walks along the beach, stones thrown into the ocean, and hot summer days laying by the water, a book in one hand, and my Maggie beside me.

I’ll remember this day. Some glorious free time with something awful looming. And yet I’m still enjoying myself. A coffee in a café. My laptop in front of me. Nowhere I need to be for 90 whole minutes.

The where I need to be is my daughter’s pre-school. To pick her up. Earlier this week she was terrified before her first day. My wife and I felt her fear. Agonized over it. Needlessly. Because she came home and told us, “I love pre-school.” She asked to go every day. Kids grow up fast.

Today, when I dropped her off, she greeted her teacher with glee, overjoyed to tell her about the new doll her granny bought her. Almost forgetting dad was beside her. Maybe actually forgetting, because I had to ask for a hug and a kiss before she bounded into the classroom. I was so proud of her. And so conscious that my little girl is growing up.

My days often feel very obscured. The smoke of work, the smoke of stress, the smoke of life. Who has time for clarity when life moves a million miles an hour, Covid keeps us from one another, and fires blacken the sky?

Clarity might be unattainable. Or maybe it is does exist, but it is precious because it is both fleeting and hazy. Like a walk in a cemetery on a day filled with both life and death.