I pride myself on being able to sit down and take it. Not in a "do you know it is domestic violence awareness month" kind of way, but more of the "just do it" way. I schlep uniforms to the cleaners. I speed-racer ironed academy uniforms (then said "no more!"). I pack lunches at dinner and make breakfast for lunch. I have my weekend on Wednesday and Thursday and celebrate Christmas on any day in December that starts with a twenty-something. Heck, I celebrated Thanksgiving for several years straight at the police station!
If you are a LEO family this is no big news to you. And none of us (usually) are complaining, it is just a reminder of what our normal is. It is one heck of a different kind of normal than most other people I know.
That is why I was knocked on my butt this week when I realized there is something I just won't do when it comes to the police wife life, because as I have just explained, I do it all.
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My husband brought home his body armor for a good cleaning. Some wear them over their shirts, some under, but if you have half a brain you wear your freaking vest on duty. This is the one piece of equipment that kind of creeps me out. It's this ugly, smelly, nondescript thing that could very well save my husband's life at the very best or at the very worst make a horrible injury much less severe. I'm happy he is bringing it home for cleaning, but it sure does give me the creeps. Oh, did I already say that? Well, it does. He's scrubbing it and cleaning it like it's a pair of boots he's sloshed through a homeless encampment in and all I can think of is "Please don't die, please don't die, please don't die."
Which is totally *NOT* like me. People ask me stupid questions like this All. The. Time. "Don't you worry?" "What would happen if...?" From some people I know it is sincere and they are truly concerned. But other people who are asking me stuff; it almost feels like they have no right to ask, well... don't get me started.
I was doing ok ignoring the whole thing and keeping it together until I saw this little tiny rectangular piece laying on our bed (because really, where else would you clean this stuff?!). A little bigger than a 4x6 index card, I think. (I'm not sure, I didn't look too long.) The Trauma Pac. Now, this picture over to the right is just a representative photo I found on a message board on the great world wide web. But I can tell you that if that tiny little rectangle with the nice "Trauma Pac" description and "second chance" were sitting there on my bed WITH AN OUTLINE OF A HEART like this one has, I would have been through the roof. I almost had to pick it up and put it under the bed or in my husband's sock drawer because I had such a strong reaction to it.
But I'm tough. I do it all. I'm a police wife. So I kept my freaking-out-ness to myself and just in passing mentioned it to my mom the next time we were chatting. It felt good to have it off my chest and I could move on. I can't tell you how ecstatic I was to have that thing all put together and back in my husband's locker... yes, doing the job it was intended to do, keeping him safe(r) and sweaty on the streets.
Is there something about the job that is like nails on a chalkboard to you? This one is certainly mine!
