12/22/2011
Remember this:
On Christmas Eve in 1977, I learned that blessings can come disguised as
misfortune, and honor is more than just a word.
I was riding one-man patrol on the 4-12 shift. The night was cold.
Everywhere I looked I saw reminders of the holiday: families packing their cars
with presents, beautifully decorated trees in living room windows and roofs
adorned with tiny sleighs. It all added to my holiday funk.
The evening had been relatively quiet; there were calls for barking dogs
and a residential false burglar alarm. There was nothing to make the night
pass any quicker. I thought of my own family and sunk further into
depression.
Shortly after 2200 hours I got a radio call to the home of an elderly,
terminally ill man. I parked my patrol car in front of a simple cape cod style
home. First aid kit in hand, I walked up the short path to the front door.
As I approached, a woman who seemed to be about 80 years old opened the
door. He's in here she said, leading me to a back bedroom.
We passed through a living room that was furnished in a style I had come
to associate with older people. The sofa has an afghan blanket draped over
it's back and a dark, solid, Queen Anne chair sat next to an unused
fireplace. The mantle was cluttered with an eccentric mix of several photos,
some
ceramic figurines and an antique clock. A floor lamp provided soft lighting.
We entered a small bedroom where a frail looking man lay in bed with a
blanket pulled up to his chin. He wore a blank stare on his ashen, skeletal
face. His breathing was shallow and labored. He was barely alive.
The trappings of illness lay all around his bed. The nightstand was
littered with a large number of pill vials. An oxygen bottle stood nearby. Its
plastic hose, with facemask attached rested on the blanket.
I asked the old woman why she called the police. She simply shrugged and
nodded sadly toward her husband, indicating it was his request. I looked at
him and he stared intently into my eyes. He seemed relaxed now. I didn't
understand the suddenly calm _expression on his face. I looked around the
room again. A dresser stood along the wall to the left of the bed. On it was
the usual memorabilia: ornate perfume bottles, a white porcelain pin case,
and a wooden jewelry case. There were also several photos in simple frames.
One caught my eye and I walked closer to the dresser for a closer look.
The picture showed a young man dressed in a police uniform. It was
unmistakably a photo of the man in bed. I knew then why I was there.
I looked at the old man and he motioned with his hand toward the side of
the bed. I walked over and stood beside him. He slid a thin arm from under
the covers and took my hand. Soon, I felt his hand go limp. I looked at his
face. There was no fear there. I saw only peace.
He knew he was dying; he was aware his time was very near. I know now that
he was afraid of what was about to happen and he wanted the protection of
a fellow cop on his journey. A caring God had seen to it that his child
would be delivered safely to him. The honor of being his es**rt fell to me.
When I left at the end of my tour that night, the temperature had seemed
to have risen considerably, and all the holiday displays I saw on the way
home made me smile.
I no longer feel sorry for myself for having to work on Christmas Eve. I
have chosen an honorable profession. I pray that when it's my turn to leave
this world here will be a cop there to hold my hand and remind me that I
have nothing to fear.
I wish all my brother's and sister's who have to work this Christmas Eve
all the Joy and warmth of the Season.
Richard Valdemar, Sergeant LASD (Retired)
