I had this dream a few nights ago where I was in a meeting with faceless superiors from my work and they were angry and disappointed with my performance and demanding I return my uniforms. I was wearing it all to said meeting and first came the demands for the coat. I took it off slowly while I kept surveying the space for any inkling I wouldn’t have to go through with this but there was none. The shame was giving me palpable pain as I removed my jacket and that’s when I woke up. While admittedly it was nicer than dreaming about calls it reeked of a different fear. The one anyone in my shoes will ultimately face. For some the answer is more obvious than others. I have wanted to think I fall in the latter.

My wife had to call 911 a couple of weeks ago. She suddenly developed non-reproduceable chest pain while at rest. I checked her BP and it averaged 160/110 and was increasing every time I checked. Heart rate was 30 BPM higher than what has been normal for her. First came her having to be on the phone while I collected myself and what I knew she would need and what I would need to report when they arrived. As the paramedic I should have been on the phone with dispatch but no, feelings and panic ensued instead. She told dispatch about me and requested no lights if possible. Great burden for my wife while she’s in pain and upset. I did my best to get my shit together and try to continue monitoring my wife but when the fire truck lights started bouncing across our living room I couldn’t even finish the BP I was trying to take. When the firefighters came in the shaking began. I stuttered out everything I could think of so that if I became even more dysfunctional when the paramedics arrived someone would at least know what had happened and could tell them. Shortly thereafter the paramedics arrived. I rubbed my wifes back in an attempt to put my anxiety to good use and did my best to turn the swirling mess in my head into a cohesive narrative while the medics assessed her. Her heart was okay. They took her for further assessment. I made sure the kids were okay and I went outside and anxiously paced with some weed.

My wife said I was a great help and comfort to her that night. I didn’t feel very useful but if I wasn’t making anything more difficult that’s something. I’m exhausted. The last month has just been what seems like a series of challenging events and information. I’m trying my best to keep up and be useful but sometimes I just want to lay down and stop moving. How am I supposed to manage working when the simple things I used to do on days off feel challenging and unmanageable? Depression is such a mental malignancy that it can convince you that you’re a loser no matter how much or little you’re participating in your life. Then, along come the calls to help out. The image of a newborn found laying on the bed on top of a large kitchen knife next to his addict mother who had just given birth to him but who had gone unconscious from the heroin/opiates she was on before managing to cut the cord and move the knife; the smells of the fire victims from the illegal rooming house that caught fire and killed 2 people; the teenage shooting victims; the self-made victims in their crimson baths. So much to draw from. Seems a design flaw of the human brain that it won’t forget the negative and requires active effort to conjure the positive. I have been witness to many successes and positive outcomes too. They can decide to visit more often any day now. I know they’re there.

I have been putting much effort into fighting the bad with gratuities, of which I have many. I don’t know if it’s time to move on or just not stop moving anymore but I do know depression is stupid and I’m fucking sick of it and fucking PTSD too.

My angry rant: the police chiefs in Ontario who think officers with PTSD deserve to be humiliated into proving their illnesses’ origin and be financially penalized even further for seeking help to “encourage” them to return to work sick but sooner are disgusting. So much work has been done to finally make something other than the concern for the bottom line become reality and here they all are. I wonder what prompted them all to decide to leave the road and become management anyway. Must have been the shift work or the physical demands of the job. Money seems important too. Anything but a desire to help those under them seems to be the case. Radical thought: maybe if PTSD is costing so fucking much something proactive should be done BEFORE officers get that sick that, y’know, actually helps? Such as not trying to humiliate them into staying silent until they kill themselves, even if that does cost less financially. Sad indeed.

When you think the only good hero is a dead hero you’ve clearly lost your way.