Nancy Bartholomew

We share something in common- cops and therapists.

When bad things happen to good or bad people, we must not talk about it- At least, not directly.

We are bound by ethical and legal constraints. That's why when I tell you about my day at the nursing home, it's always a fictionalized accounting of who I've met and what they've told me. It's the same with Sam.

"People come up to me," he says,  "and they say 'Wow, you're a cop! That must be great!" He meets my gaze. "It's not great. I can count on one hand the number of times someone's said 'thank you' to me. Face it, people aren't usually glad to see me when I show up." He gives me a rueful smile and I smile back. I know.

They don't want to see me, either. You don't call a therapist because your life's so swell and you want to pay a hundred bucks to tell a stranger all about it. You call a therapist because you're in crisis. Your world is falling apart.

It's the same for cops.

Try calling 9-1-1 to say, "Hey, I'm single and I think cops are soooo, like, totally HOT!" See how long you're sitting alone eating Cheetos then! A cutie pie'll be right over, alright. But he won't be looking for love.

We all know the rule- You only call 9-1-1 if it's a matter of life and death.

Therapists and cops are so trained not to talk that sometimes we don't even think about it. It has become a part of us, this silent, buried repository of secrets.

Somewhere between the office and home, I manage to completely block out the things my patients tell me- for the most part. Unfortunately, sometimes I spring a leak.

It's the same for my friend, Sam, the cop.

He winces when I talk about leaky feelings. "Yeah," he says, shaking his head sadly. "I hate it when I take it out on the kids. I don't mean to. They didn't do anything wrong. They're just sweet, loving babies and..."

"You're crabby," I finish. "You catch yourself making the little things into big things and then, there you are- yelling 'I told you to take out the trash three times and you still haven't done it!' It's just the trash," I say, no longer talking to Sam. "It's not World Peace!"

We catch ourselves- mid-flip-out. We apologize. Eventually, over time, we learn to make the seal tighter, to not let the "Uglies" slip through the cracks as often. But deep down inside, the Uglies never truly go away.

I didn't truly realize this until I went to a poetry writing seminar with a friend and the truth rushed out of me. Like escaped hostages, they filled the pages with horror and sadness and made the other attendees cry when we had to read our work aloud.

Sam tells me he's been keeping a journal for the past couple of years. It's his way of getting it out, tapping the powder keg so he doesn't explode.

Sam is retiring on Friday after 30 years of service.

"Are they going to have a party?" I ask him.

"Nah." He looks half-embarassed. "They said something about a dinner."

I watch him. He looks down at the floor, avoiding my gaze and it's not just because I'm not invited. He's uncomfortable in the unaccustomed spotlight.

"To tell you the truth," he says, forgetting I told him once that whatever follows this phrase is usally a lie. "I just want to finish my shift and leave. I'd just as soon do nothing. The job's not what it used to be."

I hear a lot of officers say this as they approach retirement.

"I don't want a big fuss," they tell me. Or "No, I said I didn't want the badge presentation." They seem to want to finish their career just as they finish any other tour of duty- they get in their cars, go home and try to forget about it.

Sam makes me think about all the others I've known like him- The ones who've honored me with their truths.

On my computer there is a series of photographs I can't show you because I promised I wouldn't. I took them the day a very brave and loyal officer, friend, retired. In one, she is standing on the brick walkway in front of her home. Her hand is raised in a half-hearted goodbye and she is not smiling. Her eyes are huge and dark with the accumulated weight she has carried around with her, as heavy as the milkcrates of unclosed files she unloads from the back of her squad car.

Two pictures later, she has begun to smile. But when I study the images, her eyes are still burdened.

When I was little, adults told us "The policeman is your friend."

When I was in college somehow they became "pigs."

Don't say it. I know. There are many corrupt police officers, but many more are not.

Lately, the local papers and blogs are filled with tell-alls that underscore the deviancy of our local police department. It's no longer the dishonest bad apples- now they seem to be saying the entire department is hopelessly ruined. "Morale is at an all-time low," they say.

How could it not be when we, the public, throw up our hands and condemn the lot of them? The good ones can't defend themselves because they are bound by laws some of our citizens don't seem to understand. "It's a process," some officers tell me. "We can't talk about it until the investigation has finished and charges are brought." But other officers, tired of the wearing trial-by-the uninformed, give up in frustration and tell me they can't wait until they too, can retire.

But when I look in the eyes of my two, good friends, the magnitude of their gift us takes my breath away.

I want to call everyone I know and say- "Hey, at about 5:00 this Friday afternoon would you please take a big 'Thank You, Officer!' sign and stand out on the sidewalk along Washington Avenue?"

That way, when Sam drives home after that final shift, maybe he'll know there are a hell of a lot of us who do feel grateful. Maybe, since we won't put his name on the sign, he won't be too embarassed about garnering a tiny bit of well-deserved attention from a few of the people he served for so many years.