A Thing Called "Hope"

The stigma attached to mental illness is beginning to fade. People understand that our brains can be injured just as easily as our bodies. People are quick to offer support to veterans suffering from physical injuries or PTSD, or both. They are also quick to assume that the service dog by my side means that I am a military vet with a war injury, either physical or PTSD, or both.

I do have a physical injury. And I also have PTSD. But I am not a veteran. I did not serve overseas protecting the borders and ideals of our country. I'm a medically retired police officer. I served here in the US, protecting the streets and homes of our citizens.

Several years into my career as a police officer, I began experiencing depression, nightmares, and mood swings. My level of awareness swung between irrationally heightened and frighteningly numb. I felt threatened when people were too close to me. My work suffered. Where I used to be proactive and busy with traffic stops, encounters, and building checks, over time I became reactive, just taking dispatched calls and rarely initiating anything.  I no longer took overtime shifts, stopped caring how my uniform looked, and used all my sick time. My personal life began unraveling, too. I lost interest in things I'd always enjoyed, gave up on working out, refused to socialize, and rarely left my home except for work. To avoid being labeled "weak" at work, I secretly sought medical help but none of my doctors or therapists associated PTSD with police work so I was diagnosed with depression and prescribed medications that actually made things worse. In desperation, I called our "confidential" Employee Assistance Program. The EAP accused me of exaggerating my symptoms and said they'd have to alert my Chief if I admitted to taking antidepressants.

At a police training course in the mid 1990s, an instructor asked us to complete a "test" on police stress. The officer seated closest to me had attended the police academy with me. After catching site of my score, he leaned over and whispered, jokingly, "You should be dead."  He was joking because it was the 1990s. Cops were supposed to be too tough to have emotional reactions to the things they experienced at work. Off-color jokes, drinking, and, most of all, silence were the only acceptable responses to burned bodies, mayhem, and dead babies. So, I sucked it up, managing to keep it together for most of my shifts and then falling apart at home alone.

Years later, a psychologist told me the development of PTSD is like trying to hold a beach ball under water – you struggle to keep it down and when you inevitably lose your grip, the ball explodes up and practically takes your head off. To maintain my social mask, I'd been struggling to stuff a beach ball full of emotions and memories and symptoms under the surface. I finally lost my grip when a cherished police friend was killed in the line of duty (https://uneflic.blogspot.com/2007/05/lost-friend.html). 

The resulting explosion did almost take my head off.

I felt like I was falling down a hill backwards. I was having flashbacks, avoiding public places, waking up a dozen times a night from violent, terrifying dreams, and isolating for days or weeks at a time. Even though I often felt completely numb inside, I could be sparked to irrational anger or to wallowing anguish for no reason, often in the same hour. I was fearful and hypervigilant. I had to carefully censor what I watched, listened to, and read to avoid being "triggered" to a flood of tears, or to unwanted memories, or to the depths of despair, or into a flashback. I turned into a hybrid of a sloth, a snarling rabid wolf, and Eeyore, the donkey from Winnie the Pooh.

When I did leave my house, I engaged in risky behaviors like driving too fast and tempting fate where a rational person wouldn't. Even my core beliefs began to change. I developed trust issues, felt any betrayal viscerally, and laughed or smiled so infrequently that even strangers commented on it. I began to see people in two categories; they were either a threat or they were blocking my view of a threat. I was angry too often – wrap rage, apple core rage, coffee cup sipping lid rage – and I started filling my sentences with profanities. One of my brothers joked that I needed a DEFCON-type T-shirt to warn friends and relatives about my mood levels.

I finally asked my police supervisors for help, telling them that work stress was getting the better of me. They listened impatiently, and then accused me of shirking my duties and looking for unwarranted time off. Feeling lost and abandoned, I poured my feelings into three essays that were published locally and then nationally. Still, except for a note from a supervisor acknowledging my writings and suggesting I call our EAP, no one reached out to me, not even coworkers who were members of our regional police stress team.

In the midst of struggling with the "depression," I was physically injured on patrol. When my Chief insisted on an involuntary disability retirement, the career I loved was terminated against my will.  I was unceremoniously shoved out of "the brotherhood" where I'd spent my entire adult life. My years of service to my community were not recognized with a party or even an official farewell, just a call telling me I didn't "need to bother" coming to work anymore.

The "depression," coupled with forced retirement at age 37 and the physical pain from injuries that wouldn't heal, swamped me. Because of my career, my past contained nothing but monsters and without my career, my future contained nothing, period. My soul felt empty while my head and heart were overflowing with filthy trash that bubbled up from a brimming cauldron. My super power became a total lack of affect and I shielded everyone from my deepest thoughts. I spent a lot of time seesawing between figuring out how to commit suicide and figuring out how to stop myself from committing suicide.  Many friends suggested that I was "just depressed" and needed to "stop thinking about it" because "people are as happy as they choose to be" and when I didn't "just shake it off", they stopped coming around. Other friends, along with family, watched me withdraw from the world – the woman they'd known for years was disappearing. I let them think it was entirely due to the relentless physical pain. Only my dog knew the truth, and when things were at their worst, I hugged her tightly to me while I sat on the floor with a loaded gun and a 3-minute egg timer, tangling my fingers deep into her fur and letting her lick the tears from my face while I told myself that I could pull the trigger when the egg timer went off if I still felt the need.

"Hope" was no longer in my vocabulary.

A few months after retiring, I was finally diagnosed with PTSD. My police department hadn't been supportive when I was a cop, and even though my now former department was aware of my PTSD diagnosis, I didn't receive any support when I was a civilian either. I used my personal insurance and my personal savings for treatment. I attended week-long residential workshops for First Responders at On-Site Academy (https://onsiteacademy.org/) in Massachusetts – twice – and at The West Coast Post-trauma Retreat (https://www.frsn.org/west-coast-post-trauma-retreat.html) in California.  I spent many hours on the phone with Dr. Bobby Smith (http://www.visionsofcourage.com/). I practically memorized Allen Kates's book CopShock (http://www.copshock.com/). I embraced treatments like EMDR, more medications, more therapy, meditation, and a service dog. Those tools helped me better understand and accommodate the PTSD but I came to realize that unless getting hit by a bus could be considered a cure, PTSD can't be cured – it can only be managed.

But living with PTSD is not the same thing as having a life. It's a battle to maintain real courage under fake danger. And being torn between wanting to enjoy memories and being tormented by them is maddening. Sadly, though, when you stuff down the bad memories, you stuff down the good ones, too. When you dull the emotional pain, you dull the joyful moments, too. So, I become an empty shell of the person I used to be.

In recent years, police PTSD has received more attention and more respect. Officers are receiving mental health care from their departments. Organizations are sending officers on cruises and to retreats so they can bond with other First Responders with similar diagnoses. And PTSD is now being treated as a line-of-duty injury. While it's heartening to witness the positive changes, it's been difficult to be excluded from the benefits that seem to be reserved for the newer generation. Recently, when a Massachusetts officer retired from PTSD with an exclusive pension that generously exceeds the statutory standard, I met with the politician who had spearheaded that special pension exception. He said "ALL cops have some level of PTSD," and since I "didn't have your best friend's brains splashed across your face," my PTSD is not remarkable or worth compensation. I left the meeting in tears, chastising myself for thinking that the State would support me when my Town and police department never had.

A year later, a friend sent me information about a new PTSD treatment developed by Dr. Sean Mulvaney in Annapolis.  

(https://drseanmulvaney.com/stellate-ganglion-block-for-ptsd)  After some reassuring research, I was able to get an appointment and a hotel reservation. I drove 9 hours clutching a credit card to pay for Dr. Mulvaney's Stellate Ganglion Block (SGB) for PTSD procedure.

Dr. Mulvaney's professional, direct, and friendly manner cultivated the trust I needed to allow him to stick a long needle into my neck.  After a short period of rest and a couple of evaluations, I was released. I was too distracted until later to notice that my service dog greeted me very differently when I returned to the car but I would have seen it as a good omen. Within an hour of the procedure, I felt different. It was as though my head had been a noisy, bustling, overcrowded room and suddenly the people left, leaving an open, clear, quiet sensation. I felt lighter - not physically but mentally - the way I used to feel when I finally arrived home and dumped the day's events (as well as my duty belt and bulletproof vest) after a long shift. I even felt spiritually taller because the weight my shoulders had carried for so long was lessened.

There were a few minor side effects that lasted a few hours but the changes were extraordinary and immediate. I caught myself smiling for no reason, which was startling. Although I normally went to bed early to escape the chaos in my head, that night I stayed up until I was physically tired. In the morning, I was shocked that I felt rested and that I hadn't had a single nightmare or been startled wake from a single insignificant noise. As I prepared for the journey home, I had a persistent, strange, elusive feeling I couldn't shake. I finally identified it as a thing called "hope," something I hadn't felt in two decades. That's when I realized that my service dog had been treating me differently since I'd had the procedure. He'd recognized the transformation instantly.

At home, I surprised myself by readily accepting the first social engagement that was offered. Friends said they could hear a difference in my voice. I slept through the night again, and again, and again. I continually smiled without provocation. The clear-headed feeling remained; the chaos in my head had settled, replaced by a quiet composure. I no longer lost my temper over trivial things and the sensation of being constantly emotionally overwhelmed was gone. My dogs were confused, and delighted, when I started singing, even when there was no music playing.

But the procedure did not take away the PTSD. It only quieted it. Whereas most of the symptoms used to strike many times a day, they now only occur once or twice a week, some only once or twice a month. And I am still susceptible to the triggers that used to overwhelm me but now my reactions are muted and they pass when I acknowledge them. It's disconcerting but there's peace in knowing the symptoms won't last and there's power in realizing I can better control my reactions to them.

Continual hope has replaced constant thoughts of suicide. I am rested and more focused because I sleep through the night; the few times my Service Dog has awakened me, I assume he sensed a nightmare but I have no memory of one – a far cry from waking almost every night covered in sweat with tense muscles and clenched teeth, unable to fall back to sleep with the nightmare spinning through my head like a movie reel.  In public, I am situationally aware – like a cop – rather than paranoid and hypervigilant, and when my service dog steps between me and others, instead of feeling relief that I have a safety barrier, I feel relief that now I can actually breathe in the midst of other people.

I'm still figuring out which behaviors are continuing from habit rather than from the PTSD symptoms that linger. And I still have to deal with the daily physical pain from the physical injuries that forced my retirement. Discovering how tangled the PTSD and physical pain were is staggering. In some ways, the PTSD masked the pain by upstaging it but in other ways, it magnified the pain by heaping more stress onto my body. Unfortunately, since the procedure, there have been times when I've longed for the numb emptiness of PTSD that veiled the physical pain.

I have always thought that having some control over the PTSD would make me the person I used to be but now I know that I am no longer who I was and that I will never be what I was going to be. And now that there's space in my head and a desire to move forward, I'm starting to build a new me. It is a struggle to figure out who I am, what I will enjoy, what makes me happy, how I will live, and how I will love.

Prince Harry, the Duke of Sussex who is a military veteran and founder of the Invictus Games once said, "You do not have to be defined by your injury or your disability. You may not realize or appreciate it but do not underestimate the incredible impact you are having on those around you, by simply being yourself."

Having the PTSD under control means I can be myself again, whoever that may be, and I have begun waking up for my life rather than to my life. I, not the PTSD, can dictate how I move through the world.

So, six months after the SGB procedure I am still unraveling the snarled knots that muddled the PTSD and the physical pain, and trying to accept the pain as its own entity. In that endeavor, I have posted a single quote on my normally blank refrigerator door from a quadriplegic man named Chad Hymas, "Let go of the illusion that it could have been any different."

There's something to be gained from living through what Dr. Mulvaney's procedure erased. When I find out what it is, I'll be able to let go of the illusion.

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

Jill Wragg

Yarmouth Police Department 

Chief Frank Frederickson

Christopher Van Ness

Steven Xiarhos

@yarmouthpolice

http://www.yarmouth.ma.us/

Service Dogs

Paxil Josephine Wragg

When I retired from the Police Department in 2001 after a line-of-duty injury that left me with severe chronic pain and a diagnosis of PTSD, I decided to train a dog to help me adjust to my new life. I was given a black Lab puppy by a local breeder and named her “Paxil” because I knew she would make me happy.

Paxil provides physical assistance by picking up items I drop, fetching phones, helping me climb stairs, telling me when to take my pain medications, opening and closing doors, tugging off jackets and shoes, operating light switches, and even taking the clothes out of the dryer and putting them on the counter for me to fold.

She provides psychiatric assistance by alerting me to people approaching from behind, waking me from nightmares, creating a furry comfort zone in crowds, and distracting me with a paw in my lap or a nose in my face. 

When we first began working together, people were surprised to see us in the mall and at restaurants. Almost every time we went out in public, a manager or security guard would ask us to leave because “dogs aren't allowed.” I carried copies of the Americans with Disabilities Act regulations that gave us the right to be in public places and patiently handed them out to everyone who confronted us. As the years have passed, it's gotten a little easier. If we are approached now, it's usually by a curious stranger who has seen something about service dogs on television. 

HISTORY OF SERVICE 

The first service dogs as we know them were trained in New Jersey at The Seeing Eye. In 1928, an American named Morris Frank and his Swiss-trained guide dog, “Buddy,” campaigned tirelessly for federal recognition of guide dogs and earned the right for guide-dog teams to enter facilities that had been traditionally, and legally, off-limits to dogs.

In the 1970s and 1980s, dogs, monkeys, and miniature horses were trained to assist with other disabilities, but they didn't enjoy the same federal rights of access as guide dogs. In the 1990s, the Americans with Disabilites Act (ADA) officially gave people the right to use animals to mitigate the effects of disabilities other than sight loss.

It was a breakthrough, and a problem.

Although the ADA distinguished between “therapy” animals that visited nursing homes and hospitals to comfort patients and “service” animals that made life with disabilities easier, it didn't actually define what a service animal was. As the 2000s evolved, the ADA's vague regulation led to an inundation of animals, both wild and domesticated, being touted as service animals.

The Internet and media were rife with stories about people shopping, dining at restaurants ,and riding buses with parrots on their shoulders, ferrets in their pockets, snakes wrapped around their necks, pigs on leashes, and badly behaved dogs at their sides - one woman even rode a full-sized horse into supermarkets – while declaring that their animal was necessary because of their now federally recognized disability. The ambiguity in the ADA regulation made it illegal to ask someone to refrain from bringing his 9-foot boa constrictor or her snarling Great Dane into public places. The flood of bizarre amateur “helpers” was making it difficult for well-trained service animals to gain respect. Disabled Americans with legitimate service animals, fed-up business owners, and confused law enforcement agencies clamored for some clarity.

On March 15, 2011, the ADA, which takes priority over local or state laws and regulations, revised its definition of service animals. It officially excluded all animals except dogs and miniature horses (defined as ranging in height from 24 inches to 34 inches at the shoulders and weighing between 70 and 100 pounds) from having public access and stated that the dogs and miniature horses must be individually trained to do work or perform tasks for people with disabilities.

Disabled people may still use other animals (goats, gerbils, cats, etc.) to assist them but only in places where those animals would normally be allowed to go, such as within the confines of their own homes and private vehicles, and friends' homes with permission.

The ADA also tightened another loophole by outlining the difference between “psychiatric service dogs” and “emotional support animals."

Psychiatric service dogs are trained to recognize the onset of psychiatric episodes and actively respond by performing tasks directly related to the person's disability, such as reminding the handler to take medicine, interrupting self-mutilation, and removing disoriented handlers from dangerous situations.

An emotional support animal's sole function is to provide comfort or emotional support. The animal may or may not be able to discern that its owner is in distress, but it is not trained to do anything specific in response to this awareness. It merely provides comfort by being present. Emotional support animals are considered pets and do not have public-access rights. 

FOLLOWING THE LAW
But just because someone enters a public place with a dog or miniature horse doesn't mean the animal is a legitimate service animal. Last summer, a woman was asked to leave a Yarmouth consignment shop because the manager did not believe her dog was a real service dog. When she refused, police settled the dispute by verifying the woman's claim.

But there are people who want to take their pets everywhere they go and are willing to exploit any ignorance of the law to get their way. Most states have laws against misrepresenting an animal as a service animal. Managers of public facilities and police officers need to know how to identify a service animal.

There's a YouTube video of a man in a wheelchair bullying police officers who responded to a beach after complaints about his dog. The dog was not wearing any service dog equipment and had clearly been swimming. The man repeatedly admonishes the officers telling them, “If I say it's a service dog then you have to let it stay!”

That is not true, but identifying a service animal is not always simple. There are no national identification cards or certification programs; service dogs trained in any state or country are recognized by the ADA. Some states issue their own cards and certification letters, but since the federal regulations take precedence, state certification is not proof and cannot be required. Most service animals wear special vests or harnesses, but they are not mandated because they could interfere with the service animal's work or a person's disability could prevent their use. The size of the animal does not matter, except when classifying a miniature horse.

Basically, a service animal team consists of a disabled person and a dog or miniature horse trained to mitigate that disability, and the ADA provides simple tools for anyone questioning the legitimacy of a team.

When it isn't evident that a dog or miniature horse assists someone with an obvious disability, the ADA allows only two questions. The answers must be taken at face value. Only a federal judge can decide if a person is actually disabled or substantiate that an animal meets performance requirements.

The first question is, “Is the animal required because of a disability?” Follow-up questions about the nature of the disability are not allowed.

The second is, “What work or task has the animal been trained to perform?” Asking for a demonstration of the animal's training is not permitted.

It is a service animal only if a disability exists and the answer to the second question describes an active, trained response or legitimate work performed on the disabled person's behalf. If not, the animal can be removed and excluded from future access to public areas.

ACCESS IS KEY 

So what is public access?

Federal regulations state that service animals are medical equipment that must be accommodated in the manner of crutches, wheelchairs, and oxygen tanks. Therefore, state and local governments, and businesses and nonprofit organizations that serve the public, must allow disabled people with service animals access to all areas where the public is normally allowed to go, even if health codes prohibit animals. In many states, Massachusetts included, trainers of service animals have the same rights as service animal teams as long as the animal is well-behaved and housebroken. The rule of thumb is that access rights belong to the person, not to the service animal. If the person has a right to be there, an animal that meets the definition of a service animal has a right to be there.

Service animals are allowed at pools, beaches and playgrounds, but they are there to work, not play, so if the animal is running loose, swimming freely, chasing balls or playing with children, then it is not on duty and can be removed.

Of course, everyone needs a break from work once in a while, so an occasional visit to the woods, game of fetch, or dip in the water isn't in violation of any rules, but if the animal's leisure activities interfere with other people it can be removed. If the animal is under control and at its handler's side, waiting at the water's edge to assist its handler in entering and exiting the water, or assisting the handler in the water because of a specific medical requirement, it must be accommodated.

Service animal teams visiting a person living in no-pet housing are not required to give notice to management and are permitted by invitation of the tenant to stay as long as necessary, even if the disabled person leaves the animal at the residence during an outing. Motels, hotels, and inns cannot require prior arrangements or force a service dog team into a room normally reserved for guests with pets.

Enrolled students with a service animal must be allowed to attend school unless the school obtains a court injunction banning it and anyone who would normally be admitted to enter a school as a guest must be allowed if accompanied by a service animal.

Service animals cannot be denied access to public transportation and no operator of a public conveyance can refuse to transport them. Devout Muslim taxi drivers who refuse to pick up service dogs for religious reasons are in violation of federal and Massachusetts laws and in conflict with the Shariah Council, which has ruled that Muslims worldwide must accept, and may even use, dogs that are trained to assist disabled people.

Service animals cannot be excluded from movie theaters, concerts, or auditoriums, but if a service animal makes noise during a performance it can be asked to leave unless the noise was an attempt to communicate with or alert its handler, the animal was deliberately provoked, or the noise was consistent with noises made by humans, such as barking during applause. If an animal is removed because of noise, that behavior cannot be used to restrict its admission to future events. 

HEALTH AND SERVICE 

Regardless of health codes or departmental regulations restricting pets, service animals are allowed in ambulances, police cars, and other state and town vehicles. A service animal team cannot be denied transportation under any circumstance in which any other civilian would be transported.

Exceptions could occur if the presence of a service animal in the ambulance might interfere with patient care; jeopardize the safety of the crew, the patient or others, or cause damage to the ambulance or equipment. In such circumstances, personnel are expected to make every effort to reunite the patient with the service animal at the time of the patient's arrival at the hospital by arranging for simultaneous transport of the animal by the police department, animal control, or the patient's family.

The ADA has determined that police departments have an obligation to accommodate a service animal in the same way as any other medical equipment unless the animal's presence would cause an alteration in the environment that would disrupt normal operations.
 

The ADA prohibits segregating or isolating service dog teams from other patrons, treating them less favorably than other patrons, and charging fees that are not charged to other patrons without animals. A business that normally requires a deposit or fee to be paid by patrons with pets must waive the charge for service animals, but any business that normally charges patrons for damage that they cause can charge a disabled customer for damage caused by his service animal. Staff members at public facilities are not required to provide care or food for a service animal, but they are not prohibited from doing so voluntarily.

The ADA allows, but does not mandate, exclusion of a service animal when the animal poses a direct threat to the health or safety of others.

Health issues could arise in areas such as sterile operating rooms, some intensive-care units and areas where food is prepared, such as kitchens, freezers, and walk-in refrigerators. Allergies are not valid reasons for denying access or refusing service to people with service animals. When a person who is allergic and a person with a service animal must spend time in the same room or facility, they both should be accommodated by assigning them, if possible, to different locations within the room or different rooms in the facility. If an animal is not housebroken, it can be removed. However, an indoor “accident” cannot be used as a reason to refuse entry the next time. Unless there is a specific medical reason necessitating it, a service animal can be restricted from using apparatus, chairs, and other items provided for the use of humans. A miniature horse can be excluded if a facility cannot accommodate its type, size or weight; if its presence will compromise legitimate safety requirements necessary for safe operation of the facility; if it isn't housebroken, or if it isn't under the handler's control.

Safety exclusions could result if a service animal displays vicious behavior. Viciousness must be an overt display of aggression that is unprovoked. Barking and jumping should first be investigated as a medical emergency since a service dog could be trained to bark, jump, or tug at its handler's clothing to call attention to a medical condition. A PTSD service dog may seem confrontational when blocking strangers from approaching its handler, but this is a trained response, not aggression.

Safety concerns cannot be assumptions based on someone's past experience with animals or on his perception of aggression because of its breed's reputation. A person's fear of dogs or miniature horses is not a valid reason for denying access or refusing service to a service animal team.

Private homes and private clubs can exclude service animals if they choose, but if privately owned properties such as gyms and malls serve the public they also must serve patrons with service animals.

HUMAN BEHAVIOR

 When encountering a service animal team, do not distract the animal with whistles, calls, or by petting it. The animal has a job to do and its handler could be injured if the animal doesn't remain focused. Some service animals are able to interact with strangers, but look carefully for any tags or patches that read something like, “Do Not Pet” or “Working Dog, Please Don't Distract” before asking its handler if you may pet it or speak to it. Never touch the disabled person without an invitation and never touch the service animal or its harness or leash, period.

Do not separate the service animal from its handler. Service dogs are specifically trained to remain calm in excitable situations, but they are animals and might show aggression or fear if their handler is startled or injured.

If you want to assist a service dog team, ask the person what to do. Some mobility service animals are trained to step aside and allow humans to help their handlers. Animals that guide the blind are trained to “follow” on command a specific sighted person while still guiding their handlers. If your offer to help is turned down, don't be insulted; the purpose of a service animal is to lessen its handler's dependence on other people. If a disabled person doesn't need your help, her service animal is doing its job.

If you believe a handler is abusing or neglecting his service animal, report the incident to your police department or animal control officer. Generally, service animal training facilities retain ownership of the animals and recall them from handlers who fail to meet their expectations of care.

For more information 

To speak with an ADA specialist about service animals and access rights, call 800-514-0301 between 9:30 a.m. and 5:30 p.m. Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays or Fridays or 12:30 and 5:30 p.m. Thursdays.

(originally published Cape Cod Times 2013.04.03)
(and @ https://www.southcoasttoday.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20130404/LIFE/304040311 ) 

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

.

Steven Xiarhos

Yarmouth Police Department 

Chief Frank Frederickson

@yarmouthpolice

http://www.yarmouth.ma.us/

Project Blue Light

.

I have buried friends who were killed in the line of duty. I have looked into the eyes of my colleagues’ children, children who have learned that their Daddy or Mommy may not come home tomorrow night. I have watched everyone around me grapple with their own mortality.

But I have healed.

I have given and accepted more hugs than I expected. I have found hidden reservoirs of courage, of serenity, of conviction, and of humility. I have shared thoughts and feelings I’d never shared before. I have been reminded again to cherish every minute. I have spoken to people who have changed their views of police officers after seeing so many stoic men and women cry - after seeing how many of us found the strength to continue our work, choking back our tears as we pried accident victims from badly damaged cars and mediated violent domestic disputes. I have seen citizens offer the best of themselves because they felt the pain and shock of our losses.

Because of those losses, I’m never in the mood for Christmas. I grimace at the thought of cheerful holidays without my friends. Every year, Christmas creeps up on me like a predator. I am stunned by the reminders of it as I drive through town. Each turn reveals more festive houses decorated in lights. Sometimes I map out detours around the most cheerful ones.

But I always end up thinking of the story of the Grinch. There was something about how Christmas comes no matter what. It comes even when there are no bells, no whistles, no toys, no roast beast. It comes even when our loved ones can no longer share it with us. It’s there to raise our spirits at least once each year. It’s there to give us time to remember and to share.

The message of the Grinch’s story draws me out of the depression. It propels me up the stairs to the attic where I keep my Christmas decorations. I begin to smile at the lights and I sing the songs. Each evening leading to Christmas, I take a few moments to look for a new Christmas display to brighten my spirits, to remember that life goes on.

I’ve already decorated my house. My Christmas ornaments are traditional with one exception; I follow the custom of Concerns of Police Survivors (http://www.nationalcops.org/index.htm ), the custom of Project Blue Light.

According to COPS, Project Blue Light began in 1988 when the organization adopted the idea of displaying blue lights for the holidays to honor the officers who serve and protect us while remembering those who have been killed in the line of duty.

“The color blue is associated with law enforcement.” explains former COPS National President Shirley Gibson. “One single blue light in a window makes such a dramatic and important statement.”

So, each Christmas, I make that statement.

From December 1st until January 1st, I shine a blue light in my front window, a single blue light.

I do it to honor my friends who were killed in the line of duty. I do it to show people that I think about the sacrifices made by police officers every day. I do it because I appreciate the officers who protect my friends and family as we tuck our children into bed on Christmas Eve.

I do it because I remember the smiles of some very special cops.

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

Yarmouth Police Department 

Chief Frank Frederickson

Brad Erickson

Sean Gannon

Françoise Kiekeman

Steven Xiarhos

@yarmouthpolice

http://www.yarmouth.ma.us/

Zoloft

It has occurred to me many times that I was a person who used to make things happen yet had begun to let things happen. My German friends would say, “You’re standing on your wire.” In other words, clumsily interrupting the flow of information to the brain. Just lifting my feet didn’t work. I saw in a movie that clicking my heels together three times could do the trick but I don’t own any red shoes.

Still, I wanted to make something happen. So I decided to get Zoloft for Christmas. No, not Zoloft, the medication that’s prescribed for depression and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

This is a different Zoloft.

My Zoloft doesn’t promise to help correct the chemical imbalance of serotonin in my brain. In fact, it doesn’t promise anything. And I didn’t need a prescription to get it. It came in a compact package weighing about one pound, delivered right to my doorstep after dark.

My Zoloft isn’t covered by insurance but it’s fairly inexpensive. It doesn’t ruin my concentration; it makes me more aware. It doesn’t make me unusually tired or sleepy; it makes me smile. It doesn’t make me feel agitated; I hear soothing noises when I’m near it. It doesn’t make sleeping difficult; I sleep more warmly at night. And it doesn’t give me a dry mouth or upset my stomach.

There are some side effects but they are negligible, mostly olfactory and dermatological, although sometimes it interferes with television viewing and gives me fleas. I’ve given this Zoloft a street nickname of Zoë.

Now when I feel sad, I don’t take a blue-sky pill. I take a fur break. I hunt behind the sofa and in closets and under the bed until I find a warm, squirmy little mass of calico hair with green eyes and a bad attitude.

I haven’t had a kitten in eight years. It’s an experience.

I’ve been reminded that when looking for a misplaced kitten, one should always check the closed refrigerator and the depths of the basket of dirty laundry – wearing gloves. I’ve also been reminded what cat food can do to a dog’s digestive system. And I’ve discovered that I no longer need to throw away those plastic rings from the tops of gallons of milk. Instead, I get to step on them in my bare feet after I turn off the lights.

She’s a bit of a tomboy. So far, she’s fouled the bathroom sink and the shower. When she does locate the litter box, she scatters litter to every corner of the room. She also scatters her food and goes fishing in her water dish for something only she can see. She inflicts other damage, too. The dog carries emotional scars from Zoloft’s painful rebukes. The stuffed dog on my bed bears physical scars from being an involuntary wrestling partner. My scalp does not benefit from the way she “kneads dough” in my hair at bedtime and her idea of a good time is climbing my leg, freestyle, right after I get out of the shower.

But that’s okay because she makes me laugh.

And she’s more effective than the real Zoloft.

Now when I think there’s a monster in my room at night, I know I’m not imagining it, especially when it clamps its tiny razor sharp teeth onto my little toe. When I wake from a sound sleep feeling like I’m suffocating, I don’t have to get out of the house for a breath of fresh air, I just remove the ball of fur from my face and go back to sleep. When I have writer’s block, she distracts me, biting the end of my pen or writing her own stories by walking on the computer keyboard.

I used to enjoy watching chipmunks scamper through the low bushes and along the rock walls in my neighborhood. Once I began standing on my wire, I seldom saw them anymore. Each rare sighting made me think of adding chipmunks to those lists of things from our childhoods that have disappeared, like Teaberry gum, 15 cent hamburgers at McDonalds, and those metal ice cube trays with levers.

Since getting Zoloft, I’ve started noticing chipmunks in my yard. Maybe it’s a sign.

But maybe when Zoloft gets big enough to eat the chipmunks, I’ll need a prescription for the real stuff.

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

The Dream

Romeo – “I dreamt a dream tonight.”
Mercutio – “And so did I.”
Romeo – “Well, what was yours?”
Mercutio – “That dreamers often lie.”

Mercutio didn’t know what he was talking about. I dreamt a dream, too, when I’d fallen asleep on the sofa. In my dream, my house was crying. Water was pouring down the inside walls in streams of tears. Tears that started in the attic and disappeared into the basement. Tears that began ripping apart the inside of the house. Walls were peeling. Cabinets were sagging from the ceilings. Photos and mementos were melting and washing away with the tears. Amid the chaos, I was frantically calling everyone I knew, becoming more and more unraveled as each phone call ended the same way – no one knew who could help me stop the destruction. The exterior of the house remained intact, a façade in every sense of the word, its yellow paint smiling in the sun, a bright mask for the turmoil inside. But the sun wasn’t coming through the windows. The interior buckled under the weight of the tears. It sagged and folded inward. With the phone in my hand, I watched the demolition. The tears ravaged my home, eradicating my past, swallowing up my present, annihilating my future, drowning my dreams. And there was no one left to call. I was scared, hurt, angry and desperate. I woke up scared, hurt, angry and desperate. I’m still scared, hurt, angry and desperate.

That’s why my dogs dialed 911 one day when I wasn’t home. No, really. They used my new cordless phone. They were pleased with the response they got. Four police officers and three firefighters forced open the door to visit with them – and search for me – when the police dispatcher was not able to get through on the phone. I found the slightly chewed and fairly slimy phone on the floor near the dog beds. The line was still open. My brother thinks they wanted me to come home so they called the shop. I think they were practicing. They wanted to know how long it would take to get someone to make their lunch if I didn’t get off the sofa to do it.

They knew what I haven’t wanted to admit. That after months of feeling depressed, I have officially made the jump to actually being depressed. And they were worried because their food is behind a closed door.

They knew something was going wrong. They’d heard me whisper the words when I thought they weren’t listening. Words like sad, grieving, and empty. They hear me say that I feel like I am outside my body when people insist that a forced retirement at the age of 37 is a fresh start. They see me taking sleeping pills or drinking wine before bed. They hear me grind my teeth when I finally fall asleep. They watch me make dinners that I leave on the counter after one bite. They feel the frustration when I snap at them for no reason. They see me cringe whenever the word “disabled” is tossed around as though it were harmless. They understand that I have the best intentions when I get up, take a shower, then lose interest in the day and go back to bed. They listen to the messages that friends leave on my machine when I don’t bother to answer the phone. They know that I feel detached from everything, including the pains in my head and my chest but they follow me when I go to the medicine cabinet for relief. Then they follow me again when I wander through the house looking for comfort in the things that used to make me smile. They follow me back to the sofa when I find none. And they stay in the room with me when I sit in silence. They watch me do nothing, and, in a show of camaraderie, they do nothing.

Except when I cry. When I cry - even silently - 12 year old Kevvie lifts her head. She doesn’t hear it, she feels it, and it rouses her from a deep, old-dog sleep. With great effort, she hauls her big, old-dog body onto her failing hips, then limps across the floor to sit beside me and rest her head on my leg. She comforts me with her compassion. Three year old Ripley also feels it. She abandons her feet-wiggling dreams of wily squirrels and tasty moles to jump onto the sofa beside me. She rests her head on my other leg. Her effort is as strenuous as Kevvie’s. She struggles to keep every muscle of her body still while she gazes up at my face. She knows this is the only way to send the healing vibrations of her wagging stub directly to me. She comforts me with her clowning.

They don’t care whether I’m a cop or not. They both reach up with long pink tongues to take away my tears. They stay after I stop crying. They stay until I shoo them away.

I don’t deserve this love. Or do I?

Romeo – “Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace, thou talk’st of nothing.”
Mercutio – “True, I talk of dreams, which are the children of an idle mind.”

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

Yarmouth Police Department 

Chief Frank Frederickson

Steven Xiarhos

@yarmouthpolice

http://www.yarmouth.ma.us/

Rest in Peace

"The wicked flee when no man pursueth: 

but the righteous are as bold as a lion."

- Proverbs 28:1

It was probably the most difficult assignment they'd been given in their careers. They stood in the rain for hours to defend the honor and memory of their friends and colleagues. At midnight, the last two members of the honor guard came to attention. They saluted the memorial wreath and slowly marched away. In their path walked a lone piper, playing "Amazing Grace" to the names engraved on the wall, names that seem to run together in their urgency to be read. The last notes of the bagpipe clung to the misted branches of the trees that protect the wall. The silence that followed was fitting. Observers began to disperse when a lone police siren sounded in the distance.

Midnight May 15 was a somber time. The dismissal of the guard and removal of the wreath marked the official conclusion of the annual National Peace Officers' Memorial Week at the National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial in Washington, D.C.

This was the first year I attended the services. I was there for my friends who had given everything they had in the service to their communities. Françoise and her partner Piet were killed in the line of duty in August 1999. Brad was killed in December 2000. Philippe died in March 2003.

But I was also there for officers I didn't know. I was there for the 16,000 US officers whose names are on the wall, for the hundreds of officers who died in the line of duty throughout the world last year, for the 20,000 officers who were in D.C. with me, and for all the police officers on duty everywhere in the world. I was there for all the fallen officers whose countries don’t honor them with a Memorial Wall and an annual Candlelight Vigil.

The Memorial is simple, similar in composition to the better-known Vietnam Memorial. It consists of two pathways guarded at each entrance by bronze sculptures of adult lions, one male and one female, protecting their cubs. The statues are not quite right. They imply the strength of a lion protecting its own, but police officers don't protect only their own. Police officers protect strangers, too, and people of different races and religions, and even people they despise. Police officers are lions protecting zebras, and mice, and even poachers.

I spent several hours at the wall. I met members of the foreign departments who traveled across an ocean to remember their comrades the way they should be remembered, amidst a sea of uniformed officers.

I found the names of local cousins who died in the line of duty. I found the name of a female officer who was killed the exact day that I raised my right hand and swore to protect and serve, no matter what the cost.

I left an insignia pin for a foreign officer who was overwhelmed by what he’d seen and heard during a long career on the streets. He killed himself on duty in the station house with his service weapon.

I spoke to a widow who was pregnant with their sixth child when her husband was ambushed and killed on patrol.

I hugged an officer who had responded with his partner to a 911 call. The female caller shot them both as they tried to wrestle her assailant from her home. He returned fire to save his own life, killing the woman before cradling his dying partner in his arms.

I met the mother of an officer who was killed by his friend with point-blank gunfire in a training accident.

I cried with the colleague of an officer who died on a dirty sidewalk before his murderer could perpetrate a final insult, shooting the dead officer through the badge.

Despite all the tragedy that brought people to Washington last week, there was plenty of camaraderie. The shared losses made instant friends of total strangers. Officers and civilian family members shared stories and advice that helped heal some gaping wounds. I made some new friends with a group of officers who invited me to their "hero toast." After dinner, we sat around the table taking turns toasting fallen friends. We laughed when one toast went awry, suggesting we drink a shot for a friend who'd been shot. The people at the next table might not have seen the humor but if they had ever been cops, or soldiers, or firefighters, they would know that everything is funny - because it has to be.

We can't all be heroes; some of us have to sit on the curb and clap as they go by. But we can all support our heroes. Imagine a day when all police officers are on vacation. It might not make too much of a difference in your small circle, in your small town, but society as a whole would crumble.

Some people think it's wrong to honor such a small group of people when so many ordinary people die every day. I argue that it's common to die for nothing. Those who die for something are heroes.

Françoise, Piet, Brad and Philippe, Rest in peace, your colleagues have the watch.

"In valor there is hope."
-Tacitus

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

Yarmouth Police Department 

Chief Frank Frederickson

Steven Xiarhos

Françoise Kiekeman

Sean Gannon

@yarmouthpolice

http://www.yarmouth.ma.us/

Confessions of a Police Officer

Dear Citizens, Neighbors, Friends and Family,

My name is Jill and I am a cop. That means that the pains and joys of my personal life are often muted by my work. I resent the intrusion but I confuse my self with my job almost as often as you do. 

The label "police officer" creates a false image of who I really am. Sometimes I feel like I'm floating between two worlds. My work is not just protecting and serving. It's preserving that buffer that exists in the space between what you think the world is, and what the world really is.

My job isn't like television. The action is less frequent, and more graphic. It is not exhilarating to point a gun at someone. Pooled blood has a disgusting metallic smell and steams a little when the temperature drops. CPR isn't an instant miracle and it's no fun listening to an elderly grandmother's ribs break while I keep her heart beating. I'm not flattered by your curiosity about my work. I don't keep a record of which incident was the most frightening, or the strangest, or the bloodiest, or even the funniest. I don't tell you about my day because I don't want to share the images that haunt me.

But I do have some confessions to make:

Sometimes my stereo is too loud. Andrea Bocelli's voice makes it easier to forget the wasted body of the young man who died alone in a rented room because his family feared the stigma of AIDS. Beethoven's 9th symphony erases the sight of the nurses who sobbed as they scrubbed layers of dirt and slime from a neglected 2-year-old's skin. The Rolling Stones' angry beat assures me that it was ignorance that drove a young mother to draw blood when she bit her toddler on the cheek in an attempt to teach him not to bite.

Sometimes I set a bad example. I exceeded the speed limit on my way home from work because I had trouble shedding the adrenalin that kicked in when I discovered that the man I handcuffed during a drug raid was sitting on a loaded 9mm pistol.

Sometimes I seem rude. I was distracted and forgot to smile when you greeted me in the store because I was remembering the anguished, whispered confession of a teenager who pushed away his drowning brother to save his own life.

Sometimes I'm not as sympathetic as you'd like. I'm not concerned that your 15-year-old daughter is dating an 18-year-old because I just comforted the parents of a young man who slashed his own throat while they slept in the next bedroom. I was terse on the phone because I resented the burden of having to weigh the value of two lives when I was pointing my gun at an armed man who kept begging me to kill him. I laugh when you cringe away from the mess in your teen's room because I know the revulsion of feeling a heroin addict's blood trickling toward an open cut on my arm. If I was silent when you whined about your overbearing mother it's because I really wanted to tell you that I spoke to one of our high school friends today. I found her mother slumped behind the wheel of her car in a tightly closed garage. She had dressed in her best outfit before rolling down the windows and starting the engine.

On the other hand, if I seem totally oblivious to the blood on my uniform, or the names people call me, or the hateful editorials, it's because I am remembering the lessons my job has taught me.

I learned not to sweat the small stuff. Grape juice on the beige sofa and puppy pee on the oriental carpet don't faze me because I know what arterial bleeding and decaying bodies can do to one's decor.

I learned when to shut out the world and take a mental health day. I skipped your daughter's 4th birthday party because I was thinking about the six children under the age of 10 whose mother left them unattended to go out with a friend. When the 3-year-old offered the dog the milk from her cereal bowl, the dog attacked her, tearing open her head and staining the sandbox with blood. The little girl's siblings had to pry her head out of the dog's jaws - twice.

I learned that everyone has a lesson to teach me. Two mothers engaged in custody battles taught me not to judge a book by its cover. The teenage mother on welfare mustered the strength to refrain from crying in front of her worried child while the well-dressed, upper-class mother literally played tug of war with her toddler before running into traffic with the shrieking child in her arms.

I learned that nothing given from the heart is truly gone. A hug, a smile, a reassuring word, or an attentive ear can bring an injured or distraught person back to the surface, and help me refocus.

And I learned not to give up, ever! That split second of terror when I think I have finally engaged the one who is young enough and strong enough to take me down taught me that I have only one restriction: my own mortality.

One week in May has been set aside as Police Memorial Week, a time to remember those officers who didn't make it home after their shift. But why wait? Take a moment to tell an officer that you appreciate her work. Smile and say "Hi" when he's getting coffee. Bite your tongue when you start to tell a "bad cop" story. Better yet, find the time to tell a "good cop" story. The family at the next table may be a cop's family.

Nothing given from the heart is truly gone. It is kept in the hearts of the recipients. Give from the heart. Give something back to the officers who risk everything they have.

Jill Wragg is a retired Police Officer from Massachusetts. 

She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

*** This essay is copyrighted material;
no reproduction or excerpting is permitted without written consent
from Jill Wragg (JKWragg@yahoo.com) ***

Yarmouth Police Department 

Chief Frank Frederickson

Steven Xiarhos

Sgt Sean Gannon

Françoise Kiekeman

@yarmouthpolice

http://www.yarmouth.ma.us/