I can't think anymore — you blew my brains out

I can't think. You blew my brains out, a bullet going into bone, blasting brain matter out the other side, a hole bigger on the exit than the entrance, carrying blood and nerves out of my brain cavity.

You gave one of us a few, horribly long seconds realizing that he would soon be dead like his partner.

I can't think. I can't move my hands to drive a squad, to write. To hold my gun steady on a robber. I can't think. I can't move my hands to reach out and hug a life partner, after a long shift when something was going on, fueling worries. I can't smell anything, can't remember the scent of my life partner or of home after a long day, washing off the smell of the day after wading into a death scene where someone was killed, smelling of copper and excrement, or the stink of a house with too much bad weed, or a house crammed with people who haven't had the time or inclination to stay clean, or have just given up. The nervous reaction on the way to the death walk to an apartment or house in a better neighborhood, to say your loved one died in a crash, or drowned or fell. To be in the presence of overwhelming grief, to need to wash that off.

I can't think. I can't smell the simple smells of soap and shampoo while washing off the street.

I can't think. I don't have my years of experience, from the first day as a rookie, when I thought what the hell am I doing, can I do this? What do I do now, and now and now? And how do I keep the look, and fake it till you make it? I can't think over the experiences of the last two or seven years and use that knowledge to take any assignment and know pretty much what to do. I can't take that experience. It is a commodity, something of value, to my department, the community I serve, the public that I encounter.

I can't think. I can't remember what to say and how to hold myself so a rape victim isn't scared more by me. I can't remember how to write a ticket. I can't remember to stay outside of the situation, if I answered a call of someone too drunk to know their car accident killed someone, or a call with a child who died. I can't think to remember to stay professional and distant, to make it seem like it doesn't matter to me that I am there with you on a pretty bad day, maybe your worst day. I have to maintain myself so I can help you. I am there for a lot of bad days. I don't work in an ice cream shop or a maternity ward. I am there standing with you, bringing experience and showing you how to keep breathing.

If I could still think, I would be able to tell you some things to do, practical things to rein in emotions that are too big for life. Things spoken in simple English, in simple sentences, in a practical voice so you can do one thing. Then you can do the next thing. You can because I am modeling it.

I can't think. I can't see the looks the other cops exchange. Everyone knows all too well it could be them. My peers know as well as I did, when I could think, that a simple traffic stop could mean my last day, that running into a building to follow someone armed means that not only must I be my best, but knowing the training might not be enough.

Knowing that sitting in a car, with a partner, is not safe.

I can't think of the death walk someone did for me, for a parent or a life partner. I can't think to know everything for the next several days past these first shocking moments is too vivid. The tree, the present, the clothes they are wearing, the room, the door opening, are all too sharp, too focused. I can't think, I can't be there, I can't comfort. I can't change the images, the present bought for me that brings a sense of disbelief. I can't change the wide-eyed sense of dread, of not wanting to go to sleep because a survivor doesn't want that moment in the morning when you have to remember the loved one is dead again, every morning, for weeks.

I can't think. I can't appreciate the pomp and circumstance, the last ride with hundreds of flashing lights on prowlers from the tri-state area, the salutes, the uniforms, a last show of respect by brothers and sisters in blue who know what is put on the line. Who steel themselves to walk out the door, to go to a job that is both boring and exhilarating, both tragic and humorous, both valued and resented. To be looked upon with dread, fear, gratitude and loathing. To be spit on, vomited on by a drunk and cussed at, and to have someone hate what you are saying.

I can't think anymore, my body is quiet. The memory of the way I talked, the way I walked, what I laughed at, the way my hair felt, the way I looked when I was a little boy are the strongest they will ever be right now. My life is cut short. I was robbed of the workdays when I felt I made a difference. I can't learn, I can't listen to the stereo blaring, I can't take a bite of too-hot pizza. I can't fall in love. I can't hold a new child of mine. I can't get home and give a deep sigh because I have a long weekend off.