BY MAUREEN MURPHY
Copyright is held by the author.
MY NAME is Jean. I’m Ted’s wife. The first time he cried out in the night, I thought someone else was in our room. The change happened in tiny steps. It seeped into our lives while we were unaware — too busy. At first, there was rhythm and structure to Ted’s days. He woke up early, ran for thirty minutes, returned home, showered and ate with the family. He dropped the kids off at school and went to the station. After work, he joined me as we lounged on the deck and discussed our day, sometimes with a cocktail.
The occasional cocktail became two. The conversation quieted. Time passed, and the morning runs stopped because of sleepless nights. Work became all-consuming — earlier starts, later endings.
Often, he screamed, sweated, and urged me to go back to sleep. “It’s nothing.” When he said it was nothing, I stayed awake, worried.
He questioned everything about the kids. Where was I taking them? And why? The schedule was on the fridge, so he knew where they would be. He bugged them about their friends. Where did they live? What did their parents do? They became annoyed, worried, and then afraid to speak with him. I tried to talk to him about taking a vacation, reducing his work hours, and seeing a doctor. But all of that resulted in suspicion and resentment. Our quarreling was affecting the children. They tiptoed around us. They had nightmares. People we knew asked me if he was ill. Some suggested his drinking was out of control. Our friends stopped calling.
The call from his superior frightened me when he said he suspended Ted or a week. I knew I needed to do something drastic. I researched places and people who could help because I was sinking. The most fearful moment was when I told him I couldn’t deal with his behaviour any longer. He accused me of not understanding and then slammed the door as he left the house.
Desperate, I gathered his friends from work, his parents and we waited for him to return. When he walked through the door and saw everyone, his shoulders sagged. Betrayal reflected in his eyes as he glared at each person. And then he lowered his head and sat. My heart pounded. “What if I lose him by doing this?”
We told him he was on a slippery slope to destruction, and it was up to him to change. He promised he would, but that night, our son was at a sleepover, in a safe home, and Ted stomped into the house and dragged him home, ranting about the danger. Our son, wiping his eyes, climbed the stairs to his room. Ted poured himself a drink and checked the locks once more. My stomach dropped.
It was the last straw. I gave him an ultimatum. He would book into a rehab centre and complete the program, or I would take the kids and leave. My voice cracked as I told him I loved him but didn’t like him right now. I had researched the place. Those addicted to alcohol, some to drugs and others, like Ted, for work-related or other traumas were participants. They would urge him to complete the program but could book himself out.
After pacing all night, he agreed, and through tears, admitted what I already knew about his notice from work. His boss told him not to return until he had taken time off and seen a specialist. I picked up his bag; I had already packed it. He glared, hesitant, but got into the car with me, and we drove in silence to the facility. As he got out, he looked back at me and with a small wave entered.
***
My name is Ted, and I have been here for a while. It was not my choice to be here. If I wanted any chance of finishing this stay, holding on to my job, and not losing those who matter most; I had to write my story. No excuses, no escape. So, forced onto the page with honesty, stripped of pride, I tell it.
I’m a cop with 17 years of experience but the last three with the cybercrime unit, investigating online allurement of children — the worst predators. It is a soul-destroying job. It hollows you out bit by bit. We’re supposed to be rotated before we are gutted, but I agreed to another stint, believing I was tougher than the others. I wasn’t. My drinking increased. I lost weight. The arguments with Jean, my wife, never stopped. I became paranoid about the movements of my children and couldn’t trust my own children’s safety. My nightmares followed me into daylight. I denied needing help, telling everyone I was fine. I wasn’t.
I snapped. I snatched my eight-year-old son from a safe sleepover, convinced I was saving him from some unseen danger. I won’t forget his confusion. His tears. Then Jean stepped in. She started an intervention I swore I didn’t need. I hated her for it, resented her interference. Yet here I am.
People describe this place as an oasis amid chaos. At first, this oasis was no refuge. It felt like a sentence, sterile and suffocating. I noticed very few details, even though I’m trained to be aware of my surroundings. I barely acknowledged others and spent time inside my head. Over time, I came to accept that I had to be here.
Encouraged to lose the uniform — my buttoned-down shirt, pressed pants but especially the boots, I put on a tracksuit, and my old, comfortable moccasins Jean had tucked in my bag. She knew what comforted me. A sigh escaped as soon as I slid my feet into them. The headache and weight on my shoulders eased.
Every minute was accounted for in the daily routine. It took all my effort to show up for the meetings. Why did I need to listen to the ills of others? I wasn’t as bad as they were. Or so I continued to tell myself. Then, someone’s story would seep into my thoughts, and I saw similar patterns. Maybe I needed help. People’s faces became familiar. They were more than a nuisance. We were more alike than I wanted to admit. They were here for healing — broken like me, too slowly, it shifted.
There were two visiting days when Jean and kids came, but it was awkward. My daughter hugged me and cried, but my son kept his distance. Jean was cautious, asking a few questions and informing me of mundane daily happenings. Her eyes reflected I still needed to earn her trust. It shook me. For the first time, I took her threats of leaving, seriously.
I adjusted. I attended the sessions in a better frame of mind, especially my one-on ones with the counsellor. I learned about my trigger points and how to use them to cope better. I learned to accept that it was not a failure to ask for help or understanding. Deep discussions about our relationship with family and others occurred. Who did I need to trust and have close, and who should I keep my distance from? Everything was shifting.
One day I took my stroll out to the patio, but this time something had changed. Maybe it was me. I was seeing things I hadn’t noticed before. I sat on the usual bench, and in front of me was the grotto-type structure, which had always been there, but now I saw it. There is a small pond surrounded by lush vegetation, some light, some dark. Someone placed smaller polished pond stones, arranged, so they bounced the light. A small waterfall cascades into the pond with a subdued splash. The sun poured through an opening at the top, causing a rainbow to form. For the first time in years, I saw not just the pieces but the whole. A peaceful sensation washed through me, and I felt my parts coming back together. Now I knew what I needed to do. I worked on myself and I was ready to go home — tomorrow.
I found a small gift for Jean in the canteen. As I held it in shaky hands, I thought less about whether she would forgive me and more about how grateful I am that she persisted, even when I pushed her away. I pray she is there, but I need to believe she will be. I don’t expect everything to be fine when I walk through the door. I don’t expect her to forget. But I hope she will see that I’m not the man she had to rescue, but the man who is ready to stand beside her, be a husband and father again, to live and to heal.
I open the door and sigh with relief. My key still fits. I’m so nervous, sweat drips into my eyes. There is no one around yet, so I walk through the rooms and slow my breath. I notice the tap leaks. How long has it been this way? I find my tools and fix it. Jean had stocked the fridge, so I take out food to prepare dinner. We used to take turns, but I can’t remember the last time I cooked. I hear someone at the door, and I tense. It’s the kids. They stand and stare. I reach out my arms, and my daughter runs into them and hugs me. My son reluctantly stands his ground but says, welcome home. I take a deep breath and ask them to sit, and I pour out my heart. I tell them what I learned while away and ask for their forgiveness and what they need from me. The first thing they say is that I need to listen to them and no shouting. We shed tears, but I know they accepted my apologies, but it will take time and enormous effort on my part before they trust I am well and back to being their reliable dad. As they walk away, I see them not as obligations but as unique people. My family. As they went off to their rooms, Jean walked in.
***
Ted is home. I’m shaking. The time apart has been painful, at times peaceful, and it has been enlightening to realize I needed help as much as Ted. A friend directed me to an organization called Beyond the Blue. They provide means to enable families to thrive in their roles as support systems for their police members. I spoke with others who talked about the daily struggles of being the spouse of a policeman. Tears fell when I knew I wasn’t alone. I learned how to recognize the early signs of PTSD and to get help sooner. The children benefited from what I learned. We talked about what Dad does in simple terms and what we can do to help him. They were eager but nervous to try. Ted might think I rescued him. But we rescued each other.
***
We stood and stared at each other. My heart was in my throat, but she spoke first.
“How long have you been here?”
“Long enough to fix the leak at the sink and start supper. How long has it been leaking?” Her eyebrows raised, and a grin appeared, and I knew with effort we would be OK. I rushed and gathered her into my arms.
***
Maureen began to write after retiring from a career as a cytotechnologist. She also writes poetry and memoir and has completed her debut novel in historical fiction. It is in the publication process now. She lives in London, Ontario, with my husband.
Wow! One of my students worked a unit similar to Ted. I never thought about how he might need to be rotated out from time to time, just to help deal with the issues. I may check on him today.