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They warn you about this — about the possibility of being left by your law enforcement spouse — but no amount of preparation could really prepare you for it.
A lone tear falls down my cheek and I watch it roll all the way down and land on the counter. My hands and feet are firmly cemented in their place.
When the door opens, I’m snapped back to reality. I quickly wipe away the tears.
The woman stops short when she sees my red eyes and wet face and says empathically, “Oh, I’m sorry. I’ll find another bathroom.”
She begins to turn back around but I reply, “No, no. It’s okay.”
I offer her a meek smile, then I turn around to walk into a stall and close the door behind me. After I sit down, I see the familiar stain of red on my underwear. I muttershitunder my breath, hoping she doesn’t hear me. I begin to frantically pull the cheap, single-ply toilet paper from the roll, but the damn thing keeps ripping.
“Damn you!” I shout, loud enough to be heard this time. I keep pulling and pulling square after square of this stupid fucking toilet paper with the same results. Once again, I lose it. Beating the roll’s hard plastic casing repeatedly, I scream at it, “Come on, you stupid bastard!!”
Through the echoes of my hand connecting to the holder, I hear frantic footsteps, followed by a door opening and closing.
The dam that was holding back my latest wave of tears breaks. Sobs wrack through my body and I begin to wail. Hands in my hair, I lean and put my elbows on my knees as the tears fall on my bare legs. My breath becomes harder to find in this enclosed space.
I stay this way as my body spasms over and over until eventually, I’m out of tears to cry. My shoulders slump forward, and I find my breath again.
I wipe my eyes with my shirt and once again try to slowly unroll the damn toilet paper because I need to get back out there for my husband.
After finishing in the stall, I wash my hands and splash cool water on my puffy eyes and flushed cheeks. I meet my dismal gaze again in the mirror and shake my head gently.
Reaching for a paper towel, I wipe my face and pull every last bit of my strength from deep inside. I need to get it together for Marco.
When I make it back to the group of officers, which appears larger now with Rosalita sitting quietly off to the side, I avoid all eye contact with all of them and sit back down.
A few minutes later I hear a doctor say, “Family of Officer Garcia.”
I immediately get up and walk towards him, Rosalita also joins but keeps her distance from me.
The doctor smiles and reaches his hand out and I shake it with as much force as I can muster. “Hello, I’m Dr. Richards. Marco is finished with the scans and asking for his wife.”
“That’s me.” I nod.
“Follow me, ma’am,” he says before he turns to walk through the doors, and I follow him.
Walking into Marco’s room, my heart lurches from my chest when I see my big, strong husband lying helplessly in a hospital bed under stark white sheets and gown. A rush of relief washes over me as our eyes meet and he smiles softly at me.
He’s alive. My husband is alive.
A new wave of tears that have been threatening to fall since the doctor stepped into the waiting room, finally fall as I make my way over to his bedside. I quickly wipe the warm drops off my cheeks.
Marco tries to sit up but regret instantly flashes in his eyes as his body winces from the jarring. I smile as I take his hand in mine and squeeze it gently.
The annoyance in his voice is clear. “They wouldn’t let me call you when I woke up here in a hospital gown. I don’t even know where my damn phone and clothes are. I told them I was fine though.” He’s angry — red-faced, tight jaw, body tense.
I grab his hand a little tighter. “Love, I’m here now. It’s okay. I’m here.” I kiss his lips softly before I stare into his eyes. “I’m here now,” I whisper as I lean my forehead onto his.
The shifting of paperwork at the foot of the bed reminds me we're not alone and I look up to see the doctor reviewing Marco’s chart.
Standing back upright, I ask, “Is anything broken or bleeding?”
The doctor smiles kindly. “Thankfully, no. He does have some extensive bruising where the bullet met the vest, but we ran multiple images and there are no injuries beyond that. We’re going to finish up some paperwork and we’ll be able to discharge him tonight. He’ll need to take it easy for about the three weeks and then be cleared by his family doctor to resume duty.”
“Three weeks? I told you, I’m fine,” Marco says as he tries to sit forward again, his body reminding him that it’s not able.
“Mr. Garcia, you took the impact of two 9mm bullets to your chest, you need to rest. Overexerting yourself will not help your body heal.”
