The nurse assigned to our family was a wonderful person, compassionate and informative. She had witnessed this hundreds of times before and guided us through the dying process. Finally I had to ask her how much longer this could continue. She told me she thought he would have been gone by now considering the condition he was in, but she added she had seen patients hold on for a week or longer. She told me a patient’s determination to live and not let go should not be underestimated.
She must have noticed the pained look on my face as I thought about him suffering like this for a week. She also said that it is believed coma patients can hear when you talk to them and added, “Tell him it is okay to let go.”
Right then and there it hit me. I knew exactly what the old man was doing. He was hanging on till Sunday. He was determined to keep that stupid promise he made.
I walked over to my mother, who was standing by the window. Everyone had left the room except us and we were gazing outside. A heavy snowfall had begun hours earlier and the streets were filling up. The serenity of the snow blowing through the yellow rays of the streetlights below made the scene around us seem surreal. We both wanted this to end. He had suffered enough in his life and it was time to let go.
After some contemplation I looked at my mother and said, “Do you think he’s holding on for me? Do you think he’s trying to hold on till Sunday because of my test?” She looked at him lying there fighting for every breath and said, “You know your father, I wouldn’t put anything past him.”
A wave of guilt washed over me at the thought of him suffering like this just for me. And I knew it was the promise that was keeping him going. He always said he had one last fight left in him and I knew deep down inside this was it. Dusty Campbell had learned the hard way just how tough Dad could be when he was fighting for his son, and he was doing it again.
This was a special moment between my mother and me. He had been a pain in the ass for both of us during his life, but we both loved him very much and did not want to see him suffer anymore. As we stood shoulder to shoulder looking out the window watching the snow fall, I came up with an idea. I said, “How about I tell him that it’s Sunday? That I took the test, I did good on it, and it is okay to let go.”
As soon as I said it I felt guilty. It seemed wrong to lie to a guy on his deathbed, but I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t want to see him suffer anymore.
We both thought about this for a moment and I was a little surprised when Mom said, “Do it.” I half thought she was going to say no and tell me that lying to my father on his deathbed just wasn’t right. But I trusted her instincts and with her blessing I knew it was the right thing to do.
I collected my thoughts for a moment and asked Mom if she would excuse me for a while, I wanted to do this alone. She hugged me, kissed me on the cheek, and wished me good luck before leaving the room and closing the door behind her.
I was a little afraid he was listening to our conversation and was now going to sit up and bark, “Don’t bullshit me. Where are your books? Why aren’t you studying? You have a big day coming up.” But that wasn’t possible. Dad was somewhere between here and a far-off place, probably telling the person in charge, “Don’t rush me, I’ll come when I’m good and ready.”
I grabbed a chair from the corner, dragged it next to his bed, and sat down. I took his hand in mine, then looked down to make sure my feet weren’t wrapped around the legs. He trained me well.
I fought back a couple of tears that were now running down my cheeks. I wanted to sound upbeat and encouraging. If this was going to work I needed him to believe me. It felt a little strange lying to him like this but it had to be done.
The room was quiet except for the sound of Dad’s labored breathing. It was dark, except for the single fluorescent lamp on the wall over his head.
I didn’t know how to begin so I just started. I said, “I hope you can hear me because I did it! I took the test and I think I hit it pretty good! I don’t want to say I aced it, but the answers seemed like they were popping off the page at me. There were just a few I wasn’t too sure of but not many. I walked out of the place feeling pretty good about the whole thing. I really think I hit it.”
I moved the chair as close to the bed as it would go and paused for a moment. With firmness in my voice I continued, “Now this time you listen to me. It’s Sunday and the test is over, so you don’t have to stick around for me anymore. I want you to go wherever it is you have to go and do whatever it is you have to do. You don’t have to worry about me anymore. I’m fine. You take care of yourself now.”
Getting all mushy wasn’t his style or mine so I wrapped it up. “Thanks for everything you did for me. I know I wouldn’t be the man I am without you. Everybody in the neighborhood thinks I turned out a lot like you. I know it doesn’t make Mommy happy to hear that, but it makes me happy. I hope the apple didn’t fall too far from the tree.”
I couldn’t get myself to say the word good-bye, it was just too painful, so I kissed him on the forehead and said, “I’ll see you around.”
I went into the bathroom, washed my face, and got myself together before going back out to the hallway where Mom was waiting. I smiled at her and said, “You know he was never a good listener before, so I just hope he was paying attention this time.”
She smiled, hugged me, and in an encouraging tone said, “I’m sure he was listening, sweetheart.”
I’m not so sure she believed it would work but we both thought it was worth a try. I must have looked like crap and my mother was worried about me. She said, “You must be hungry by now, why don’t you go down to the cafeteria and get something to eat?”
We were all exhausted at this point. We had been by his bedside for almost a day and a half, but I was neither sleepy nor hungry. Mom resumed her place in the chair by his bed and I continued my pacing up and down the hallway.
For a while I stayed with my aunt, uncle, and cousins in the lounge down the hall listening to more stories about my father. Occasionally we would look out the window to watch the snow piling up outside and wonder how we were going to get home when this was all over. I joked, “Don’t worry, it might be springtime before he finally decides to give up.”
I couldn’t help but feel he was in the room with us. Whenever there was a party he was always the center of attention, the one with the funny stories. When I was growing up Dad would sit on the front porch to read a book or to keep an eye on the kids playing ball out in the street. It wouldn’t be long before the neighbors joined in and the party was on. It wasn’t unusual for these get-togethers to last late into the night with half the block on our front porch.
A few hours had passed since Dad and I had our heart-to-heart talk and I was beginning to wonder if he had paid any attention to me. Suddenly I saw my sister waving frantically for me to join them in his room. I ran down and saw Mom standing next to him, crying. The room was peaceful and silent except for Mom’s gentle sobs. My sisters and I put our arms around her. His labored breathing and struggle for life had ended. It was over.
While I was down the hall with the rest of the family and while Mom and my younger sister dozed off in the room, Dad had finally let go. During the quietness just after midnight, with the snow falling outside and his family around him, Dad stopped fighting. He always said he had one good fight left in him, and he saved it for his son. He gave up the fight only because I told him it was okay to do so. Now I had one of my own. We made a promise to each other, and I was not going to let the last conversation I had with my father on this earth be a lie. I had a test to take and I was going to kick some ass.
Twenty-two months later I was promoted to the rank of lieutenant in the New York City Police Department. The day of my promotion I was standing in the auditorium of One Police Plaza wearing my dress uniform and waiting for the ceremony to begin. The room was filled with other police officers whose big day had come also. Everyone’s proud families were there, eager to cheer us on. Mom made her way through th
e crowded room and called me over. The ceremony was about to begin, but the excitement on her face told me she had something important to tell me. She pointed to a far-off corner at the end of the stage and said, “You know your father is standing right over there, I can feel it.” I looked but saw nothing. She went on to tell me that he was standing there with his hands clasped behind his back, rocking back and forth in the heel-to-toe motion he so often used. I desperately wanted to see or feel something, but nothing came. Like my father, my mother is not the type you want to argue with, so I just nodded my head and agreed with her. But as the dignitaries found their seats on the dais and the police commissioner prepared to speak, I got the feeling Mom was right. Her instincts were always right. He was here, up on the stage somewhere, because this was his big day also. And he fought for it just as hard as I did.
12.
Cops Don’t Cry
A few months back I had come home late from work again. This time my wife was at the door waiting for me. I had just finished working sixteen hours and was dead tired. I had responded to a shooting the night before, right at the end of my tour, and got stuck doing a double. This wasn’t anything unusual, it happened all the time.
It was early the next morning when I finally made it home, and when I walked in she had that look on her face that said, “We gotta talk.” I hated that look. That look was never good news for me, so I started to get nervous. What I hated more than anything was that the look was sometimes followed by “I was watching Oprah today and…”
I hated Oprah. I hated Dr. Phil. Sometimes they would have some cheating husband on. The guy would look normal enough, but it turned out that he was living a lie. He had a double life that went on for years. He would confess to the whole world that he had another family in another city, and his wife never had a clue. Or sometimes they would have some other maniac on who was doing something even crazier. My wife loved and trusted me, but sometimes because of my long absences, the eye of suspicion was cast upon me.
After recapping that day’s episode, she would start peppering me with questions, trying to figure out what I was doing when I was gone so long. It’s not that I could blame her, police work is not conducive to a normal lifestyle or a happy marriage. My getting stuck at work and doing sixteen or even twenty-four hours straight was a weekly occurrence. I couldn’t blame her for being suspicious. Whether it was talk-show related or not, these “we gotta talk” looks always meant trouble for me.
So when I came in and got met by The Look, it was nothing unusual. I was getting used to it. But this time The Look was followed by “I’m really tired of being alone—I can’t take it anymore.”
I felt myself starting to get nervous. The “I can’t take it anymore” part was something new. Right then, I would have rather been chasing a guy with a gun down a dark alley instead of “having to talk.”
I didn’t waste any time. I countered with my usual tap dance, a flurry of hugs and kisses, and said, “I miss you too. I don’t like having to work this much either, but it’s my job.”
This time, though, she meant business. She followed it up with an ultimatum. “I want a dog and I want one now!”
When the word dog came out, I was relieved. It was like a ton of weight was lifted off my shoulders. I felt the knot in my stomach instantly disappear. There was another word she could have thrown at me that would have been a lot tougher to deal with. I would not have been the first cop to get divorced because he was married to the job. I was a good provider, but I probably wasn’t the best husband in the world.
My wife is an animal nut, or I should say animal lover. If she had her way she would buy a big farm and save all the stray and unloved dogs she could find. The sight of a dead deer on the side of the road would make her cry and ruin her whole day.
So a dog it would be! If that made her happy and relieved some of the loneliness, then I would get her whatever she wanted. And there was no way I was ever going to tell her no. From the first day I met her, I could never really say no to her about anything. She had me wrapped around her little finger, and talking me into things was easy for her. If she had asked me for a giraffe, I probably would have gotten her two.
It only took about two minutes for me to start getting really excited about the dog. I liked dogs, who doesn’t? I pictured us playing fetch with a stick, wrestling, and going on long hikes in the mountains. Plus I thought it would be a great idea to have a dog around to protect her while I was working all night.
But my dreams of getting a real dog were shattered when I asked her what type she wanted. She stuck her hands out, holding them about twelve inches apart, and with a big smile said, “Oh, about this size.”
At the time, I hadn’t been married very long, but already I knew that to have a happy marriage, you have to compromise. I wanted a big dog. She wanted a little dog. So after a little discussion we compromised and decided to get a…little dog.
I didn’t want or need a big scary pooch to walk through the neighborhood with. I didn’t need to terrorize everything in my path. My penis is an adequate size, and I don’t feel the need to overcompensate and show the world what a man I am by walking around with a four-legged killer. I just wanted a real dog. Something to fetch a stick, wrestle with, or maybe scare away a burglar.
After a long search my wife finally found the perfect dog. It was called a Brussels griffon. Actually, when you said it you were supposed to pronounce it Brussels griffooooon, purring the griffooooon part like you were trying to speak French or something. To say he was ugly was to be very kind. And to call him a dog was to be even kinder. I never saw anything like this in my life. The hair on top of his head stood straight up, and he probably only weighed five pounds soaking wet and with rocks in his pockets. If he’d had pockets.
After we picked him up, we drove home with the little guy cradled inside my wife’s coat. His tiny face stuck out and his little black eyes stared at me while I drove. Occasionally I would reach over to let him sniff and lick my hand. He definitely wasn’t what I had wanted, but for some reason the little bastard was hard to resist.
Meanwhile my wife was rambling on about all the things she needed to buy for him. This was getting crazier by the minute. We went to a pet store to buy him a bed and food and whatever else she could think of that he might need. Luckily I was able to talk her out of buying him the little yellow raincoat, but the red and white ski sweater with the pom-pom on the hood—she promised—was going to be his Christmas present. I swore to myself right then and there that he wouldn’t be wearing anything with a pom-pom while I walked him.
This has to be a tough time for any puppy, not knowing where he’s going or what kind of a life he’s in for. He could be headed for a life of toys, treats, and sleeping on the sofa. Or living with some asshole who wants to raise him for fighting. My wife whispered to me, “Look, look.” He was sound asleep in her arms. I guess he knew this was going to work out just fine. We named him Griffin.
When we brought him home, guess what happened? The first night he was in bed sleeping between us. He was so tiny my wife surrounded him with pillows so I wouldn’t roll over and crush him.
It didn’t take long for the little guy to grow on me. He was definitely a momma’s boy, but for some reason at night he wanted to sleep right next to me. All day long he would follow my wife around the house wanting her to pick him up, but at bedtime, he wanted to sleep snuggled next to his dad. This irked his overprotective mother, who coddled and pampered him all day long.
This irked me because the little five-pound bulldozer would push me off the bed. He would snuggle in close, causing me to inch away so as not to roll over on him. The next thing I knew, in the middle of the night I was falling off the bed.
A couple of times I took him on walks in the mountains near our house, and surprisingly the little guy was a hiker. His little legs chugged away, as he did his best to keep up. He would march up the trail, going over, under, or around fallen logs. He would jump over or walk right th
rough puddles. He rarely needed help. He was a big dog in a little dog’s body. He was not what I had wanted, but I was very proud of him.
At work I told all the guys about my new dog. I told them he was small but didn’t really explain how small. Then on one of my days off I brought him to the precinct. There were a few guys standing outside the station house when I came walking down the block. They couldn’t stop laughing at me and my little man-eater, all five pounds of him. He was strutting down the block with his chest puffed out, not knowing he was a little dog, or that anyone was laughing at him.
When I walked up the front steps one of the cops went in ahead of me and announced to everyone in a serious voice to step back and clear the way because the lieutenant was coming in with his dog. Everyone looked up from what they were doing, expecting me to come in with some killer. They all cracked up when the little guy came strutting in like he owned the place.
He was a great walking companion. The only problem was, every once in a while something—usually a loud noise—would startle him, and he would try to bolt. A loud truck, a siren, or something similar could set him off, but curiously not every time. I was hoping he would mature and grow out of it.
My car was acting up, so I brought it to the mechanic’s, which was about a mile away from my house. I dropped the car off in the morning and walked home. Whenever I have a choice between walking or taking the bus, I’ll walk every time. Later in the day the mechanic called me to say the car was ready and I could pick it up that night. I had a mile to walk back to the garage, so I decided to take my little walking buddy with me for company. It was wintertime in New York, so the sun set early but the weather was mild, and it seemed like a nice night for a walk.
The Job: True Tales from the Life of a New York City Cop Page 23