I stood at the driver’s door of the Toyota 4Runner and waited as the lone driver yelled, “I didn’t kill anybody, why don’t you go after real criminals?”. As I maintained my traffic stop stance and twiddled his driver licence in my fingers, my thoughts drifted back into my work day ...
My partner and I had a NOK notification earlier. NOK. Next of kin. We had only the basic facts since it happened out of our city boundaries. We do these as a courtesy to the investigating officers and out of respect to the family so they don’t hear the news over the phone. At the beginning of our eleven hour shift, we headed to a nice south Vancouver neighbourhood. An Indo-Canadian family. Sunday morning. Early. My partner and I walked up the sidewalk, passed the neatly manicured lawn towards the massive stucco house. I hope no one is home. I pressed the doorbell and fidgeted with the equipment on my police belt that dug into my waist. Next of kin notifications are never done in plainclothes, they must be done in uniform. “I've got the Kleenex,” I said as I slapped the thigh pocket on my cargo pants. A woman opened the door. She was in her late forties. Dressed in a white blouse and dark pants. Both wrinkled. Her eyes were moist. No make-up. Hair unkempt. “Hello, I’m Constable Michelle Sevigny of the Vancouver Police, and this is my partner, may we come in please? “Yes, yes, please, please,” she said as she stepped backed towards a man who had joined her at the door. She pointed with her half-open right hand towards the living room. A balled up tissue poked out behind the other two clenched fingers. I looked at the family portrait on the wall as I walked into the living room. Mom, dad, son. And daughter. Late teens or early twenties. Long black hair. Beautiful. The mother introduced herself. The man was her husband. Both sat on the couch and a teenaged boy sat on the floor at the end. “Is this the whole family?” I asked. “Yes,” she said. We had already decided that I’d be the one. No particular reason. Along the way, we had chatted about his kids, my dog, about what we did on our days off, anything but what we had to do. “I have sad news, I'm so sorry," I said. "Your daughter has been killed in a car accident." She slid from the leather couch to the floor as if in a Salvador Dali painting. And wailed. The father wrapped his arms around his wife. He muffled cries. The son snuggled his mother and buried his head into her right side. And cried. I re-adjusted my police belt. “I’ll be right back,” I said to my partner and ducked into their kitchen. I dabbed my index finger at the corner of my right eye and my middle finger at my left. I focused on the tiles in the kitchen. White. Nice. I should use those white tiles in my kitchen. Not this floor though, I don’t like patterned tiles. Stainless steel appliances or white? Bottom-freezer or regular? I breathed in. Breathed out. My bullet-proof vest challenged the strength of its Velcro closures holding it tight against my chest. After a twenty second kitchen make-over, I returned to the living room. My partner was silent. He knew no words would be heard in this initial minute. I sat beside him and looked across at the broken family, like a three-legged chair that would be wobbly for awhile until everybody figured out how to adjust to it. “Wha-at happened?” the mother sobbed. We told her what we knew. Somebody crossed the centre line. A head-on collision. No survivors. We wrote down contact phone numbers for the Whistler RCMP police officers. We explained the next few steps, enough to give her action to do, but not too much. Next of kin notifications are usually fast. In and out. “We’re going to be tied up here a bit longer,” my partner told our dispatcher over the radio. We sat with the family. We listened to their story. We learned about their daughter. We picked up relatives across the city and delivered them to the family. We provided our pager numbers and said we’d check in later in the day. After a shift full of break and enter reports, keep the peace incidents, street checks and a sexual assault investigation, we visited again. We had to force open the front door because of all the shoes lined up in the foyer. The mother was lying in an upstairs bed with five other women sitting around her… … the driver continued yelling. I’ve heard all this before. I knew he'd had a bad day. I’ve had thousands of people yell at me. On another day, I might’ve written him a ticket simply because I thought he was a jerk. But I knew his anger was not about me. I let him yell. I let him yell it all out. “I’m just driving home, I was barely speeding and you’re going to write me a goddamn ticket for that? Great! Go ahead you stupid ass cop, fine! That’s all I need. I don’t even freaking care anymore! “Sir, I’m sorry you’ve had a rough day. I don’t know what happened but it sounds like it sucked,” I said. “Um, yes, uh, it did,” he said. “I’m not going to write you a ticket today, drive safe,” I said as I handed back his driver licence. “Uh, okay, um, thanks,” he said. I continued driving northbound on Cambie Street, only ten minutes from the police station. We knew enough to check in with each other. “You okay with everything today?” I asked my partner. “Yeah. You?” “Yeah,” I said. It was time to go home. ------ © 2012 Michelle Sevigny. www.michellesevigny.com. Reprint permission granted with full copyright intact. Photo by JD Hancock When I see a spider in my apartment, if I’m not propelled out the front door like a two-year-old visiting Santa Claus for the first time, I smash it.
It’s not the daddy longlegs that are scary; it’s the haven’t-shaved-the-legs in four months type. I was once evacuated for seven hours until a boyfriend could hunt down and kill the spider barricaded in my living room. it doens't matter that I think of myself as a compassionate animal-lover. Squash! it doesn't matter that I know this is a completely irrational fear. Smush! Note: sturdy flip-flops work best. Over the past two months, spiders have crawled up the drain and into my bathtub. I found one in my kitchen sink. It happened again yesterday. I reached over the tub’s edge to turn on the water for a shower – something moved. I jumped back and collapsed onto my toilet. “C’mon, enough already!” I yelled. And I thought of the quote I read on One Moment One Life from Buddhist nun, Pema Chodron: “Nothing ever goes away until it teaches us what we need to know." “Okay, fine, what-EV-ER!” I screamed at the black spider eye-balling me from my beige, steel tub. I belly-breathed. Twice. And I thought of how Tosha Silver told a spider on her ceiling how scared she was of it. “Ok, spider, I’m really, really freaked out right now, but hey, you must be too, so help me out and we’ll get you outside, okay?” I said. Not bad. I felt only 83% silly. I grabbed the lid off a cardboard box and held it close. The spider side-stepped into the box and sprinted for my hand holding the opposite corner. “Shit, shit, shit!” I said as I dropped the lid into the tub. I grabbed at my constricting chest but I was already naked -- physically and emotionally -- in this battle with my 8-legged component. I put on my white, polka-dotted pajamas. And a pair of pink plaid rubber boots. I peered over the edge of the tub and saw him (he’s a him now?) hunkered in the back corner. Waiting. Waiting for the right moment to grab the machete from under his furry cloak and -- He's scared. "Yeah? Well, me too!" I said. Is the outside door open? Check. Hey, it’s raining outside. Why don’t I just smash him then? I’ll just grab my flip-- Where is he? I lift the lid an inch. He’s not in the tub, so he must be on the underside of the lid, crawling stealth, like a balaclava-wearing SWAT team member, going in for the atta-- I drop the lid. When I look back through squinty eyes, he was strutting in plain-view down the middle of the lid. I let out a low scream that sounded like the first ten seconds of a 1950’s ambulance siren, and slapped a hand over my mouth. All I know is that I cannot drop the box lid before I get outside. At least in the tub, he’s contained but on my laminate floors, he could disappear and come out later, when I’m in bed, crawl across my body, up into my hair and -- Okay, let’s practice. Can I lift the cardboard lid and hold it without him running around? Him, again? Alright, name him then. The Who’s “Boris the Spider”? Too ominous. I need a warm and fuzzy name. Boo-Boo Kitty! This is the nickname my sister uses for her fearful rottweiler/shepherd when he growls at other dogs. It projects innocence and helps calm the situation. “Okay, spider, I mean, Boo-Boo Kitty. I know you’re scared of me, so let’s work together to get you outside, okay Boo-Boo Kitty?” Like a well-trained dog, he climbs up over the edge on the far side. It’s those damn legs. A black bug of the same size would be easier (I think). But this guy’s legs are already bent and spring-loaded. I know fears get worse with time. I should just grab the box lid and run outside. Okay, go! Go! I can’t!! Breathe. I need something for distance, to grab the box. A pair of tongs! I searched my cutlery drawer, my office desk, my bedroom closet and my sock drawer. No tongs. I’m committed to getting this spider outside and needed to think outside the box. Literally. A fine mesh strainer? Nope, when it lays flat there is an escape gap. A mason jar? Nope, I’d have to be too close to get the lid on. Can I lure Boo-Boo Kitty with a treat -- Raisins? Sunflower seeds? Honey? He’s contained in my bathtub, I have time to think. Wait. Contained? Slippery tub? Yes! A plastic storage bin! I grabbed one and dumped the contents onto my couch. “Boo-Boo Kitty?” As my heart thumped, I kicked the cardboard lid with my boot. Nothing. I flipped the cardboard lid with a pen and it landed flat. Did I squash him? Has he gone back down the drain? There he is!! There he is!! On the corner of the lid!! I grabbed the lid on the opposite side and banged it on the tub. He fell off and ran to the back of the tub. I threw the lid into the hallway. I was on a roll. I grabbed the plastic bin, and held it up against his body. He tried to run. I think I broke his leg. It was flat and long -- uncoiled. “So sorry, Boo-Boo Kitty.” I whispered. Our heartbeats slowed. We held our breath. And waited. He stepped backwards onto the corner of the plastic bin. I tapped the the bin and he slid to the bottom. I snapped the lid shut, carried him through my apartment, out to the deck, opened the lid, turned it upside down and released the spider. “Thanks for the lesson,” I said as I closed my patio door. And locked it. Photo by David-O Thank you for spending your precious time with my story. If it resonated with you, let me know at michellesevignywriter@gmail.com ... I love getting surprise emails. I veered a hard left into parking spot #13 and stopped my Honda Civic seven inches from the chrome exhaust pipe of my motorcycle. After a thousand times, I knew the exact point. My 2004 Suzuki SV650 was my first almost-new motorcycle I bought since first getting my Class 6 licence at sixteen. “I’ll never be without a bike, ever again,” I said after I bought it. I sat in silence and looked at my royal blue bike.
Sell your bike. What!? No! My bike!? I’ve learned that this polite, all-knowing voice comes from my heart. It doesn’t argue. It doesn’t play games. It’s quiet. It’s simple. And if I am open and listening, I hear the single whisper. It makes sense to trust that voice. My heart speaks for my true self, speaks with absolute certainty and has never failed me. What’s not to trust? But I still fight it. “Sell my bike? C'mon Heart, you've gone too far. I’ve invested hard-earned money in that bike. I have wonderful memories of day trips on that bike. I deserve that bike. I’ll never find another bike like it,” I said. “Oh, and I just bought new riding boots and pants too.” Ride it then. And just like that, my increasingly heated debate, like a wooden match being dragged cross a strike patch, stopped. Before my dud match was replaced with a fiery new attempt, I thought of my Guiding Principles #1 Go Slow and #2 Say Yes. “Do it or let it go, I know, I know. Ah! Okay, wait, I don’t have to sell it right this second, I can just sit with this new thought, right,” I said. I also know what happens if I ignore the voice -- things get difficult. Fast. Like the large pipe above my bike that has begun to leak, forcing me to park my bike elsewhere. Like the non-returnable helmet I tried on in the store, recently bought and found it caused head pain on the first ride. That sort of thing. Over the next few days I was open to all thoughts related to motorbikes. I thought of how little I had been riding this summer -- I've done all my "must-do" one-day rides. Repeatedly. And how "I love riding my bike" had slowly turned into "My bike is just sitting there, I should ride it." I wanted to do multi-day rides but since my ten-year-old rottweiler, Monty, can't join me, we'd been exploring twisty roads together in my Honda Civic instead. I had been thinking, "well, I could save my bike for the day when he'll no longer be my co-pilot, maybe two, four or six years from now." I thought of the amazing day I rented a motorbike on a recent holiday in Ireland, riding on twisty, coastal roads. A rented motorcycle. One day fulfilled me. One. I had recently found a dirt bike rental company in El Salvador – my next trip in January 2013. I’ve bookmarked websites for bike rentals in Bhutan, Laos and New Zealand. I know of a place I can rent a similar bike to mine in Vancouver too. Just because I don’t own a motorcycle does not mean I cannot ride a motorcycle. Maybe that financial investment is meant for a different purpose right now? Has my bike become an excuse for not doing something else? Heart? I think you’re onto something here. Yes, why not let the bike go? Because I'm scared. I'm scared that I’ll never find a perfect bike again. I’m attached to this bike. It's loaded with emotions. It feels irreplaceable. But if I think back, my Suzuki easily came across my path when I needed it. The perfect bike showed up. Let it go. And here’s the thing I'm practicing about letting go. It starts in the mind and once I’ve done it – and the processing time has been getting shorter and shorter – I get very excited. Yes, sell my bike! It’s like my mind needed a week to swirl around, argue and think, only to meet-up where my heart was all along. While I don’t know the full reasons why I’m #2 Saying Yes -- a freaked out Yes, but a Yes -- I do know that #8 Letting Go and Trusting always leads to a really, cool, new path. Heart? I’m listening. --------------------------------------- Postscript: The bike sold in August and three months later, my rottweiler, Monty, was diagnosed with bone cancer... having $5000 in the bank allowed me to embark on veterinary care without stress. Heart? You were right again. ------- © 2012 Michelle Sevigny. www.michellesevigny.com. Reprint permission granted with full copyright intact. Photo by Don G. |