|By Karen Solomon - The Missing Niche|
Yesterday someone asked me how much my book cost, I replied with the dollars and cents they would be required to pay at checkout. After all, that is what she asked.
For some reason, I started to think about what the book really cost and it kept adding up. It cost me many sleepless nights, I’ve had panic attacks and nightmares. I’ve listened to some officers and their families choke back sobs while others wept openly. I’ve learned to be patient, when to crack an inappropriate fart joke one of my kids told me and when to let them finish crying. It cost me the ability to say, “No, I do not want to hear your horror story.” After all, they lived through it, I can live through hearing it.
It cost me the ability to pretend that since I can’t see the injury, it’s not there. It cost me security.
It cost me a few days of the year, I know the dates of every single incident and I dread their approach. I thought, “Oh, next week is my birthday. Oh, 7 days later is the anniversary of Joe’s death. What do I say to Michael on the anniversary?”
It’s cost me my ability to watch the news, talk about police brutality, line of duty deaths and any critical incident involving the police. It’s made me want to stop and talk to every officer I see, I can’t drive by one without wanting to stop and ask if they are okay. It’s affected me more deeply than I care to admit.