Mindfulness For Warriors. Kim Colegrove

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      The problem is, warring takes a toll on the warrior, and our western society is not good about taking care of these brave and noble individuals.

      I’ve heard that, in ancient times, indigenous people went to great lengths to care for their warriors. When warriors returned home from battle, they were welcomed, honored, and praised. They were given time to reflect and rest and heal. They were tended to and held in high regard. This makes sense to me, considering they put their lives on the line ensuring that others’ lives were protected.

      The Gladiator

      I have a vivid memory of watching the movie Gladiator, starring Russell Crowe, with my husband one night. It was a movie David would watch over and over. I now understand why he was drawn to that story. He identified with the main character. Not in a dreamy, wishful way. He literally possessed the traits of the gladiator, but he would never have admitted that, because he was also humble.

      The movie is about a principled man and revered Roman general who seeks revenge against a corrupt emperor who ordered the murder of the general’s family, captured and enslaved him, and forced him to fight in the gladiator arena.

      During a particularly brutal fight scene, I said something to my husband like, “I hate watching this violent stuff. I hate war. I hate fighting. It’s just not my thing.”

      David paused the movie, looked at me and replied, “Well, you better be glad there are people willing to get into the arena and fight.” I said, “I know. You’re right. And I am grateful for that.”

      He was absolutely right, and he wasn’t just referring to the movie, or the gladiator arena. My off-the-cuff comment triggered something in him about people who abhor violence and have dreams of a peaceful world. I realize, looking back, that in his role as a law enforcement officer, David did not seek out conflict or violence, it was thrust upon him.

      Just a few weeks after David died, I watched Gladiator by myself. I probably cried more watching that movie than I cried at David’s funeral. My husband embodied all the qualities of Maximus Decimus Meridius, Commander of the Armies of the North, General of the Felix Legions, and loyal servant to the true Emperor, Marcus Aurelius.

      David was principled, brave, determined, loyal, and protective, especially if he loved you. He understood that doing a job well meant sacrifice. He took pride in everything he did. You could count on him. You felt safe with him.

      He identified with that movie because he was a gladiator. He didn’t want to fight, but if you threw him into the arena, he would survive. Maximus quickly became a leader to the other slaves in the arena and used his instincts and ability, not only to save himself, but to keep the other slaves alive as well. That was how David lived his life—with a high degree of honor and sense of responsibility.

      A warrior is a gladiator, a fighter, a protector, and a hero. Their innate instinct to survive and save others far surpasses what the rest of us possess.

      Keep Fighting

      If your life or work involves helping, saving, and rescuing others in any capacity, large or small, you are a warrior. If you are someone who stands ready to serve, protect, and defend a person, place, thing, or cause, and will fight and sacrifice for the betterment of others and for the greater good, you are a warrior.

      You are a warrior. I am the wife of a warrior, now a widow and a warrior myself. We’ve been thrown into the arena, and we need to keep fighting, all of us. For ourselves, our well-being, and our families, for others, and for the greater good.

Chapter 3

Death Notification

      The Saturday after Thanksgiving in 2014 was unseasonably warm in Kansas City.

      My thirteen-year-old daughter and I took advantage of the nice weather and hung some Christmas lights on our front porch, then I drove her to a friend’s house for a sleepover. When I got back home, I started making dinner.

      As I stirred a pot on my stove, I heard a knock. I walked toward the front door, and as I got closer, I could see a uniformed officer standing on my porch.

      A feeling I cannot put into words flooded my entire system, and as I type, the feeling returns.

      I opened the door, and the officer began to speak. It’s impossible to explain the shock and paralyzing emotion that engulfed me in the next few seconds. My husband had been found in his truck, in the back of our neighborhood, with a self-inflicted gunshot wound to his head. He was gone.

      The next few hours, days, weeks, and months are a blurry mess in my memory. My husband chose a permanent solution to a temporary problem, and in the process created untold waves of pain and trauma.

      Like everyone else who’s ever grieved, I swirled around in a vortex of sadness, anger, fear, regret, resentment, nostalgia, love, longing, confusion, and finally, acceptance (after a long, long time).

      The distance, time, and space between me and that life-altering day in 2014 eventually gave rise to something new. I began to think about that incident in a new way, from a different perspective. It started with something I remembered the police officer saying in my doorway. He mentioned that an off-duty firefighter was the one who heard the shot, found my husband, and called 911. At the time, I think I had a fleeting sense of relief that it was a first responder and not a neighborhood kid who found him.

      Next, my mind began to wander from person to person who might have been involved in that horrific call that day. Besides the caller, there would have been a dispatcher. What a terrible call to receive. Then, there would have been all of the others who were dispatched to the scene and had to see it, work it, keep citizens away, and participate in the cleanup. And, finally, the coroner.

      It was extremely difficult for me to allow myself to picture the scene at all, let alone picturing it in such vivid detail. But there was something inside me trying to get my attention. It was nudging me toward the proper empathy and compassion for, not only the individuals who had to work the scene of a suicide that day, but all of the people who do this kind of work every day.

      I realized it must have been awful for the officer who came to my house, and the detective who accompanied him and had to give me all the pertinent information in a matter-of-fact way while he watched me melting and dissolving into a puddle of grief right before his eyes.

      Oh my God. My husband had done this work. Dots started connecting in my head and heart.

      Prior to becoming a federal investigator, David was a police officer for eight years. He went on horrific calls and processed gruesome crime scenes. He knocked on doors and told mothers their child had died. He saw death and violence, devastation and destruction, and he witnessed things so heinous he wouldn’t speak of them.

      This realization started slowly and gained momentum steadily. The more I thought about it, the more shocked I was that this had never occurred to me before. Of course, police work had contributed to my husband’s overall mental and emotional health issues. Of course, he carried invisible wounds and trauma that impacted his worldview and affected every aspect of his well-being. Of course. Of course. They all do.

      All first responders have invisible wounds. They see, hear, and endure things that most of us can’t even imagine. They carry a weight that would be unbearable for the average citizen, and because of this, they are dying СКАЧАТЬ