 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
THE OASISby Richard C. Hannibal
Writer's Note: We on the central coast live in paradise. No one appreciates that more than me. In another life I was a cop working a high crime area in Los Angeles County. I barely got out of there alive, both mentally and physically. There is a thick fog of negativity in these neighborhoods that affects everyone it contacts; including the folks who live there and the folks who "serve and protect." In this work environment a police officer literally goes to war every day and then must maintain mental balance at the end of the shift when he or she returns to the normalcy of a home, spouse, and kids. This is a story about one hour in a 30 year police career. The glow of Los Angeles County rush hour tail lights and honking horns clashed violently with the serenity of the evening's fading light. Motorists fight for their place in the homeward-bound procession. The uniforms, in black and white cars, wearily thread their way through the masses responding from call to call. The constant Friday night chatter on the police radio takes the uniforms into an unfamiliar world of poverty, hatred, and heartache. The negative aspects of the job are seldom punctuated by the elusive touch of hope or goodwill. The officers rarely encounter a happy moment, which would lighten their burden like an oasis in a hot, barren desert. Their callous attitudes are merely protection from being drained of spirit and sometimes provide insulation against the cold realities they experience. The uniform, in one of these "black and whites," glides with traffic as he listens to the non-stop chatter on the police radio. As the setting sun melts into the horizon, the faceless, monotone voice on the police radio pauses and then announces, "Any unit available . . . police and ambulance requested at 1453 Kingsley." The battle weary, cynical officer pays no heed as the call is repeated. "Who's getting stuck with that report," he wonders as he silently prays the voice will not assign his unit number. Finally, his reluctant, but concerned hand reaches for the microphone and asks the nature of the call. The dispatcher gives a curt reply, "Maternity." as she mechanically shuffles papers wondering which call to dispatch next. Suddenly, urgency and caring replace indifference and apathy; buttons are pushed and red and blue lights pierce the early evening dusk. "4-adam-1 is responding . . ." Routine is shattered as the screaming siren begins an ear deafening wail. Bitterness against the system, personal problems, and frustration are all transformed into a sense of purpose as air and fuel are sucked into the straining engine. If only the call was closer! Why so much traffic? Too many hazards on the road; got to slow down. Lost pride returns and surges as neighbors run from their homes to catch a glimpse of the passing orgy of sound and color as it races down the street and through the intersections. Look at the speedometer; I've got to slow down! Nearing the house, people in the yard are waving frantically as tortured tires squeal to a stop. Running to the house, there is an awareness of other running; spectators, drawn to the sound of the dying siren and the stopped police car with flashing lights pulsating like an excited heart beat. Again pride surges as the feeling of being a helping member of society returns. The apathy that made up the world five minutes before has been replaced by an alert awareness of being needed. "Where is she?" "In there!" Through the unfamiliar house, the object of concern is found lying on a bed experiencing the pain of contractions only twenty seconds apart. Talk to her; reassure her, at the same time your mind races. What should I do? To her, the uniform is no longer a symbol of authority or trouble. It now resembles trust, love, and understanding. To her, all is well . . ."they" are here. God, can I live up to the demands of the coming moments? Her clothes must be removed, but how, it's so awkward. Strange house, removing clothing from a person you have never seen before. Embarrassment leaves with the next contraction. This is it! It's going to happen! A worried husband breathes deep in half successful attempts to calm himself. There are three uniforms now, no longer individuals, but suddenly a team working toward a common goal. "Don't worry ma'am, we've got seven babies to our credit." Does she perceive the doubt in the voice or in the strained expressions of unknown faces looking down on her? She smiles, looks up in confidence, and grimaces as the next contraction overtakes her. A uniform takes her hand and begins caressing her forehead with a damp cloth. The husband begins counting with each contraction as he grasps her other hand and two souls become one. A siren in the distance announces more help is on the way. "Relax babe, nothing to worry about." "Dad, why don't you get yourself a beer or something?" What a dumb thing to say . . . they are one. A trace of red fluid and puffiness shows we are seconds away. More uniforms enter the room accompanied by the clatter of boxes and gadgets. "Sierra Community . . . this is Medic One, we have a 27 year old pregnant female about to deliver." "Medic One, we can't read you, your transmission is breaking up." "Sierra Community do you read?" SILENCE! "Bear down honey, that's fine." The rustle of opening packages blends with the reassuring voice of a uniform and the steady, low, "One, two, three, four, five . . ." Her dry mouth is pacified with small pieces of ice. A slight breeze gently blows the curtains as the uniforms wait. Children are heard outside predicting a girl . . . no a boy. The muted voice on the police radio is drowned out by a cry, a body spasm, and, "It's crowning!" Hearts beat faster, eyes dart back and forth, "One, two, three, four, five . . ." "Come on honey, bear down." Another contraction as the top of a miniature head, hair matted with a milky substance, begins to emerge. A uniform is there, ready with gloved hands, to accept the precious gift. The head is out as squinted eyes reflex to the sudden exposure of light. Another contraction and the milky white body slips smoothly out into its new, strange environment. "Is it a girl?" "Just a minute, hon," as many hands protect the life sustaining cord, apply suction to the baby's mouth and nose and support its head. "It's a girl," as feeble cries drift through the room. Then laughter, hand shakes, and hugs. Jubilant relatives give the swelling crowd in the front yard the joyous news. Another brief wait, another contraction, and the purple, venous sack comes forth. The baby is put on the mother's breast and laughter fills the room as she searches instinctively for the warm, nourishing fluid and feels the reassuring touch of her mother's body. "Yes, mama, it has ten fingers and ten toes." She glows with delight as she looks into the smiling faces that have suddenly become very intimate parts of her life. More laughter and hugs as a carnival atmosphere prevails. Onto the gurney and then tender movement as uniforms carry the precious cargo to an awaiting ambulance. The crowd hushes as necks strain to glimpse the new arrival. Faint cries send a wave of approval through the people as uniforms proudly enter their waiting cars and silently drive away down the tree-lined street. The radio is back. "4-Adam-1 and any unit, a man with a gun . . ." "3-Boy-2, a fight at the Houston Tavern . . ." Another group is passed, a more familiar one to the uniforms. "F—king pig, oink, oink, oink" . . . a bottle is thrown and shatters on the street as the police car passes." The fading jeers and curses do not take away the broad smiles on the faces in the black and whites. The glow lingers and hope remains as they relive their touching of God and remember those precious moments when the whole world cared . . . |
|---|
