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Life quest of america12/31/2022 I looked at the woman’s face and thought of the mothers of all the friends I had lost, the end of their children’s suffering marking the beginning of theirs. They are part of the price of war – a price I have seen paid by friends who returned home with PTSD, in the 21-gun salutes at the military funerals of those who could not bear the pain, in the psychologist’s waiting room at the VA, in the faces of the active-duty members at the drug treatment centre who preferred the deadening of chemical dependency to the flashbacks. “Deaths of despair” go hand-in-hand with modern military service. There were many: a friend who was so drunk he drove his car into a concrete barrier, dying instantly another who overdosed on heroin one who shot himself. I thought of the people I had known who had survived war but died after. She died later, in a drunk driving accident…” I was raised in a military culture with a deep respect for service members. I tried to follow in her footsteps but was discharged out of basic training, deemed medically unfit for service. My mother served 20 years in the Air Force. They said it would get easier, but it didn’t. It’s almost the anniversary of her death. She leaned her head back against her headrest and the knife dropped to her lap. “Why do you want to die?” I asked her bluntly. “I came here to die and like everything else in my life it didn’t even work.” She looked straight at me, her eyes so full of pain. I saw the knife, and you looked upset, so I wanted to check-in.” She looked at me, annoyed by my presence. Unsure of what to say or do, I stood there awkwardly. My first instinct was to call the police to save her, then I realised how absurd that would be. The woman had intended to commit suicide-by-cop. Police SUVs can always be found parked along that street, officers chatting outside. The Portland Police Bureau holds its martial arts training in a building next to a convenience store. Now I have to wait for them to come back out.” Her words devolved into choking sobs. “They won’t even do their job and shoot me! I stood there waving this knife around, and the cops didn’t even notice. She gestured with the knife towards the cop cars lining the street. I leaned into her open passenger window and stupidly asked her if she was OK. I could not just walk by as if I had not seen anything. It bobbed up and down rhythmically in her hand as she cried, sitting in the driver’s seat of her car. I heard her sobs the moment before I saw the butcher knife.
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