HAZARDOUS DUTY PAY – Maybe Some Day

Once in a while, something comes along that is so outside the realm of what you’ve heard before, that it shakes you to your timbers and you find it necessary to leap up from your desk, emit a primal growl, slam your keys to the floor, and stomp out of the office. Of course, you come back 20 minutes later and rehire yourself, promising to increase your salary and swearing that you’re entitled to "hazardous duty" pay.

After you’ve talked to tens of thousands of grievers on the phone, and heard stories that are so horrid that they can only be true, you can fool yourself into thinking that you’ve heard them all. Some are so graphic and others are so diabolical that it takes all of your skill just to listen to the broken-hearted person who is telling the story, and not cover your ears like one of the three proverbial monkeys.

One of the most poignant of these events happened several years ago. I got a call from a woman who was about my age. She had a 19 year old son who was hearing impaired, and just happened to be a delightful young man. I mention the ages, because my daughter was then about the same age as her son. Those facts put that woman and me together in the universe, at least in time and in relationship to parent-hood.

She had called our offices desperate for a compassionate ear to listen to her story, and for some realistic guidance about what she could do to heal her heart.

You may want to get your keys ready, because you might need to throw them to the floor and stomp out after you read this.

Her son borrowed her car to take a date to the movies. He was very new to dating and was very excited about the night that lay ahead. He picked up his date and drove towards the movie theater. While stopped at a red light, some thugs approached his window and yelled in some commands. The boy did not see them approach, and being deaf, did not hear the commands.

One of the bad guys pulled out a gun and shot the lad in the head, killing him instantly.

It was several months later, at her emotional wits end, not knowing if or how she could continue this business of living, that the mother called us. I talked with her for the better part of an hour. After helping her communicate some of the overwhelming mass of emotion that was choking her, I was able to aim her in the direction of the actions that would help her regain her will to live, in spite of the depth of her pain.

At the end of that call, there was a significant shift in the tone of her voice, and she told me that she now had some hope that she would be able to find the will to go on, in spite of the devastation she felt.

That was for her, and I was very pleased.

But, as soon as I hung up the phone, a guttural sound erupted from somewhere deep in my soul, a sound unlike any other, some kind of pre-historic jungle noise, that seemed to represent all the pain of all the people for all of time.

And I did stand up and I did throw down my keys, and I did say the actual words, "I Quit!" And I did storm out the door and go down the street and up the block, and around the corner, with an energy inside of me that could have fueled a rocket to the moon.

And I did come back, and talked with my partner, and I cried, and then I re-dedicated myself to helping the next person who called, when no one else could hear them.

Because that is what we do.

Oh yes, I also promised myself that raise, and maybe some day I’ll get it.  

By Russell Friedman