two years ago

Two years ago tonight, my friend Phil and I were sitting on my second-floor, back porch having a few beers and talking about work and music when two young men walked off the alley to rob my neighbor. One of them pointed a large chrome-plated revolver at her. When I yelled at them to leave her alone, he turned and fired two shots. One bullet lodged in the kitchen wall, and one bullet went through a two-by-four before hitting me in the shoulder. I blacked out when it happened and didn't know I'd been hit when I got up from the porch floor. My shoulder hurt, but I thought it was from the fall. It wasn't until I felt the blood coming out of the hole in my shoulder that I realized I'd been hit.

The next events follow a blurry trajectory of firemen from the station behind my house, police officers and detectives, and paramedics. There were neighbors and Phil. There was the ambulance and the oxygen and the heart monitors and the IV lines. Banana was upstairs asleep while all of this was going on and didn't wake up until much later. By then, my father had arrived to spend the night and get her to school in the morning. She still remembers being scared when she woke up and I wasn't there. And given my father's occasional mentions of that night and how much worse it could have been, I can only imagine what he must have been feeling.



The bullet lodged in the muscles between my shoulder blade and spine. It damaged muscles and nerves, but narrowly missed doing far greater — and possibly mortal — harm. It caused a hairline fracture in one vertebrae and set me on a course of physical and mental recovery that continues today.

As time goes by, I expected the impact to lessen, but it hasn't. This is in part because I can never forget that someone tried to kill me. That I am known as the neighbor/friend/guy who got shot keeps it alive in other people's minds as well. I've begun to accept that this certain grace or fortune that kept me lucky enough to be here is also something that will always be with me.

And while I can't wish the event away, I do wish for one thing: an arrest, a conviction, closure.

sirens

Two police cars just blasted past Chez Impolitic with their sirens and lights going. They were moving easily at 50 down this residential street. I imagine some of the cars coming to our old house did the same thing a year and a half ago. That said, here's a little update on where I am with all of that these days.

Sirens and loud sounds still make me jump, but they have ever since (at least) the shooting at Arkansas in 2000. I still have occasional flashbacks. Overall, though, I've accepted a different take on the whole thing—I am a hero, but I am not larger-than-life; I'm not the only person who has ever been shot, randomly or purposely; the experience was awful and is immutable at this point; and finally, it has simply become part of a remarkable set of growth experiences within the past few years.

I'm not saying that the case is closed—it isn't—but I am saying that am finally beginning to move beyond a certain level of solipsism.

a sad day

Today's ruling by the Supreme Court should not surprise me. The court has been pushed so far to the right, so far in the direction of "strict constructionism" that the results are likely to stay with us for generations. Still, even though it shouldn't surprise me, the pain in my shoulder reminds me every day of the effects of readily available guns on our society. I survived not because I had a gun to protect myself, but because I was lucky; others with guns to protect themselves have not been so lucky. The self-defense argument means nothing.

shooting update

When the suspect was arrested last year, the Commonwealth's Attorney nolle prossed the case (let the guy go) because of a lack of evidence. In an interesting turn of events, however, this same man was arrested in January on a concealed weapon charge. The Commonwealth's Attorney has asked the detective assigned to my case to retrieve the weapon and the bullet and send both to the state ballistics lab. This means there is a chance (albeit a slim one) that I may get some small measure of closure.

oy

Make it stop, please.

Binsted, a sophomore sculpture major at VCU, was walking in the park with a friend when they were approached by two males, one armed with a gun. Binsted and his friend were robbed of their car keys, and he was shot in the back as they walked away.

It was less than half a mile from my old house.

thoughts on being a hero

The other night I was walking Reilly and a large man wearing only jeans and with a bloodied face stumbled and weaved past us near my house. He was carrying seat cushions stolen from a porch down the street. After he'd made it down the block, I dialed 911 and gave them a description.

Twelve minutes later, when we came around the block heading towards the alley, I saw him on the street again. I called 911 again, then called again after he pulled something out of a garage and continued his weaving way. On this third call in fifteen minutes, I was advised a unit was on its way. I waited in the alley another couple of minutes as he cleared down to the next street before I went inside. By that point, I'd resigned myself to the fact that the cops were not going to get there in time to stop him.

Was he a real public menace? Probably not. He was more likely drunk on bad booze, but ever since the shooting I still want to draw the line. The incident explains one other fact, however: why I stood up and yelled at a man holding a gun that night.

The first thought when he began grabbing at Lindee and pointing the gun at her was that I needed to call 911. Then I realized that there was no way the police would get there before she was shot or harmed in some other way. I had to do something to distract them. That's what I decided in that split second before I began yelling at him to leave my neighbor alone. Then he shot me.

The police would never have arrived in time. Period. Last night was further proof of that. By the time the operator was done asking questions, the incident would have been (and was) played out.

GSW victim

Just some further thoughts on the topic of getting shot...

1. I was extraordinarily lucky. Every time I look in the mirror and see the scar at the crux of my neck and shoulder, I realize how lucky I was. Any minor deviation in the act of shooting the gun or in the trajectory through the railing and I would be dead--or at the very least, badly maimed. In so many ways, I shouldn't be here now, but I am.

2. There may be nothing stranger in my 36 years so far than saying the words "When I was shot." Every time any variation of this comes out of my mouth, I stop for a brief moment. There is nothing right about saying it. And nothing I can do but marvel at the strangeness of the words.

3. I prevented a robbery from taking place. Perhaps something much worse. I don't know why I have to remind myself of this, but it's not the easiest thing to process.

4. It still hurts. Physically and mentally.

5. On my earlier post, I was vague about how much deeper the bullet was than expected. My attending surgeon expected it to be close to the surface--not more than a quarter of an inch. Instead, it was more than an inch under the skin and had cosseted itself just on the edge of the deltoid, kindly avoiding the ribs, clavicle, lung and other vitals. I was lucky.

So ends this moment of navel-gazing. Thanks for tuning in.

"This could easily have been fatal."

That's what my attending physician said today after he took the sutures out. Apparently, the bullet was deeper than expected, and closer to "real" damage than shown on the scans. He was also kind to add the comment that it was a big bullet, and that it was mostly intact.

Again, I must say: I got lucky.

post-surgery

The actual surgery took 15 minutes, the pre- and post-op time two hours each. I spent the rest of the day and evening feeling woozy and a little lost from all the sedatives and morphine they had pumped in my system. The next day I woke up for a bit, and then realized that being up and moving around was not what I needed to do. By the afternoon, though, I found a few bursts of energy to organize things around the house. Meanwhile, my mother was tackling the kitchen. Later that evening, the pain crept in again. The next morning I was feeling good enough to do a little more around the house. After we took the bandage off, however, there was a whole new set of sensations. Taking a shower was phenomenal, but having shirts rubbing against the sutures hurt. By this morning, then, I moved off the percocet altogether.

The remarkable part is that my body already feels better. I feel looser without having the bullet back there. And stronger. This is good.

In other news, Tyrone Singleton has been released from custody. The detectives claim to have other leads, and they now have the bullet to use for forensic evidence. I want to move on from this, but I also want the fucker to be caught.

removal

In nine hours, I will be at the hospital. They will be prepping me for the removal of the "foreign object." I will not get to keep the "foreign object." It will be taken for forensic purposes. If they convict Tyrone Singleton or someone else for the crime, I may get it then. Who knows...

The whole "foreign object" thing is really amusing to me. Why do we have to be so euphemistic with language? (And I don't just mean in this instance.) Why not just describe what the object is? Does it remove the reality so that the physician does not have to consider the circumstances as s/he performs the procedure? So that it is all just a procedure?

I ponder this partly because the process has been so fascinating. At no point in this process, from the shooting to the doctors' follow-ups, have I had any control. I have been told when my appointments will be--even if they don't jive with my life--and when my appointments will not be. I understand that the trauma circuit is a difficult gig, but that doesn't really seem like an excuse for treating patients like commodities with no restrictions of their own, as though we do not have to worry about our own schedules. It's patently absurd. I have to compromise my work timelines with my clients' schedules. Why should physicians be able to to insist that everyone work around their schedules?

Then again, I have only met my attending physician once--the night I was shot. I've seen other doctors and residents since, but not met the man who is supposedly responsible for me since that night. It's as if I am no more a person than the alias I was given for my stay in the hospital--Mr. Plum is a phantasm, not a real person with real worries, and therefore can be manipulated like a marionette.

Not quite... At least I got them to move the surgery reporting time from 5:30 to 8:45.

the shooting, an update

I am healing well. The pain meds are gone altogether, except for the occasional ibuprofen. Tonight, however, is a little more uncomfortable. Maybe I shouldn't have given Banana the piggyback ride all the way to Plan 9. I guess I fool myself about how much better I'm feeling.

***************

Here's the rest of the story, such as it is right now...

Tyrone Singleton is still in custody, though they have not brought him to trial yet. According to the Commonwealth's Attorney, this is because they still do not have anything tying him directly to the crime. What is particularly galling about this is that the detectives seem to regard it as a done-deal.

In their pursuit of the case, the detectives do not seem to have worked to find the car that was witnessed leaving the scene. I guess this because none of the other prosecutors or other police officers I have spoken to realize that I and my neighbors said we could also identify the car. They also waited six weeks to talk to Phil, who was on the porch with me that night. Granted, he wasn't sure he got a good enough look in the first place, but by the time they actually called him, his recollection was too crowded.

On the subject of ID-ing the suspect, my neighbor and I identified the same suspect. the picture was not, however, the suspect the police really expected. Nonetheless, one of the lessons here is that real life is not like Law & Order. Not at all. If it were, we would have identified Singleton--or whomever--in a real-life line-up, rather than a photographic line-up. And what amazes me about the process at this point is that we haven't even been given this option. I can see the scene clearly in my mind still, and I think I could be confident in my testimony and identification if I were actually able to see the shooter's eyes.

The police from the local precinct worry about the case going cold. I do, too, but I also think it will go cold--if it does--because of lax attention. None of this, of course, helps with my psychological recovery.

Tuesday, depressing news edition... What is wrong with people?

The little girl will survive, but she's going to have a sad legacy to deal with. I can't imagine being the person who has to tell her what happened to her mother. No doubt the messenger will find the nicest way to describe the indescribeable. But what of her reaction years from now when she learns the details? Sad, sad...

shitty news

Apparently someone claiming to be the suspect's cousin knocked on my neighbor's door yesterday. He asked about her. Then he asked about me. They told him I was in New York.

Suffice it to say that whatever peace of mind I'd found so far has been very, very shaken.

VT, street crime, and gun control

The gun control debates are already beginning, as well they should. The "people kill people; guns don't kill people" doesn't hold water, hasn't for a long time. As for the second amendment, our need for a well-regulated citizens militia is long past in most parts of the country. There is also no reasonable argument for why any citizen needs automatic arms of any caliber or a gun as big as the one Tyrone Singleton used to shoot me. Ultimately, though, the problem isn't that we need more laws; the problem is that we need fewer guns. Otherwise, chaos will continue, always, to be at our collective doorstep.

trauma symptoms

I've been juggling little symptoms of the trauma backlash lately.

1. During the climactic scenes in Beauty and the Beast, flash spots fire all over the set. This left me practically paralyzed for a few minutes, even after I shielded my eyes.

2. This morning, the wind storm blowing through the area blew the trees in back so hard they were banging on the roof of the back porch. Hellish.

3. This morning, the news from VA Tech... reading the initial accounts of the shootings. I'm shaking...

life or death

I posted this at MySpace, but it can't hurt to post here too. I will add as things change...


I am now a certified hero, at least that's what everybody from neighbors to coworkers to the news to hospital workers are saying. I guess that's true, considering what could have happened.

For now, these are the facts: On Sunday night, two men followed my neighbor as she drove in off the alley. My friend Phil and I were on the porch, watching her park her car. When the men started demanding her bag and pulled a gun, I started yelling at them to leave her alone. The man holding the gun turned and fired two shots. One hit the side of the house and one went through a two-by-four and hit me. The bullet penetrated my shoulder, narrowly missing my arteries, throat, esophagus and lungs. It stopped in the muscles under my clavicle and will remain there until the doctors feel it is extractable. Anna did not wake up, though her bedroom is a matter of feet away. She didn't even wake up as the firemen arrived from the fire station around the corner, and the paramedics and police began swarming the entry to our house. I was taken to the trauma unit under full lights and sirens because the EMTs feared where the bullet might travel and whether the shock my body had gone into would cause cardiac arrest. After I was stabilized and the wound was determined not to be life-threatening, I was admitted to the hospital.

For the next day and a half, more tests were done and X-Rays and CT scans taken. On Tuesday, I was released, and for the last two days, Anna and I have laid low with another family to avoid the media attention and recoup a bit. I also wanted to wait until at least one of the suspects was in police custody--news I received this morning. We are back home now, and I am confronting major questions about what we do next--whether we stay in this house any longer--and how much I need to rely on the kindness of friends and family to manage the big and little tasks of life--you never realize how tiring things like dishes and laundry can be until small repetitive tasks cause pain.

As for the hero question, I will leave it alone for now. My neighbor Lindee is alive and safe. I am injured but extraordinarily lucky for what could have happened. My daughter remains the light of my life. One foot in front of the other...