Sanity does not come naturally to me. I have to work at it.
My brain is always busy trying to kill me. But it will settle for misery as a booby prize. To combat my thinking, I’ve turned into a walker. Walking beats my brain into submission.
Everyone else in my family thrives being outdoors. But going outside involves effort, so historically outside is not for me. Ordinary tasks like putting on a coat and shoes often seem insurmountable.
I always try to hide in my room with the door shut, in total darkness. Secret Service refers to our bedroom as my bat cave.
Then the pandemic happened.
In one of the hundreds of articles I devoured on how to guard against the coronavirus, I read that being outside strengthens immunity. With Clorox wipes in such short supply, it seemed like a good idea to get outdoors.
Secret Service and I started walking together. He was out of work and under financial stress. We’d walk the dread away. It started with a mile or two and developed into 4-6 miles a day.
Walking as much as we did is a great form of exercise. I could see the shape of forgotten muscles in my legs. And curiously, it brought us closer together. We didn’t say much. We just kept stride with each other. It did wonders for our marriage.
When he got work again, I started doing Walkie-Talkies with my friend Other Liz. (I’m Other Liz to her. We are both Other Liz, depending on who is speaking.) She and I have similar personalities so it’s a lot of fun. We congratulate each other on how far we’ve walked, and talking with her gives me some much-needed social interaction.
We walked one day in January on the Hudson River when it was seven degrees outside. It was brutal, but we felt superhuman when we were done.
I’ve found the combination of fresh air and movement a cure-all. I began to look forward to walking. I was stunned. I rarely look forward to doing anything good for me.
With all that in mind: a couple of days ago I went for my walk.
The road in Virginia on which my mother lived—which is now my road, I guess—goes around in a big rectangle. It’s a mile long as a block. The houses built in the fifties and sixties surrounding our house have much larger yards than ones built today. Between our house and my neighbor, we have seven acres.
Halfway through the block I can turn left and walk up a different road. A subdivision sits to the north of it, and a friend lives there. If I walk to Ellen’s house and back home, it’s three miles, which takes about an hour.
At 11:15 am, I set off for my three miles.
Not too far in, I noticed a couple of police cars go by. They had on their lights, but no sirens. I didn’t make much of it. No sirens, no emergency.
As I approach the hill where I’d turn to go to Ellen’s, three more cop cars. Two of them stop at the beginning of the road on the left.
Hmm. Are they blocking the road?
“I’d better ask them if I can turn there,” I said.
I forgot to tell you—during my walk I was on the phone with my therapist.
We do phone or Zoom appointments when I’m in Virginia. It’s the perfect time for a walk, because I can accomplish two things good for me at once.
My therapist is not easily rattled. But for the sake of context, it was a bit of,
“Hold on while I…” “Not sure…” “Where are you...”
She was googling to see if anything was on the news.
I approached the vehicles. The windows were blacked out. I couldn’t see in. But I did hear police dogs barking in the back seat. I waved. They did not roll down the windows. I was uncertain if cops were even in the cars or if they’d left them there to block the road.
I am a curious person. I like to be where the action is. I really wanted to make the left and stay on my route. But I found myself muttering,
“Maybe not.”
I continued up the hill without turning. Then two more police cars drove toward me, same deal. No sirens, lights flashing.
One of them stopped, and a Sherriff’s deputy got out of the car and started yelling,
“Go home, go home, get inside, go now!”
I couldn’t. I had a ½ mile to go before I was home. I said,
“I live on the other side. Should I cut across?” I gestured with my hand to the houses on my right.
I am not certain at exactly what point I said to my therapist,
“I’m getting off the phone.”
And she replied with some version of,
“Call when you’re safe.”
But it was around this time.
I wasn’t certain I could cut through the block to my house. There is no way I could get up our back yard. It’s uphill and heavily wooded with thick foliage, and there’s a creek at the bottom of our property. Anyway, I was well past it. I didn’t know who lived in the house to my right.
“Just go, go now!” he said, and he went down the hill.
I was scared because the cop was scared. I could hear it in his voice.
And I took off, across Someone I Don’t Know’s large lawn, heading toward the creek and woods.
My brain, for all the trouble it gives me, is very good in an emergency. My blood pressure drops in a disaster. It’s day to day life which I find challenging.
I was aware of a lot of things at once without having to do much thinking. High on the list was the desire to get across this lawn without getting shot, because almost everyone in Virginia has a gun. And with all the police activity, I did not want to be mistaken for a fugitive by the property owner, should they be looking outside.
I considered the circumstances and knew with 99% certainty that whatever was going on, a gun or guns were involved. There weren’t any fire trucks around, so it wasn’t a gas leak or explosion. Definitely guns.
I was arguing with myself a bit in those milliseconds. It was Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill versus Mass shootings are a part of American life.
Because they are. Perhaps my number was up in our mass shooting lottery.
It can’t be a mass shooting, we aren’t in a crowded area, I hoped.
I hit the creek, look up, and to my relief, know the yard across it. The creek was petering out, so it was easy to cross, and then I was safer than I was a few moments before.
I called a couple of people in the neighborhood. I wanted to make sure Tammy’s family was inside. I called Ellen, who I was sure could get some intel on the situation.
Then I hustled west, and finally up the driveway to my house.
A good friend of mine was doing some work for us on the porch. He’s a BIPOC man. I wanted him to go inside, because I knew he was statistically more likely to get shot than I. Because I had so little information, I had to think of every eventuality.
But I didn’t know how to say this to him.
So I asked him to come inside, and told him what was going on. I could see he wanted to stay out. Then I gauged how far we were from the main road, and he was under some cover, so it might be okay.
By now an ambulance and fire truck had arrived and parked in front of my driveway. They were there in case of casualties, I suppose. Far enough away to be safe but able to respond in under two minutes to the scene.
My husband was inside. I told him, then went in my bat cave. Then I thought,
Where is my gun?
I stopped dead in my tracks and called my therapist back.
I was flooded with adrenaline. I could barely remember what was bothering me before therapy. I was able to tell her that idiotically, my first thought at home was,
Where is my gun?
She thought it wise to mention that most people killed in gun violence know their killer. This is something I knew but wasn’t considering.
We talked some more. She said she’d once had a similar experience and was rattled for days. I thought it likely I would be as well.
I saw the emergency vehicles in front of my house leave. I called the police non-emergency number and asked if the situation were resolved. I was put on hold, and then the receptionist got back on the phone and said,
“Yes ma’am. You can go outside now and do your walk or run.”
I don’t know why this struck me so. But it was almost like a weather report:
Morning showers have cleared up, chance of getting killed this afternoon 2% or less, perfect day for a walk or run…
Hmmmmm. I stayed inside and posted on Facebook something bad was going down, but I was okay. When I saw the post later, it was full of spelling mistakes. My hands must have been shaking.
Marked Safe from I Don’t Know What.
Everyone wants to know what happened. I don’t know. The police didn’t disclose the nature of the incident. I did see a photo of two officers in what looked to my eye like SWAT gear. One officer had his firearm drawn. Another was pointing his rifle into what looked like someone’s back yard.
Really, it was nothing. I got near a police action and was told to get inside. That’s all.
Except it screwed me up. All day. Then I got well and truly pissed off, deeply angry. I can’t go for a walk in the morning in the flipping suburbs without worrying about getting shot.
What I’m most curious about is my own response:
Where is my gun?
It took me a long time to understand the need for gun control in our nation. As I’ve written, I was taught to shoot by my father. He brought his experience of war into the lessons. I didn’t understand that not everyone is instructed by a man who has killed people and paid a price for it.
And my reaction makes sense on the surface. If my life is threatened, I want to be able to defend it. A firearm is the quickest way of doing so.
It is not the best way, but as they say down here, I’d rather face a judge than an undertaker.
It feels like a conundrum. But in the calm of 48 hours later, it’s not.
More violence can’t cure violence. More violence is not a response to violence, it’s participating in it. And when I caught myself wanting a gun, I had to take time to think things through:
1) There are plenty of policemen handling the emergency. They don’t need my participation.
2) I’m safe inside.
3) I don’t want to be part of the problem.
4) I want to be part of the solution.
5) Most people are killed by someone they know. I am not exempt from this statistic. Guns are unsafe for me too.
If I think about my experience in the big picture, it’s this:
Americans can’t hold on to their first instincts when they feel threatened. We need to give ourselves time to let the fear pass.
Sanity will not come naturally to us. We have to work at it.
You are amazing…..