"Bye Daddy. I Love You. Be Careful."

I wear a black band on my badge today;

"Bye Daddy. I love you. Be careful." Those are the first words I remember speaking. I don't know if I remember because I always knew those words mattered or if I remember because those words were repeated every weekday of my life, well into my teen years. Perhaps I remember because it wasn't the only time we talked about Daddy's safety. At night, Mommy would say my prayers with me. My prayer always ended, "And bring my daddy home safely tonight. In Jesus name we pray, Amen."

A man I didn't know took a tumble down,

"Daddy was shot, but he is okay," my mom said in a hushed voice with tears in her eyes. It was well after midnight; I was seven and woke up to Wally, a police officer friend of my dad's, sitting in the living room in uniform.

"Is he coming home?" I asked.

"Yes," my mom answered. I laid my head in her lap and watched the fish swim up and down in our tank, the one my daddy bought me after the goldfish I won at the fair died.

Looking up, I pray it will all be okay.

That is what I remember. This is what I know. My dad was at a domestic violence call, at the back corner of the house. Two other officers were at the front and broke the door down, announcing that Phoenix police was entering the duplex. As they did that, my dad saw the man exit through the back of the duplex. He backed up along the side of the house. The man who'd climbed out the back followed, and they started shooting. One of the two officers who'd knocked the front door down came to the side of the building and shot; he wound up hitting my dad. The story goes that after it happened, my dad walked over to a friend of his.

"Tim, I think I've been shot."

"Turn around…Oh my God! Danny's been shot!" Tim Hallahan, one of very few I've ever heard call my father anything less formal than Dan, said before getting on his radio.

He was shot in his left shoulder. The bullet went straight through, but they still worried about fragments reaching his heart. He did come home from the hospital that night.

Tomorrow the dust of a fallen hero may

That was the night I learned my daddy wasn't invincible. And not only that, but it wasn't just the "bad guys" who could hurt him. But he was still my hero. He was back at work within the month.

be what's left of my life in this town;

My mother was the one who was left to pry me off his leg, which I started wrapping myself around when he was supposed to go to work. She was left to teach me the mantra once again.

"Bye Daddy. I love you. Be careful."
I found the order had become fascinating to me. Logically, bye is a closing, not a beginning. Most everyday circumstances make I love you a priority, at the beginning of a statement. Be careful could be lumped into the middle, an insignificant extra in showing care. In my mind, it'd make sense to say, "I love you. Be careful. Bye Daddy." But that isn't what Mommy taught me.

I wear a black band on my badge today.

Mommy knew that telling him to be careful was her final say in whatever he had to do that day, her last course of action. But she had to lump it in with the rest and a calm demeanor to hold onto her poise. Poise: the ability to keep your dignity when the chance that you will lose what matters most becomes a constant, obvious possibility…or a reality.

Chasing words, the reporter captures what to say;

I once found myself following my parents down a white stretch of hallway.

"He looks bad, but he's doing much better," Cindy Stahl said, trying to reassure us before we'd even seen.

I went into a hospital room to find a man I'd been camping and four-wheeling with in a bed, well-covered in bumps, bruises and road rash.

Bill Stahl was writing a ticket when some car plowed into the back of the motorcycle he'd left parked behind the other car. The motorcycle went flying. It landed on top of him.

He and my dad joked and talked. We didn't stay long. But Cindy stayed.

For the camera, kids too young smile wide as clowns.

Lindsey Hallahan was in a room at Gainey Ranch, dressed in white and waiting for her father, Tim, to walk her down the aisle. I was sitting in a too-small white chair, looking over a golf course. We hadn't said two words to each other in years, but we are both police officers' daughters, and that, I suppose, is what brought me there.

Brenda Campbell showed up. Her hair and make-up were done; her dress flowed down to her ankles. She walked down one side of the aisle and up the other, pausing to say hi to people she knew. I watched, in awe of the confidence she exuded.

She walked up to my parents.

My mom asked, "How are you doing?"

I forget her answer, but I think I saw water flash across her eye.

"Come sit with us," my mom invited.

"My family is here," she waved a hand flippantly in their direction and dismissed herself to go to them.

I watched her stride regally back up the aisle, head held high. But if I'm not mistaken, there was a moment that she faltered. Not that I blame her. About a month ago, Lee Campbell was pronounced dead after a heart attack. Another police officer down. Brenda's husband of so many years.

Looking up, I pray they will be okay.

About a year ago, my mother told me the story of my dad being hired on the department. A wife of another officer pulled her aside and told her, "You have to just think of it as him going to any other job. If you think of anything else, it will drive you crazy."

And that is what these women learn to do. They learn to pretend, to have everything under control, even when they don't.

He wasn't: shot on duty, a message difficult to relay.

My father is a motor officer for the city of Phoenix. There are 115 of them. Five are women. My mother is a stay-at-home mom and the wife of a police officer. They epitomize gender roles that most of society is trying to break down. My dad goes out, makes the money, pushes the limits. My mom stays in, does everything, stays calm and collected.

I put on the uniform that will bring me renown;

In some ways, by simply living these roles, they've taught me to break them. For instance, I never want to be a stay-at-home mom. Quite frankly, I don't think I have what it takes. I think I'd lose my mind. And watching my dad push the limits has made me want to. I like the idea of adventure, too, not just waiting for the one taking the risk to come home.

I wear a black band on my badge today.

But I've learned to keep them too. Not that I succeed as well as those I have observed, but I try. I try to be that woman who can hold herself together when things aren't perfect; I try to have that poise that is so evident in these women I can't help but admire. It is my gender role to play out, after all.

My buddies dam up the tears, the feelings they refuse to convey.

Nightmare monsters creep into reality, draw a frown.

Looking up, I pray we will be okay.

The cauldron of fire stirred in my heart will lay

The groundwork for connection to the one who went down.

I wear a black band on my badge today.

Looking up, I pray it will all be okay.

Not to mention, I've learned the words well.

"Bye Daddy. I love you. Be careful."

*This is a piece I started awhile ago and decided just to post here to see what anyone thinks. Opinions?