10-25-19
We've got to do better. Far better. NBC News reports:
"It's been three years since the sound of a gunshot shattered April Scherzer's life. "Every day I wake up, I start from that," Scherzer, 38, said. "My day begins with that gunshot. I relive all of that, all over again, up until now, up until this present moment." It was past midnight when she heard it. She was nestled in bed with her four-and-a-half-month-old twins, at the home she shared with her husband, Max Scherzer. It was the last place she'd expect to find tragedy. She ran downstairs and discovered Max in their living room, moments after he ended his life with his service weapon."
A growing problem within law enforcement. Surviving loved ones, colleagues, friends suffer the aftermath.
"Max was just 36 years old and had spent 12 years working as a police officer for the Westampton Township Police Department in New Jersey, a rural community about 40 minutes outside Philadelphia. For several of those years, he struggled to cope with depression, substance abuse and the effects of trauma so often experienced by police officers and other first responders."
Why is help not available? Why is this not a priority?
The following is inexplicable:
"In the wake of her husband's death, Scherzer received little, if any, emotional or financial support that other widows of deceased police officers normally receive. There was no flag given to her at his funeral. He was not honored with any kind of memorial. Max died on the morning of Aug. 21, 2016. She and her children lost their health insurance by October."
Outrageous, isn't it? Gets worse:
"It was another kind of loss," Scherzer said. "The first thing you get when you marry a police officer is the blue family. You become part of that group. And I felt like after Max killed himself that me and the kids kind of got kicked out of that police family."
How is that right? How is it justified?
"Every year, more police officers die by suicide than in the line of duty. No federal agency keeps statistics, but according to the non-profit Blue HELP, at least 175 police officers have died by suicide this year."
Has certainly been repeatedly reported in this publication and elsewhere. Officer mental health issues need to be addressed on an ongoing basis. Not only for the sake of law enforcement, but the public as well.
"While both police departments and government agencies across the country are increasingly acknowledging the growing mental health crisis among police officers and first responders, and implementing programming and legislation as a result, less attention is paid to the families, and spouses, who are left behind."
Unconscionable. Intolerable.
"Too many people take that stigma to heart and that stigma then passes on to the family, when it's not the family's fault," said Karen Solomon, president of Blue HELP. "They shouldn't be penalized. They shouldn't suffer."
That's right. No question. This has to change.
"Max loved being around people. Most of all, April Scherzer said, he loved helping people. "When he could help someone, he always did," Scherzer said. "He was just so sweet and kind. He loved me so much. And I loved him. He was my best friend." He started his career eager to put the uniform on every day. Throughout his 12 years of service, he worked patrol, as an undercover narcotics officer and a school resource officer. But the job began to tear at Max, and as the years passed, he began to depend increasingly on alcohol to cope with his feelings. Scherzer said that every few months, when Max would experience something traumatic or triggering at work, he would spiral into a depression and drink. He'd call in sick. He'd isolate himself."
Surprised? Why?
Here's the problem:
"But the last thing Max wanted, Scherzer said, was to ask for help from his department. Once, she said, when he admitted to his department that he had a drinking problem, he was sent home for 30 days without any resources or direction toward treatment options."
Massive failure of the law enforcement system. This suicide could have been prevented:
"He didn't feel that he could go to them to ask for help," Scherzer said. "He was worried that everyone would find out. He was worried what everyone would think of him. And he was worried that he would lose his job if he said that he was, you know, having issues with post-traumatic stress or his drinking."
Re-read the above quote. We can't live without law enforcement. Absolutely needed, required in civilized society. Yet, the necessary resources are not readily, easily available to these men and women. This has to change.
Get this. Imagine having to deal with the following:
"One particular incident stayed with Max. While working overnight in the middle of winter, he got a call that a man crashed his pickup into a tree. He was the first officer on the scene. When he arrived, the truck was engulfed in flames. Max struggled to pull the man out of the truck, but he couldn't. All he could do was stand back and watch helplessly as the man burned alive. The flashbacks and nightmares started soon after that, and his drinking accelerated. Scherzer tried her best to help him but often, she said, she felt lost. "I didn't know anything about any employee resources," she said. "It's not like when you marry a police officer they give you a manual that says, 'These are the signs to look out for. And this is what you should do when.'"
Why aren't these resources easily, readily available? Worse, the department was aware he had a drinking problem. Did nothing.
"I just tried to make the other parts of his life the best I possibly could," she added. "I know he loved his job. But I know sometimes he didn't want to go in. And he didn't want to see those things." Shortly before Max died, he attended a seminar and heard a therapist speak about post-traumatic stress disorder and other mental health conditions that affect first responders. Her talk resonated with Max. Afterward, Scherzer said, he reached out to the sergeant who organized the seminar and asked for the therapist's number."
That should have begun the rode to recovery. Did not:
"Scherzer said that when the department learned he had requested to speak to the therapist, they confiscated his gun, sent him home for 30 days, and told him that a department-affiliated therapist would have to clear him to return for duty. "During that 30 days Max just drank," Scherzer said. "He was the entire time worried, you know, 'Am I going to have a job? What are we going to do?'" Her husband was "devastated," Scherzer added. "He just sat at home waiting for them to tell him what the next step was," she said. "When he did return, he said all of the other officers knew that he had asked for this woman's phone number. Everybody knew his business. And he felt like everybody was looking at him like he was, you know, this mentally unstable person when he wasn't."
Jesus Christ. Every mistake the department could have made, -- it did. Unbridled stupidity.
"Families of police officers who die in the line of duty typically receive an outpouring of emotional support from their police departments and community. Those departments, and states, also provide financial assistance to spouses and families, including death benefits, health insurance and scholarships. That's rarely the case for families whose loved ones die by suicide."
Why? This needs to change. Not only for the sake of law enforcement, but the public as well.
Massive failure of law enforcement:
"After Max died, Scherzer and her twins, Max and Molly, were left alone to mourn. A home that often hosted fellow police officers and their families stood largely silent. Her phone stopped ringing. As the days passed, her hope that Max's colleagues would circle around her dimmed. "It's almost like being a cancer that everyone thinks is contagious," Scherzer said. It was at her husband's funeral, when she didn't receive a folded American flag, that she first felt the inkling that she was different from other police widows."
Unacceptable. Outrageous.
"I just remember sitting there at the funeral home as everyone left and just sitting there feeling very, very alone and empty and not sure what was going to happen, what I was going to do," she said. The isolation Scherzer experienced compounded her grief. But there were practical matters to attend to, as well, including the question of how she was going to care for herself and her infant children. She had no idea how she was going to make ends meet. Some kind of financial assistance would have helped. But in the state of New Jersey, as in other states, Scherzer was not entitled to death benefits because her husband died of suicide, which is not considered a line of duty death."
Incomprehensible.
"Months before Max's death, a state trooper with two years on the job was killed in an accident. But because he wasn't married to his fiancée, their children were not entitled to full death benefits. The case pushed legislators to act. In August 2016, the same month Max died, Gov. Chris Christie signed a law that extended death benefits to minor children of all police, firefighters and other first responders killed in the line of duty, regardless of their parents' marriage status. Neither Scherzer, nor her twins, qualify for those benefits."
Why not?
Gets worse. Far worse:
"In October, Scherzer learned her health insurance had been terminated after she rushed her daughter Molly to the emergency room with a fever. "It felt like I had been kicked in the stomach again," Scherzer said. "I didn't know what I was going to do." Scherzer scoured the internet for resources, turning to several national organizations that help families of officers who have died in the line of duty. She explained she needed help. "I was told basically that there was nothing that they could do because my husband's death did not qualify," she said. "Nobody helped me navigate through all the different aspects I had to go through," she added. "It's hard to keep getting turned down and turned away. It's almost dehumanizing."
Ironically, hypocritically:
"We are very selective about who we consider to be heroes in death," Solomon, president of Blue HELP, said. "We tout this blue family concept all the time. What kind of family turns their back on you in the moment you need it the most, because you don't believe in the way somebody died?" More often than not, for families left behind by suicide, Solomon said, there are no memorials. No honors. And no help. "They get nothing," Solomon said. "Zero. See you later. Bye."
Incomprehensible.
Get this:
"Scherzer often has to drive past a memorial that honors fallen police officers from the area. But her husband's name isn't on it."
No question, her husband's death was directly due to his service as an officer.
"As a single mom, she struggles to find time to take care of herself in between raising the twins. She worries that they'll never know about what a kind person he was. About all the good he did. There are few people around, besides herself, to tell those stories. "There's all these great things he did when he was a police officer," she said. "But nobody ever wants to talk about that." The focus, she added, is on "the way he died. Not the way he lived."
10-11-19
Policing can be extremely dangerous and costly to officers doing their jobs properly and in the best interests of the community they serve. The following is one hell of an example. NBC News reports:
"Police officers don't like the word "routine." Any call, any night that seems routine can suddenly turn bad. It was one of those nights that changed Frank Abbott's life forever. On Jan. 2, 2018, Abbott and his partner, both New York state troopers, attempted to stop a man with an active arrest warrant as he drove through a residential neighborhood in Binghamton, N.Y. The man didn't stop. Instead, he led the officers on a high-speed chase through snowy streets, nearly striking a child in a stroller before he crashed into a utility pole. When Abbott and his partner got out of their vehicles, the man took off again, swerving up onto a sidewalk and coming to a sudden stop in a parking lot. The fugitive's car was stuck on a concrete parking block. Abbott approached the vehicle. Abbott's memory of what happened next is hard to put back together — each piece a fragment of the picture. The car as it roared toward him. The crunch of wheel over bone as the car crushed his ankle. The sight of the car accelerating toward his partner."
Heroically, did what he had to do:
"Abbott pulled himself off the ground, raised his gun and fired one round, striking the man in the face. "I thought I was going to die," Abbott said. "I was in a state of panic. But still, my body reacted and I did what I had to do, even though in my head I felt like, 'I'm not going to make it out of this.'" To Abbott, it felt like time stood still. His partner was unhurt. The driver, though gravely injured, sped off again — only to be arrested after trying to hijack a vehicle. Abbott recalls little about what happened next. But one memory remains. As the emergency response vehicles lit up the snow-covered yards, a woman helped Abbott sit down on a porch and laid a blanket over his shoulders."
Just the beginning of what turned out to be hell on earth:
"Oh my god," he thought. "I just shot someone." Abbott had dreamed of being a state trooper since he was 12 years old. He was only 28, had just eight years on the job, and planned on serving at least another 20. He had no idea how the trauma he experienced that night, and what he says was his agency's failure to help him recover, would cut that dream short. "I felt angry that I spent eight years of my life taking care of others," Abbott said. "And it took so long to find someone who would help me."
Outrageous, isn't it? Support needs to be readily available.
"That someone was another police officer, on patrol nearly 200 miles away, who had devoted his life to helping cops like Abbott. "There isn't a cop in this country that I wouldn't work with, go through a door with and be right by their side," said Jim Banish, 43. "We're in this fight together." Every year, the number of police officers who die by suicide outpaces deaths in the line of duty. No federal agency tracks the data, but one non-profit estimates that at least 167 police officers died by suicide last year. Studies show that first responders suffer from high rates of depression, anxiety and post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD)."
Certainly, a problem. -- An unresolved issue that affects not only law enforcement personnel but the public they serve.
"Police officers are exposed daily to the kind of trauma that can trigger PTSD, from fatal accidents to homicide scenes, but they're often reluctant to admit they need mental health care because of the stigma. They're afraid of being discriminated against, of losing their guns and badges, and their identities. Despite all of that, Abbott, who was diagnosed with PTSD after the shooting, decided to ask the New York State Police for help."
Guess what? Inexplicably:
"He didn't get it, he said. He is now suing the agency and his captain under the Americans with Disabilities Act, alleging the agency failed to accommodate his PTSD, and subjected him to relentless harassment to return to work, making his symptoms worse. The New York State Police said they could not comment on Abbott's case, but a spokesperson said that "the health and safety of our members is always a top priority." The captain did not return requests for comment. "I wanted to go back to work," Abbott said. "I wanted to heal. I wanted to get better." "This has been the worst place in my life," he added. "I've found myself wishing that I had died that night."
Imagine enduring the following:
"That night, after being released from the hospital, Abbott laid awake in bed. He felt disassociated from his body. Almost catatonic. "I just didn't feel anything," he said. "My whole head was spinning. I shot someone. My job's over. My career's done." Within 72 hours, the Broome County District Attorney cleared Abbott of wrongdoing. Ultimately, the man that Abbott shot would plead guilty to aggravated assault on a police officer. He was sentenced to 12 years in prison. But that didn't ease his anxiety. "Just because my shooting was ruled justified, doesn't mean I'm okay with what happened," he said. "I don't think humans are meant to hurt each other." "Every interview I've ever had they ask, 'If you become a police officer, will you be willing to use deadly physical force to save your life, or save the life of someone else, and every time I said, 'Yes,'" he added. "I knew I could do it. But I didn't know how it would affect me afterward."
No one does. ... Until it happens to them. Precisely, why help needs to be readily available.
"Abbott went on medical leave. He began having night terrors. Loud noises, the smell of burning rubber and other triggers set off flashbacks and panic attacks. Some days he felt like he could barely move. Other days he was hypervigilant, constantly scanning the horizon for any sign of a threat. The orthopedic injuries he sustained — he would have to have at least two surgeries on his knee — made Abbott feel like he'd never recover. He began to isolate himself from his wife, Michelle. He didn't want her to know the details of what happened, or how he felt. "I thought I was protecting her, but I was really hurting her and myself," he said. "It put a wall between us and made me feel more alone." Abbott had no idea what it was like to cope with a mental health condition. He had never been depressed or anxious. Compounding the pain he felt was a gnawing feeling of shame. "I had most of my life invested in law enforcement," he said. "It just was out of my control. I felt helpless."
Sadly, tragically, incomprehensibly, didn't get the help he needed:
"But in the days following the shooting, Abbott said his supervisors asked little, if at all, about his mental health. "They asked about my physical injuries," he said. "They didn't refer me to any mental health resources. It was, 'Hey, how you doing.' Like a box to check. Not, 'Is everything okay? Are you sleeping at night?'" "I didn't need to be committed," he added. "I needed hope. I needed resources. I needed someone who could start a path toward something."
Get this:
"Like other law enforcement agencies, the New York State Police has an Employee Assistance Program, that a police officer can draw upon to find a psychologist, a rehabilitation program, or other resources. According to a spokesperson for the New York State Police, the EAP "is available 24 hours a day and responds to all critical incidents, including the one that injured Trooper Abbott. Our EAP services are available to any employee at any time, as requested by either the employee, a family member or a co-worker." Abbott said he asked the EAP for help finding a psychologist, but didn't get a call back for two weeks. Eventually, he was referred to a psychologist who practiced two hours away. He realized he would have to find help himself. It took weeks, and dozens of rejections by providers who didn't take state worker's compensation, but he finally found one an hour and a half drive from his home. That psychologist diagnosed him with PTSD."
Total failure of the system. Gets worse. Much worse. Outrageously, so:
"That's when the harassment began, Abbott said. In meetings and in calls with his captain, Abbott said he was shouted at, made fun of and pressured to come back to work, despite his diagnosis and the severity of his symptoms. He said his captain pressed him to push his doctors to sign paperwork clearing him to come back to work. "I'd say, 'I'm listening to my doctors and when I can come back, I'll come back,'" he said. In April 2018, as Abbott walked out of one of his first therapy appointments, his phone rang. It was his captain. "He said to me, 'This is bullshit,'" Abbott said. "You need to come back.'"
Jesus Christ. Incredible. Had he done so, could have been a danger to himself and the public.
"By this time, he said, rumors were starting to swirl around the barracks that he was making up symptoms in order to get a medical retirement. The pressure he felt to get back into uniform and the shame he felt for not being able to, weighed on his chest like a pile of rocks. "I was angry," he said. "I was hurt." Despite reporting the incident to the EAP, he said, the calls and aggressive behavior continued. At therapy, he said, "We'd spend the whole time talking about what the captain did, what the sergeant did, what's being said about you at work. Not about the actual incident." His breaking point came in May 2018, when he called to reschedule a meeting with his captain."
The following is beyond incomprehensible. Well beyond:
"According to Abbott, his captain said, "Not to be a dick, but it's not like you were blown up by an IED" — an improvised explosive device like the kind U.S. troops in Iraq have faced. Abbott muted his cell phone and screamed. "For him to say that, it devastated me," he said."
The captain is clueless. Unfit to be in a position of authority.
"That night, he searched online for the least painful way to die by suicide. "I felt like, you know what, my work doesn't support me, my EAP doesn't support me, I felt like I had nothing," Abbott said. "I had been a police officer since I was 20 years old. This has been my whole life. I've lost everything. I've lost friends. I've lost coworkers. I was at the end." Then he met Jim Banish. Jim Banish and his brother Joseph shared everything. Identical smiles that could light up a room. Dreams, hatched during childhood, of becoming police officers. In 2008, Banish received a call that would re-chart the course of his life. Lieutenant Joseph Banish had been found dead at home, in his gray New York State Police uniform. He committed suicide with his service weapon.
"As Jim Banish learned more about mental health and the effects of trauma, he began to share his knowledge with other officers who needed help. Word spread. He began receiving calls and texts, at all hours of the day and night, from police officers across New York.
"The model of peer-support that Banish was developing had been implemented in some agencies for years. Police officers, by nature skeptical of both the institutions they work for and of anyone who isn't a cop, are often more likely to open up to their peers — men and women who understand the job, the culture and the stigma that first responders face. "I'm not a psychologist," Banish said. "Take my uniform off and put me in a room full of police officers and I wouldn't get one person to call me. But if I throw a gun and badge on my side, and walk in with my story, every one of those guys and girls will call. It's a matter of trust." A trained peer counselor can serve not just as someone to talk to, but as an advocate who can help a police officer navigate the bureaucracies — whether internal or external — that can obscure the path to recovery.
"The following year, Banish started a non-profit called NYLEAP — the New York Law Enforcement Assistance Program. Like its sister organizations in South Carolina and Virginia, among other states, NYLEAP provides immediate assistance to police officers who need it, and also trains first responders to work as peer advocates. Banish and his colleagues, through NYLEAP, also consult with law enforcement agencies across the country, and hold Post-Critical Incident Seminars, where first responders and military can learn about the effects of trauma, connect with other peers, and meet with trained clinicians. It was that network that ultimately set Abbott on a path to recovery. Just like Banish did that night when he picked up the phone in his bedroom, Abbott made one last attempt to get help. He called his former partner in Virginia, where he had worked for two years as a Norfolk city cop before he joined the New York State Police. Told him how tired he was of trying to get better. His partner told him about VALEAP, which was established in 2008 in the wake of the Virginia Tech mass shooting, and the murder of two detectives by an armed man in Fairfax County. He invited Abbott to attend a seminar. "It was amazing," Abbott said. "Everyone shares their story. They don't tell you it's to fix you, it's to give you resources. To give you coping mechanisms to set you on the right path."
Finally, some light at the end of the tunnel:
"I said, 'I need help,'" Abbott said. "I'm not getting it." Jim Banish "fired back right away," he added. The men began to meet. Banish kept up constant contact with Abbott. They texted at all hours. Banish regularly drove nearly three hours each way to meet with Abbott and Michelle at home. "We all think we're going through it by ourselves," Banish said. "Because no one else talks about it. He thought he was alone. I said, 'Frank, this is common. We're going to get you through this. And I guarantee you, you're going to be better than when you started.'" Banish's independence, Abbott said, is part of what made him trustworthy. His assistance is confidential. Independent. No internal politics. "He serves no other purpose than to make sure that me, my wife and my family are taken care of," Abbott said. "There's no hidden agenda."
"Today, as Abbott goes to the therapeutic appointments that fill his weeks, Banish is always in close touch, ready to drive him to a meeting or lend an ear. Recently, as a summer afternoon would[wound] to a close, the two men sat together in Abbott's kitchen, reflecting on how far he's come. "He did all the work himself," Banish said. "He's a tough son of a bitch." "I would trust Jim with my life," Abbott said."
Help is available. Law enforcement must ensure it is always readily available to officers who desperately need it.
"Abbott is unsure whether he'll return to law enforcement, the occupation he has built his life around. He still feels discouraged, anxious and angry, and his symptoms have not gone away. But with treatment, Abbott said, the vice grip PTSD once had on him has lessened. It pains him to know that his son will likely never see him in uniform. But he's determined to recover. To be the best husband and father he can be. Banish reminds Abbott that, no matter what, policing isn't worth his life. That the darkness he's caught in now is temporary. "I know because I've been there," Banish said. "Things are going to change. And if you can get through that temporary moment, that time when it's the worst, it's going to get better. It's not going to be like this forever." For perhaps the first time in a long time, Abbott believes that. "I can't go back to the person I was," he said. "But there's light at the end of the tunnel."
Indeed, there is.
Tim Chorney, Publisher
Liberty In Peril