Requiem for a Warrior

"We few. We happy few. We band of brothers; For he that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother."

William Shakespeare
There's a war raging, one you won't hear about on CNN. In this war, there's only one combatant, locked in a battle that will have no victor. The warrior is Ruth, my friend and colleague, now in the final round of the fight for her life.
We were warriors together once, Ruth and her husband Ron and me - young cops battling in the war zones of Chicago. Barely more than kids then, we believed in what was right, believed enough to fight for it. Those inner-city streets we patrolled were a non-stop reality show of war and crime and the human condition, all around us in living and dying color. We were the ones designated to right what we could, contain the mayhem, and somehow hold on to the belief that, despite all evidence to the contrary, we could make a difference.
We bled together. Worked those streets and racked up injuries along the way that happen in any war. At the time, we shrugged them off. There are no battles without casualties, and if only the strong survive, then we were survivors, deriving our strength from each other, the band of warriors who stood together.
With the rest of us, Ruth learned to 'walk the walk' and back it up with the action required to survive on the street. She saw it all - predators and prey, screaming victims, crying kids, and somehow held on to her freewheeling spirit that bouyed us all. Even when the landscape we worked was washed by tears, steeped in blood that was sometimes our own, Ruth didn't waver. She was always there with back-up, with a joke, with whatever words were required during the toughest times to remind us that we were warriors, comrades, and family.
In combat, there is no sense of time, only sequences of experience that you struggle through, hoping to survive intact. Which is why cops are aware of moments more than years, have no real grasp of how fast time is passing because they live in the present, the only thing that's assured them. It's also why those same kids you started out with will always be young in your mind's eye, in spite of years passing and the heavy toll taken by the battles we fought.
How do you describe someone you've laughed and bled and sometimes, almost died with, certain of nothing except that you'll do it again, go out there the next day and every day thereafter because that's what you do? We thought we'd last forever. An impossible concept that Ruth proved to be the cruelest myth of all.
When yet another duty injury kept her off work, we assumed it was the usual - just enough down time to recover and then return to the trenches. Injuries never kept Ruth down for long, and never stopped her laughing about them. Stuff happened, she'd say, grinning past the leg cast or over the newest set of crutches. No big deal. But that last time, it was.
Multiple sclerosis, the doctors said. Teams of specialists came next, so many that their various opinions brought nothing but more confusion. Some believed the disease was triggered by the staggering number of head and spinal injuries Ruth sustained at work. Others claimed not to know the causes, only the prognosis, which was grim.
Within months, Ruth was confined to a wheelchair. Within a year, the warrior who'd stood beside us was bedridden and paralyzed. Now she faced her most daunting battle: spending the rest of her life a prisoner of her own flesh.
When faced with adversity, cops - and warriors - know better than to ask why. Instead of questioning, we only consider the odds and the outcome of our actions. Most times, we hope for the best. When it's clear there is no 'best,' we hope for the strength to get through. For 14 years, Ruth and Ron have fought this war, struggling through each day, each hour with the same determination. After a night of fighting crime, Ron would come home to face a more covert enemy. The disease was relentless, withering and contracting Ruth's limbs, depriving her of all feeling and control of her body. The same warrior who once tracked down criminals couldn't hold a fork or spoon. As the illness advanced, the woman who'd laughed and cheered us on could barely speak.
Now those of us who stood with her and counted her among our numbers are helpless. As she fights this last battle, there's no back-up we can provide, no words that will change the outcome. Each day her battle is harder, and the fighting takes a heavier toll.
"She can't swallow," Ron tells me. "She won't eat."
The last time she tried to speak, her words were garbled - wounded-animal sounds that raged against this enemy. Reminding us all of the courage it takes to fight a war that guarantees defeat.
"Semi-comatose," Ron whispers through his tears. "She's trying to hang on...."
Ruth's eyes are closed now, shuttered against what she sees ahead. Nothing to do but keep this final vigil, and acknowledge the bitter irony of a roomful of cops who can't prevent this final crime - the theft of her life.
Her breathing now is wispy as angel's wings. We stand together silently, because there are no words, only prayers and messages. Prayers for Ruth's safe passage, and, from her band of brothers, a message of love and lasting peace when she finally lays down her sword.
This column is dedicated to Officers Ron and Ruth Hayes Paliga,
with love and gratitude for your friendship, courage and example.

Copyright 2003 by Gina Gallo