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 "Ruth didn’t waver. She was always there with back-up, with a joke, with whatever words were required..." |
Without Victors |
A crime they can't stop:
The theft of a human life
of TheColumnists.com
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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 actually
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 Ruth off work, we assumed it
was the usual--just enough down time to recover and then return
to the trenches. Injuries never kept her 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 criminals,
Ron would come home to 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 wishes and messages.
Wishes 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.
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with love and gratitude for your friendship, courage and example. ...GINA GALLO |
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Ruth Hayes Paliga died on April 30, 2003, shortly after her dear friend Gina Gallo filed this column. The writers of TheColumnists.com join with their colleague Gina Gallo in expressing our deepest sympathy to the Paliga family. |
©2003 by Gina Gallo. The Gina Gallo caricature is ©2001 by Jim Hummel. The other illustrations are from IMSI's Master Clips Collection, 1895 Francisco Blvd. E., San Rafael, CA, 94901-5506, USA.
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