Wisdom of the elderly

He would not be happy to be called "elderly" which is why I do, of course.  He calls me a "tough old broad" and this is my payback.  My mentor with whom I had lunch on Monday is a retired cop.  I called him to say I needed advice.  After twenty-five years on the force I knew he had stories.  I've heard many of them.  How he got through the difficult cases, of which he had many, was what I wanted to know.

"You're asking the wrong question," my cousin says as I tell him of the upcoming lunch date.
"What do you mean?"
"You asked him how he got through twenty-five years of seeing the worst in people, right?"
"Right," I agree.
"You need to ask him how he got through the first tough case he ever worked on."

If this were a cartoon, this is where you would see a light bulb over my head.  My cousin is right.  I decide to do just that.

We're sitting over a classic, Italian thin-crust pizza, my mentor and I.  I start in with the question my cousin suggested I ask.  My mentor swigs his beer and says, "You're going about this the wrong way, sweetheart."  I put my fork down. 

"No, I'm not," I protest.  "This is going to help me.  I need to know.  The first really bad case you had.  How did you deal with it?  Did you throw up?  Did you get drunk?  Did you do something stupid to let out what was inside?"
"You have to remember," he continues, "I was trained before I ever saw my first dead body.  I knew what to do before I went looking for the first missing kid.  You," and here he points at me with his fork, "didn't.  You didn't know what you were getting into."
"But, your first case," I say and he interrupts me. 
"No."  Just that.  "No."

I'm silent for awhile.  Why won't he answer my question?  I really think this answer will help me.  I want answers.  I really do.  I look up and am about to say something when he gives me a look.
"Listen," my mentor says.  "It's not about the first case or the culmination of twenty-five years of seeing bodies dumped in barrels."  My pizza doesn't look all that good any more. 
"See, in police work there's a bucket.  We all get handed this bucket," he makes a box with his hands.  "Not a real one," he says, looking at me looking at the empty space in which he just drew an imaginary box.
"Our cases, the shit we see, we spoon this shit into this bucket one teaspoon at a time.  It takes a long time for the shit to build up in the bucket.  The first case is hard, yeah.  But, we have other cops, older cops around us to help us through it.  You," and he points at me again, "didn't.  You were all alone.  You practically filled the bucket with one job.  What you saw and did was really that hard.  You saw the same shit day in and day out.  Our dead bodies go to the morgue.  We don't see them any more after we find them.  You had all this going on all around you and you couldn't get away.  It's different, sweetheart.  Do you get that?"

I do.  I get it.  I did fill my bucket too fast.  I was unprepared but I also couldn't possibly have been prepared.

"And, for whatever it's worth, the dead bodies in the barrels were the ones that bothered me."  I don't say anything.  "You've got to remember," he says, "cops are supposed to close cases.  We're doing this for the families.  For closure.  You don't get to do that.  There's no closure here for you.  You get to come home, yeah, but that's not closure.  It's like you've got a hundred open cases you can't do anything about.  No wonder you feel like shit."

I ponder his words.  They're true.  My mentor did not give me the answer I wanted but he showed me another way to look at why I'm having difficulty sleeping and am still dreaming.  I'm grateful for this.  It makes me feel less like a basket case and more like someone who went through a tough time.  I'm accustomed to thinking of myself as a strong and capable woman.  I still am.  I just happened to have gone through something intense beyond words.  His words make me feel better.  I look up to him and say, "thanks."
"Any time, kiddo."

Oh, and if he weren't someone I think so highly of, he would never get away with calling me "sweetheart" but he does.  I really do like him that much.