The Dangers of Unresolved Grief
The Ride: part 2
The Ride: part 2
...As he slowly walks over to my car, I hurriedly struggle to pull myself together and try to look as innocent and naïve as I can in an attempt to soften the blow. What's wrong officer? Was I speeding? I stupidly ask after lowering my window to talk to him? "Speeding?" he says with a tone of voice that says it all. "You must be kidding me," "I clocked you at a hundred and five km an hour", "the speed limit in the village is fifty km" he carry on leaving me no room for explanations. I guess there are none I must admit. I’m guilty as hell and I know it. I than deduce though that I still must have slowed down a bit somehow at one point, because I was riding way faster than that in those back roads. "But let’s not tell him that, I’ve got a feeling that it wouldn’t work in my favour,” I think. After he says his piece, he politely asks for my papers and goes back to his car to do whatever policemen do in cases like this.
So as he sits in his black bomber doing his thing, I hesitantly get out of my Caddie, wave to him in a gesture that says, 'I’m crossing over to the post office to get my mail'. He casually waves back at me with an OK sign through his cruiser’s windshield. Hum "strange" I think, "I usually would be confined to my car while he’s verifying if I’m not an escaped prisoner or a wanted terrorist on a mission". "Oh well, cool" I think and proceed across the street to pick up my mail. It's only after coming back from the store that the whole thing starts to get a little bizarre.
Just as I open my car door, I hear a voice calling my name (my first name that is) "weird" I think, usually in past similar situations, cops exhibited a polite intimidating air and a 'tight ass attitude' as they called me 'Sir'. But no, not this guy and in a reassuring but intriguing manner he addresses me like so; "Pierre, would you come over here please"? Whoa, what's going on here? I think suspiciously and intrigued as to what kind of tactic he’s pulling on me, I walk cautiously towards him. "Ordinarily, I would never do this,” he says, "but would you please take a look at the radar screen through the window of my cruiser and read the speed I clocked you at?” as he points with his finger at a gizmo inside the car. It was not a question, but a clear directive. Ouch! One hundred and five km flashing in bright red, no denying that at this point and instantly visions of dollar bills with wings pouring out of my wallet starts to float around. Vague images of prison bars and handcuffs are not far behind.
Getting even more bizarre now and to what phenomenon I can attribute what is about to happen, I can only guess. The young officer must be psychic, or maybe he reads a big sign flashing over my fat air head saying, ‘crazy newly widowed, please handle with care.’ I don’t know.
But in any event, the young man hands me back my papers and with a nice smile says; ''I'll let you off with a warning for now, I don't like to ticket the locals, so please be careful next time''.
"Geez... Aaah...hum.. well, thanks officer,” I awkwardly spit out and, completely stunned, I walk back to my car. I can't say that I feel relieved or appreciative though, for at this time I am still under the influence of my crazy rush, and strangely enough the thought of loosing demerit points and paying a huge fine isn't truly a concern, actually I really couldn't care less. It's only after a few hours of winding down at home that I realize what I have done, and I almost have a fit...
Dr. Pierre Milot, Ph.D., Ph.D. (tc)
Therapeutic Counsellor - Life Coach - Author
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