CHAPTER 7
Since the shooting, I've developed a real phobia about hospitals. I'll fight anyone who tries to make me go to one. Even when I have no choice, I still won't let them admit me unless I'm too out of it to know what's going on. Even Hutch can't get me to go voluntarily. One time, he actually had to handcuff me to the door handle in the car so I wouldn't jump out before we got there. I just can't help it, the memories of the shooting left more scars then just the ones you can see on my body.
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I'm not ashamed to admit that I suffered from severe depression for months after the shooting. Hell, who wouldn't have?The doctor prescribed medication that was supposed to help but it didn't. Maybe because I refused to take it most of the time unless Hutch slips me one without me noticing it. He got good at doing that with some of my meds.
As I got stronger, I also got more stubborn and started resisting the constant 'mothering' I couldn't help it. I was so sick and tired of being sick and in so much pain all the time. I felt guilty because I took my frustration and anger out on Hutch, the one safe target for me to vent my emotions on. I knew this was as hard on him as it was on me.
Some days, my whole world seemed black and hopeless. The only saving grace was Hutch's unwavering support and encouragement. Hutch used to sing to me a lot, both in the hospital and at home. I always loved to listen to him. I think he hasa terrific voice but he seldom sings for anybody but me. He has a terrible case of stage fright when he gets in front of an audience. Sometimes, his singing was the only thing that seemed to keep me sane.
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I've never had much use for shrinks. I don't want anybody messing around in my head and trying to analyze me. When police officers are hurt in the line of duty, especially if they are shot up the way I was, they have to see the police shrink before they can be cleared to return to work. I've seen more than my share over the years, so I'm pretty good at playing the game and telling them what they want to hear or just ignoring them completely.
After the shooting, because of the special circumstances involved, I was assigned to a private therapist instead of the regular department psychiatrist. I was sent to a doctor who specialized in treating both victims of violent crimes and post traumatic stress victims. He didn't try to get inside my head, he just let me talk about whatever I felt like talking about. If I didn't feel like talking, then I didn't talk.
In the beginning, we talked about everything except what had happened to me. After a while, I started to trust him and open up more about the shooting and how I felt about it. I came to consider him a friend and not just another one of my doctors. He really helped and my depression began to lift.
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At first it was strange sharing a house with Hutch. Sure, we spent the majority of our time together before the shooting, even spending the night on each other's couch half the time, but actually living together twenty-four hours a day is a completely different thing. Hutch tends to be a bit of slob, while I'm more of a neat freak. Blame that on Maw, my Aunt Rosie and a stint in the Army. Keeping things neat and orderly is just second nature to me. But after a couple of weeks, we settled into an acceptable routine.
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I'd been in so much pain for so long that, at first, I didn't notice when I started being able to do things easier without so much discomfort. The first time I realized I was actually getting better was the night I was able to roll over in bed by myself with feeling like my chest was ripping open. I was so excited, I started yelling for Hutch. I scared him half to death, he must have thought I was dying or something. I had to laugh at the expression on his face when he came storming through my bedroom door. But, once he found out I was okay, he was excited as I was that I could actually do something without so much pain. It was definite improvement.
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I was bored out of my mind. Daytime TV will rot your brain. The highlight of my day was checking the mail. I missed the job, I missed driving my car, I missed being out there on the streets with Hutch busting the bad guys. Hell, I even missed Captain Dobey yelling at me. But all I could do was sit on the couch and wait for my next round of pills so I could drift off to la la land for a while. Finally, Hutch talked to my therapist and the doctors and they agreed that he could start taking me out of the house for a short time each day, to the park, maybe out to eat, or to a movie. Nothing strenuous, just something to get me out of the house and help ease me back into a more normal routine. Once, I even had Hutch take me to Temple. Maw would have been proud.
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Since the shooting, it seems like I'm always cold. I used to be just the opposite. Now seems like I always have to have a cover close by, sometimes more than one. The doctor told me that it was because my system was still healing and that my internal thermostat was still out of wack. But it sucks to be lying on the sofa curled up under a couple of blankets and shivering on a hot California night as you wonder if you'll ever feel warm again.
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With all my various medications, I wasn't allowed any alcohol and there were times when I really missed the taste of an ice cold beer. A couple of times, Hutch relented and pretended not to notice when I stole a sip of his, but not very often. And I usually regretted it. My stomach let me know in no uncertain terms that it had not been a good idea.
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After a few weeks at home, friends from the station began to stop by. It was good to see them but I really resented the pity I imagined I could see in their eyes. I always hated it when I thought that somebody was feeling sorry for me. I knew a lot of them must be thinking 'Poor Starsky, he used to be such a good cop, now look at him'. I knew some of them thought I was washed up, a has been, that my career as a cop was over. And the truth was, I wasn't so sure myself that it wasn't. I didn't need anyone else feeling sorry for me, I was doing a pretty good job feeling sorry for myself.
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I really really missed my car. The Tornio needed extensive body work to repair the damage done by the bullets that had cut through the metal framework just as easily as they had torn though my body. It also needed new side windows on the driver's side and a new rear windshield. The upholstery in the front seat had also been damaged by broken glass and had to be replaced.
All my friends had taken up a collection to help pay for the repairs and Hutch was footing the bill for what the collection didn't cover. Even Merle was helping out by not charging Hutch anything for labor, just the replacement parts.
So I had to rely on Hutch or Huggy Bear to take me to my various appointments and pick me up. But I still missed not being able to drive myself. You don't realize how much independence a car gives you until you have to do without one.
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The first time I tried shaving by myself was a major accomplishment as far as I was concerned. I stared at my reflection in the mirror and wondered if I could do this without cutting my own throat. I lathered up my face and carefully drew the razor down my cheek. So far, so good. Half an hour later, I finished a task that normally would have only taken me ten minutes. I had my fair share of nicks but nothing major. I felt proud of myself for being able to do one more thing for myself that most men took for granted.
