May 18, 2023

It’s only taken me 15 years to recover.

As some of you know, I used to be a police officer.  I spent almost 25 years in law enforcement and I saw the gamut of calls.  Because of this, I often find myself succumbing to thoughts of the past triggered by present actions.  Some memories are pleasant while others are just plain, well….yucky.

One such memory occurred several years ago when I was a police officer in my hometown.  My partner (who will remain nameless *cough* Kadle) and I were dispatched to a medical aid.  I hated medical aids because they typically meant walking into a stinky house and dealing with someone who was leaking some sort of bodily fluid.  We’d come in all officious, having a tank of oxygen to offer and a pearly white smile.  It was like bringing a garden hose to a forest fire at times.

This particular medical aid was not too bad due to the fact the victim had respite care and was basically just in need of an expensive ride to the hospital.  My partner and I were only required to stand around and look attentive, and then pack out EMS bags or lift a gurney, as necessary. As we walked in the door, I was quickly relieved to find the house was not too high up on the stinky factor.  I was almost four months pregnant and highly sensitive to any sort of smell, so the lack of stench was much appreciated.

While my partner and I stood around watching the EMT and paramedic make preparations, I casually glanced around the cluttered room of the small house.  The victim was bedridden and looked to be a voracious reader.  Magazines, books, and miscellaneous food items were strewn about her tiny abode, covering the furniture and dining room table.  In the middle of the clutter I noticed a small white ceramic pot filled to the brim with what appeared to be berry cobbler.  Being prego, my mouth instantly began to water remembering how I had missed my mid-morning snack because of this call.  Lunch time was already calling my name and I knew that cobbler was bound to taste delicious.

I whispered over to my partner, acknowledging the dessert’s presence, and told him I was starving.  He look at the little pot, looked back and me, and gave me a weird look.  Thinking he hadn’t heard me correctly, I again quietly comment about the cobbler present on the table and how tasty it looked.  I saw him again look, but this time, frantically write a word on the rubber glove he was wearing.  He then held up his hand and I read the letters, “BM.”

I gave him a weird look and just ignored him.  What the hell was he writing about?  I assumed the “B” stood for blackberry but had no clue about the “M.”  My stomach continued to growl and I knew the baby would love to have a heaping, healthy portion of blackberry cobbler.  My partner noticed I kept looking at the bowl and I saw him again, frantically write on his rubber glove.  He held it up to me again, this time right in my face with two complete words:


I gagged, excused myself, and then walked outside to get away from the pooh filled chamber pot, a.k.a. blackberry cobbler. My partner was left to help the EMS staff while I tried to keep my breakfast down.

And that is the reason I cannot eat blackberry cobbler.

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