Twenty-two years ago, when my youngest son was just an infant, my family spent the day moving into some low rent apartments. Things were tough for us financially at the time and we had to accept that this was all we could afford.
After a hard day of moving furniture with the help of a couple of friends we went a few blocks to a burger joint to eat supper. Returning to our new digs a scant half hour later we were amazed to see legions of police cars, a circling helicopter, and a couple of ambulances just a few doors down. It seems that a drug bust in an adjoining apartment had gone bad and two cops were shot all to pieces – one dead, one seriously injured.
That night we didn’t sleep a wink, and the following morning we reversed the previous day’s process and moved the hell out!
My youngest son has heard this story all his life. Now he’s a medical student working towards his doctorate and he works part-time at a local orthopedic clinic. Today he was interviewing a patient whose current complaint stems back to injuries received 22 years ago when he was a police officer and got shot during a drug bust. One question led to another and … you guessed it… it was the cop who survived the shooting that night in the apartment a few doors down from us.
Small world huh?