Happy Ending
Wednesday night right before 11 p.m. our house
was broken into by someone—or someones, as we don’t know how many. We were in
bed asleep when we heard a loud bang, followed by more banging. As soon as we
realized the door was being smashed, I called 999 and was put straight through
to the police while my partner started yelling down the stairs to try to warn
off the intruder(s).
My partner, who used to be a volunteer fire
fighter, had the presence of mind to post a message on the internet letting
folks far and near know we were being burgled—only in his haste he typed,
“There are burgers in the house.”
Thankfully there was no bodily harm, and we were able to clean up the shattered
glass and replace the contents of our stolen wallets with relative ease. The
burglar(s) managed to steal a total of ten pounds sterling (about sixteen U.S.
dollars), enough for a couple Happy Meals.
“They say” we humans learn by hearing, seeing, or
doing. While most people employ all three to some degree, each of us relies primarily
on one over the other two. In general males learn mainly by doing—giving
credence to the stereotypes of not asking for directions or reading
instructions. Females predominantly learn by hearing—perhaps because literacy
and autonomous action have long since been denied us, and we’ve had to rely on
“gossip” and oral forms of communication to impart wisdom and knowledge.
Speaking for myself, that horrible crashing
noise—my first thought was that a vehicle had rammed into something on our
street—is one sound I do not ever want to hear again. But even though we were
victims of a crime, we were not left to feel victimized thanks to the verbal support and sympathy that was backed up by visual commitment and vigorous
action.
From the second I phoned the police—the break-in
was happening as we spoke—until I said good-bye—only after a uniformed officer
ran up the stairs with a police dog to check things out—the dispatcher’s clear,
calm tone helped us to focus on what was happening and to keep safe. She remained
on the line with me, asking critical questions (Where are you? Where are the
intruders? What’s the lay-out of your house?) and giving vital instructions
(Stay upstairs. Open a window and watch for the police who are on their way.)
When I went downstairs, I was met by a female
officer who asked me if I was okay and would I like a cup of tea. I poured
myself a glass of milk and my partner got a little whisky to settle our nerves.
We began to express to the police what had happened. Neither one of us saw the
intruder(s), who left before the police arrived, and part of me is relieved not
to know what they or he—everyone assumes the perpetrator(s) was male—looked
like. The police asked us to point out what the intruder(s) had done: kitchen
cupboard doors were left ajar (looking for a cookie jar with money in it?), a
dining room closet door was opened (revealing the boiler and a stash of
crackers and corn chips), and muddy footprints were left on a bathroom mat
(which got washed as soon as the forensics official had dusted for fingerprints).
That night one officer took a statement from my
partner in the living room while another officer took my statement in the
study. The ability to converse—to hear myself answer who, what, where, when,
and how (we’ll probably never know why)—was, I realize as I write this, a key
step in recovering from the shock of the situation. And receiving from the
officers concrete assurances (a carpenter would arrive soon to board up the
broken door, and a forensics official would come in the morning to dust for
fingerprints) enabled us eventually to get some rest.
While waiting for the carpenter to arrive in the
wee hours I phoned my mother, six time zones away, and relayed what had just
transpired. Hearing her familiar voice brought comfort, and then listening to
her describe what she was fixing for dinner made me laugh—which was a huge
relief. Afterward I took the opportunity to type up the basic facts about our
break-in and print them on half-sheets of paper addressed to “Dear Neighbour.” Doing
this helped check my adrenaline, but more importantly, it allowed me to take my
own statement and thus take back some
control of an uncontrollable event.
At 8 a.m. two different officers visited us
before going door-to-door to alert residents in the area. We gave them our
story and I showed them my leaflet. Over the course of the day, as we spoke to
more and more people, our narrative unfolded. It became less about details, immediate and in the present
tense, and more about drama, as last
night’s actions became past-tense and we added our hindsights and hearsays and
to-do’s.
One to-do was to thank the Glasgow Police
officers and personnel, each of whom responded magnificently to us during and
following our traumatic moment. In our letter of gratitude we again told the
tale, beginning with the dispatcher, the officers who arrived on the scene
within minutes, those who stayed to take our statements and patrol the area,
the carpenter, the forensics official, and the two officers who worked on our
case the whole next day. Lo and behold, they returned to our house at 5 p.m. with
my stolen backpack, fanny pack, and wallet, with all the contents still intact.
A good citizen had spotted the bags in a backyard and reported them to the
police. We very much appreciate that it ended up being a long night and a long
day for the police. For us it made for a happy ending.
