I was on my beat; it was not unusual for me to work as many as twelve hours, maybe even more, on a given night.  I usually worked the graveyard shift:  more pay, more excitement, more chance of things happening when you least expected them to.

I had been a police officer for over 20  years when I got shot; I was busy trying to capture a robbery suspect who had robbed yet another house in the rich part of town.  He struck the Goldberg place:  he stole an untold amount of cash, plus jewelry and other things he could possibly take with him as he and his buddies tried to make their getaway.

I knew the thug might be armed; I took all the necessary precautions.  I didn't try to capture the robber on my own:  I had two or three other guys as backup.  I tried to approach him, stealthily, cautiously.  I don't know what caused the guy to panic, but something spooked him:  he raised his gun and fired.  BAM!  The noise deafened me; it was so loud.  I felt a sense of white-hot, burning pain in my lower back, then nothing.  That was when I mercifully passed out.

When I woke up several days later, I was surprised to find myself in a hospital bed, hooked up to some sort of traction device.  I couldn't feel anything below my waist; it felt like the lower part of me was missing; yet when I looked down, I was shocked to see my legs and hips still attached to my waist.  I knew something bad had happened; otherwise, I would have felt the pain that was probably ripping through my body, in particular, my back.

I was tethered to a sea of tubes; monitors hummed, hissed and beeped as they recorded my vital signs.  I had a mask over my face; I was having some trouble breathing; this was why the medical staff was giving me oxygen to ease my breathing difficulties.

I had a whole set of questions to ask the nurses, which I did.  I wanted to know what happened, and why.  They told me point blank I had to speak to the doctor; they couldn't give me the diagnosis.  So I waited for the doctor; he came in:  a shortish, dark man with thick, wavy black hair and a strong accent; sounded like he was from India or somewhere in that part of the world.  He told me that I was paralyzed from the waist on down; the bullet that  hit my back had severed my spinal cord.

I would have to use a wheelchair for the rest of my life once I recovered and underwent a regimen of physical and occupational therapies and rehabilitation.

The news was devastating.  I knew it would be bad, but I had no idea it would be this horrible.  I would now have to do things sitting down; I would now have to live life as a person with a permanent handicap.

*to be continued.*