Every day my husband goes to work there’s a chance he won’t come home

When my husband left for work on Tuesday morning, we were on bad terms. I’d snapped at him over something silly, even though I was the one at fault. Rightfully, he walked out the door in a huff.

The weight of my actions hit home later in the day, when news broke that two police officers – Neal Thompson and Vadim De Waart – had been shot dead and a third seriously injured near Porepunkah in Victoria’s High Country.

My husband is a regional police officer, as was Thompson. (De Waart was on secondment to the area.)

Most days, I manage to push my husband’s job to the back of my mind. It’s easier for my own mental health not to think about the risks he faces daily: the unstable people, the isolated and the drug-addled, the irrational, the downright bad.

While it’s now clear that police had some concerns about Dezi Freeman before they attended his property in Porepunkah, it’s impossible to believe any of them could have expected how tragically events would turn out when they set off to serve the known conspiracy theorist with a search warrant.

Some nights, when my husband is late home, my brain can’t help but start to play out the worst-case scenario. I imagine flashing lights out the front of our house, the dreaded knock on the front door.

On Tuesday, my stomach filled with dread at the realisation that it just as easily could have been him not coming home as it was Thompson or De Waart. And I’d have to live with the fact that our final words were an argument over a broken sink plug.

It’s difficult to put into words the relief I feel when he walks in each night. But when an unfathomable incident like the one we’ve seen this week happens, the what-ifs rear up. Immediately, my mind races to the horrific deaths of officers Lynette Taylor, Kevin King, Glen Humphris and Josh Prestney, whose final moments were cruelly captured by Richard Pusey. Of Gary Silk and Rodney Miller, who were shot dead in Moorabbin. Of Matthew Arnold and Rachel McCrow who were killed in Wieambilla, Queensland.

After almost 40 years of service, Neal Thompson was a month off retirement. Vadim de Waart had just achieved the great Australian dream of buying his first home. Like all of us, they had families, friends, colleagues. They had hobbies and plans for the future; they were core to so many people’s lives.

I speak of my own mental health, but that should be the least of my worries. What about them?

Can you imagine heading off to work every morning, unsure if you’ll make it home in one piece? Not knowing what stresses you might face on any given day? While I enjoy a morning cuppa, my other half is often too busy cleaning up society’s messes to even think about putting the kettle on. It’s a thankless job, and not one that can be switched off after hours.

When you break it down, my job basically involves tapping at a keyboard. But people like my husband walk into a pit of fire every single day. Pulling over someone in a car? Risk. Talking to a random person on the street while in uniform? Risk. Knocking on somebody’s front door to issue a warrant? Unimaginable risk.

It’s a sad fact that police don’t wear anything that identifies them as an officer while they’re travelling to and from work, such is the potential threat they face from disgruntled or unstable people. My husband doesn’t even like people knowing what he does for a living. There are too many people out there who have it in for cops, he says.

And yet, there has been some lightness in this dark week. There has been an outpouring of support for the police. A guard of honour was formed as Thompson and De Waart’s bodies were taken to the Coroner’s Court. The Wangaratta police station, where the officers worked, has been inundated with flowers and cards; some from friends and colleagues, others handwritten by children. My husband’s own station, hundreds of kilometres from Porepunkah, has been similarly inundated with flowers, food hampers and messages of gratitude.

It would be wonderful if this kind of thanks could continue every day, and not just when tragedy strikes.

Stephanie Packer is a newsletter producer for this masthead.

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