First responders to tragedy offer comfort to Jackson resident

When my husband and I moved to Jackson in the summer of 2003, we were told by several people to watch out for the Jackson police. It was said that they were all too gung-ho, did not believe in any type of leniency, regardless of circumstance, and let's just forget about a sense of humor, not to mention kindness or compassion.

On Aug. 28, my husband passed away at home in his sleep. I had gotten up early, as usual, fed my horses and had returned to the house for a cup of coffee and to wake up my husband for work, since it had appeared that he had overslept.

To say that my world shattered into fragments and that I was totally panicked when I couldn't wake him is the understatement of a lifetime. I called 911.

The Jackson police dispatcher was kind and efficient, trying to calm me and at the same time to solicit the information that she needed to get help to me. She was very concerned that I was alone.

The first officer on the scene was Officer Mitchell Kafton. By telling me what he was going to do before he did it, such as checking on my husband and telling me who was coming next and what each person's functions were, he helped me to feel that I was somewhat in control of my surroundings and of all the strangers that were about to invade my home.

He learned that I did my husband's accounting and that is how he occupied me - obtaining necessary information and numbers until the others arrived. Except for that one time, he never left my side until others arrived.

The next person I remember speaking to was Officer Steven Scaglione. What a kind man he was. My dog was lying outside the French door, keeping an eye on me, and Officer Scaglione got me talking about her. He then told me about his dog and we traded dog stories for a while. I can't explain how talking about the familiar helped me hold on.

It's hard not to notice that we have a horse farm. Officer Scag-lione got me talking of the horses in my care and told me stories of his adventures as a want-to-be racehorse trainer.

I will be forever grateful that he decided to be a police officer instead. His conversation with me kept me grounded to this world and gave me something to hold on to, like throwing a rope to a drowning man.

I next spoke to Detective Michael Cunningham. His concern for my well-being was in his voice and eyes, as he asked if I had family or friends to come be with me, or that he could notify. My answer to both questions was no, but I was to learn in the days ahead that my husband had paved the way of friendship to many people, and that they were there to help me if I would let them.

Many questions were asked and answered, many people came and went, and I felt as if my world and all of our hopes and dreams had been destroyed. It took me five days to realize that Detective Cunningham had gone through the back door of my mind and was able to determine the two men that my husband worked with daily and had the utmost respect for.

Detective Cunningham called the one who lived the nearest to our house. When he told me this, I was absolutely furious. I didn't have a rule book for this situation and I wasn't ready to tell anyone or to accept what had happened by saying it out loud to someone.

The next thing I knew I was in the arms of that man and his wife and we cried for our loss together. Detective Cunningham knew what I needed when I did not, and that was for me to accept help from people who cared for my husband and then, by extension, for me. He set about to arrange this for me when I couldn't.

These four people did not pull me out of a burning building, nor did they rescue me from a wrecked car, but they as surely saved what is the rest of my life as if they had.

Fran Knapman

Jackson