Remembering Chad Dermyer

I was struggling with what to say about Chad today because there is just so much there is to say. But I think I’m just gonna keep this simple, honest, and I will do my best to point out the most important parts of remembering Chad.

March 31 marks the 9th anniversary of the passing of Trooper Chad Dermyer of Virginia who lost his life when speaking to a suspicious person inside the Greyhound bus terminal in Richmond, VA who opened fire, killing Dermyer.

I never met Chad in my life, but his story has had an amazingly crazy, profound affect on me. I was introduced to who Chad was by his brother John when I worked with him at my former place of employment. I could see in John’s eyes as he talked about his brother how close they were, and how much pain he felt in knowing that his brother was not here. As I write this today, I remember how emotional I became as John spoke, not just about what happened to Chad, but who Chad was and how hurt John was by his passing.

I was on a mission, from that point on, to make sure that no one got passed me without hearing about Chad. I shared with so many people who he was. I watched his funeral and saw the impact he had on every single person he crossed. He cared. He was honest. He was courageous, going into places that others wouldn’t go, saying the words that others are afraid to say, standing up for people who others disparage and put down. It is such a rarity in this world, that I felt compelled to make sure that everyone heard about the importance of impact and how all of us are capable of making a difference if we become receptive to the needs of others and not stay trapped in our own bubble.

A few years would pass, and I would leave the job where I met John and first heard about Chad. Unfortunately, I left that job under bad circumstances, and my friendship with Chad’s brother ended. I had a lot of reorganizing to do in my own spirit, and needed to do some reconnecting to myself spiritually, mentally, physically and emotionally. THAT story in and of itself would last for pages and pages that I don’t want to go into, but it was grueling. If you’ve ever shoveled snow after a massive snow storm, you know how hard it is to lift heavy snow and rustle through the cold as best you can to get to the pavement. But then when you’re done and you see that you’ve accomplished something, you take a sigh of relief and know that you CAN do this thing when it happens. I was shoveling through snowstorms that had piled on heavy snow for a lot of years. I finally started seeing another counselor who diagnosed me with PTSD due to my trauma. Taking care of my mom under insurmountable circumstances, knowing that I am on board to now take care of my dad when something happens scares me, countless cut offs from people who I truly love and care about, and just dealing with myself and looking myself in the mirror trying to find peace was so difficult.

But…for the first time, I started to see pavement.

I kept getting these crazy “messages.” I would wake up and read a story in the paper that would have 756, Chad’s badge number, all over the place. I would have a low glucose and thought that I would hear Chad’s voice telling me what to do as I was driving a car home to get sugar, telling me to remain calm and listen to the directions on the GPS. Going for walks and thinking that he was talking to me…then finally, I said to myself “This is bull shit. I didn’t know Chad, never met him, never had a relationship of any kind with him and this is not real. I need to stop.”

Some years later, I went to see my friend Susan Tedeschi perform in New York City. My Dexcom sensor shut down. I had no extra sensors with me, and no way of being able to check my glucose. My friend Amy and I were walking a lot that day, and decided to stop at the 9/11 museum and memorial. I was very concerned that I would have no sensor for my trip and told Amy we had to sit down so I could fix this.

I called Dexcom and the person on the other end was trying to help me, and I was being very difficult, mainly out of fear. They kept asking me for the serial number of my transmitter. The transmitter is the battery that connects to the sensor and makes it so the sensor can work. The transmitter lasts for 3 months. I normally just throw it out when it runs out of “juice.” Every time you connect a new transmitter, you have to enter the serial number and I normally do not pay attention to it at all. I just want the sensor to work. This Dexcom representative asked me 7 times to give her the serial number and it was pissing me off.

FINALLY the sensor started working and I was so happy. The representative asked me to repeat the transmitter serial number so that I could remember it in case my sensor failed again. My sensor has never failed like this prior to this incident, or since this incident.

This would be the 8th time that I shared this serial number but I thought, okay. I’ll share it again.

8-X-C-H-A-D.

8XCHAD was the seriel number. They asked me 8 times to say it. My current seriel number is 8ASB2F. This was not normal.

And I thought, I was so pig headed that Chad knew I’d throw that sensor out with the transmitter and would never know that it was him talking to me. If the sensor hadn’t gone out, I would have thrown the transmitter out.

I shared with my friend the things that I had been hearing and telling myself to stop thinking about it

because it wasn’t real. I told her about when my mom went into the hospital and the numbers outside of her door were 756. I told her about all these things I had been seeing and how I was trying to tell myself it wasn’t real. This time, I knew it was real. Because I would have thrown this transmitter out if I had not been encouraged to repeat the serial number. And then I started crying out of pure joy. And being the friend Amy is, she just cried and held me too.

So why am I writing this as a remembrance of Chad Dermyer?

Because I realize how much I’ve become better because he exemplified better

Because I listen to instincts more than deny them, cause that’s what he did

Because I’ve learned to love my husband fully and appreciate him every day, like he did his family

Because my diabetes is in great control, like how he took care of his health

Because I’ve made it a point to deal with my PTSD and mental health challenges, like so many veterans do

Because I’ve learned to manage my cognitive distortions, because Chad made people feel better about themselves

Because I’ve learned to treat myself with respect, kindness and love, because that’s how he treated others

Because I’m learning to go where others are to afraid to go, because he went there

Because I stand up for those who can’t stand up for themselves, because he did that

Because the help that I’m getting is helping me see myself clearer; therefore, I can see others

Because I’m much less angry, and way more aware, because Chad exemplified happy

Because I ‘ve learned to listen more than I talk, because that’s what Chad did

Because I look at Chad’s life and how he lived it, and I do everything I can to follow his example.

I carry that transmitter with me everywhere I go. I want to put it on a necklace at some point and wear it around my neck because if I can’t find it, sometimes, I feel lost. It always shows up. But I just don’t want to lose that symbol.

Chad, the world lost a beacon of light; someone who led people out of darkness and into a better sense of being. The world lost a protector and hero. The world lost a devoted father, a .loving husband, an amazing brother, a fun and warm uncle, a gift of a son and a dedicated veteran and law enforcement officer who would and did lay down his life to protect others.

But I I know that while your body may not be here, this transmitter keeps me going and you are here. It’s my battery when I feel drained. It’s my guidance when I feel lost. It’s my proof that hope exists at times when I feel hopeless. And I thank you for being in my life, even if through my Dexcom which sometimes drives me nuts. But…

It keeps me alive.

You are missed and will never be forgotten.

Chad Dermyer

April 19, 1978 - March 31, 2016