The sun had barely started to wake, and I was shuffling through the dank parking deck with my mother, both of us distracted by thoughts of my oldest daughter’s upcoming surgery, just a few hours away. It was already hot and humid, but I got a chill as we headed to the deserted walkway that linked the parking area to the deceptively vacant children’s hospital. The small handfuls of people who were also making their way through the pre-dawn wakefulness were already tucked safely inside the building, filling out forms, readying their minds, and saying their prayers.
I glanced around. I couldn’t see anyone. Nothing was moving except the two of us…and a noisy pile of dried leaves, mingling in the wind with an ancient fast-food bag and an empty soda can.
Almost out of nowhere, a young man appeared to my right in the nearby stairwell. He was moving quickly. I froze for a moment, watching him ascend the stairs and disappear out of sight. He may have been a college student, an employee, or a visitor to the hospital, just like us. But I realized that if he had been someone intending to do us harm, he could have approached us quickly and nearly unseen. And I, physically and emotionally readying myself for a few days at the hospital to take care of my daughter, was unarmed…and heading to a gun-free zone.
As I continued to look around, checking to be sure that we were headed in the right direction, I spotted two emergency help stations. One was standing in the corner of the long, empty sky bridge we entered. The station looked weathered and unwelcoming with its faded yellow cover and dingy red button. I wondered if the machine even worked. I wondered how long it would take for help to reach that awkward, isolated location. I wondered how long it would take my mother or me to reach it, had we been approached or attacked, right outside of the hospital. I wondered what people would do if an assailant brought a firearm into this gun-free zone. And I wondered why people would rather depend on this pathetic excuse for help and protection than on a tool for self-defense.
For a brief moment I paused and stared at the emergency help station, thankful that I’ve chosen to exercise my Second Amendment right—for my protection and for the protection of my loved ones—but also angry that this is what I now had to rely on if I needed help in a life-threatening situation. This gun-free zone was, somehow, supposed to be a safe place. And this ugly, metal box was supposed to be my comfort, my protector.
I don’t know about you, but I don’t want a “help” button. I don’t want my life (or anyone else’s) to depend on a flimsy piece of technology and the hope that someone will find me and rescue me in time. I want an equalizer. I want to depend on my gun and on my training to defend all that I hold most dear.
