Despite the fog, officer’s wife clearly sees community’s support

Shortly before I show up for the interview at her rural home north of Springfield, Kristie Kilcullen finds the words scrawled a few pages into a blank notepad:

“I love you, sweetie.”

They were, of course, from him: her husband, Chris Kilcullen, the 43-year-old Eugene police officer who was shot and killed April 22 by a motorist he’d pulled over on Highway 126 in Springfield.

Not far away sits a box of hundreds of letters and sympathy cards that have poured in from strangers. From widows of other officers killed in the line of duty. From school kids — “my favorites,” Kristie says. From “sweet little old ladies” who might include a $10 check for her two kids’ scholarship fund.

So, on the notepad: a reminder of the man she’s lost. In the box of mail: a reminder of the support she never knew she had.

Grief and gratitude amid what she calls the “fog” of instant widowhood.

“I’m not sure ‘comforting’ is the right word regarding the outpouring because my heart is so broken right now,” says Kilcullen, 40. “I’m not sure anything can comfort me. But it’s touched me. Deeply.”

In some ways, even overwhelmed her: learning, for example, that the University of Oregon had donated Matthew Knight Arena for her husband’s memorial service.

On the night before the memorial service, walking into a room at EPD’s command center to see dozens of law enforcement officers who’d arrived from around the state to help organize the procession and service. “All these people who gave up a week of their lives and kids’ baseball games,” she says. “I wanted to hug every one of them.”

Seeing, from inside the limo during the procession, a throng of people lined up on the Mohawk Boulevard overpass across Highway 126. Then, after fearing less community support in Eugene, finding herself pleasantly surprised. Among those paying their respects: a man in the Whiteaker neighborhood whom her husband had arrested before, hoisting a beer in his honor.

Opening a bill from McKenzie Disposal. “Our heartfelt condolences,” it said. No payment needed.

Hearing the sound of a car outside and realizing it’s another daily meal being brought to the family by Lane County law enforcement families; the schedule runs through early July.

Realizing that the May 6 Dutch Bros. coffee fundraiser brought in $61,000 to fund scholarships for her two children. And that more than 3,200 people have stamped their approval on a Facebook site to have that stretch of Highway 126 named in her husband’s honor.

Being surrounded by an entourage of family and friends and Chris’ co-workers, there to serve and protect.

All of which feels good, she says, until she sees the Rock Band drum set in the corner of the family room and remembers her husband. “He said he was never going to grow up. He was a little kid in a big-boy uniform.”

Until she sees the custom chicken coop he built out back or the Duck football jersey with Chris’ badge number, 248, on it, given to her at halftime of the UO spring game at Autzen Stadium eight days after his death; “he’d be over the moon with that.”

Until she flips through what she thought was an empty notebook and sees his handwriting.

“I’m still in shock, completely,” says Kilcullen, a wad of Kleenex in her hand. “Breathing is my goal.”

The hardest moments? “Telling (4-year-old) Katie her dad was not coming home. Or every time she picks a wishing flower and blows on it and says, ‘I wish daddy would come home.’”

And how, as an adult, she tries to say something comforting but, deep down, feels just as Katie does. “People say I’m strong,” says Kilcullen, who is taking a break from her job as a State Farm claims adjustor in Springfield. “I don’t feel strong. I feel heartbroken.”

But appreciative. And cautiously hopeful.

That her husband’s death will awaken some people to the respect police officers deserve, she says, but don’t always get. Say, when officers use force in a situation and some immediately assume it’s a case of police overreaction.

“Too many people play armchair quarterback and think we should Kumbaya situations that can’t be Kumbaya-ed,” she says.

She said as much in a letter that was read on her behalf at the memorial service, a letter that was forthright but, she tells you, actually toned down from the original.

“He goes to work everyday to protect people, puts his life on the line and we sacrifice and miss birthday parties and pagers go off while you’re leaving for vacation and he’s 100 percent gone during football season and after a while, yes, resentment builds up when you don’t feel people appreciate that,” she says.

But after his death, she saw another side to the community. Now, she wonders if she misjudged the amount of support there is for the police. Or if Chris’ death has inspired such support.

At any rate, she says, Chris would have loved to see the respect paid for a fallen officer.

“Everyone is hurting and coming together and it’s mind-boggling,” she says. “I’m cautiously optimistic things might be different now. I want families of cops to realize something: If, God forbid, anything like this should happen to your family, this community has your backs.”

No, it won’t ease her grieving, but she’s sensed it in every letter she opens. Every blue ribbon she still sees flying. And in her walk up the Autzen Stadium aisle after the halftime presentation. Applause from adjacent fans followed her up like a vertical wave. But what she remembers most was one older man whose respect, she’d like to believe, wasn’t intended so much for her as for Chris and for every man and woman in blue. He stood at full attention, hand on brow in full salute.