My husband boxed in his younger days; he tells me there’s a myth that each boxer has a limited number of matches in him, and then it’s done. Even the boxer himself doesn’t know when it’ll be up, until it is. Then he knows, and it is.
Perhaps paramedics have a set number of rapes or murders or child batterings they can run. Each one is tough, each one shouldn’t happen. But you pick yourself up, you run your next call. Or a hundred.
But one day, you run the one. The last. And then you know.
Maybe. Maybe I’ve found mine.