Seasons

It's been a good long time since I've been on here.

Things at my fire agency went absolutely to crap a couple of years ago after a change in leadership.  That's why the fire stories dried up.  No joy in writing about them any more.

Due to the changing tides of volunteerism, the agency ended up hiring more full time personnel several years ago. Management did not do a good job managing the culture shock.

In an established department, you've got seasoned veterans who kick the new guys in the teeth as often as necessary until they learn to respect the job and the agency's history.  Problem was, management basically established that the new paid guys were essentially "officers", even though most weren't.

Being young and full of bravado and feeling the recentism from being fresh out of school and knowing everything, they failed to respect our older volunteer personnel, who had legitimately earned their commissions.  You see, our volunteer officers were not "elected", they were always appointed after meeting fairly strict training requirements.

On paper, paid or volunteer was not supposed to matter.  Firefighters were firefighters, and officers were officers, period.

So, following fire service tradition going back centuries, our volunteer officers began kicking the new paid guys in the teeth when they were dickheads or disrespectful.  The new guys whined, and the new management backed them up, undermining our agency's entire history and culture, marginalizing our volunteer officers.  Unsurprisingly, our entire base of volunteer officers all left within a single year.

And it just went to hell from there.

Eventually I think the Chief started to figure it out, but it was far too late to repair the damage.  The new guys got their own elected officials in office over the Chief, and then the Chief was fired.  The Deputy Chief was promoted to interim Chief, with no desire to hold the job permanently.  The electeds, totally out of control by now and micromanaging everything, drove the Deputy nuts.  In June of 2015 he announced his retirement effective at the end of the year.  By October, they drove him so batshit crazy he gave his minimum two weeks notice and bailed, unable to stand them even four extra weeks.  That pretty much says it all.

Anyway, with the new management in place, volunteers are being phased out.  On paper, they still exist, but as a mere show.  They get used as abused interns, never allowed to think for themselves and never utilized in a way that promotes their growth within.  Turnover is absurdly high, by design in my opinion, to justify the inevitable ending of the program entirely.  Once upon a time the volunteers were trained to be autonomous, to be community-oriented, to know when to go grab a rig, to be trained enough to respond directly to an emergency scene and size things up or make an EMS intervention, and appropriately meld into the ICS structure when more resources arrived.  No longer, as today none of the volunteers can work without direct career member supervision.  I guess this is partly because all the volunteers who had more training than the paid guys are all gone now.

Also, now the agency only responds from two of its five stations.  They closed and sold a sixth one - without telling the residents in that area beforehand - and are using that money to buy an unnecessarily fancy new fire engine.  There are rigs sitting in the other three stations that literally have responded to zero incidents in over two years.  Zero incidents.  The buildings are abandoned, dusty, leaky ceilings unrepaired, falling apart, with trucks mostly stripped of equipment but holding ceremonial spots for fire insurance rating purposes.  Those stations are mere storage facilities now.  Just a few years ago we would turn out rigs from all of our stations for a structure fire, but those days are over.  The agency still has four tankers, but is lucky to turn out even one for a structure fire because there's no one left to drive them, instead relying on mutual aid for water.  Classy.  In fact, the last few fires, water tankers had to be called from as far as over 20 miles away.  Neighbor agencies are already tiring of carrying this one, but the long term agenda appears to be merger into the neighbor city, and liquidation, leaving the rural people hostage to the city's whims.  Because once your agency has been gutted and you have no assets, no money, and no volunteers, how do you restart from scratch if you don't like what the city is offering?

Bear in mind this isn't a tired retread of the paid vs. vollie debate.  This was the second combo fire agency I've worked at.  I've worked alongside paid guys with lots more training than me, and also alongside paid guys whose hand I needed to hold at many calls.  We're all supposed to be on the same team.  This story is one of too many 2-20 hotheads coming in and no one there to teach them respect.  When they spend their days drawing logos with phrases like "Station 54 - The Filthy Few" for a house that runs less than 300 calls a year.... give me a break.  They want to be big city jakes, and their insecurities turned too many of them into dicks,  Of course, when they did get called in to one of the bigger neighboring cities and got trampled on by busy companies that actually do stuff, their feelings were hurt, and instead of learning respect and humility, they just doubled down.  No, not paid vs. vollie, but rather a total loss of culture by flooding the roster with empowered hotheads while hamstringing the efforts from those of us who've actually done this for a few years to shape their character.

Anyway, if it wasn't already clear to you by now, I am no longer part of this agency, and retired from the fire service myself about a year ago.  I haven't ruled out a return in some sort of rehab/canteen capacity with another agency, but I'm kind of burned out by being treated like whale shit on my way out after a 21-year career.  Just not feeling it any more, and that is genuinely sad.

I still work for the power company though.  Always neat things going on there.

Maybe I'll pick this blog up again, maybe not.  But that's where things are today.

Keep the faith, and stay safe out there.

Another Sendoff

The power dispatching world is a small one, a very tight community.  I've bounced around a little, as have many of us, and I now know folks in dispatch and operations management all over the country that I have worked alongside literally or figuratively.

The best power companies have an internal family structure very much like the fire department, very familial.  You work with the same two or three guys on a shift for years, it gets that way.  And you bitch about guys on the other shifts who don't clean up or put things in the wrong place.  Sometimes we can get pretty owly with each other about the dumbest things, but none of us would bat an eye at loaning a car to each other or families sharing a cabin for the weekend.  Sound familiar?

For that reason, when something bad happens to a member of the extended family nearly anywhere in the country, just like in the online fire community, it tends to impact someone you know within a degree or two.

Last week the Bonneville Power Administration lost a lineman out on the west coast, near Spokane I think.  He fell from a transmission tower during routine maintenance, and while he was wearing a full harness it is not clear what went wrong yet.

I know the feel in the dispatch center when you get that first frantic field call of an injury to personnel.  Of hearing voices on the radio you're familiar with remaining calm but with that edge that tells you its bad.  Just like the fire service.

Word started to filter around, and I got an email from a colleague the same day.  The name sounded a little familiar, and I couldn't figure out why.  I went to Facebook to contact a former colleague and old friend who dispatches for BPA now, because standard response for all of us is to pass the hat for the family, to get the details we needed to help out.  And right there in his short list of friends on his profile was the fallen lineman.  Probably where I had seen the name before, I guess.

He had just celebrated his first anniversary earlier this month, and his wife is expecting a son.  These never get any easier over time, fire or utility LODDs, but it helps knowing that in this kind of organization (just like fire), his wife and son will be well cared for by the brethren.

My BPA friend emailed over some pictures from the procession today.  The colors of the trucks are different, but the emotion is the same.

Rest easy Matt, your brothers will take it from here.

Appreciation

I ran into Steve at the local Gas-and-Go today. We had a long chat. I hadn't seen him in over a year.

Steve left our fire department a couple of years ago because he no longer had time to devote as a volunteer, and he was struggling to make ends meet. He needed every hour of his day to be available for work. It had been seven years since he had finally decided at the age of 37 to follow his dream to become a career firefighter, and although he poured himself into the job and every training opportunity, he never seemed to get high enough on any lists to get his career badge.

He wasn't one of those guys that just was never going to make it, he nearly always made the list where he tested, usually in the 20s or 30s at the bigger agencies, in the teens or better at the smaller ones. We all told him that he just needed to keep after it and eventually he'd get in.

When he left our agency, he hoped to get on at a smaller outfit with less activity demands so he could keep the dream alive, but today, he told me that he had finally just let it all go and let his EMT lapse as well.

He needed a shave, and he needed new shoes. He's a good-looking guy, but just not getting any breaks. He was trying to keep his eyes dry and voice steady as we talked about his family. Trouble at home with the wife, but they're keeping things together for the kids for better or worse as long as they can, trying to do the right thing. Upside down on his house equity, and just barely making ends meet with his contracting work.

I've been very fortunate to get a lot of breaks, and I wish I could share some of mine with Steve. He's just sad and far away right now. He needed a hug and I gave him one, and he was unable to stifle a single light sob for that.

Some of us are pretty heady guys, we've got our nice trucks and boats and enjoy a brew with the brothers on someone's back deck from time to time, looking sharp in our FD T-shirts and badass sunglasses. Living the dream.

There isn't much we can do for the Steves of the world to get them into the career gig, but it is worth respecting the commitment they have first to their families by not letting the FD totally consume their lives until they lose everything else. Steve saw the cliff approaching and withdrew from the race before he lost it all, and that is an amazingly honorable thing to do. You don't have to have a badge to be honorable.

Next time you're hanging around with the guys and living the dream, make sure you take a good look around and drink it in. Appreciate what you have, because it is a gift that has no substitute and should not be taken for granted.

God bless, Steve. I'll be praying for you and your family. You are missed.

The Sendoff

We lost three employees during my tenure at my previous rather heartless and cold power company gig, and other than passing a card around, not much else was done except feel bad..... mainly because no one was really doing anything else.

At the new power company gig, it clearly is a family. It's like the fire department. I love my new job.

Howie's memorial service was billed as a celebration of his life. A large convention hall was reserved at one of the new hotels on the edge of town. A couple of bucket trucks were set up to form an arch and half-staff flag between the buckets that everyone drove under to arrive. And as a special touch, Truck 579 was detailed and shined up, and parked inside the building.

A catered dinner was served, and mourner/celebrants walked a long row of tables filled with pictures of Howie throughout his active life both in and out of the company, and stacked with memorabilia and artifacts of his power company career. All his current gear at the time of his passing was on a table, and elsewhere were his past helmets, certificates, mementos, awards. It was beautiful.

There were probably about 750 people in attendance. It took ninety minutes to get people to finish looking over the displays of Howie's life and quiet down for the slide show. My phone camera is ancient so the resolution isn't that great.

I found Howie's best friend and ran an idea by him, something we've all seen at firefighter memorials. It made him a little emotional, and he then ran it by Howie's widow to see if she would be OK with it. She was.

After the slide show was a group toast and a moment of silence. Then, from Truck 579's radio, came a voice.

"Dispatch to 579."  The room had been quiet already, but now you could hear a pin drop.

"Dispatch to 579."

........

"Dispatch calling Truck 579."

........

"Truck 579 is 10-7."

It's hard to describe how the room felt, but it was powerful. Bringing a firefighting memorial tradition into there was the right thing to do, and I've been hearing people express appreciation for it for over a week, again and again. I keep reminding them that it wasn't "me" that did it and I don't want credit, but that it worked because of the kind of guy Howie was. It was not easy for the dispatcher who called it out, either, and he also deserves credit for making it work when he couldn't be at the service and couldn't see its effect. It worked because when guys retire from here, it is a big deal to go 10-7 for the last time, but as Howie went out sick and never returned to duty, he didn't get his 10-7 moment.

We saw to it that it happened anyway.

This is a good company, and I am lucky to be in this family.

Call Grumpy

I'm the only seriously active firefighter in my part of the district, and living so close to Station 51 means when either rig rolls out of there, my voice is pretty much always the one on the other end of the radio.

When you've served this long in one place, the people in your neighborhood get to know you either by direct contact or word of mouth for both good and bad moves. Still, it surprises me sometimes how it comes about.

My father-in-law works in fleet management for a large transportation outfit a few hours from here, and was hundreds of miles from home at a business function, chatting casually with the regional safety manager for his company. Somehow they got to talking about home, and the safety guy mentioned that he lived in the same county that we do.

"Oh really," my father-in-law said, "my daughter lives around there, on Lower Valley Road."

"You don't say," said the safety guy, "I live right about there, too."

"Yeah, her husband is a firefighter there and usually runs out of the station up the road from you."

"Oh, you mean Grumpy and Mrs. Grumpy? You're telling me he's your son-in-law??"

The way it was told to me, the conversation went on with the safety guy saying nice things about us and how he and his neighbors appreciate both that I run so many calls for the neighborhood and that Mrs. Grumpy helps that effort by being awesomely supportive.

I've actually never heard of the guy. Never responded to his house. Point taken, though, that your reputation precedes you one way or another. It was a really nice thing to hear about.

========

So last week I took in a middle of the night call for a medical emergency. The address was familiar, as the guy has had a few medical issues in the past, but I hadn't been there since 2009. I walked in and said "Hey Barry, it's Grumpy from the fire department, been a while since I've seen you, what's going on this morning?"

I heard the wife's voice in the dawning of comprehension as she said "You're Grumpy??"

Seems Barry was suffering stroke symptoms, and while he seemed to be bouncing back from what I assume ended up being a TIA, he was at that moment still struggling to speak clearly. As I put him on a high flow NRB and collected vitals while awaiting Medic 97, his wife explained that she woke up when he was acting strangely. The only thing she was able to make out before deciding to call 911 was "Call Grumpy." She had no recollection of my name, and was thoroughly perplexed. Now it made sense.

When Barry was fearfully struggling against the fog of a stroke, of all the things he might have wanted to say, it was my name that he punched out in his plea for help.

I am seriously and substantially honored and humbled at how that played out. I'm just a small cog in the big machine, but point taken that when the chips are down and the people call us, our arrival leaves a powerful impression for good or bad.

Reputations and impressions last a long time. Carefully ensure that you are investing in making the right ones.

Barry's home again and made a full recovery according to what I heard. I'll have to go by and see him this week. I am, after all, the neighborhood beat fireman, and should know my people.

Bad News

Truck 579 has been parked or occasionally borrowed by other servicemen as a reserve rig since I got here. But 579 is not a reserve rig. It is Howie's ride. Or rather, it was.

Howie announced his retirement yesterday. He has been off work since shortly before I started here. I actually have never met him, because he has not stopped by when I happened to be on duty. Howie has been fighting cancer since mid-summer. He had a major surgery at the beginning of September, and when he went home to recuperate, pretty much all of our servicemen - on and off duty - were at his house to greet him. They had arranged a couple of trucks to have the buckets raised and crossed over his driveway, a "welcome home" banner stretched between them.

As an aside...what a great company this is. That would never have happened at the old place.

Anyway, yesterday we got word that he was putting in his papers. He found out on Monday that new cancer spots were found in many places, including on his lungs. The doctors prescribed pain meds and told him to go home and get his house in order. All I hear is how he isn't at all concerned for himself. All his worries are about his wife and parents and children. That is character.

The gloom in the control center is palpable. Howie is very well-liked and well-respected across the board. Although I never got to meet him, I am sad by association because my guys are all down about it.

His name has been on the board by 579 for months awaiting his return, but with the papers filed he isn't coming back. I haven't found the courage to remove it, but sooner or later another name will be assigned to Truck 579 and I won't be able to avoid it any longer.

If you are willing, send positive thoughts in whatever way you choose to do so to Howie and his family.

So That's How it Ends

Engine 56, Squad 56, Medic 98, possible cardiac arrest...

I was close to Station 56 and made the squad, responding behind the duty crew in E56.

The dispatcher advised us that the elderly female patient was found caught between the bed and a wall, and that her daughter couldn't detect a pulse and couldn't get her freed. Not a good setup for the patient.

As the Engine arrived, the dispatcher further reported that the patient's 96-year-old husband was also present in the room in an adjacent bed, and that the daughter couldn't remove him from the room, either.

E56 reported a probable code and then went radio-silent. Busy. But by the time we arrived and were entering the home, they came back on the air to amend their situation to DOA.

It seemed like it would still be prudent to move the husband away from the sight, so we set about trying to do that. He was not cooperative at all, and kept asking questions. He knew there was trouble, but not precisely what it was. Awkward. EMT classes don't teach that part. But then his daughter stepped in and told him the full truth.

He calmed immediately. He rested his head on his pillow. His eyes focused on nothing in particular. Then he whispered the words. "So that's how it ends." He slowly turned his head to look out the window, and sighed.

We gathered our equipment and left the room without a word. There was nothing we could give him nor anything he wanted from us. He remained turned away from us the entire time.

As we walked through the modest home, without the focus of an emergency, there was time to observe. They had apparently lived there for a very long time. Everywhere, pictures of family, the couple, portraits, vacation shots. The story of two lives as one, of a long marriage.

We see this all the time, but it still wears on you. And it makes me reflect on how the story of my marriage to the most amazing woman in the world will end. It will have to eventually, one way or another.

Fill your days with love and life. The sadness of the final parting may not be avoidable, but you should take the initiative to make the story worth telling and worth experiencing, with no regrets.

With no regrets. That was the piece I hadn't processed. He was sad, no doubt about it, but his peaceful acceptance told me he had no regrets.

There's your reminder. Do with it what you will.

Reflection

The internet is a strange thing. It is a great equalizer even while providing opportunities never before possible.

Michael Morse recently spoke of Blog Snobbery over at Rescuing Providence. It allowed me to reflect on why any of us blog about anything at all.

This blog is not all that popular in the world of Fire and EMS blogs, and I'd be the first to acknowledge that I'm not much of an expert, nor do I have years and years of inner-city or busy suburban fire and EMS experience from which to form my views.

As an aside, I am killing the top ratings of power dispatcher blogs. Woo hoo! Perhaps this is because, as far as I know, this is the only one out there.

It amazes me that I get any love at all, really. Most of my favorite blogs have added this one to their blogrolls. This astounds and humbles me. I am not worthy. When the blogs run by the Happy Medic and MotorCop were on the rise, I was inspired by their examples to start this one, from a mutual desire to vent a little on the side.

So I am sitting here tonight, thinking about my very young days. Even as a teenager when I realized firefighting was something I'd like to do, I remember visiting the fire station in my neighborhood to learn more and absorb from the guys. I remember their stories. Mostly laughs, a lot of rants, a few holy-crap-how-did-we-do-that moments, and every once in a great while someone would open up a little on bad calls.

I reflect on those guys, now all retired, part of a great generation of the fire service in the 70s and 80s. Bigger than life, and I know I can never measure up to that standard.

But somehow, thanks to the internet, I write a little blog. And I get readers who I esteem highly, that I would probably be afraid to approach at FDIC or Emmitsburg or wherever. I will never be able to accept that anything I write is ever going to measure up to how I look up to those guys from back in the day. Yet I continue to be - for lack of a better word, astonished - that I ever get quoted or commented on by so many whom I hold in high esteem.

Really, one day I am sure you guys will figure out that I really am a nobody. A dedicated and occasionally humorous one sometimes, but not otherwise a contributor of note.

This service is filled with nobodies. To those we serve, none of us are nobodies, though. While we are rarely recognized for what we do, I know that we make a huge difference. We are nobodies who work hard, train hard, live right, operate with integrity and honor.

Few of us will have our names written on anything that will see the light of day after five or so years of our retirements. But here we are.

I still can't comprehend that I am a card-carrying part of this brotherhood even after almost 20 years of membership. It means something, and is an exclusive group.

So I am forced to conclude that I am not a nobody, that none of us are. That we all are capable of contributing without going down in history.

And my part is to write a silly little whiny blog. A few laughs good for the heart, and maybe a couple of brothers who learn something about power lines enough to save their own lives or others.

That's worth it, I guess.

I'm not sure I ever made the point that I vaguely had in mind when I started rambling, but this seems like a good place for me to shut up and reflect some more.

---

Update late 4/15: Per the comment added by Chicken Little, see also this post at Firehouse Zen.

The Changing of the Passions

Mr. January (the best-looking Captain with our agency, nicknamed as a male pinup calendar picture) was standing next to me as we looked down the embankment. We had three relatively new guys with us on Engine 53, and had sent them down. Full of vim and vigor, rummaging and blundering through the brush and sticks, looking for a body, living or otherwise, they labored on. Fumbling with TICs and box lights, tripping over vines, getting branch whiplashes to the face. Occasionally looking under the upside-down car yet again. They were a determined crew, and wanted Mr. January's silent approval. They wanted to find the prize.

Behind us, the crews of Medic 98 and Engine 56 were packaging the guy who had been the passenger in the car, which was now missing almost its entire front section. How he got out of the car and climbed up here is anyone's guess. Considering that he should probably be dead, he's doing pretty well. Well enough to insist that his girlfriend was driving, and that she never wears her seatbelt.

We found his stuff in the car and strewn around, and not a shred of evidence - purse, makeup, clothing - to suggest a female presence. He gave us her cell number, and we called it. No sign of a ringing or flashing phone anywhere, and no answer. Car is registered in his name. Is this sounding familiar yet? Assumptions in this business can be a dangerous thing, but everyone knows that he was actually the driver, trying to duck the charges. Still, we played the game, and got plenty of just-in-case searching help from the deputies.

Mr. January just stood there. No smile, no frown, no emotion, as his kids continued to crunch around down there.

I reflected on why I wasn't down there with them. Nor the Captain. We agreed that having energetic greenhorns can be a good thing. I looked at him with a grin and asked a question.

Where's your passion? Nothing seems to excite you any more. Doing this too long?

This is me being passionate. You should see me when I am bored.

I can't tell the difference, then, you always look the same to me. Stone cold good looking, but unchanging.

That's because I'm always passionate about this job. Our young crew is doing a good thorough job down there, right?


Yes. Yes, they are.

They make me happy. They're enjoying what they do, and I am enjoying helping them enjoy what they do. You enjoy that, too, don't you?

Yes. Yes, I do.

Mr. January's passion isn't gone. It's just different. As is mine. Slowing down and staying calm isn't a loss of passion, it is a focus of it. Those who lose it, leave. Yet, here we are.

I hope I never lose it. Thanks for the reminder, Captain.

Still, I didn't feel too bad about letting the kids do the searching on the hillside. I'm getting slightly too old for that kind of play if it can be delegated. And sure enough, the girlfriend was finally awakened at home, oblivious to the events where we were.

Check your passion. It's probably still with you somewhere, so don't lose track of it.

Leave a Lasting Impression

Tonight is the expected peak of activity of the annual Perseids meteor shower. If you are fortunate enough to have forecasted clear conditions and have the ability to easily get to a dark area far from light pollution, it is reasonable to expect to see a shooting star every minute or so, maybe more. The current moon phase is also, very conveniently, nearly a new moon, so it won't interfere.

This is pure magic for children. Pure magic.

If you have kids, get them to bed kind of early tonight. Wake them again, make sure they have warm jammies, and get to your viewing location by about 0230. Bring pillows, blankets, reclining lawn chairs, and hot chocolate.

These are the magic moments that stick in the memory of a child forever. The kind of thing they will remember you for when you are gone, and that they will tell their children about, and that they will repeat for their own kids.

That's why we're going.

It's magic.

For more info:
http://www.tabwin.com/perseids/
http://meteorshowersonline.com/perseids.html

Her Cry for Help

She was rather pretty. And in pain. Scared.

The dispatch sent us to a "hemorrhage with abnormal breathing", which was nice and vague, and could be really anything. While responding, additional information came down that this patient was suffering from an incurable condition, and was vomiting.

Engine 51 and I were first due, and I was trying to be ready for whatever.

Let's see..... bleeder (source unknown) equals big band aid box, breathing trouble equals airway bag and 02, vomiting equals suction unit, and the general what-the-heck-are-we-getting-into vibe might equal an AED if a free hand remains.

Ready to go to war el solo, I walked in and found a young lady seated primly on a living room chair, coat on, purse at her feet.

Fire Department. Did you call?

Yes.

..... Where is the sick person?

It's me.

(Oh. No blood. No gasping for air. ........ OK.)

Bleeding? She claimed trace amounts of blood in her vomit (the nausea a response to her pain). Any left for me to evaluate the amount of blood loss? No, it was flushed down.

Trouble breathing? Only on deep breaths, because of the pain. Color normal, skin is cool and she is sweating a little bit.

The pain. She's tired and somewhat gaunt. She had been crying, and was getting close to more tears. She started telling me her story.

I was finishing my initial assessment and vitals, and not finding anything urgently wrong, as the rest of the cavalry arrived.

The medic asked her more questions, and I had time to look around. Pictures on the walls and bookshelves showed a much more vibrant version of our patient, perfect smile and cheekbones the envy of many models, fabulous blonde locks, clearly the life of any social gathering. Back then.

Long story shorter, she was in pain. Things were not going to get better. Her pain meds were not getting it done, and she did what everyone does when they don't know who else to call. 911 will make it all better.

Except this time, we can't. The medics explain that they can't really do anything more than what she's already got, but perhaps the hospital can.

Then, the tears again. She'd tried the hospital and run into some sort of roadblock with her insurance carrier, and she was afraid of going outside of their coverage because of the expense. We were her last hope for more relief, and we have nothing of substance to offer except an expensive ride to the ER for expensive interventions, which she hoped to avoid.

I am torn a little. She clearly knew the magic words to tell the dispatcher to get us in her living room when there was no emergency. We hate that. But all of her doors were closing, and we had nothing to offer, no way to save the day. We hate that.

The pain was real enough, as you could see in her face, but it was the fear that was taking over. And that led her to take advantage of us. We hate that, but we get it, too. Maybe I am rationalizing so as to not be angry.

There has to be more to the story. No caretaker? No family? No friends?

She signed a refusal, and cried softly.

If I ran 10-20 calls a day, I know I would blow this off and just be irritated before forgetting about it, but I don't, so I can't.

The Ladder 49 Effect

My wife literally paused the movie. It's not what you think, though.

The crew was on the roof of a burning multistory building, and a man was trapped at a window below, on the ledge, and looking ready to jump. The guys were rigging their rope equipment, methodically and expertly checking everything twice before sending a man over the edge.

My wife stopped the movie and said "I get it, now". This was years ago, but I remember it. She went on to describe how, when things get dicey at home, like one of the kids gets injured, or an appliance springs a leak and floods the basement, or we're just really late for something important, it always drove her crazy when I would sort of slow down instead of showing the appropriate amount of alarm.

Suddenly, it all made sense to her.

Actually, I hadn't realized that it was ever an issue, personally.  That shows my ignorance.

She realized that, as a conditioned response to creating order from chaos, deliberate calm must be injected into the situation. This attribute is how firefighters, soldiers, police officers, medics, etc. stay in control, prioritize (triage), and start to take apart the problem in order to fix it. For me, it is essential both on the fireground as well as in the transmission grid control center.

Epiphany realized, the film was continued.

Fast forward years.

We were in the ER with the three-year-old son #4, experiencing some symptoms of an anaphylactic reaction that nearly took ten-year-old son #2 from us a year ago. Sure, I was concerned, but on the OK-UhOh-OhCrap scale, he was only slightly on the UhOh side of OK. The nurse came in to hook him up to some monitoring widgets and get his latest vitals, and I remarked that his color was great and his breathing was not labored.

Some discussion later, after the nurse departed, revealed that wife was a little offended. She perceived that I was belittling her concern for our son and getting chatty with the help.

We had a good long talk in the ER as son #4 slept (did I mention, it was 3AM?).

She now realizes that the Ladder 49 Effect was in play here. That detachment from any actual emergency is essential if I am going to be useful in helping fix it, especially if it involves my family. I am not going to do my children, wife, or anyone any good if I am freaking out.

She understands now, that when I detach and distance myself from an emotional response when  six-year-old son #3 has blood streaming down his face from a playground injury, it's not that I don't care. It's how much I DO care. The apparent detachment is in exact opposite proportion to how concerned I am.

You've probably got that one captain on staff. You know, the one who is always calm. And when he gets really, really calm, everyone else on the crew and overhearing him on the radio starts to get a little lathered up, because when he actually puts the calm on in full force it is precisely because the OhCrap score is really, really high.

So, to those of you who detach by necessity because of how much you do care, just realize how it looks to your significant other. Wife gets it now, and can rationalize what looks like increasing detachment into how concerned I really am, but emotionally it will never work for her. When you're dealing with family, if you can remember it and if it doesn't interfere with mitigating the chaos, at least try to pretend to look concerned once in a while, for the sake of those who don't "get" how we roll.

Crossing from Comfort to Quiet Terror

A strange thing happened to me several months ago.

After a nondescript fire department planning meeting, I wandered into the kitchen. We had four in the house for the shift, including a new intern and a ride-along cadet. As we enjoyed some pizza and shooting the breeze, I noticed how the new kids were regarding the Shift Captain. Like always.

New volunteer kids and cadets have a certain regard for new career guys in the 22-26 set, like, they're the shizzle, they made it, they're gung ho, I want to be like them and succeed. They treat the middle-career guys differently, a little more silent respect, as a source not so much for how to get the job, but how to succeed and stay alive in the job and get the goods on a promotion in a few years down the road. And then of course, senior officers are generally to be avoided, you don't trouble the white-shirted Oracles unless absolutely necessary....

I realized that the new kids were treating me almost like they were treating the duty Captain.... middle group treatment. I at first wryly thought, I must be getting a little older, it has to be my age, 'cause I'm not that good, heheh....

And then the little whisper of terror hit me. These kids hopefully have a long career in front of them. But most of it depends on how they are formed and raised in the service. If they survive or not depends a lot on how we shepherd them, whether we're individually officers or not. How we protect them, and how we train them using whatever means are necessary to safely see them through to being productive contributors and eventual trainers and leaders themselves.

Good lord, the responsibility! Am I capable of that?

I was all comfortable in my place as a fairly well-experienced non-officer just 24 hours ago. Suddenly, I felt terribly inadequate. Can I do my part to keep these kids alive? Can I effectively utilize my knowledge and experience to help them save themselves and countless others of future generations in the future? Suddenly I was afraid of what I might forget to teach, all the things that can go wrong.... all the fears I have about raising my own children, amplified.

Just like that. I was terrified. I never saw this line in my career progression coming up and being crossed, and it was quite a shock. Especially because it happened in one second: bang.

In the intervening months, the quiet terror still smolders. As long as I don't let it prevent me from doing my job, I am glad it is there, reminding me of what it is I am responsible for.

Do you have the fear?

The Angel and My Ghosts

I walked out of the locker room, buttoning up my uniform shirt. I'd clocked in for a three or four hour fill-in while a couple of the FT career guys were running a patient transfer to the Very Big City hospital. It's just me and Jeff, the career medic that stayed behind.

It had only been a year or so since I got my badge, and I still felt pretty good when I got to clock in and back up the career guys.

It's pretty late. Jeff is futzing in the kitchen and I've got the TV on. Just settling in, might even get some Z's before the other guys get back.

The lights came on. The speakers in the ceiling hummed, but no dispatcher voice yet. That didn't take long. I'm the driver.... let's go! Jeff muttered and put down the bowl he was holding.

Medic 61, Engine 61, Rescue 61, Ladder 61, traffic accident on the state highway.

Not a gomer call. Sweet. The ladder is not usually on MVC's though. Wonder what the dispatcher knows that we don't.

In this agency, the Medic goes first, other units to follow when the volunteers make it in.

Jeff and I go. Driving code at night was still a kick for me, watching the lights flash on all the downtown buildings as we went through town. I ask Jeff what he wants me to do, eager to show I am heads up, but he tells me to relax, he'll figure it out when we get there.

Out on the highway. as we come around a bend, I see cars pulled over, flashers on. There's crap all over the road, but I don't see any damage on these cars. Then I notice people down the embankment. Not a gomer call. Jeff keys up.

Medic 61 arrived, two-car head-on collision on the southbound side, heavy damage, both vehicles down the embankment, multiple patients, other units expedite.

One guy is laying in the grass, lacerated all to crap. Someone is clearly pinned in the front of one of the cars, as the hood and front left tire look to be under the windshield. I see long blonde hair and an arm.

Expletive.

Bystanders report no other occupants, just the two patients. Jeff goes to the pin and directs me to assess the guy in the grass.

I lean over to identify myself and get permission to.... ugh... phew. The alcohol smell took my breath away. He doesn't really acknowledge me, so I just go to work. Lots of blood. As soon as I touch his head his eyes snap open with rage. I'm going to f'ing kill you, you f'ing blankety blank blank. He doesn't look like he's up to it, but I pause. His attention wanders. I reposition myself defensively and start in again. This time he swings at my face and nearly connects. He's sure got some fight for being so cut up.

I back off as a deputy arrives and I wave him over. Together we go in, and the deputy verbally asserts reality with lacerated man, with his flashlight out and in a skull-smacking grip. This works, and I finish my assessment, though the hate-filled eyes are on me. The guy is cut all to hell on his face and head, some cuts to his arms. No breaks anywhere that I detect. There's the blood loss from scalp lacerations, but he'll clearly survive if he doesn't have any hidden internal bleeds, but that will get sorted out at the ER. I put some 4x4s on the appropriate places. A bystander asks if he can help. He's a big guy, and looks ready to defend himself if drunk asshat takes a swing, so I warn him of the patient's frame of mind and have him take c-spine.

Jeff calls for me. I'm in a tight spot. No one else has arrived yet, and leaving the asshat is abandonment. Jeff calls again. Screw it. Jeff's in charge, so it's on him anyway. I ask the deputy if he's OK with me helping the medic. Yeah, he says, he'll call if something changes. More blue lights are arriving, and Engine 61 also draws into sight.

It's bad. The girl is moaning and trying to move her head. Jeff is trying to start a heavy gauge line and needs me to hold a light. He calls for Engine 61 to take command and prepare for an extrication.

Stuff happens fast. Six guys pile off the engine ready to work. Thank God the cavalry has arrived. I've never felt so alone, and I wasn't even alone.

While they're setting up, the department's numbnutz (everyone has one) throws the hydraulic manifold into the pressure position before everything is hooked up. The pressure now prevents hooking anything else up, and we're screwed. Expletive expletive....... we drilled on this specific problem over and over again when we got this thing. Engine Captain is pissed and directs the guys to get hand tools and the sawzall. Numbnutz is trying to blame someone else.

Rescue arrives and we have more help, but everything quickly goes downhill. We end up doing a rapid yank-and-go extrication without c-spine considerations, because her BP is almost nonexistent, she is bleeding out and we don't have 15-20 minutes to waste on doing it "right" with the limited tools. On the cot, and we're loading up. Four guys climb into the back, and I pull out for the hospital. I don't even know who took over for the drunk asshat. I turn the box around and pass Medic 63 arriving. Good call, the guys heard Jeff's initial size up and deferred the ladder to bring another medic.

Of course I get a guy who won't pull to the right lane as I am on his bumper, with very light traffic. I finally pull into the left oncoming lane and he moves over.  I am beyond annoyed that anyone would consider being in the way tonight of all nights, but to the driver who moved I am just another thing with flashing lights of the type he will see a few hundred times in his life without this one being especially noteworthy.

We arrive without incident and take the girl in. In the light I can see better. She's no more than 17 years old, and stripped of all modesty except for her underpants. The monitor is hooked up and although I have no cardiac training to this point, even I can see that it is bad.

She is quickly moved off the cot to the ER bed, and CPR starts. She has virtually no obvious external injuries. A bruise on her forehead, but otherwise she is angelically clean and white.  Pale.  I'm ready to help, but feeling useless as the ER staff and medics do their thing. Then I notice she is too low on the bed, because her feet are off the end. Mainly I notice because her right fib/tib are broken just below the knee and the ankle and foot hang straight down.

Dumbly, I grab the foot and try to straighten it to normal, and wait for a lull so I can ask that we move her up the bed. No lull. I am holding her pale foot.

The blur is interrupted when I hear OK, get clear now. Everyone has backed off and a couple of sets of eyes are on me. Oh. I try to let the foot down gently, but the bone pokes through, marring the purity of her pale skin. Her body jerks. They move in again, and after a short internal debate I decide to leave the foot be.

Nothing works. Fifteen minutes or so later, they call it.

I stand there, but I cannot emotionally resolve the lack of outwardly obvious severe trauma with the death of this girl. Why did they give up? She was moaning for help when we arrived, and here less than 45 minutes later she lays unattended, still not covered. So, this is denial, I guess.

Jeff takes me out of the room, but we don't talk.

We clean up and return. The guys out on transfer get back not too long after, and tales will be told but I want no part of it. I go home and my young wife is sound asleep. I don't wake her, just kiss her on the forehead.

------------------

The girl was just going home from work when drunk asshat crossed the median on the curve. He was treated for cuts and released. Sentenced to a few years, but comparatively a slap on the wrist. He's sorry and remorseful and all that.

I'd seen death before, and a whole lot more and a whole lot worse than this one since. But this is the one that sticks.

I hope writing about it helps me stop thinking about it so much. After all, it's been 15 years. Just proofreading it has choked me up a bit. I should be so over this by now, but I'm not.

As the good Captain Schmoe says, Thanks for reading.