Cooling Off

My pants are a terrarium.  It is ninety-something degrees outside and the pager goes off.  Barefoot, shorts and t-shirt at the house and there’s no point in wasting time with haberdashery on the way to the Jeep.  Drop the shorts at my locker, toss some socks on and jump into the boots/pants combo.   Ugh.  Everything is moist, hot and slimy.  Still wet with sweat from yesterday.  Kinda gross.

There’s a line of some sort hanging low over Highway 51, and we need to divert traffic until the power company can arrive to fix the problem.  Not the most exciting call ever, but someone has to do the non-exciting stuff, and sometimes that’s us.  Sometimes the non-exciting stuff is the worst stuff.  We’re all flashing lights and wailing sirens eager to the emergencies, but there’s non-emergency tasks that’ll stick with you for a long, long time.

We train on Thursday nights, and I’ve Sifted previously about how there’s a whiteboard with each rig’s number and we put our names on the board so if there’s a call during training, everyone knows who is jumping into which seat, on which rig.  33 goes first to most everything, so I’m just sort of inclined to pick 33.  No value judgment here, because showing up second or third might end up being more consequential than arriving first, but seeing and starting to fix the problem first is just more interesting to me. 

The cavalry spirit of a first due fire engine is extremely habit-forming.

But a couple weeks ago, the wry observation at the end of the night went like this … “I’m signing up for 32 next week”.  Because being a 33 go-getter that night became one of those multiple debriefing calls.  All us 33’ers actually got redirected to backup Engine 31, because everyone could hear how awful the scene was going to be.  We didn’t need 33’s thousand plus gallons of water or self-priming pump or whiz-bang battery-powered extrication tools.  We just needed heart.  And hazmat suits, masks and our SCBAs.  And each other. 

There are multiple defenses to performing tasks no one wants to think about, much less do.  Dulling your senses is a start.  Sight, sound, touch and smell; you have to turn all those knobs down to the minimum level necessary to perform.  Focus, intently, on the technical aspects of the task.  That bears repeating.  Focus on the technical task.  Put yourself into dream mode, where the humanity of what is going on is transitory; not to be permanently encoded into your head.  If they are struggling, look them in the eyes, let them know you are there and that you are not letting them slip away.  If they’re gone before you get there, do what you can but focus on getting the body back into working order, and getting them to the best medical care possible, as soon as possible.

If they are so far gone a doctor has called it, give them all the dignity they are due and your best technical proficiency.  And know, someday, that is going to be you.  Honestly, I have no idea how EMTs do what they do.  I do know they should make way more than doctors, because the conditions under which they work and the psychological toll is nearly unfathomable. 

Back on the fire side, the terrarium got its start yesterday.  Lights and sirens in Engine 33 to a dispatch of a car vs. house.  Turns out, two houses.  Car glances off one house, crosses the side yard and street still accelerating and launches up the side yard of house #2 into the side of a garage over the hood of a car in the garage before coming to rest over the basement stairs after blowing out the rear wall.  Trying to cut down on the run-on sentence, I left out the part where the car tore open the gas line to the house and shot electric panel parts (conveniently located right next to the broken line now spewing gas) across the rear yard. 

So, um, kind of a scene as we arrive. 

Captain 2 Barger takes command and does an excellent job.  All three Chiefs are on scene but they let the young Captain run the show.  I’m guessing, in part, because (I’m guessing again) Captain 2 Barger has probably applied to be the (open) Captain 1 position and watching him manage this fairly complicated scene is, basically, a job interview.    I’ll know more tomorrow because I’m on the Personnel Committee and the Committee’s Captain interview is on the agenda. 

So, last night in mid-nineties weather I did some scene safety work in turnout gear for ninety minutes or so, as my jacket and pants became a rain forest of sweat.  Tonight, low nineties and the still wet pants are mercifully shielding onlookers from the visual horror of my aged untanned legs, as I think about … just maybe … tossing the pants and jacket into the department’s washing machine tomorrow. 

Wait.  I left out a part. 

After whatever bad dream goes semi-uncoded in your head, the next defense is to turn the sensory knobs back up.  Take a walk.  Have a bath.  Dip your toes in the creek.  Hug a loved one.  Some cookies and milk.  Pet the dog.  Try to pet the cat.  Whatever.  Find something to laugh at, including yourself.  Find something that works that is not alcohol or drugs and do it (and this is very important) before you go to sleep. 

In the end, every call is kind of a job interview.  People taking the measure of you and coming to conclusions, with on-lookers having no idea of the Rolodex of sensory memory in your head. 

I left out two other parts.  That seventy-something percent of fire-fighters are volunteers is, perhaps, the most compelling argument that late-stage capitalism may not be the pre-determined, morally superior end state that the owners of the means of production mythologize while funding PACs to payoff elected officials to lower their taxes, curtail regulation and keep the minimum wage where it was in 2009.  Anyway, due respect to every first responder everywhere who suits up to do stuff, but the ones doing it not for money are a special group, and I continue to be humbled and inspired by my volly brothers and sisters. 

Golly, the heat must have gotten to me.  Went off on a rant there. 

Here's the last part.  At that tough call with the multiple following debriefings, we had to wait for a while at the edge of the road after stripping out of our hazmat suits.   Captain 2 Brandon brought us a hazmat tub from the station to stuff our suits into for disposal.  He also brought us some ice cream from the Piggly Wiggly which we discreetly savored behind Engine 31 as we brought our senses back on line and caught our collective breath from what we just had to do. 

I do not know if that caring act of leadership will come up at tomorrow’s interview, but I do know it will not be forgotten by anyone who was there.