Because I Can… the random thoughts of Marc Scott

When people find out that I’m a Volunteer Firefighter, almost like clockwork, I am asked two questions.  The first is whether or not I have ever saved a cat.  The answer is, I have. (Refer to this post No Glove… No Love!) for more on that.  The second is an inquiry as to the most difficult thing I’ve seen or done.

I’ve always wondered about this second question.  Is it a simple curiosity that brings it out?  Or, perhaps, is it more about understanding the challenges that we, as Firefighters, can face on any given day?  Certainly I have stories I could tell.  But 2 stand out for me in particular, and neither are quite what you’d expect.

Generally, when a Firefighter talks about the most difficult thing they’ve seen or done it involves a graphic scene from a motor vehicle collision, or it involves something with a small child.  I’ve done calls involving both.  The story I’ll share today involves the latter, a child.  But not necessarily in the manner you might expect.

It was only a couple of months ago.  It’s a day I’ll never forgot.  A Saturday in the Fall, October to be exact.  I was still in bed, sound asleep.  I had to work on this particular Saturday, but it was still early.  My alarm clock was still silent and would be for nearly another 2 hours.

The pager woke me, as it does many mornings.  As I sprang from bed, and shook the grogginess from my head, I listened intently to the details being dispatched.  I grabbed my pants, looked for the tag, and put them on.  When I’m awoke from a good sleep by the pager, it’s not uncommon for me to dress myself backwards.  That’s not usually a big deal until you have to go to the bathroom!  I pulled my shirt over my head, moved towards the door, stepped into my shoes, grabbed my wallet, keys, and a hat, and I was off.

I live the closest to the fire hall.  In fact, I could practically spit out my bedroom window and hit the side of the building.  It was a cool morning.  I ran down the stairs from my building in a t-shirt, and hurried up the street to the hall.  As usual, I was the first to the hall.  I stepped inside, hit the button for the automatic bay doors, continued to my locker and started climbing into my gear.

The call was a medical, ambulance needed an assist with the lift.  This is a pretty common thing for us.  Many times there are stairs to deal with, or some other obstacle or challenge to safely getting the patient to the bus, so we are called to lend a couple extra pairs of hands.  It’s pretty routine.  This particular morning, so we’d soon find out, it was anything but routine.

Arriving on scene, we climbed from the back of the truck and were met by a Paramedic who informed us the patient had gone VSA, or, vital signs absent.  Almost as if on cue, all of us immediately doubled our pace.  As I quickly made my way into the house I walked past a man in panic, I would assume the husband, and a little girl, no more than about 7 or 8, running back and forth unsure of what was happening.

I knelt down at the woman’s head and assisted the medic in the room with CPR efforts while two other firefighters prepared a way to remove her.  The woman had received 3 shocks from a defibrillator, and in all honesty, at this point it seemed our efforts, no matter how noble, were futile.

We placed the woman on a backboard, strapped her in, and 4 of us carried her through the maze of hallways and obstacles of furniture, past a husband with tears in his eyes and fear in his heart.

When I’m in the midst of a call like this my training takes over.  I’m emotionless as a robot and focused solely on the task at hand.  We got the patient down the stairs and to the driveway where we placed her on the stretcher and loaded her in the ambulance.

Once I got in the back of the truck though, I took a moment to process what I just experienced.  A husband about to lose a wife.  A girl, so young and precious, about to lose her mommy.  A family waking up to tragedy when they should have been waking up to Lucky Charms and Saturday morning cartoons.

In my adult life I have cried 1 time.  But as I’ve got older, my heart has grown softer, and tears seem to be coming easier to me.  I’ve seemingly developed greater emotion, a new found tenderness.  I find myself with a  softness and gentleness you might expect in a newly blessed daddy, and a compassion unlike anything I’ve known.

In the back of the truck, returning to the hall, tears welled up in my eyes as images of that precious girls face replayed in my mind.  There was a probie on that call with us.  It was the first time he had experienced anything like that.  He replayed the scene out loud.  He just wanted to talk it through.  I understood.  I was in his shoes once.  I fought my back my emotion, and listened to him speak.  I encouraged him on a job well done.

I got back to my apartment with a little time to collect myself before I had to go to work.  I don’t remember anything about my air shift that day.  I’ve been on the Fire Department since 2000, and only 1 other time had a call affected me to my core.  I kept replaying the scene of a husband and father in shock, and of a sweet little girl unable to comprehend what was unfolding before her.  These are the calls that make it hard.

A lot of words are used to describe Firefighters.  Brave, courageous, heroes.  I’ve been called crazy and insane on more than one occasion as well.  When you see us on scene, we may seem hard and cold.  We may come across as men and women without emotion.  We do our job unfazed by what is happening around us.  Circumstances at the time aren’t nearly as important as simply getting the job done.  But when the task is complete, when the fire is out, when the person has been extricated, when the patient is in the ambulance, we are no different than any other.  We can hurt.  We can feel.  We can cry.  The longer I do this job, the more I find it to be true.