Because I Can… the random thoughts of Marc Scott

It’s not normal what we do.  Firefighting I mean.  Well, it’s not normal to most.  It’s normal to me.  Maybe not at first, but after a while it became normal, or, at least as normal as such a thing can be.  You train.  You experience.  You do.  Eventually, you don’t really think about certain parts of the job.  It’s easier not to think about them.  Your training becomes as natural as tying your shoelaces.  You don’t need to think about it.  You just do it.

When people find out I’m a firefighter that’s usually what they want to talk about.  They expect that I will tell them brave and heroic tales of all the lives I’ve saved, all the dangers I’ve survived, all the glory I bask in daily.  I wish I could tell stories like that.  It sure would make what I do easier some days.  I don’t have very many tales like those though.  Mostly, I just have stories of tragedy, pain and loss.

When I was a kid I wanted to be a firefighter because all little boys want to be firefighters.  Having my dad on the fire department made it seem only more inevitable that I would join.  I remember going to the fire hall with dad.  Riding in the trucks whenever I could was always a highlight.  I used to put on old bunker gear that he had at the house and run around it.  When you’re a kid, that is all there is to it really.  It’s about cool gear and big red fire trucks with flashing lights and sirens.

They don’t really tell you too much about what firefighting can do to you when you first join.  I mean, they asked me questions like “How will you react to blood?”, “Would you be able to go into a burning building?”, “Can you handle what you might see at a car wreck?”  I answered the questions as honestly as I could.  “I don’t know.”  Truth was, I didn’t.  Dad had been a firefighter my whole life.  So that gave me insight into things I’d see and do too.  But even that can only prepare you to a certain extent.

Something else they don’t tell you is that, contrary to popular belief, you don’t very often save people.  In 10 years, I don’t know that I’ve ever saved anybody.  I had no idea that on the majority of the calls I’d be fighting a battle that was lost before I even made it through the door.  There is no worse a feeling, that I can imagine anyway, than walking into a situation where people are looking to you to help, and you know that you’re too late.  Do that enough, and no matter how tough you are, it will wear on you.

I’ve watched a police officer tell parents their son is dead while I was still doing CPR on him in the distance.  As I counted off chest compressions, knowing my efforts were in vain, I did not feel heroic.  I’ve held a charged attack line on a house burning out of control, well aware that I can’t stop the fire fast enough.  The family members watched their memories go up in a ball of fire.  While the flames licked out the window at my helmet, I did not feel brave.  I’ve held the jaws of life in my hands, using them to cut out a someone whom life had left.  I couldn’t save that one.

Firefighters don’t talk much about the dark side of the job.  Nobody would really want to hear it anyway.  I’m sure it’s a defense mechanism, keeping the stories amongst ourselves.  I’m not sure who we are trying to protect more.  Is it ourselves, from becoming vulnerable, out of fear that we’ll lose the tough layer that permits us to do the job day in and day out?  Or is it our family and friends we are trying to protect, from the pain and suffering that we have become all to familiar with?

On my journey as a firefighter, I have plotted points on a map.  I cannot tell you the house number.  I may not even be able to tell you the street name.  As I drive past certain places, I remember.  Sights, smells, sounds.  Each mark on the map inside my head comes with memories I’d prefer to forget, but can’t.  There is the barn where the electrocution took place.  There is the house where I almost got caught in my first flashover.  There is the corner where the woman was ejected from her vehicle and, almost as if controlled by the flick of a switch, her life stopped.  There is the field where the Air Ambulance landed the first time I ever loaded somebody into it.  There is the garage that was the first structure fire I ever entered, and after seeing what was inside when the fire was out, I am thankful I exited with my life!

I don’t regret what I do.  Not for a minute.  I’m 10 years in, and if I can stretch it out another 30, I’d be grateful for every moment.  And not all the stories are bad.  In fact, as I was writing this very blog I got called away to a fire.  A couple, enjoying a quiet evening on the banks of the river.  Lines in the water, hoping to catch some fish, they had started a small little campfire to cook some hot dogs on.  A passerby saw it, and called 911.  Those are the funny stories.  Those are the stories that bring, if only for a moment, the balance back inside my head between the good and bad.  When the dark memories creep into my dreams, the funny stories are the ones I recall to try and push them back.  Those are the stories I tell people about when they ask what it’s like to be a firefighter.