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By Lt. Corey Blais
On Feb. 25, 2026, at approximately 0530 hours, our department responded to a reported residential structure fire with possible occupants trapped inside. The response came less than 24 hours after a major blizzard dropped approximately 32 inches of heavy snow across our area, leaving 4-5-foot drifts in some places.
At the time of the call, I was nearing hour 70 of a 72-hour shift.
The previous three days had consisted of nonstop storm operations from snow preparation, clearing hydrants, assisting stranded residents, moving apparatus through impassable streets, and physically pushing through conditions that slowed nearly every response. Sleep was minimal. Nutrition consisted mostly of coffee and processed food. Recovery simply wasn’t happening.
But when the tones drop for a structure fire with reported entrapment, fatigue becomes irrelevant. Like every firefighter, training and instinct took over. I got out of bed, donned my gear, and responded.
Challenging conditions
On arrival, crews encountered heavy fire showing from the Alpha-Delta corner extending toward the roofline. A quick action plan was established, and suppression operations began immediately. Almost immediately, however, environmental conditions changed our operations.
Deep snow impacted every fireground function. Ladder placement required significantly more effort. Hose stretches became labor-intensive evolutions. Accessing all sides of the structure meant physically dredging through waist-deep snow. A downed live electrical wire across the front yard further complicated operations, forcing crews to reroute an additional 50 feet through heavy snow whenever movement between divisions was required.
Every task demanded more energy, more time and more personnel.
Still, operations progressed well. Fire conditions improved, knockdown was achieved, and crews transitioned into overhaul.
Body shuts down
While conducting a walkaround on the Delta side, I could feel my body’s reaction to the conditions. I told another firefighter, “This snow is killing me. I can feel my heart racing through my chest.”
I dismissed it immediately. After all, we had just worked roughly 30–35 minutes under extreme conditions. Elevated heart rate and fatigue seemed expected.
A few minutes later, while moving back toward the Alpha side, I suddenly felt intensely overheated. I dropped to my knees, removed my facepiece and opened my turnout coat to allow heat to escape — a routine action familiar to most firefighters operating in full PPE. After approximately 30 seconds, I felt improved and stood up to continue working. I took several steps. Then something changed.
I experienced what I can only describe as an out-of-body sensation. I was conscious and aware but unable to make my body respond. I attempted to move and speak, but nothing happened. Commands from my brain simply weren’t translating into action. I couldn’t form words to call for help. What seemed like an eternity I’m sure was only seconds. Then everything went dark. I passed out.
When I regained consciousness, I was disoriented and unsure of where I was. Gradually, voices became recognizable, followed by faces — my fellow firefighters moving me through deep snow toward the ambulance.
After 16 years in the fire service, this became my first line-of-duty injury — a syncopal episode on the fireground.
Evaluation in the emergency department included aggressive fluid replacement. Follow-up with my primary care physician determined I was severely dehydrated and entering early rhabdomyolysis, a condition caused by muscle breakdown often associated with extreme exertion and inadequate hydration. With fluids, electrolyte replacement and rest, I recovered fully.
Injuries impact everyone
What makes this experience important is not the incident itself, but who it happened to.
I am 41 years old, 6’2”, approximately 225 pounds, and maintain an active lifestyle. I train in the gym three to four days per week and routinely perform high-intensity workouts. Physical exertion is a normal part of both my professional and personal life. I considered myself prepared. Yet despite fitness, experience and conditioning, cumulative fatigue, dehydration, environmental stress and prolonged operational tempo combined to overwhelm my body.
Firefighters are conditioned to push through discomfort. Nobody wants to be the member who slows an operation or steps back when work needs to be done. Our culture values endurance, toughness and perseverance. But there is a critical distinction between resilience and ignoring physiological warning signs. On the fireground, we constantly listen for PASS devices activating, changing fire behavior or structural sounds indicating potential collapse. These cues guide decision-making and keep crews alive. We must apply that same awareness internally. Elevated heart rate. Overheating. Unusual fatigue. Cognitive changes. Those are warning tones just as real as any alarm bell.
That morning, my body was sending clear signals. I chose to explain them away instead of recognizing them for what they were. The experience was humbling.
In terms of fireground emergencies, this was about as close to a best-case scenario as it could have been. I was outside of the structure. The active fire had already been knocked down. EMS was staged on the same side of the building. Help was seconds away. But it’s worth asking what the situation might have looked like if it hadn’t been a best-case scenario. What if it had been a myocardial infarction instead of dehydration and early rhabdomyolysis? What if it progressed to cardiac arrest? What if I had collapsed inside the structure while actively operating on the fire attack line?
Beyond the personal medical emergency, situations like this create additional challenges on an already complicated fireground. The incident commander must immediately divert resources to assist the downed firefighter while still maintaining operational control of the incident. Crews have to shift their focus from suppression to rescuing one of their own. Fellow firefighters are suddenly dealing with the stress of helping a colleague in distress while still expected to finish the job. Even after the emergency is handled, they continue working without knowing the outcome. Ignoring the signals our bodies send doesn’t just affect us individually. It impacts the entire team operating beside us.
We are not invincible
Firefighters often operate with an unspoken belief in personal invincibility. We train hard, prepare extensively and routinely face dangerous environments. But beneath the turnout gear, we remain human, subject to limits regardless of experience or physical fitness.
Sometimes leadership on the fireground means recognizing when operational effectiveness requires rehabilitation, hydration or relief.
Listening to your body is not weakness. It is survivability.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Corey Blais is a lieutenant and public information officer for the Attleboro Fire Department in Massachusetts.
