By Scott Ziegler
Maybe you’ve seen a group of firefighters at the grocery store, or you’ve driven by the local firehouse and you’ve seen a few of them outside shooting hoops, or washing their rigs. Doesn’t seem like much work, does it?
Maybe you think our schedule is too easy. Maybe you’re one of those who jokingly says things like, “Must be nice to be able to sleep at work.” Or maybe you’re even the type who scoffs at the idea of us taking time out of our day to even be at the grocery store on your (the taxpayer’s) dime. We have all heard these things before. It’s OK, we can handle it.
However, I wish you could truly know what it’s like to spend a career doing this job, or even just a 24-hour shift. Only then would you know the price we pay for those small perks.
Then you may know what a child’s hand feels like inside of your own, while you desperately try to keep him calm, and from looking over at his mother’s lifeless body that is in the front seat of their mangled car.
And you would feel the anger of the man who is swinging at you after you just brought him back from the brink of death, because he says you killed his high. You know you’ve probably postponed the inevitable, and hope to God this man gets help, before his actions and poor judgment kills another human being. Most likely an innocent one.
You’d understand what it’s like to see the face of a 3-year-old boy after pulling him out of a lake that he and his father were fishing on and went missing from ... three days before.
You could feel the pain of responding to a friend or family member’s home as you find them in cardiac arrest after a “successful” suicide. You see, if you work in a small town you’ll have the “luxury” of knowing most of the folks you run on.
And you’d know the way a body smells after it has been set on fire. Yes, set on fire. It’s different than the normal burnt body smell. The hatred and evil it took to commit the act will linger with the smoke, and stay with you forever.
You’d know the empty feeling that comes after searching a burning house for people trapped, and not being able to find them. Did you search hard enough? Maybe they’re outside. Then you’d feel that absolute disappointment in yourself when finding out that they were in that bedroom upstairs ... the room that had fire blowing out the window. Could you have done a better job? Could you have been faster? Those kids missed out on so much life.
You’d understand what it’s like to crawl down a hallway, dark, so dark that you cannot see your hand in front of your face. And so hot that it feels as though a thousand needles are piercing your skin. The heat will be sucking all of the energy out of your body, but you know you must push harder or the entire apartment building will burn down.
You’d taste gas station coffee at 3 a.m. after six hours of firefighting. You’d hold that styrofoam cup in your numb hands, the only thing keeping your soaking wet gear from icing over completely is the fact that you’re shivering uncontrollably.
And you’d see the horror on the faces of family members as they watch their entire life go up in flames. All of their photos, clothing, belongings … everything.
You would know how it feels to pull the limp body of a teenage girl from her prom date’s car. Kids are going to be kids. Some of them make it through those years unscathed. Some of them meet us first. You’ll wonder how her parents will ever get over this.
You’d feel the danger as you chop through five layers of shingles on a roof top, while an inferno rages in the attic below you. You’re hoping the roof is structurally sound enough for you to be on it. Your saw is not working, and you must rely on your axe, but the energy you just spent at the other two fires that shift is killing you.
And then you’ll get off work at 7 a.m. only to go to your other job pouring concrete, or roofing, or whatever else it is that firefighters do to make ends meet on all of our “days off.” You’ll hear people say that you’re lucky to have that advantage ... as if you want to have to leave one job and go to another.
You may learn what it feels like to have the floor drop out from underneath you, sending you at least eight feet into the basement below you. You’ll learn how quickly everything changes.
You’d feel the anguish of a mother pleading with you to save her child, and you’ll know that there’s nothing else you can do.
I wish you had to deal with seeing all of these things, and then somehow not let it affect your personal life. Having seen almost every type of activity go badly, you‘ll be overly protective when family members want to do things like ride on a motorcycle, or go out on a boat, or anything that could possibly inflict injury or death upon them. I wish you could feel that anxiety — that worry that one of the millions of terrible things you have responded to will happen to your loved ones.
Every firefighter out there has stories like these. A new one, or three, comes with every shift — all of the images burned into our memories.
Now I’m not trying to say we work harder than you, or that our job is any more stressful than yours. I don’t think any of these things make us special. And do not, for one second, think that these are complaints. We love our job and we choose to do this. But before you judge a firefighter for what you think their job entails, understand that you have no idea about the price tag that comes with those small perks of our job. You couldn’t possibly know, unless you’ve actually done it ... and I wish you could.
