One of the greatest dangers to any firefighter is complacency. When you are dispatched to a call, and you are confident that you know what it is and how your crew will be able to manage things is always going to be dangerous for everyone. You can never be complacent about how people will respond under demanding and difficult circumstances.
Complacency can kill or hurt you, a member of your crew, or the person you are trying to help.
We have a new guy on Engine 3, and while we are sitting down for breakfast, I look over at new guy (Jeremy) and start to tell him the "cut toe guy" story. Every time I tell the “cut toe guy” story, I can see the guys who have heard it before rolling their eyes. I feel compelled to tell the new guys the story and I want it to be fresh in the heads of guys who have been with me for a while.
I always think of the "cut toe guy" story when we are sitting down for breakfast. Engine 3 was dispatched on a Sunday morning when we just sat down to breakfast. I think of this when I put a huge forkful of scrambled eggs in my mouth. When you have to leave during breakfast, you can never reheat eggs and have them taste good.
When the familiar voice came over the plectron dispatching the Engine to a report of a male with a cut toe, everyone at the table groaned. Chris, who takes a large drink of hot coffee wonders out loud why a guy with a cut toe would not wrap it up, and drive to the hospital to get it taken care of.
We are less than 2 miles away, and while enroute, I tell Tom and Chris that they have patient care and make sure we take the O2, medical kit, backboard, and the jump kit containing the C Spine collars.
When we arrive at the address there is a visibly shaken Meals on Wheels delivery driver with his head in his hands sitting on the lawn. He looks up when the Engine pulls up, he points to the open door and looks away. Inside the residence is an older gentleman who does in fact have a cut toe but is also not breathing and does not have a pulse.
The guys who were thinking cut toe have switched gears and are providing amazing care. The ambulance arrives and transports our patient. When we get back to the station, no one complains about the cold breakfast that is going to be reheated and not taste very good.
I break out the "cut toe guy" story, when it feels like dispatch is sending us to a call that sounds routine or when a new guy is sitting at the table. The real danger in firefighting is the routine, what we do is never routine. Routine calls and responses kill firefighters.
I am halfway through the "cut toe guy" story when the familiar voice comes over the plectron.
Beep, Beep, Beep
Engine 3, Paramedic 3 unknown medical I25 frontage road at McDonalds
Everyone gets up quietly from the table and heads to the Engine in the bay.
Engine 3 enroute status 4 I say into the headset. The ambulance is still in Longmont, and we will arrive before they do. I am always thinking about what additional resources may be needed, including those that are no related to our department response. In a place where there is a lot of people, I am never sure what we are going to walk into. I have assigned patient care to Tom and Chris, and thanks in part to the "cut toe guy" we are pulling everything off the truck we could possibly need.
Engine 3 arrival, this will be McDonalds command, we will be investigating.
The restaurant is packed with summer holiday travelers. Red faced kids, glad to be out of the car and a lot of tired looking parents. People are nudging each other and looking at the crew bringing the gear in.
There is a tight circle of people who are standing around a man in his 50's, who on is laying on his back by the soft drink dispenser. The 40-year-old manager has his arms folded across his chest and has a worried look on his face. I walk over to him to ask him what has happened but as soon as he sees the crew, he walks around the counter quickly, looking relieved to no longer be in charge.
I walk over to where Chris and Tom are moving in to take care of a semi-conscious, heavy-set man in his mid 50’s. Dressed in a pair of loose-fitting khaki shorts and an open polyester shirt with a t-shirt underneath. He is sweaty, pale, and disoriented. I smile and start talking to him in even measured tones. I notice that most everyone has stopped eating and in the space that we are in, the silence feels loud. Chris is getting oxygen on him, and Tom is doing an initial set of vital signs. Everyone is watching the crew work and is waiting expectantly for some drama to unfold.
An earnest woman in her mid 20's has tapped me on the shoulder and is telling me that she was an EMT a couple of years ago and she can help. I thank her, tell her we have it and politely move her away.
My goal here is no unfolding drama. I am talking to him in a calm, confident tones and trying to put him (and everyone else who is listening) at ease. The worried middle-aged woman sitting awkwardly on the floor holding his hand is his wife. She is trying to maintain her composure for both of them. I help her stand up and move away from her husband to let the crew work. I keep her within his view so both of them can help calm each other down. I am getting his medical history when the paramedics arrive.
I can tell from her expression and the look in her eyes how uncomfortable and scared she is right now. In the practiced voice of a mother and a wife, she is telling her husband in a calm and reassuring voice that everything will be OK.
In another minute she will have to make a couple of quick decisions on how to handle the logistics of getting to the hospital in a strange town and taking care of the car. She will be making more decisions shortly on how to pull everything together in the next couple of days for both of them. He will wake up in a couple of hours or days in the hospital and the first thing he will see is her tired, happy face.
This is the quiet kind of courage that I always find remarkable. You will not find this picture on a poster, and this is the very definition of courage itself. Courage is simply the refusal to give up for the sake of someone else. She is the bravest person in the room now and she just does not know it.
I kneel down next to him and tell him what is next, paramedics will assume care and we will work with the Sheriff's officer to make sure his wife gets taken care of. As I am kneeling next to him on the floor and thinking about the courage of his wife, I look over and see a stunning woman in her mid 30’s sitting on top of a laughing cheeseburger stools with her son. She is facing me with a half-wrapped hamburger in her hand. Her other hand is on the neck of a 5-year-old who is unwrapping the toy in his happy meal, and she focused on keeping him unwrapping his toy and not looking at the scene unfolding in front of them both.
She smiles at me and turns towards where we are working. I look up again before I am getting to my feet and the woman follows my gaze that is eye level with her knees on the cheeseburger she is sitting on. I am trying to keep a poker face but at some point, we both realize that she is not wearing any panties.
A brief uncomfortable moment passes while both of us figure out what to do. The Hallmark moment of the brave wife has passed, and it is now painful not to break out in a broad smile.
I am a big fan of the sudden gust of wind, the dress that gets stuck on the chair or door, the reach that shows more intended but not too much. This is the way the universe says, “have a nice day”. I feel awkward that I have seen more than I should have, and it does not feel like the universe is telling me to have a nice day. The universe seems to be testing my ability to be respectful to a person I have never met under a very difficult circumstance.
This is not routine and falls well outside a "cut toe guy" story. Kneeling on the hard tile and feeling my uniform pants stick to the floor with a semi-conscious 50-year-old is not the time I expected to see what is currently on top of the smiling cheeseburger. It is important to me that I am respectful and do not draw any attention to her, the crew, or me.
All of the cheeseburgers that other people are sitting on are smiling and happy, but the one she is on looks happier than the rest of them. Even in the controlled chaos of the moment it is hard not to break into a smile thinking about how much happier her cheeseburger is than the others.
I nod to her and smile in the most generic way possible and as I am turning back to the patient, she looks at me apologetically, mouths the words “I’m sorry” and swings those great legs back under the table.
Sorry? I would love to tell her that she should not be sorry, but I can't, all of our focus is on the patient in front of us.
For every firefighter there are specific calls that will accompany you for an indeterminate amount of time. This is one of those calls that follows me to this day.
Every cheeseburger I see from this point on will smile at me.
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