I have been away from the blogging
and self-promoting scene to handle mistakes made as a rookie indie writer and
to get married. I’ve been working very hard
behind the scenes trying to prep for my “triumphant return” to the writing scene. I had a blog post semi-plotted in my head and
was ready to start working on that this week with my new “writer’s office
hours” schedule I’m implementing.
Instead, I find myself troubled by
events far from home. Nineteen
firefighters were killed battling a wildfire in Arizona. I struggled with posting something about the
good work and sacrifice performed by first responders all around the country
during the horrible week of the Boston Marathon Bombing and explosion in West,
Texas.
I wanted to talk about
firefighters, police officers and EMS providers. I wanted to take the time to honor those
who’ve so publicly and, in recent weeks, all too tragically, served their
community. I wanted to, but I didn’t.
Many of you reading this post know
that I am a firefighter by trade. So,
I’ve begged off, as a conflict-of-interest, any attempt to put into words what
it means to serve. Furthermore, I have
trouble writing a post about the real sacrifice of those who’ve fallen in a
blog created as a tool for self-promotion.
But, I have a chance to give these
people a voice to the precious few who read this blog, and I feel obligated to
take a moment to honor them for what they’ve done and why they do it, so here
goes:
It has been said that a person who
loves his job, doesn’t work a day in his life. It is a very select few who can
say that they get more satisfaction from the work, itself, than the paycheck
received for doing it. Thousands of
rescue workers can be found among the ranks of these lucky few.
I assure you that no matter the pay
scale or the compensation offered, the overwhelming majority of those who wake
up every day to protect and serve do it for so much more than the couple of
hundred or thousand dollars they bring home in their paycheck. Who grows up
wanting to be a cop or firefighter for the money?
How many kids have you heard say:
“I want to me a firefighter so I can have good healthcare benefits, stable job
and a good retirement” or “I can’t wait to be a cop, so I can make lots of
money”? Who does that? The fact is, no
one does.
They do it because the work is
exciting, challenging and rewarding unto itself. They do it because they want to make a real
difference, because they want more out of life than a paycheck. They do it so they can point to a life of
service and say, “I did that”.
It’s a good thing, too. Communities could never pay these men and
women their true worth. How much would it take to get you to crawl into an
environment so dangerous and toxic that a simple equipment failure could be
fatal? What would be your price to kneel
in some dying stranger’s living room, trying to cheat Death with the patient’s
family looking on and pleading for you to save him? What’s a fair rate to walk
up to a suspicious stranger in a dark alley with nothing but a vest, a badge
and your street sense to protect you?
Yes, there is a price for leading this
fulfilling life. It is an unforgiving and often cruel mistress. Just look at the headlines from Boston,
Houston, West, and, now from Yarnell Hill, Arizona. Not many can say they go to a job where even
a colossal mistake will lead to anything more severe than termination.
But “we lucky band of brothers”
know that in the chaotic environment of America’s streets, the slightest
mistake can prove to be the one that kills you.
Working a motor vehicle accident?
You’d better watch that traffic. Pulling
someone over? Is this car stolen? Do the occupants have weapons? If you get
into a tussle with the driver, is the passenger going to jump on your back?
Crawling into a burning building? Don’t
let go of that wall, that hose, or, most of all, your partner, or you may never
find your way out.
Worst of all, you can do it just as
you’re supposed to do it—and get killed anyway.
It’s part of the deal. So are
PTSD, a skyrocketing divorce rate, and heart and respiratory disease.
Cancer is not recognized in my
state as a “presumed illness” but how can you crawl into rooms filled with
cyanides and carcinogens for thirty years and expect anything different? Ask your average firefighter how many days it
takes to wash the odor of smoke from his skin and hair, or how long after a working
fire can he still smell the smoke in the cab of his fire truck.
Sleepless nights,
missed meals and behavior disorders are also the price of a career of service. There will be times you work so hard you’ll
want to (or will) vomit. You’ll see
horrific scenes that you’ll still be able to recall with perfect clarity
decades later. You’ll come home so tired
from a night of back-to-back calls that you can barely sit up.
Sometimes you’ll
go straight to the second job that supplements your modest income. Other times
you’ll be expected go from a scene of unmitigated horror to Family Guy in the
course of an hour. Only a special few will truly understand you and almost all
of them will wear the uniform.
Which brings me
to the last part of this fulfilling life: every time you get up and go, it’s to
work with the greatest bunch of guys and gals in the world. These are brothers and sisters who’ve shared
your pain and joy, people who know what it’s like to place the comfort and
safety of those you’ve sworn to protect above your own.
These are people who
have been and will be there for you when it matters most: marriage, births,
divorce, illness and death. They’re extended
family who will be there for your family at home when you can’t.
Whether it’s
climbing into a fire truck, a police car or an ambulance, there’s no job like it.
And I like to think that those who lay
down their lives doing this great job have lived richer, fuller lives for it. I like to think they knew what they were doing
when they woke up for work that fateful morning: living The Dream and loving
The Job. I hope they were as excited to
go to work that day as they were their very first day. And, I hope they enjoyed every moment in
between.
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