Rescue 1 Responding

Part I

1630 hrs (4:30 p.m.)

Bye, babe, see you in a couple of days.

Be careful.

I smile and walk out the door. Be careful is the last thing I like to hear before heading into the city. It’s been that way going on sixteen years now. Maybe I’m superstitious, but I worry if I don’t hear those words.

My bag is filled with the necessities; a few changes of clothes, a big bag of peanut M&M’s, a book, a few magazines and the usual assortment of overnight things. I hang my spare uniform, still warm from the iron and smelling faintly of starch onto the hook in the backseat, open the door and get in. With any luck in forty hours I’ll be home again, worn out but satisfied, with four days of peace and quiet ahead.

I wave to Brittany as she speeds past me as I pull onto the pavement. Slow down, I say out loud to the empty car. It’s chilly, she’s wearing a winter hat, the kind that ties on the bottom and has earflaps to keep you warm. She doesn’t have a care in the world, and that makes me happy. I long for those days but for me they are gone forever. That’s probably a good thing, without worries we would have no experience of things to worry about and go through life thinking everything is fair and safe. It’s not, but at least for my kids it will be for a little while longer.

Traffic is slow and heavy, the streets and roads full of people coming home after a long week at work. As I approach Providence the traffic clears a little, at least on my side of the road. Most people are leaving the city. I’m going in.

About 180,000 people officially live in Providence, a lot more if you count the undocumented immigrants. Thousands more commute from the neighboring cities and towns, spend their time in the Capitol City then leave for their suburban retreats. I turn on the radio and check in on the local talk shows. Nothing new, the same talk of high taxes, corrupt politicians, failing schools and on and on. Today, there is no mention of the firefighters, who have been a hot topic lately. The FM dial is a little more interesting, Blue Sky by the Allman Brothers sticks, I take my finger off the seek button and settle in.

It’s staying light later now, as winter loosens its icy grasp on Rhode Island. Loosens, but doesn’t let go.

I like to drive. I find the routine, mechanical movements relaxing. I know the road to work so well the car could drive itself. It gives me time to think. An incident from last week comes to mind, though I try to push it away.

It had been quiet for about an hour, the only sounds I could hear came from the open window of my office as the late night bar crowd straggled past the station on their way home. A few drunken shouts, tires squealing, bottles breaking on the pavement as people cleared out their pre-club empties before heading home. I turned the portable off, hoping to sneak a few hours sleep in before the next run. It had been a long shift, thirty or so calls so far with six hours to go. At one time most of my time was spent being on call, now, it seems all of my time is spent on calls. Almost, but not all. I hit the bunk and was out cold before my head touched the pillow.

0230 hrs (2:30 a.m.)

Rescue 5 and Ladder 4, Respond to 1 Providence Place for a woman who has fallen.

Ladder 4 was out of the building before I made it to the rescue. Tim waited for me, the engine running. He saw me from the rear view mirrors and turned the engine over. The piercing wail from the truck’s siren scattered the people lingering in front of the station as we rolled pat them, closing the overhead door behind us. As we passed Water Place Park, the officer of Ladder 4 gave his report.

Ladder 4 to Rescue 5, twenty-five year old female, fell approximately forty feet, massive head injury.

Rescue 5, received.

I hung the mike back in it’s cradle and put on some gloves. One Providence Place is an enormous shopping mall located in Downtown Providence. The building takes up four blocks of real estate, big enough to warrant its own zip code. Tim made his approach, stopping behind the ladder truck, in front of the north entryway. Most of the stores were closed at this hour. A movie theater and restaurant occupied the upper levels and stayed open late. We loaded the stretcher with a long spine board and med bag and made our way into the mall. A lone security guard stood outside the entrance. I asked if he knew anything about the incident.

Somebody fell.

We walked past him, up the ramp toward the elevators. The mall is a confusing place when shopping, worse when seconds count. Overlooking the balcony next to the elevators I saw the guys from Ladder 4 two floors below me, working on a young woman. A dark shadow outlined her head. We walked into the elevator car, stopped and looked at the buttons.

LL, 1, 1M, GF, 2, 2M, 3L, 3, 4.

Which floor? I asked Tim.

First.

I hit the 1 button and slammed my fist into the panel when the elevator started going up. I was a little more tense than I thought. The elevator wouldn’t stop until it made it to the first floor no matter how many times I pushed the LL button. After an eternity it did stop, then reverse direction. At 1M the elevator stopped again, the doors opening to an empty floor. Gaining control of my emotions I pushed LL and felt the box begin its decent, agonizingly slow. Finally, the doors opened on the proper floor.

John Morgan, a truck mate of mine from another part of my career held the girl’s head in his hands while I tried to apply a cervical collar.

It’s soft, he said, cradling the back of her head while I wrapped the hard plastic around her neck. I reached around back and felt the crushed skull, like jelly where there should have been bone. I checked her pupils, shining light into her eyes hoping to see a reaction. There was a reaction, though not in her eyes. A sick feeling started in the middle of my chest and worked its way through my body. She’s my daughter’s age, I said out loud.

Fixed and dilated. I stood and stepped back while the crew from Ladder 4 and Tim immobilized her, assisted ventilations and put her on the stretcher. They had all been around long enough to know the girl’s chances for survival were none and none. Off to the side a young couple and a solitary young man stood watching, ashen faced.

Will she be all right? asked the young guy who stood alone.

We’re doing everything we can, I replied, again, knowing that all we could do would never be enough. The girl was gone; the best we could do was keep her heart pumping and hope for a miracle. Somewhere, somebody waiting for a kidney or a liver just hit the lottery. The thought made me sick so I pushed it aside.

What happened? I asked.

He pointed up to an area of escalators, three stories above us.

She fell.

The stretcher was moving now, a group of firefighters pushing the stretcher toward the elevator, bagging and picking up the mess we made with our equipment. We all fit into the elevator. As the doors closed the only thing that remained was a little Spider Man doll, tossed to the side of the floor, and a dark red stain on the mall’s new carpet.

Slow down, I said again, as much to myself as to Brittany. I found out a few days later that the girl had planned on being married next month. She was a single mother and was about to get a degree from a local community college. She was out celebrating her birthday. She won the Spider Man doll at the nightclub where she spent her last night on this earth and planned on giving it to her four-year old son in the morning. I hope somebody picked the doll up from the mall floor and gave it to its rightful owner. Reading the obituary is worse than living through the experience, there is nothing to do but read about the person who died on your watch, and think about what could have been.

The rescue is not in the bay. D group is working today, I’ll be relieving Tim, who just started his own four day war. Some of the guys from D group are still waiting to be relived and are sitting around the day room with the oncoming shift.

Hey, Shakespeare! says Greg, one of the D-group guys as I walk into the room.

Nice job on that article.

What article? I ask. He hands me the morning’s Providence Journal, opened to the letters to the editor section. A letter that I sent to the paper was printed in the morning edition. My heart sinks a little when I see my words printed for anybody to read. I wrote the letter in response to increasing criticism firefighters have been getting in the press and the talk shows. Last week, during my days off I was heading to the store to get some lettuce for a salad I was making and happened to turn on the radio. A local Mayor was on the talk radio station I was tuned to and asked the question, Why should firefighters get full healthcare coverage when millions of Americans can barely afford to get by? I only tuned into the end of the show but could only imagine the topic. This particular mayor and his fire department have been at odds for years. His city’s firefighter contract is due to expire soon and the mayor has taken to the airwaves and editorials to discredit the fire service. As revenue shrinks cities and towns, strapped for cash are desperate to save money, at times recklessly endangering the public by under funding public safety.

I called the talk show when I got home and talked to the host for about ten minutes. I was pleasantly surprised that he let me state my side of the issue, and he seemed genuinely impressed by our side of things. However, when I hung up the phone, I felt I needed to say more. The salad waited and I wrote down my feelings. The letter took me all night to write. Angry callers reacting to the words I had spoken on the radio filled the room from the radio speaker as I typed. I was not a big hit with the audience.

I take the paper from Greg and get a weird feeling as I read my own words:

Dear Editor,

I do not know the salaries of my friends in the private sector. It is not my business to scrutinize their benefit package. I do know that they work as hard as I do making a living. Some of them are doing better, some not as well. We are all getting by.

The struggling economy has made us all aware of our financial vulnerability. As salaries and benefits stagnate, resentment grows. Through the ups and downs, my financial situation remains steady. For years I watched as others reaped the rewards of a strong economy. Nobody noticed or cared about my pay and benefits. My modest income paled in comparison to those in the private sector.

Now, my pay and benefits are front-page news. Cities and towns are facing budget deficits: the unions are to blame. Headlines and letters scream, The party is over! The bleeding must stop! If I didn’t know better, I would think the state is full of impoverished workers with no benefits at all!

I am a firefighter. I have a good salary, great benefits and an exciting job. I will not apologize for it or willingly give it up. Thirteen years ago I was accepted into the Providence Fire Department’s 42nd Training Academy. The competition was fierce; thousands applied for a few positions. I never considered myself better than the thousands that didn’t make it. Throughout the rigorous testing procedures it was found that some of us have the potential to be better firefighters than the rest. We were hired; the others went about their lives. I know some great people that did not get hired. They are leading productive lives in other pursuits.

I knew I would never get rich being a firefighter but the benefits provide my family with security. Had I not become a firefighter, I’m sure whatever vocation I chose would provide