"The Indispensable Man"
I took an opportunity today to work at a friend of mines firehouse, as they were having their company picnic. Theyre one of the busier companies in the city, due to their being stationed in a rough neighborhood, and for that reason, I take any opportunity that comes my way to work there.
Early in the day, its relatively quiet. Rather than watch tv, I went upstairs to the study, where I like reading old issues of WNYF. Today I picked up an issue from 1983, and in it, an anonymous poem titled, "The Indispensable Man."
It compares the impact you have on others to the lasting hole you can make with your hand in a bucket of water; that no matter how hard you thrash the water around, shorty after youre done, theres no evidence you were ever there at all.
It was humbling. But its true. "Life goes on."
A little while later, we got dispatched 2nd due to a "smoke." Its common. It doesnt really mean anything. But enroute, we get updated, "second source." We get updated again, "79 Engine to Bronx, 10-75!"
We arrive on scene to find 79 has started stretching the 1 3/4 up to a 4th floor apartment, the line still flimsy and light as it hasnt been charged. Their Control-man misjudged the stretch, and theres too much hose in the lobby, and too much on the stairs. Our lieutenant starts yelling to get this extra hose outside so it doesnt kink when the Chauffeur starts water.
I start making my up the stairs, positioning myself so I can help lighten up the line when the nozzle team starts to make their push. The rest of my company is doing the same. Suddenly the hose stiffens up, I throw a bow up in the air against the wall to free up a pair of kinks and make it easier to pull a few minutes from now when I head up another flight.
I pass the next half landing, and realize Im at the fire apartment door. One guy is pushing his way out past the Control-man, yelling for help. Hes got a woman in his arms, and shes been badly burned...
Before I worked here, I worked in the same area in the Bronx, in EMS. Before that, I worked in Florida, doing both of the jobs Ive had up here. And before that, I spent a year in Ocala, working through a paramedic certification. Somehow none of it prepared me.
Shes naked, and shes unconscious. Shes old, maybe in her 80's, and shes very thin. Shes burned... all over her body. My brother-fireman, shouting for help, sounds surreal. Hes clearly struggling to keep from dropping her, yet she offers no assistance to his cause, its like her body is completely without structure, and as he fights to help her, her skin is slipping off, and I have no idea when the next layer will be the last layer.
I reach out and grab her, under the knees, hes got her under her arms. Is she breathing? Does she have a pulse? Did she think shed fight through 80 years of her life to die in a fire in a shitty Bronx apartment? My concern for her life meets my concern for the sudden lack of justice for her situation meets my even-more sudden inability to look at her.
We are racing down the stairs.
Her injuries are so severe, I prepare myself for her literally breaking up, and falling apart as we're trying to get out.
We exit the building, the lobby being far too small to work in, and lay her down off to the side of the front stoop to do whatever assessment we can. She gasps for air. Where the fuck is EMS. Wheres the CFR-D Engine??
Theres a crowd of people, and no ones moving. The guy I brought her down with stays at her side, and I move to the nearest rig for whatever EMS equipment is available. I know every single one at least has oxygen and a BVM, and thats a huge priority right now.
Back at her side, another fireman has joined us. He's tearing open an oxygen mask, and while hes doing the right thing, I know its insufficient. Im opening the BVM. Which I know is also insufficient. In addition to what is obvious from 10 feet, her throat has been burned too, and its covered in black soot. Just to keep breathing for any amount of time, she needs to be intubated. And that too, would be insufficient.
Shes going to die. I hate this part of this job. I Hate it. I hate it so much, that it makes me want to walk away forever, and do something- anything- else.
But then someone else would have to do it.
Shes going to die, and theres not a fucking thing we can do about it. It might not be on the sidewalk, it may not be in the ambulance, but leave the hospital? The burn center? How about just make it out of the ER and to an upper floor? Nobody deserves whats happening to this poor woman...
As the three of us work to do the breathing for her, another group of firemen suddenly come to help. I know Im out of position, so we pass her off, and head back upstairs.
I make it back to the same half-landing, just off the fire floor, and look out the window. EMS has finally arrived. Shes been covered, and placed on a stretcher, someone still bagging her. The smoke in the hallway, while light, is nauseating. I feel the wall, and its plaster. The whole inside of the building is covered with this stuff. Her apartment had to be like the inside of an oven.
A little while later, the inside operation is done. The hose is withdrawn from the building, and prepared to be repacked on 79's engine as we head outside. And people are smiling. And talking, and laughing, and excited that they got to go to a 'job.'
I walk back to the rig to pull off this mask; this air cylinder which I barely realized I was wearing half an hour ago, now feels like Im carrying sack of bricks.
I think back to the guy who helped me carry the woman down. To the men who helped us on the sidewalk. It dawns on me that I had no idea who any of them were. It was a lone, comforting thought, that we could all be so in tune and focused on the same goal, that it could dominate the entire interaction, and forego any usual formal niceties.
But this is not normal. There is nothing normal about this job, or these men.
The neighborhood crowd floods the sidewalk, like theyre here for some spectacle or a show for their amusement.
Dont they know? Didnt they see? Every woman I see in the crowd, suddenly every person, I see how delicate this whole thing is... I think back to the poem Id read prior to lunch... Who out here is "Indispensable"? What we find beauty in, what graces the covers of magazines, what we work so much for... so superficial... I watch a chubby girl, maybe late teens walk up the sidewalk with a pizza. And she doesnt give a fuck. Judgement aside, but she doesnt, for whatever reason; or for no reason. And again, I think back to the poem.
The irrelevance of what we do when we're here, to so many people we come across is astonishing. But by God, if this day didnt make my Mom get a much bigger hug than usual; if it doesnt make me do everything I can to help the next person experiencing the worst day of their life. Or their last... and make it a little better...
I guess Im just not interested in making my mark on the water. I just want to see people get a fair shake.
Today it just didnt happen.
Early in the day, its relatively quiet. Rather than watch tv, I went upstairs to the study, where I like reading old issues of WNYF. Today I picked up an issue from 1983, and in it, an anonymous poem titled, "The Indispensable Man."
It compares the impact you have on others to the lasting hole you can make with your hand in a bucket of water; that no matter how hard you thrash the water around, shorty after youre done, theres no evidence you were ever there at all.
It was humbling. But its true. "Life goes on."
A little while later, we got dispatched 2nd due to a "smoke." Its common. It doesnt really mean anything. But enroute, we get updated, "second source." We get updated again, "79 Engine to Bronx, 10-75!"
We arrive on scene to find 79 has started stretching the 1 3/4 up to a 4th floor apartment, the line still flimsy and light as it hasnt been charged. Their Control-man misjudged the stretch, and theres too much hose in the lobby, and too much on the stairs. Our lieutenant starts yelling to get this extra hose outside so it doesnt kink when the Chauffeur starts water.
I start making my up the stairs, positioning myself so I can help lighten up the line when the nozzle team starts to make their push. The rest of my company is doing the same. Suddenly the hose stiffens up, I throw a bow up in the air against the wall to free up a pair of kinks and make it easier to pull a few minutes from now when I head up another flight.
I pass the next half landing, and realize Im at the fire apartment door. One guy is pushing his way out past the Control-man, yelling for help. Hes got a woman in his arms, and shes been badly burned...
Before I worked here, I worked in the same area in the Bronx, in EMS. Before that, I worked in Florida, doing both of the jobs Ive had up here. And before that, I spent a year in Ocala, working through a paramedic certification. Somehow none of it prepared me.
Shes naked, and shes unconscious. Shes old, maybe in her 80's, and shes very thin. Shes burned... all over her body. My brother-fireman, shouting for help, sounds surreal. Hes clearly struggling to keep from dropping her, yet she offers no assistance to his cause, its like her body is completely without structure, and as he fights to help her, her skin is slipping off, and I have no idea when the next layer will be the last layer.
I reach out and grab her, under the knees, hes got her under her arms. Is she breathing? Does she have a pulse? Did she think shed fight through 80 years of her life to die in a fire in a shitty Bronx apartment? My concern for her life meets my concern for the sudden lack of justice for her situation meets my even-more sudden inability to look at her.
We are racing down the stairs.
Her injuries are so severe, I prepare myself for her literally breaking up, and falling apart as we're trying to get out.
We exit the building, the lobby being far too small to work in, and lay her down off to the side of the front stoop to do whatever assessment we can. She gasps for air. Where the fuck is EMS. Wheres the CFR-D Engine??
Theres a crowd of people, and no ones moving. The guy I brought her down with stays at her side, and I move to the nearest rig for whatever EMS equipment is available. I know every single one at least has oxygen and a BVM, and thats a huge priority right now.
Back at her side, another fireman has joined us. He's tearing open an oxygen mask, and while hes doing the right thing, I know its insufficient. Im opening the BVM. Which I know is also insufficient. In addition to what is obvious from 10 feet, her throat has been burned too, and its covered in black soot. Just to keep breathing for any amount of time, she needs to be intubated. And that too, would be insufficient.
Shes going to die. I hate this part of this job. I Hate it. I hate it so much, that it makes me want to walk away forever, and do something- anything- else.
But then someone else would have to do it.
Shes going to die, and theres not a fucking thing we can do about it. It might not be on the sidewalk, it may not be in the ambulance, but leave the hospital? The burn center? How about just make it out of the ER and to an upper floor? Nobody deserves whats happening to this poor woman...
As the three of us work to do the breathing for her, another group of firemen suddenly come to help. I know Im out of position, so we pass her off, and head back upstairs.
I make it back to the same half-landing, just off the fire floor, and look out the window. EMS has finally arrived. Shes been covered, and placed on a stretcher, someone still bagging her. The smoke in the hallway, while light, is nauseating. I feel the wall, and its plaster. The whole inside of the building is covered with this stuff. Her apartment had to be like the inside of an oven.
A little while later, the inside operation is done. The hose is withdrawn from the building, and prepared to be repacked on 79's engine as we head outside. And people are smiling. And talking, and laughing, and excited that they got to go to a 'job.'
I walk back to the rig to pull off this mask; this air cylinder which I barely realized I was wearing half an hour ago, now feels like Im carrying sack of bricks.
I think back to the guy who helped me carry the woman down. To the men who helped us on the sidewalk. It dawns on me that I had no idea who any of them were. It was a lone, comforting thought, that we could all be so in tune and focused on the same goal, that it could dominate the entire interaction, and forego any usual formal niceties.
But this is not normal. There is nothing normal about this job, or these men.
The neighborhood crowd floods the sidewalk, like theyre here for some spectacle or a show for their amusement.
Dont they know? Didnt they see? Every woman I see in the crowd, suddenly every person, I see how delicate this whole thing is... I think back to the poem Id read prior to lunch... Who out here is "Indispensable"? What we find beauty in, what graces the covers of magazines, what we work so much for... so superficial... I watch a chubby girl, maybe late teens walk up the sidewalk with a pizza. And she doesnt give a fuck. Judgement aside, but she doesnt, for whatever reason; or for no reason. And again, I think back to the poem.
The irrelevance of what we do when we're here, to so many people we come across is astonishing. But by God, if this day didnt make my Mom get a much bigger hug than usual; if it doesnt make me do everything I can to help the next person experiencing the worst day of their life. Or their last... and make it a little better...
I guess Im just not interested in making my mark on the water. I just want to see people get a fair shake.
Today it just didnt happen.