I left a certain waterborne 'military' service's operational ranks because they 'risk-managed' everything to death. A call would come in for rescue, something of a time-critical nature, and we'd have to spend the victim's precious moments by having a 'touchy-feely risk management assessment session' down on the dock before even heading out to attempt the rescue. The State Police's Marine unit inevitably got there first and did OUR job for us. No way to run an emergency service! Back in "my day", when we got the call, we ran for the boat and headed out in the general direction immediately. We did our risk assessment on the way, planned on the way, and got on scene quickly. I saved a number of boats that would have sunk or capsized if not for a rapid response. That means the people on board would have been in the water- usually without life jackets- until we got there... how many of you can swim with all your clothes on, much less with gas, oil and lots of other crap covering the surface of the water? Trust me, it really sucks getting a mouthful of gas and oil covered water when you're trying to breathe!
The discussion over on Backstep Firefighter brought this up, because it worries me that the fire service is headed that direction. If we allow the 'risk managers' and legal worries to drive our decisions, we're going to end up just like that waterborne organization: ineffective and untimely, fighting fires from the outside when we could have made a rescue with minimal risk. This profession is inherently dangerous. Face it, that's what drew a lot of us to it. We are mostly all adrenaline junkies in one form or another. The answer to our LODD problems is not the blanket refusal to enter a burning structure just because it's vacant, nor is it to fight all fire from the outside. Our real problem is education and experience. We need a lot of both, and it seems they are in short supply these days.
For experience, we're simply not getting the number of fires our elders did. Sprinklers, detection systems, public awareness, no-smoking laws, inspections and proactive fire departments have all served to diminish the likelihood of fire. Consumer protection laws have advanced enough that many products don't burn as readily as they did years ago. We are just not going to fires like we did "back in the day". This means experience in real-world conditions is scarce among the younger generation of firefighters, so they must rely on their education and training to get them through.
And that brings me to the other point; education. Budgets are slim at best, training money is a dried-up trickle in most departments, and shortages in manpower means its' difficult to get time off to attend training- even if you're paying for it out-of-pocket. In house training is good, but it's dependent on the motivation of the officers and crew, their level of experience and expertise, and the availability of 'stuff' to train with. Five guys who don't want to be there can make it pretty hard for a probie to get anything out of the company drills. Sure, there's all kinds of underlying issues in that one scenario- management, leadership, mentoring, personal motivation, dedication, professionalism. That's a post for another day... or many other days. I love doing training; it gets me out of the station, refreshes my memory, keeps me sharp, and makes the day go by. Plus, good training is excellent for camaraderie and esprit de corps. We always 'gel' better as a crew after a good day of training, similar to how a crew is after working a good job together. Education is an integral part of our job.
So, you're wondering, what does that rant have to do with the topic at hand? If we're not training, we're not gaining experience. The two together make up the base for how we operate on scene. If we've never been exposed to real fire conditions, real heat, and real life-or-death situations, we're not going to have a base to pull from when true emergencies come up. How's a young firefighter going to know what the smoke is telling them, if they've never experienced it before? Up to that point, it's all theory and conjecture. Do they know how to read the building? What kind of construction they're looking at, and how the fire's progression is affecting that building? How likely is the structure to collapse in the next five minutes? Ten minutes? Is there enough time to mount a rescue attempt, or conduct a primary search for victims? Are they going above the fire, and what do they know what that means in terms of risk?
The changes in the fire service can be positive, or negative. It's up to us to push them in the right direction, and to shape the future of our beloved profession. So get out there and train like it's the real thing! Teach your probies the right way, the safe way. Not the shortcuts, not the 'I just do this instead' methods. Their lives depend on it, and so does yours.
Stay safe, take care of each other, and take care of the job.
In that order.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Thursday, September 16, 2010
The maid is on vacation, please clean up after yourself
What is it about today's generation? Is it REALLY that hard to clean up after yourself? I know I'm not the neatest person around... I've got the organizational skills of a bipolar squirrel with ADD... but I know how to wipe down a sink when I finish shaving or brushing my teeth. I know how to wipe down the counters next to the coffee pot when they're dirty. Christ, I even know how to put toilet paper back on the spindle when I use the last of a roll, not just leave the new roll on the floor next to the toilet. Not to be too gross here, but how good is your coworkers' aim at three in the morning when they're whizzing on their way to the engine for a fire alarm??? And you're willing to set a new roll of TP down on that same floor with plans to come back later and touch it? And touch it to your nether-regions? And then not wash your hands before leaving the bathroom?
People wonder why I complain.
It goes to the basic core of our professionalism. If I can't trust you to take care of our 'home', to take care of yourself, to look out for all of us in the most simple of ways, how am I really supposed to trust you to check the engine properly in the morning? If you're so preoccupied that you can't replace the toilet paper, what shortcuts are you going to take inspecting the SCBAs? Are you actually going to start the saw and let it run, and if so did you shake it a bit to mix the fuel first??? (yes, you need to do that. That fuel-oil mix settles overnight, so every time you start the saw you need to shake it up. Otherwise the oil goes straight into the filter, clogging it and choking it out.) I used to work opposite a 'firefighter/driver' who's idea of doing morning checkouts was to start the truck, pull it out onto the ramp, and let it run for 30 minutes while he went inside to watch CNBC and check email. That means it was up to me to find anything wrong with the truck, every other day, on my shift. When the pump packing began leaking excessively, he continued to leave the tank-to-pump and tank-fill valves open. I'd come in and find the truck at 3/4 tank, or less. God looked down on him, that he never needed that water. We confronted him about it, to no avail. The guy just didn't care. Joe Schmoe is right, disciplinary actions need to be enforced. I tried dealing with the issue, got nowhere, went to the Captain. The Captain got nowhere and went upwards. Nothing...Nada...Zilch. The guy should have gotten a vacation, two weeks on the beach unpaid, to think about it. Didn't happen. He's a senior guy on his shift, so what message do the probies get? It's ok to half-ass your job, do nothing, not care. That's how their shift acts, at least in the opinion of my shift. Ever read Nick Brunacini's "B Shifter"?? I highly recommend it.
Where the hell was this rant going? Oh, yeah. Why can't these damn kids clean up after themselves? The going theory is that the generation of Helicopter Parents who raised them never made them responsible for their own actions, therefore they never learned to do it themselves. I maintain this is true, but that's not all. We, the seasoned vets of the service, bear the responsibility too. If we aren't motivated, every day, to show them the right way of doing it, how are they going to learn? WE need to be the parents, the disciplinarians, the mentors to these new firefighters. After all, we're trusting them with our lives, and the future of the profession we love so dearly. How do we expect them to learn the ropes if we aren't doing it ourselves? Monkey see-monkey do, right? If we linger a bit, getting that next cuppa joe, what message does that send? Truck checks aren't really that big a deal... cleanliness is important, in an abstract way- it's important for someone else to do it.
If that's what they see, that's how they'll act. Want them to take it seriously? Do it yourself, and make them feel 'guilty' that a veteran is doing something they should be doing. Don't just bitch that no one emptied the dishwasher; instead, either do it yourself or go get the person whose job it was and hold them accountable. Mostly, just do it yourself. After all, it's your house too.
Enough for now... I have dishes to do.
Stay safe, take care of each other, and take care of the job.
In that order.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Passing
There's an obituary on my iPhone for a man I didn't know. My father died last month, of cancer I'm told. I haven't seen him since I was thirteen, haven't spoken to him, corresponded with him. He is a stranger to me, and I wanted it that way. Now, I'm not certain of how to feel for his passing. Do I feel loss? Remorse? Anger? Yes to all three, but in a distant way, as if the feelings are theoretical.
My father left before I was born, significantly younger than my Mom, and not ready to enter the world of responsibility. I understand that he came to visit me once or twice when I was an infant. I guess he didn't connect with fatherhood, with me. He didn't return. I next saw him when I was eleven, having been given the chance to spend a summer with him in Southwestern New Mexico. He lived off the land, farming a small plot of land near the Gila National Forest. Home for him, his wife and two children (my half-brother and step-sister) was a converted school bus and a large teepee. They were hippies, that's all I knew at the time. I never knew why, or how he came to live that way. All I knew was that he lived in a great place, with a lake and a tree swing, woods to explore, a tractor to ride on, and a stream of friends coming by who all made me laugh. It seemed he had a great life. Except that I wasn't really part of it, feeling somewhat like an intruder into someone else's family. I think my half-brother resented a somewhat older boy, his father's first son, showing up out of nowhere and competing for attention. I'm just guessing, though, because we mostly got along great.
I don't remember a whole lot of that summer, time dimming the synapses related to that memory. I do remember my brother and I getting into an argument, and I punched him in the stomach. I felt bad after, and we made up. I also remember there being payote buttons in a basket on the back shelf of the bus/house, under the rear window. And the adults smoking weed at night from a pipe, drinking beer and talking about grown-up things. I never had any of it, but I wondered. Later in life, during middle school, I had occasion to try it with some friends. It made me sleepy, something alcohol could do for a lot less money and trouble. I never had it again, even though it was offered more than a few times. I wonder now how my father's lifestyle played into my choices...
I spent three summers with my father, two in New Mexico and the last in Glenwood Springs, Colorado. I had my first shot of Jack Daniels at eleven years old, chased by a long swig of Coors taken from the yellow can I'll always remember. My father had taken me to the bar with him, that first summer, and gave me the booze. I remember how it burned going down, the taste of it washed away by the beer. I remember the head of a black bear mounted to the wall high above my head. We left the bar soon after, him driving, going down to the Rio Grande river for a bonfire with his friends. I passed out on the bench seat of his truck a little while later. My third summer, the one in Colorado, I found out my father was doing harder drugs than just weed and alcohol. He was using crystal meth, I think, and I was not happy about it. Of the few things I remember about that summer, not much invovles my father. I remember going to the bar with him, seeing girls five or six years older than me drinking (the drinking age at the time was still 18) and looking forward to the time I could drink in a bar, too. I remember helping my brother mow a lawn, a vast expanse of green turf, with a single push mower. No self-propelled job back then, we took turns mowing strips. It seemed so huge to me at the time, though I'm sure now if I were to revisit the yard it wouldn't be all that impressive. Funny how much larger the world is when you're a kid. I also remember good times jumping on a trampoline with my brother, though now I have no idea where my father was at the time.
After that summer, I faced a choice. My father was using drugs, something I absolutely did not approve of. I decided that I didn't want to be part of that, and asked my Mom to give him a choice: either stop using drugs and have a relationship with me, or continue using and I would not be part of his life. He chose the latter, a testament to either the power of the drugs or his lack of connection with his own child. I never spoke to him again. As I write this, I think back. I cannot recall him ever saying he loved me. I'm not saying he didn't say it, just that there's no memory of it. I never felt love from him, never felt that parental connection to him. He was my father, not my Dad- I never had one of those. My Mom raised me as a single mother, the saint that she is, struggling to provide for me. She never had another man in her life after my father, not seriously anyway. She dedicated her life to me, to herself, to work. She went back to school and got her Master's Degree in psychology, all while working full time to support us. I never knew any different, never really felt the strains or stresses she must have been under. We had room-mates for most of the time she was in school, helping to pay the bills and the rent. It seemed normal to me, though now I look back and realize the sacrifices my mother has made in order to give me the life she felt I deserved. Decent schools, good communities, a stable home with good values. I don't think I thank her often enough for all that she did.
My mother called me a few days ago, asked if I could talk, it was bad news. Sure, I said... I was driving to the bank, a captive audience with a hands-free phone. What did she want to tell me? I figured another of our aging family members had passed, sad news for certain. She told me a friend of my father's, whom she had kept infrequent contact with over the years, had written her to tell her my father had died. He succumbed to a long battle with cancer, having treated into remission several times before. Not this time. The illness was too much, and he lost his life. My brother was there, I'm told, although it wasn't always a certainty. My father and he had fallen out, the letter said, and not spoken for a long time, only reconciling their differences in recent years. My father and his wife (my step-mom) had divorced at some point after I parted ways with him, my brother going with his mother. I think the separation had already happened before that last summer I spent with him in Colorado; I don't recall her around, although my memory is pretty sparse. Are they real memories, or are they suppositions, guesses about what I remember taken as fact? There's no telling... It's been twenty-seven years since I last had any contact with them, any of them. During the conversation with my Mom, I found out that my father had been to Viet Nam, been exposed to Agent Orange. I never even knew he had been in the military. What else didn't I know? His first name is John, not Jaysun as I had known him for all these years. I knew that, I guess, but never remembered it. I had searched for him a couple of years ago on the internet, finding a couple of shaky leads that went nowhere in the end.
My wife, using the new information, started searching again that night. She's the one that found it: the Obituary. John Douglas 'Jason' Hammond. I never knew his middle name. He had remarried, settled back near where I first went to stay with him in Southwestern New Mexico, opened a successful music studio producing jazz and other music. He had lots of friends, touched many lives. I am not listed in his obituary, although my half-brother is. There's a picture of him, a face that I recognize but have no real emotion for. My wife wonders if my deep anger at the world is somehow related to all this. Perhaps, plus many more things. I can't say. That will likely take years of therapy to root out, if I ever get around to going back. The act of typing all this out is cathartic, too.
So, I am left to wonder. Do I make contact with this man's family? Do I want that part of my existence, do they? I will reach out to my half-brother, if I can find him. The family friend knows, and will try to make the connection possible for me. I don't know how to proceed other than that. It seems selfish to intrude into the lives of people who are mourning the loss of a loved one, when I an not mourning his loss as well. I feel indifferent, and maybe that's the most disturbing part of it all. Am I supposed to feel something? If so, what? I don't regret my decision, it was the right thing to do for me at the time. I've lived my life drug free (except for that one time...), dedicated to serving others in their time of need. I have lived a good life so far, and it's getting better as time passes. How would things have been different for me had I kept my father in my life? I'd rather not ponder that, since thinking it won't change anything. John Douglas 'Jason' Hammond was 64 when he passed on to his next big adventure. I regret not knowing him better, but not the circumstances of why I don't. Maybe in the next life, we will have a better relationship. Time will tell.
Thanks for reading.
Stay safe, take care of each other, and take care of the job.
In that order.
My father left before I was born, significantly younger than my Mom, and not ready to enter the world of responsibility. I understand that he came to visit me once or twice when I was an infant. I guess he didn't connect with fatherhood, with me. He didn't return. I next saw him when I was eleven, having been given the chance to spend a summer with him in Southwestern New Mexico. He lived off the land, farming a small plot of land near the Gila National Forest. Home for him, his wife and two children (my half-brother and step-sister) was a converted school bus and a large teepee. They were hippies, that's all I knew at the time. I never knew why, or how he came to live that way. All I knew was that he lived in a great place, with a lake and a tree swing, woods to explore, a tractor to ride on, and a stream of friends coming by who all made me laugh. It seemed he had a great life. Except that I wasn't really part of it, feeling somewhat like an intruder into someone else's family. I think my half-brother resented a somewhat older boy, his father's first son, showing up out of nowhere and competing for attention. I'm just guessing, though, because we mostly got along great.
I don't remember a whole lot of that summer, time dimming the synapses related to that memory. I do remember my brother and I getting into an argument, and I punched him in the stomach. I felt bad after, and we made up. I also remember there being payote buttons in a basket on the back shelf of the bus/house, under the rear window. And the adults smoking weed at night from a pipe, drinking beer and talking about grown-up things. I never had any of it, but I wondered. Later in life, during middle school, I had occasion to try it with some friends. It made me sleepy, something alcohol could do for a lot less money and trouble. I never had it again, even though it was offered more than a few times. I wonder now how my father's lifestyle played into my choices...
I spent three summers with my father, two in New Mexico and the last in Glenwood Springs, Colorado. I had my first shot of Jack Daniels at eleven years old, chased by a long swig of Coors taken from the yellow can I'll always remember. My father had taken me to the bar with him, that first summer, and gave me the booze. I remember how it burned going down, the taste of it washed away by the beer. I remember the head of a black bear mounted to the wall high above my head. We left the bar soon after, him driving, going down to the Rio Grande river for a bonfire with his friends. I passed out on the bench seat of his truck a little while later. My third summer, the one in Colorado, I found out my father was doing harder drugs than just weed and alcohol. He was using crystal meth, I think, and I was not happy about it. Of the few things I remember about that summer, not much invovles my father. I remember going to the bar with him, seeing girls five or six years older than me drinking (the drinking age at the time was still 18) and looking forward to the time I could drink in a bar, too. I remember helping my brother mow a lawn, a vast expanse of green turf, with a single push mower. No self-propelled job back then, we took turns mowing strips. It seemed so huge to me at the time, though I'm sure now if I were to revisit the yard it wouldn't be all that impressive. Funny how much larger the world is when you're a kid. I also remember good times jumping on a trampoline with my brother, though now I have no idea where my father was at the time.
After that summer, I faced a choice. My father was using drugs, something I absolutely did not approve of. I decided that I didn't want to be part of that, and asked my Mom to give him a choice: either stop using drugs and have a relationship with me, or continue using and I would not be part of his life. He chose the latter, a testament to either the power of the drugs or his lack of connection with his own child. I never spoke to him again. As I write this, I think back. I cannot recall him ever saying he loved me. I'm not saying he didn't say it, just that there's no memory of it. I never felt love from him, never felt that parental connection to him. He was my father, not my Dad- I never had one of those. My Mom raised me as a single mother, the saint that she is, struggling to provide for me. She never had another man in her life after my father, not seriously anyway. She dedicated her life to me, to herself, to work. She went back to school and got her Master's Degree in psychology, all while working full time to support us. I never knew any different, never really felt the strains or stresses she must have been under. We had room-mates for most of the time she was in school, helping to pay the bills and the rent. It seemed normal to me, though now I look back and realize the sacrifices my mother has made in order to give me the life she felt I deserved. Decent schools, good communities, a stable home with good values. I don't think I thank her often enough for all that she did.
My mother called me a few days ago, asked if I could talk, it was bad news. Sure, I said... I was driving to the bank, a captive audience with a hands-free phone. What did she want to tell me? I figured another of our aging family members had passed, sad news for certain. She told me a friend of my father's, whom she had kept infrequent contact with over the years, had written her to tell her my father had died. He succumbed to a long battle with cancer, having treated into remission several times before. Not this time. The illness was too much, and he lost his life. My brother was there, I'm told, although it wasn't always a certainty. My father and he had fallen out, the letter said, and not spoken for a long time, only reconciling their differences in recent years. My father and his wife (my step-mom) had divorced at some point after I parted ways with him, my brother going with his mother. I think the separation had already happened before that last summer I spent with him in Colorado; I don't recall her around, although my memory is pretty sparse. Are they real memories, or are they suppositions, guesses about what I remember taken as fact? There's no telling... It's been twenty-seven years since I last had any contact with them, any of them. During the conversation with my Mom, I found out that my father had been to Viet Nam, been exposed to Agent Orange. I never even knew he had been in the military. What else didn't I know? His first name is John, not Jaysun as I had known him for all these years. I knew that, I guess, but never remembered it. I had searched for him a couple of years ago on the internet, finding a couple of shaky leads that went nowhere in the end.
My wife, using the new information, started searching again that night. She's the one that found it: the Obituary. John Douglas 'Jason' Hammond. I never knew his middle name. He had remarried, settled back near where I first went to stay with him in Southwestern New Mexico, opened a successful music studio producing jazz and other music. He had lots of friends, touched many lives. I am not listed in his obituary, although my half-brother is. There's a picture of him, a face that I recognize but have no real emotion for. My wife wonders if my deep anger at the world is somehow related to all this. Perhaps, plus many more things. I can't say. That will likely take years of therapy to root out, if I ever get around to going back. The act of typing all this out is cathartic, too.
So, I am left to wonder. Do I make contact with this man's family? Do I want that part of my existence, do they? I will reach out to my half-brother, if I can find him. The family friend knows, and will try to make the connection possible for me. I don't know how to proceed other than that. It seems selfish to intrude into the lives of people who are mourning the loss of a loved one, when I an not mourning his loss as well. I feel indifferent, and maybe that's the most disturbing part of it all. Am I supposed to feel something? If so, what? I don't regret my decision, it was the right thing to do for me at the time. I've lived my life drug free (except for that one time...), dedicated to serving others in their time of need. I have lived a good life so far, and it's getting better as time passes. How would things have been different for me had I kept my father in my life? I'd rather not ponder that, since thinking it won't change anything. John Douglas 'Jason' Hammond was 64 when he passed on to his next big adventure. I regret not knowing him better, but not the circumstances of why I don't. Maybe in the next life, we will have a better relationship. Time will tell.
Thanks for reading.
Stay safe, take care of each other, and take care of the job.
In that order.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Sometimes, you have to let go in order to heal.
I've spent today, 9/11/10, at work. We started the day with a moment of silence at roll call, a moment to remember our Brothers lost on that horrible day, and in the 3,827 days since. The rest of the day was a normal shift, waiting for the call that never comes. The other stations in our department are busy working a brush fire today, caused by tracer ammunition from Army helicopters doing training. Pretty routine for them/us. I can smell the smoke as I sit here in my dorm room, wondering if I'll have to assist them tonight. If so, fine; if not, even better. I left wildland firefighting behind on the West coast when I joined the military, and I'm happy not to do it again. Even if New Jersey does do it completely different...
The day's activities included lots of Twitter updates and "RT"s, most related to 9/11. Until I found Michael Morse's post on Rescuing Providence. As I read his words, I thought about how I felt then and now. I was drawn to responding with a comment of my own, which prompted me to end up here, writing about 9/11. I started off today thinking I would do something meaningful to honor the fallen: I would tweet the names of all 343 Firemen lost in the Twin Towers, three at a time, with the appropriate hashtags. Cool idea, I thought. Didn't happen. Thinking about each name reminded me that there's a family behind it, missing a loved one, today more than on other days. There's friends and coworkers missing the smile, the wit, the personal quirks that made every one of the victims an individual. And it struck me- how can we remember the firefighters who so heroically climbed the stairs, who so valiantly carried on their job knowing the magnitude of what lay ahead, without remembering all of the other victims?
Every person that died on 9/11 has a name, has a face, has a story. Every rescuer and worker that's died since 9/11/01 after dedicating themselves on "The Pile", every one that's dying as I write this, deserves to be remembered and honored. Their families deserve that, too. We, as a Nation, have moved on. Fewer and fewer people come to 9/11 remembrance events, or pause for more than a moment to recall that fateful day. We are taken up with worries like the economy, the lingering war on terrorism, politics and our personal lives, and so much more. I thought, until very recently, that doing so was disrespectful to those we've lost. That not paying homage to them the entire day was to forget their memories. In fact, I think it's just the opposite. By carrying on, continuing with life, we are telling them that we have not succumbed to the terrorists who murdered them; we are celebrating the very thing that the villains behind this tragic day tried to end. We are victorious because we carry on, because we have not given in.
As a Nation, we are moving from mourning to recovery. This is the end of our emotional winter, the dawning of spring with a promise of a bright and joyful summer. Let us shed the misery of the past, and instead take up celebration for those who have gone before. Let us revel in their lives, hold them high in our memories for all the good times and fun we had before they left us. No more should we cry, mourn their passing, weep for them; they would not want it. The time has come for us to renew our national pride and vigor, to step forward into the light of day and proclaim, "We Americans are not beaten, we are free and proud" for all the world to hear. Let us cast off the hatred and distrust we've sown by our misery, embrace our neighbor, and make the world jealous of our love instead of our belongings. It's time to move on, to make a meaningful tribute to our dead.
In loving remembrance, stay safe, take care of each other, and take care of the job.
In that order.
The day's activities included lots of Twitter updates and "RT"s, most related to 9/11. Until I found Michael Morse's post on Rescuing Providence. As I read his words, I thought about how I felt then and now. I was drawn to responding with a comment of my own, which prompted me to end up here, writing about 9/11. I started off today thinking I would do something meaningful to honor the fallen: I would tweet the names of all 343 Firemen lost in the Twin Towers, three at a time, with the appropriate hashtags. Cool idea, I thought. Didn't happen. Thinking about each name reminded me that there's a family behind it, missing a loved one, today more than on other days. There's friends and coworkers missing the smile, the wit, the personal quirks that made every one of the victims an individual. And it struck me- how can we remember the firefighters who so heroically climbed the stairs, who so valiantly carried on their job knowing the magnitude of what lay ahead, without remembering all of the other victims?
Every person that died on 9/11 has a name, has a face, has a story. Every rescuer and worker that's died since 9/11/01 after dedicating themselves on "The Pile", every one that's dying as I write this, deserves to be remembered and honored. Their families deserve that, too. We, as a Nation, have moved on. Fewer and fewer people come to 9/11 remembrance events, or pause for more than a moment to recall that fateful day. We are taken up with worries like the economy, the lingering war on terrorism, politics and our personal lives, and so much more. I thought, until very recently, that doing so was disrespectful to those we've lost. That not paying homage to them the entire day was to forget their memories. In fact, I think it's just the opposite. By carrying on, continuing with life, we are telling them that we have not succumbed to the terrorists who murdered them; we are celebrating the very thing that the villains behind this tragic day tried to end. We are victorious because we carry on, because we have not given in.
As a Nation, we are moving from mourning to recovery. This is the end of our emotional winter, the dawning of spring with a promise of a bright and joyful summer. Let us shed the misery of the past, and instead take up celebration for those who have gone before. Let us revel in their lives, hold them high in our memories for all the good times and fun we had before they left us. No more should we cry, mourn their passing, weep for them; they would not want it. The time has come for us to renew our national pride and vigor, to step forward into the light of day and proclaim, "We Americans are not beaten, we are free and proud" for all the world to hear. Let us cast off the hatred and distrust we've sown by our misery, embrace our neighbor, and make the world jealous of our love instead of our belongings. It's time to move on, to make a meaningful tribute to our dead.
In loving remembrance, stay safe, take care of each other, and take care of the job.
In that order.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
The system USED to work.
Fire-based EMS. We here on the Right Coast, at least in the Northeast, don't have much in the way of EMS. The vast majority of towns near where I live and work are serviced by volunteer first aid squads. For you on the Left side, those would be volly EMS units... Now, I give loads of respect to the people who volunteer; It takes a serious dedication of time and effort to be a volunteer, between training and running calls, CEU's and maintenance of all the "stuff". The system worked, back when people actually lived in the same community where they are employed. Back when an employer could afford to allow their employees to leave for an hour to run an EMS call.
The system USED to work. And in some towns, it still does. However, there are plenty of towns where it doesn't work. I'm thinking of one place in particular, right outside the gates of my little piece of Valhalla. We provide fire-based EMS, sending at least an Engine or Rescue and an ambulance to every EMS call. Being a government installation, we have lots of resources and few medical calls. Outside the gates, though, is a completely different story. The borough of Narrowtown, as I'll call them for their closed-mindedness, has a volunteer EMS system. The ambulance sits at their building, and when a call comes in the responders go pick it up and respond to the call. It's a small town, only a few square miles, so it's not a terrible delay. Provided they actually respond, that is. We, the U.S.F.D. (Uncle Sam's Fire Department) sit and listen to the dispatches day in and day out. "Narrowtown first aid squad, request for an ambulance, Old Folks Care Center, 123 Narrowtown Drive, for a person choking." followed three minutes later by "NFAS, second request for an ambulance...." and another three minutes later, "NFAS, third request for an ambulance, CPR in progress, requesting mutual aid..." This happens all day long. The calls may not be so severe, most aren't. But you get the idea. The example is an actual dispatch. The volunteers never made it out, no Narrowtown ambulance responded to the call. There's at least nine or ten EMS calls in the town, every day. Two or three of those never get an ambulance from NFAS- after three dispatches the town requests mutual aid from their neighbors. We, the U.S.F.D. being obliged to provide for our base, cannot send the ambulance outside the gates. The surrounding towns are all volunteer EMS, except for a scant few.... Do the math: If NFAS is having this problem, aren't all the others? YUP! It's often an hour before an ambulance arrives on scene.
The local Paramedics, operated by a private company, have taken to using ambulances instead of SUV's like the majority of the Northeast ALS providers. They don't act as the primary transport all that often, preferring to wait for the volunteers. But, at least they have the capability. That is, when THEY show up!!! Frequently, we are dispatched to an EMS call, and told, "No medics available" or "Extended ETA for medics". My end of the County is serviced by no more than four Paramedic units. They are spread thinner than butter on a scone in the great depression. Thank god we're close to the hospitals... If we have a critical patient, we haul ass (safely) to the ER providing the best care we can on the way. Sometimes we'll meet the Paramedics en route, which requires we pull over and stop while they get in the back, evaluate the patient, and decide if ALS is warranted. That's a story for another post, though.
Sadly, Narrowtown has the population, both residential and commercial, to warrant a full-time PAID EMS system. They have huge ratable commercial occupancies, an industrial area with a number of major corporations' manufacturing facilities, hotels and shopping, and the only mall for miles and miles. That, too, is a story for another day. Point is, they could pay for EMS if they wanted to. It's just that the public doesn't know what they are not getting in terms of service until its too late, and the volunteers EGOs are too big to admit they need to do something different. They simply refuse to give up control and do what's right for the public they claim to exist for...
All I can say, in summation, is I'm glad I don't live in Narrowtown. And, I'm glad I only have to touch their roadways for about half a mile before I'm safely in my little piece of Valhalla, protected by a full-time EMS system that actually responds when called.
Enough for now... hope you have a great day!
Stay safe, take care of each other, and take care of the job.
In that order.
The system USED to work. And in some towns, it still does. However, there are plenty of towns where it doesn't work. I'm thinking of one place in particular, right outside the gates of my little piece of Valhalla. We provide fire-based EMS, sending at least an Engine or Rescue and an ambulance to every EMS call. Being a government installation, we have lots of resources and few medical calls. Outside the gates, though, is a completely different story. The borough of Narrowtown, as I'll call them for their closed-mindedness, has a volunteer EMS system. The ambulance sits at their building, and when a call comes in the responders go pick it up and respond to the call. It's a small town, only a few square miles, so it's not a terrible delay. Provided they actually respond, that is. We, the U.S.F.D. (Uncle Sam's Fire Department) sit and listen to the dispatches day in and day out. "Narrowtown first aid squad, request for an ambulance, Old Folks Care Center, 123 Narrowtown Drive, for a person choking." followed three minutes later by "NFAS, second request for an ambulance...." and another three minutes later, "NFAS, third request for an ambulance, CPR in progress, requesting mutual aid..." This happens all day long. The calls may not be so severe, most aren't. But you get the idea. The example is an actual dispatch. The volunteers never made it out, no Narrowtown ambulance responded to the call. There's at least nine or ten EMS calls in the town, every day. Two or three of those never get an ambulance from NFAS- after three dispatches the town requests mutual aid from their neighbors. We, the U.S.F.D. being obliged to provide for our base, cannot send the ambulance outside the gates. The surrounding towns are all volunteer EMS, except for a scant few.... Do the math: If NFAS is having this problem, aren't all the others? YUP! It's often an hour before an ambulance arrives on scene.
The local Paramedics, operated by a private company, have taken to using ambulances instead of SUV's like the majority of the Northeast ALS providers. They don't act as the primary transport all that often, preferring to wait for the volunteers. But, at least they have the capability. That is, when THEY show up!!! Frequently, we are dispatched to an EMS call, and told, "No medics available" or "Extended ETA for medics". My end of the County is serviced by no more than four Paramedic units. They are spread thinner than butter on a scone in the great depression. Thank god we're close to the hospitals... If we have a critical patient, we haul ass (safely) to the ER providing the best care we can on the way. Sometimes we'll meet the Paramedics en route, which requires we pull over and stop while they get in the back, evaluate the patient, and decide if ALS is warranted. That's a story for another post, though.
Sadly, Narrowtown has the population, both residential and commercial, to warrant a full-time PAID EMS system. They have huge ratable commercial occupancies, an industrial area with a number of major corporations' manufacturing facilities, hotels and shopping, and the only mall for miles and miles. That, too, is a story for another day. Point is, they could pay for EMS if they wanted to. It's just that the public doesn't know what they are not getting in terms of service until its too late, and the volunteers EGOs are too big to admit they need to do something different. They simply refuse to give up control and do what's right for the public they claim to exist for...
All I can say, in summation, is I'm glad I don't live in Narrowtown. And, I'm glad I only have to touch their roadways for about half a mile before I'm safely in my little piece of Valhalla, protected by a full-time EMS system that actually responds when called.
Enough for now... hope you have a great day!
Stay safe, take care of each other, and take care of the job.
In that order.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
They just don't get it, do they???
Yesterday, tragedy struck Tarrytown, New York. That's what the news said when I walked into the dayroom this morning waiting to go off shift. A sewage backup prompted a DPW employee to enter a manhole, and that employee rapidly succumbed to unknown fumes inside the hole. He made it about halfway down the ladder, or so the report said, then fell and didn't respond. This prompted a fire department response and a rescue attempt. The volunteer firefighter who attempted that rescue also made it halfway down the ladder and fell, unresponsive. Eventually, both were removed by a technical rescue team, provided CPR and ALS, and transported to the hospital where they were pronounced dead. More info is here: http://www.lohud.com/article/20109070333
First, let me offer my most sincere condolences to the families and friends of both victims. It's terrible to lose someone, no matter what the circumstances. I sincerely hope they find solace and comfort in their community. I also hope they understand that what I write below is not meant in any way to minimize their loss, or criticize the victims. I wasn't there, I have not seen the site myself. I simply want to point out a few things so no other firefighter, public worker or police officer falls victim to the same thing. Let us learn from our losses, not repeat them. That's how we improve the fire service, by becoming smarter through history.
That being said, I wonder. What's it going to take for us to stop killing ourselves with complacency? The manhole where this happened was directly behind the firehouse. Both the initial victim, and the would-be rescuer were volunteer firefighters with lengthy service records. They both knew better. Where were the meters? Where was the entry attendant? What notifications were made? Both victims were found by the Police, who had the presence of mind not to attempt a rescue themselves. Thank God for small favors. Does the locality have a policy for confined space entry? For that matter, did the victims have any formal confined space entry training? I would expect the DPW worker, Mr. Ruggiero, would have had at least something. Mr. Kelly, who apparently was not responding as a firefighter, I can't say. However, they were both firefighters, and should have had some form of awareness even if they didn't get it from their other jobs.
Confined spaces kill lots of people, needlessly. Worse, this incident falls right in line with statistics. Most of the victims in confined space accidents are would-be rescuers. OSHA's definition of a confined space is here: http://www.osha.gov/Publications/osha3138.pdf Common sense should dictate that if you don't know what's in 'there', you don't go without PPE, including SCBA and a backup air source. And a full entry team. And a full backup team. And a plan. Technical rescue is not something to take lightly, not something to do half way right. That's what gets people killed. If you're ever in a situation like this, wait until you've got the proper tools and personnel. Chances are, you're not going to be able to help without it. And you definitely can't hold your breath as long as you think you can.
Enough for now. I'm going to go brush up on my tech rescue training. It's been a while since I've used it.
Stay safe, take care of each other, and take care of the job.
In that order.
First, let me offer my most sincere condolences to the families and friends of both victims. It's terrible to lose someone, no matter what the circumstances. I sincerely hope they find solace and comfort in their community. I also hope they understand that what I write below is not meant in any way to minimize their loss, or criticize the victims. I wasn't there, I have not seen the site myself. I simply want to point out a few things so no other firefighter, public worker or police officer falls victim to the same thing. Let us learn from our losses, not repeat them. That's how we improve the fire service, by becoming smarter through history.
That being said, I wonder. What's it going to take for us to stop killing ourselves with complacency? The manhole where this happened was directly behind the firehouse. Both the initial victim, and the would-be rescuer were volunteer firefighters with lengthy service records. They both knew better. Where were the meters? Where was the entry attendant? What notifications were made? Both victims were found by the Police, who had the presence of mind not to attempt a rescue themselves. Thank God for small favors. Does the locality have a policy for confined space entry? For that matter, did the victims have any formal confined space entry training? I would expect the DPW worker, Mr. Ruggiero, would have had at least something. Mr. Kelly, who apparently was not responding as a firefighter, I can't say. However, they were both firefighters, and should have had some form of awareness even if they didn't get it from their other jobs.
Confined spaces kill lots of people, needlessly. Worse, this incident falls right in line with statistics. Most of the victims in confined space accidents are would-be rescuers. OSHA's definition of a confined space is here: http://www.osha.gov/Publications/osha3138.pdf Common sense should dictate that if you don't know what's in 'there', you don't go without PPE, including SCBA and a backup air source. And a full entry team. And a full backup team. And a plan. Technical rescue is not something to take lightly, not something to do half way right. That's what gets people killed. If you're ever in a situation like this, wait until you've got the proper tools and personnel. Chances are, you're not going to be able to help without it. And you definitely can't hold your breath as long as you think you can.
Enough for now. I'm going to go brush up on my tech rescue training. It's been a while since I've used it.
Stay safe, take care of each other, and take care of the job.
In that order.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Where, oh where, has my little dog gone...
Here goes. I'm not new to the concept of blogging... after all, I read lots of them. Writing, however, is not something I normally do outside of school or work. I know I can write- a boss once told me, "If you ever stop doing this, you can always be a writer." Of course, he was just pissed because I rebutted his attempt to throw me out of the military with a well written, concise account of exactly why he was wrong.
So, why now? Why here? I guess I like the freedom of having my own place to complain, vent, share, opine, or just whatever. I truly enjoy, and am inspired by, the blogs I read on a daily basis. They keep me interested in what I do, provide perspective, remind me that not everyone is an idiot in our profession. Believe me, I do work with a few. You know what they say about Federal Employees, right? We work for the government because we can't work for anyone else. Bottom of the barrel, lazy, dollar sponges, I've heard lots of 'em. In some cases, that's true. In the Federal Fire Service, however, I am certain that all those stereotypes are wrong most of the time. I work with some truly quality individuals, who care deeply about what we do. Of course, there's a reason for the stereotypes, and I work with some of them, too. I'm sure I'll be blogging about them soon enough!
I hope you come back, and I hope you enjoy what I've got to say, whether or not you agree with me. I welcome comments, but be constructive. I don't get much out of "you suck"... I do get something out of "you suck BECAUSE".
Stay safe, take care of each other, and take care of the job.
In that order.
So, why now? Why here? I guess I like the freedom of having my own place to complain, vent, share, opine, or just whatever. I truly enjoy, and am inspired by, the blogs I read on a daily basis. They keep me interested in what I do, provide perspective, remind me that not everyone is an idiot in our profession. Believe me, I do work with a few. You know what they say about Federal Employees, right? We work for the government because we can't work for anyone else. Bottom of the barrel, lazy, dollar sponges, I've heard lots of 'em. In some cases, that's true. In the Federal Fire Service, however, I am certain that all those stereotypes are wrong most of the time. I work with some truly quality individuals, who care deeply about what we do. Of course, there's a reason for the stereotypes, and I work with some of them, too. I'm sure I'll be blogging about them soon enough!
I hope you come back, and I hope you enjoy what I've got to say, whether or not you agree with me. I welcome comments, but be constructive. I don't get much out of "you suck"... I do get something out of "you suck BECAUSE".
Stay safe, take care of each other, and take care of the job.
In that order.
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