Morgan's Salute

It began as a calm, crisp, cool morning. The sun in the perfect blue sky was warming. There was still nearly three hours to go before Boston Fire Department Lieutenant Edward J. Walsh Jr. would be eulogized. I stood there with my fellow Honour Guard member. We both quietly absorbed the magnitude of why we had travelled here. We shook hands with Brothers from literally all corners of this continent. Some couldn't believe we'd trekked this far; we were just as bewildered at their disbelief. Among a very many things on this job, it's just what we do. We shared stories of our cities and departments but mostly we all just just scanned the thousands around us with introspection. 

I don't think about what this job could possibly bring very often at all, not until moments like these. We attend many funerals with the Honour Guard however thankfully most are our Retirees who have enjoyed a long retirement into old age. Death is a part of life, there's no escaping its inevitability. We witness a greater share than most. It's hard enough losing someone we've taken great lengths to help, save or rescue; when it's our Brethren its pain is obtuse, it's not supposed to happen. We are the "thin red line" shoulder to shoulder, nothing is supposed to penetrate us. Yet here we stand, shoulder to shoulder, on the brown grass approach of Saint Patrick Church in Watertown, Mass. 

The order to attention is bellowed. Some estimate nearly 20,000 of us are poised here. The helicopters overhead and the flags rubbing and whipping in the wind are all that break the silence. It's overcast now. The distant cadence of the bass drums and the pipes that usher them begin to close in. The order to present arms. Ladder 15 and Engine 33 idle by, both covered in black and purple bunting. The snares tap the band in as they fill every spot possible on the grassy knoll in front of us. Thousands of white gloves held up with every ounce of care and love that could be mustered, begin to shake ever so slightly. I stare across the spotless axe I hold, finding a spot on the roof of the house being renovated next to the parish. Lieutenant Walsh's Brother, holding his helmet, escorts his casket, held by Brothers in arms but Brothers nonetheless. 

Then it happened. I lost my stare. I noticed as Lieutenant Walsh's Sister caught my eye, and watched as she purposely met each each of our eyes as she slowly followed her Brother to the stairs in to the church. Something pink in the sea of blue and black caught my eye at the same time. It was Lietenant Walsh's Daughter, Morgan. It all happened so fast but I argued with myself not to move my eyes down. The family paused as the procession made its way up the path. I was drawn down. She cracked an inquiring smile as she looked at me, squinting up at the bright grey sky, saluting us all. It took all the strength I had not to drop my axe, let alone remain standing. Every ounce of breath was sucked from me. "I hate this fucking job" I thought through my clenched teeth as my face became wet. I immediately saw my daughter Molli a year older and my Son Jayke a year younger, in Morgan. I'm not sure I've ever been so humbled and heart broken in my life. Through all my challenges at work and the help I've received over the past few years, I've finally learned to let my self feel: good or bad. I've never been filled with so much despise and pride for this job all at the same time. It just plain hurts. To see a family that has lost their patriarch much too early in a tragic way is heart wrenching. 

We were all there to grieve as a brotherhood, as a team, as always. It's just what we do. Most importantly: We all gathered from across the world to show the Walsh family how much Ed meant to us and that he will not ever be forgotten. We want them to be taken aback by our attendance and show that thousands of shoulders carry the burden and loss with them. 

Children are resilient and can teach us plenty. Morgan has shown us that through pain there can be resolve.

I have been witness to many things on this job. Some bring visions when I least want or expect, most I'd like to erase. That little girl in pink, squinting up at me with her hand raised, saluting her Father, is one I will never forget nor ever want to.

Who knew thousands upon thousands would travel from near and far to salute such a great Fireman and Father when in the end, one little person's salute was all that mattered. 

Your family's strength left a mark on us all Morgan. Neither your Father's sacrifice nor that of your family, which will be forever felt, will ever be forgotten by your much larger extended Family. 

We forever salute you Morgan, and your family. 

stigma

1. stig·ma

   ˈstigmə/

   noun noun: stigma; plural noun: stigmata; plural noun: stigmas

   1. 1.

      a mark of disgrace associated with a particular circumstance, quality, or person.

      "the stigma of mental disorder"

      synonyms:

      shame, disgrace, dishonor, ignominy, opprobrium, humiliation, (bad)reputation

credit: Google.com


stigma. There's nothing good about the word. Disgrace, shame, bad reputation, dishonour, discredit and humiliation. These are all too familiar to me. I've felt them in the past and at times still do to this day in regards to my anxiety, depression and post traumatic stress. It's almost a self fulfilling prophecy. Did I feel these feelings of guilt and shame because I had nightmares, flashbacks and feelings of suicide? Or am I conditioned by society? I believe the latter.

Everyone is judgmental, some more than others; it's human nature. Before I experienced the calls that spurred my struggles or rather before I realized I had a problem and couldn't continue any longer, I was quite judgmental. Then life hit the tilt button on me. A total reset. New game. New ball. I'm still judgmental, but usually not without hearing the full story and to a much lesser degree. I've been to the bottom of my minds ocean, almost took a few deep breaths while down there too. Instead I looked up, saw a dark that was a little less dark, decided to keep holding my breath and swam for my life. I'm at the surface now. Some days I'm barely treading water, some days I'm floating in a chair with a margarita. I take them as they come now, knowing that a wave that ebbs must rise. I finally found the strength to ride them instead of be drowned by them. 

I've been to hundreds if not thousands of calls with junkies, bums, addicts. The so called "low life's". I always respected them, had fun with them when they were able to communicate and helped and helped the best I could. I've witnessed plenty of them die, helped save some too. I recognized fairly early that I wasn't much different, only a couple pay cheques away from joining them on the streets. I now further grasp that in fact they are likely stronger than me, they just hadn't or don't realize it yet. For some their ocean is too deep and they couldn't find the help they needed to gain the strength to fight enough to reach the surface. Even more make it to the surface and fall again, over and over, maybe endlessly. Some will survive, some will fade into the abyss. I can't rightly judge them or their circumstances, I don't know their ocean or it's depths. Those days where I'm sputtering at the surface, I've felt the urge to just relax, let go and sink. I don't though. Mostly because I have people floating around me. Most of them were always there, waiting, I just choose to see them and let them in now. 

As someone who has suffered with depression, anxiety, post traumatic stress and plenty of suicidal ideation I know that most who struggle don't necessarily need a rescuer or saviour, just be there. Make it known you're there, really there, waiting. Maybe I won't talk, maybe I will. Mostly I just need to NOT be judged, discriminated, pitied or stigmatized. Even if you've struggled similarly you don't know my depths, my struggles, my weaknesses or my strengths. So simply shut your mouth, discard your preconceptions, smile and say:

"I'm here, however YOU need or want me to be, ALWAYS."

The next time you see a bum, someone like me or you find yourself struggling: don't discriminate them or yourself by allowing the stigma of mental health issues paralyze you. If you're too mentally weak and immature to offer help and support, you're better to do nothing. I don't necessarily need you to understand, I don't expect it actually, just be accepting. 

You never know when you might be the one looking up from the depths of your own abyss. 

I'll be there. Will YOU?

It's all up to you, yeah YOU! No excuses!

For me its all in the eyes. They can tell you so much without making a sound. Some will be with me forever. Sitting at a red light, daydreaming at home, zoning off at work but most often as I, often  futilely, try to get to sleep. I see many eyes, just counting off hand I've been witness to dozens in their last moments.  Some come to mind uninvited much too often and cause me a great deal of strife and struggle. Often I wish they would just leave me alone and not intrude my daily life and sleep. Most of them don't bother me too much or often. I'll never forget any of them though. I don't believe you belong in this career if you can just forget.

That being said there is a time and place for reflection or thought. The scene is not that time or place. I'm often amazed at times when after a call when everything and everyone is taken care of, I realize what we just saw, did or experienced and that we were able to perform and function and do it so well. As I gain more experience the "pucker factor" lessens when we hear what we're responding to or when we get there. I'm too focused on visualizing the location and how to get there, what we need to do, listening to the officer and forming a plan as a crew with the info we have. 

I think we are all addicted to that adrenaline high. We all love when that call comes in. Lights come on. Tones go off. Gear on. Trucks out. Every little kids dream- to me any way. I can attribute functioning under that high better and better as I was trained extremely well and most importantly mentored well and continue to be every shift. I also firmly believe that that adrenaline high protects us as well. (something for a really smart person to study and look in to) 

In my experience, it's when you come down off that high that you'll know if a call bothered you more than normal. The calls that I've struggled with left me feeling very NOT normal. Nauseous to the point of vomiting but worse because I couldn't. Shaking uncontrollably. Shivering as I was cold. Sweating because I was hot. Anger. Sadness. Frustration. As I write this I realize these are all symptoms of Shock and a Panic or Anxiety Attack all combined into one. I've been to hundreds if not thousands where almost every patient has these symptoms. What do we do for them? We coach their breathing and give them oxygen, get them warm, treat their other injuries. In some cases we transport them to the hospital if needed. 

What do we do for US? Squeeze our hands together into a fist to stop the trembling and shake it off. Drink a water and get back on the rig. Next call. Have a few too many drinks after shift to quell the memories for that short time. I've done it. You've done it. We've all done it.  Wow are WE stupid! Mostly because we don't know any better. We're starting to though and YOU need to speak up because WE are not ALL there yet. Especially you officers. It all begins and ends with you. If you say "Hey guys that was a tough call, let's go grab a coffee and chat". You may LITERALLY save the life of one or all of your crew and in the least you will show them the proper way to deal with troubling calls. Maybe the call didn't bother you that much but maybe it was the call that popped the proverbial water balloon of life of one of your guys. So even if it didn't bother YOU personally, it's YOUR crew and YOUR Sister/Brother Fire Fighter. So whether you're a Chief with thirty-seven years on the job or a rookie on his first day-it's YOUR problem and YOUR responsibility to say something. No excuses. No "buts". 

We all want to help. Worry about your's and your Sister and Brother's well-being first. That way we can all be healthy enough to help others when called upon to help. You cannot win these "personal" battles alone. It's SO hard, I know, but you must speak up and get help and confide in your brothers. You will not regret it, I can assure you. 

We are absolute perfectionists when it comes to helping others in need but we do a piss poor job of helping ourselves and our brothers. We all know we depend on each other for survival on the fireground same goes for eachother's emotional and mental survival. 

YOU choose. Speak up so you can be on the front page with your crew after a big save or keep quiet and one of you may end up on the back pages in the obituaries. 

NO EXCUSES! NONE!

Nothing Showing...

It came to me last week when I woke up. It felt right. It was exactly what I was - Showing Nothing for the most part. 

For those not familiar with the term: When the first unit arrives on scene of a fire or fire alarm call and the officer takes command he gives an arrival report for all other responding rigs and dispatch. If there doesn't appear to be any smoke or fire, they'll say "Nothing Showing at this time". That said I've been to a number of fire calls where that's the case and you make entry and its a rockin' fire. We've learned quite well in the fire service to not take things for what they are at all times and be ready for anything. 

I've been in some super dark spots over the last few years up until even as recent as three months ago where I came very close to not shutting the car off after dropping the kids off at school and daycare. I pulled in, pressed the button and it got dark. I sat there, leaned the seat back and started weighing the pros and cons of not shutting the car off. I'd been to these calls, some with good and some with bad outcomes. Among many more important things, I just couldn't be that asshole to my family. I hadn't slept more than an hour a day in nearly five. I was getting flashbacks and recurring "movies" of being back at the scene of my "bad 3". If I did finally fall asleep I would awake wincing with my hands over my ears and head to the loudest sounds I've ever experienced (that weren't there in reality). I had some busy night shifts followed by the normal day to day get up and go with the kids that week that every parent has. It wasn't that I wanted to die. I didn't at all really. I had so much to live for. I had two great kids. My separation and divorce was pretty smooth all things considered and we were finally getting a good routine two years later. Money was tight having only one income. All in all life was good. I just wanted the pain of reliving and seeing the calls to stop and above all I wanted to sleep and stay asleep, FOREVER. I was so so tired. I had broken. It was weird. I'd been getting help for almost a year and a half and I was healing. So why a huge breakdown and bottoming out now? I don't know, not sure if that can be answered. That's the beauty and terror of the human mind and soul, it's unpredictable, to others and frustratingly to ourselves. 

Or have we? Maybe strategically we have. When we're out on the scene of a call whether it be a fire, a medical, a collision or a rescue. We have been taught to always be on the look out for that rogue car at a crash scene, a sketchy person that may want to harm us at a medical or the fingers of fire in the smoke above that signify a flashover is building. We're taught to look at all the little cues and clues for impending doom. If we see something, we speak up no matter the rank or experience, we protect each other at all costs. There's been three or four cases off the top of my head in my department where a proby had just started and saved his brothers. A good friend of mine saved his entire crew by recognizing the signs of a flashover and told his Captain. Their gear was burnt off their backs as they rapidly bailed out. They were all uninjured, physically anyway. They lost the little girl that was screaming for their help. Among other calls, my friend's ptsd was contributed to by this call. 

It's so ingrained in us to watch out for one another. Yet when we begin to have struggles we revert into ourselves. On a job where our sisters and brothers rely on one another to keep alive at times, we turn our back and think we can do it on our own. I was so embarrassed that I'd be seen as an attention grabber, a pussy, a whiner and above all it had caused me so much pain I didn't want anyone else to hurt like I had. I didn't want to bother others with my burden. This was perceived as me being a cocky introverted prick that didn't trust anyone.  Years and months later I'm still repairing those bridges.

It hasn't been that hard. The more I peel back the layers and let people in, the easier my life has become, on the job and at home both in relationships and as a father. Perception is everything. For all the preconceived notions I had about what the guys would think, they couldn't have been more opposite. Everyone I tell is genuinely in my corner. They have my back.  In some cases I've had a few brothers tell me that my opening up made them realize they needed some help too. It's been very humbling to truly feel the fraternity that is the Fire Service. We all joined this job to help others. When your brother or sister tells you you've helped them, it takes you aback. 

That's what spurred me to start talking and start this blog. Some who didn't appear to have any issues, who I thought were flawless and had balls of steel were struggling. I now know they are stronger than I once thought because they weren't going to lose to their inner struggles any longer. 

They had nothing showing but there was a lot going on inside. There was a raging fire inside readying to flash over. 

We just don't know or recognize the signs, unfortunately too often, until its too late and someone has lost their marriage, sobriety or tragically their life. We as humans and fire fighters need to get on this. We need to be open about occupational stress and life stress and not fight on our own.  The easiest way to get others to open up is to trust them with your wounds. We don't just sit there and watch buildings burn from the inside out. Don't let yourself or your brothers and sisters burn to death either. My third paragraph about my rock bottom in the garage likely made you squeamish and uncomfortable. Don't be uncomfortable to vent your struggles out. Definitely don't be afraid to help those that are struggling to find the tools to ventilate theirs.  

Stay safe and stay well through others. 

Another brick in the wall...

I've always wanted to be a Fireman. Some of my first memories are of visiting fire halls and seeing the trucks, in awe of those showing me. There was no other option, it had to be. I'm not religious, but if there is such a thing as "a calling" this career is mine, loud and clear. I was born and built for this. I've spent years both preparing to apply and going through the application process. 

I've been on the job for six years now. I work in a large city in North America. Our department is a true world leader of the Fire Service. I was lucky enough to be assigned to our busiest station upon graduating from our training academy. I ran on a lot of calls, ten to twelve a day and ten to twenty on a night shift. I was loving it. Lots of fires, collisions, medical runs and everything else that you could think of. The first two years was a blur, I learnt a ton, but nothing really stuck out in my memory looking back on it now. 

That all changed one summer night almost two years to the day from graduating class. We had been busy that night running alarms and medicals, a normal night. We had returned to quarters about 0130 and some of us had just lied down to try and catch a couple hours.  I had just fallen asleep, when I was scared awake by someone shaking my legs- "WAKE UP! WE HAVE A RUN!"  It was dark still, I couldn't understand what was going on. You could tell by the way he was saying it that something wasn't good. Usually when there's a call, all the lights come on, there's tones, a voice indicates what rigs are going to what type of call and it's location. That didn't happen at first. It's not normal to have someone shake you awake. We usually have time to process what we're heading to. We didn't get that chance with this call. There was panic, which really honestly doesn't happen in this job hardly at all. One of the only times I can recall feeling that way was this night. 

It was a collision. One of the captains saw it happen right outside the station. He saw a fast blur of light go by and then heard a huge crash. He knew it was bad and came and got us all up. We ran down and got dressed. Some got on the rigs, most of us just ran down the street. I was first to the side of the vehicle that still had a semblance of a car. The rest was intwined in a pole. This car was only a quarter of the width it was meant to be. 

The driver was beat up bad. There was another young man to his right, almost on his lap. His head was leaned back and over so it was resting near the drivers shoulder. He was drowning in his own blood, his mouth full to the brim, like when you fill a water glass just to point of overflowing. There was panic in him. He was trying to move but couldn't really. His eyes were shifting back and forth trying to see all that was going on around him. There were commands being given, tools running, sirens and the driver was yelling "Get this fucking guy off of me!"  It was just four eyes that mattered right now. His eyes looked over to mine, he was barley moving and I couldn't see the rest of his body too well as it was wrapped in twisted metal. The calm he had in his eyes made everything else at the scene go quiet. He knew he was going to die. I knew he was going to die. I watched this man choke on the very thing that keeps us all alive. He took his last few attempts to take a breath but was unable. He stopped trying. It was just his eyes now, then those too went still. 

This all happened in about a minute, even though it still seems like an hour, four years later even. He's worthy of that hour at least. I carried Marty around with me as  if it was my responsibility. He didn't make the decision to drive that car like that, drunk. I was mad, furious that someone similar to me was snuffed out in a senseless way. I was livid that this guy's buddy who caused his death was too worried about getting out than his friend drowning in his own blood on his shoulder. I still have all these feelings. I dream about the call. I'm rapidly taken back to that moment looking in his eyes being the last thing he saw before slipping away. Sometimes I think about it all night not being able to sleep. 

I wouldn't know it for nearly a year or two but this was just the start of my struggles with ptsd. This was just a "tough", "bad" or "shitty" call as I've heard dozens of times, right?  It was more than that. I was in for the ride of my life and so was my pregnant wife and daughter. We ran more calls that night. I went home and watched my little one exhausted, so my wife could get to work. Then I would meet her in a parking lot or coffee shop to exchange kids and a kiss and then head back to work for another night. 

I was beginning to build the walls around me, every sleepless or stressed hour was another brick in the wall and I didn't even know it.