The Deconstruction of a Critical Incident: “I’m so sorry I blew up your fire pit.”

And the problem with turning that frown upside down.

In my twenty-five-year career as a firefighter/paramedic, I have been on hundreds of critical incidents, with a few of my own close calls. I compressed each one into a little ball as one (well, at least I do) does with a piece of Wonder Bread. I’d start with a fully formed piece of Wonder Bread and then squish it into a tiny little square. I would take this square of a critical incident, put it into the back-of-the-closet storage box in my head, close the lid, and move on. As you all know from my never-ending talking about it, this didn’t work out so well for me. All those tiny squares eventually expanded back into even bigger pieces of trauma bread and caused the box to rupture. I spent the next ten years (and still counting) reconstructing the pieces to figure out what in the hell happened. I’m a freakin’ pro at it now. I recently had the opportunity to be involved in what my therapist has deemed another critical incident. But this time, I only smashed it down and tucked it away for a couple of days, and then I dealt with it—almost in real time. The following story is how critical incidents should be dealt with so they’re never allowed to fester and wrap themselves around your self-worth or spirit like a tumor might wrap itself around major blood vessels or an organ or two.

I took the train to Clovis on a Friday afternoon. Seven writer friends from all over California and one from New York were to gather and write for a weekend. If you could have read the text thread leading up to it, you’d know we were counting down the minutes until we would all show up at Kerry’s house in the country and be together. Kerry and Aly, who hosted, had planned a weekend of writing with incredible food, wine, writing, and even the making of s’mores and fireside readings. Early Friday evening, as each person arrived, jubilant sounds burst forth from the entryway, and gigantic smiles wrapped our faces. Aly worked on dinner in the kitchen while wine was poured and everyone buzzed with happiness. As the sun began its descent, the air began to cool.

“I need to light the fire pit, but that thing just scares me,” Kerry said. I quickly replied, “Oh, I’ll light it!” I was giddy with the opportunity to use what I feel like is my only real skill set - fire and danger.

“Are you sure?” Kerry asked.

“Yes, of course. This is my sweet spot. I feel totally comfortable lighting the fire pit.”

The fire pit was about 3 feet in diameter and about 2 feet tall. Inside were a couple of layers of hardiebacker cement board lying on top of cinder blocks. On top of that was a couple of circles of metal tubing with upright holes (where the gas comes out and provides a flame), and then on top of that was a couple of inches of about 1 inch in diameter lava rock. The circular metal tubing was connected to the gas line via a 3/4 inch galvanized metal pipe.

“Brian made me a video, maybe you could watch it.” (Brian is Kerry’s husband.)

“Sure, I’ll watch it.” The video showed very detailed steps on how to turn the gas valve on.

“Oh, I’ve got this. It’s easy.”

“How do you know this?”

“Well, at my job, I’ve turned gas valves off millions of times. And I just know”

“It just makes me so nervous. Are you sure you don’t mind doing this?”

“Don’t worry, I’m really super comfortable doing this. It’s right in my wheelhouse.”

“Ok, just please be careful.”

“It ain’t nothin’ but a thang.”

Kerry retreated and stood about 15 feet away.

I turned the main gas line on. Then I turned the key on at the fire pit. I could hear a loud hissing of gas. My brain said, Whoa, that’s a lot of gas. I turned the key too much. So I shut it off. My mouth said, “I’ll just let it dissipate a bit. It’s no big deal.” I flicked the lighter on several feet above the fire pit a couple of times, almost daring it to light and saying to the universe, see, it’s fine. I waved my arms around a few times and decided to give it another go. Kerry said, “I can still smell it over here.” My brain agreed there was still a lot of gas, but my mouth said, “Ahhh, it’s fine.” I knelt down, turned the key only a little bit this time, stood up and leaned over, and flicked the lighter on. For what felt like just a very brief moment, nothing happened, and then RaaaaAAAAA-BOOM! A huge ball of yellow light with some wispy purple inside shot out of the pit and right at my head. As I felt my body recoil, a deep, thunderous, and throaty roar surrounded me. I felt pieces of lava rock as it pelted my face. As I was now in a standing position, I could hear the lava rock sprinkling on the concrete ground around me. It sounded just like being at a fireworks show — when a shell explodes in the air, releasing hundreds of smaller fireworks that create a few seconds of sustained crackling as they all individually explode. Then it was quiet.

My eyes were closed as I took a quick body inventory, realizing I was fine— and I shit you not, an involuntary smile wrapped on my face and that adrenaline starved part of my brain thought, holy shit that was awesome. I calmly said out loud, “I’m ok.”

“OH MY GOD ARE YOU OK?” Kerry asked.

With tones of gratitude and embarrassment, I responded, “Ya, I’m ok. Really”

The others were inside. I could hear one of them tell the upset, barking dog that everything is ok. The sliding glass door opened, and I heard, “WHAT HAPPENED?” Then a flurry of conversation ensued, but I stayed quiet. Finally, I said, “I need to look at my face.” I walked right past everyone and into the bathroom. Looking in the mirror, I saw I had a small abrasion over my left eye, a red mark on my chin, and several dark spots where I had been hit by dirty lava rock. The hair on the right side of my head was singed. When I ran my fingers through it, bits of burnt hair flaked off. What I felt and saw in the mirror did not match what I felt and saw and heard when I lit that fire pit. I walked back into the kitchen, where everyone was waiting for me. I just needed to keep moving. Aly said, “You should take a shower.” I replied, “Ya, that’s a really good idea.” As I took my hoodie sweatshirt off, I heard little noises tinkling on the ground. Aly said, “You have pieces of lava rock coming out of your sweatshirt. Are you sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?” I replied, “Oh, good lord no, I am fine.”

Oh my God, Christy, you idiot, you almost just ruined everyone’s weekend. Can you imagine, everyone isn’t even here an hour, and you almost just ruined the ENTIRE weekend.

I took a shower and scrubbed my hair real good. I washed my face, and instead of standing in the water for a few minutes and letting the incident wash away, I probably took one of the fastest showers of my life. I put the same clothes right back on. I felt like something was behind me, pushing me forward. Just keep moving forward.

Everyone was gathered in the kitchen as Vinita was making margaritas. Someone said, “Oh, Christy, you need one of these.” I replied, “Oh yes, I do!” I walked back outside with my margarita and looked at the fire pit. Ya, that looks pretty bad. I need to get a picture of this.

I said to Kerry, “I am so sorry I almost ruined everyone’s weekend.”

“Are you kidding me? I am just so grateful you are ok. And this is actually a validation that the fire pit is dangerous. I’ve been saying this forever.”

We went back inside as dinner was just about ready. I stood at the kitchen island with my margarita in my left hand, and I put my right hand in my pocket. I found more lava rock. We sat down to dinner, and that was when I smooshed the flame ball and the roar and the pelting lava rock into a tiny little square and tucked it away into that box in my head. I had come so close to ruining everyone’s weekend, I wasn’t going to cause any more angst for everyone by wallowing in my near miss. I had been looking forward to this weekend for quite some time and I was an incredibly seasoned pro at tucking this kind of shit away. Besides, it wasn’t that big of a deal. The only injury I sustained was a 1/2 inch abrasion. I still had my eyebrows (although it would have been sweet if that faint lady-mustache of mine burned off). Christy, just let it go. You are fine. Just shut your pie hole— you almost just ruined this weekend for everyone!

The photo I sent to my BFF. This side, with the bare spot of lava rocks, is where I stood.

I sent my BFF a text with the picture saying, “I just blew up Kerry’s fire pit.” And explained what happened. She, of course, reacted with several texts saying, “Thank God you are ok!” and throughout the weekend, “Are you ok?” I would answer, “I am good! All I have is a little cut over my left eye.” I certainly couldn’t text my wife this story, so I decided I’d call her the next day to tell her. I had to have this thing shoved away before I talked to her or else I’d start crying—then people would know and then I’d have to talk about it and what if they thought I was being dramatic and then it would become a thing and let’s just pretend it never happened because really I am fine and it wasn’t that big of a deal.

But it nagged at me all weekend. Like a little bird in the so faraway background that you didn’t even notice was chirping until it stopped. This little bird was telling me something didn’t add up. The problem with trying to stuff it away now is that I know better. In recovering from PTSD, I have reconnected synapses in my brain that don’t let that stuff “go away” anymore.

The rest of the weekend was one of those weekends that they make movies about. Seven friends laughing and crying and sharing, and yes, there was wine and margaritas and amazing food, with, of course, the most fantastic charcuterie board. There were even the cutest and most snuggliest dogs I ever did see and get to cuddle with.

I took the train home, and my wife picked me up. We hugged each other a bit harder than usual, and my eyes welled up. The old Christy would have just been angry.

Now that I was home, the piece of bread began to swell back up as I did not have the distraction of not wanting to ruin everyone’s weekend. That little bird began to chirp a little louder. Tuesday, I finally decided that maybe it would be a good idea to make an appointment with my therapist and actually talk about this. I’d have to wait until Friday.

So, I stewed in it and listened.

I finally could hear what the little bird was saying — the physical damage did not come close to the what-the-fuck-just-happened that was going on inside my head. I struggled back and forth with when that ball of flames and sound came at me, my brain said, “THIS is when your life will change forever.” I never thought I was going to die, but I believed, for a split second, that I’d be seriously injured. But I wasn’t. As I said that evening in my best British accent, “It’s merely a flesh wound.” So why was this haunting me? Was I looking for attention? Was I looking for someone to feel sorry for me? What in the hell is my problem?

The other thing the birdie said to me was, “What kind of firefighter blows up a fire pit?” I know better. I saw an opportunity to use what I still believe to be my real, only skill set and finally be “useful”. I think I was even showing off a little— Ya look at me, I ain’t afraid of no gas and flames. Step aside, ladies, I've got this. I didn’t heed Kerry’s warning. I realized I owed her an apology because I wasn’t the only one who this “happened” to; she, too, had weight to carry. Kerry witnessed a fireball blow into my head while she had a weekend in front of her that she had planned and was hosting. She, too, had to mash up her angst into a little square and shove it away. So I did something crazy and out of first responder character—I called her to talk about it.

“Kerry, I have to apologize. I am so sorry for not listening to you. You tried to warn me, and I was so cavalier. I am so sorry I blew up your fire pit, and I am so sorry I put you through that.” Kerry replied, “Well, we must be twinning because I have been sitting here all week feeling bad about what happened to you and what could have happened to you.”

There is a documentary about a firefighter who was working on a roof at a structure fire and was swallowed by the house. The roof where he stood gave way, and he dropped right into the fire. As part of our firefighting job, we cut holes in roofs right over the fire. His captain, the person in charge of the crew, watched his guy, the person he was responsible for, disappear into the flames. The firefighter recovered from his wounds on the outside, but his wounds on the inside gave him debilitating PTSD, and he ended up retiring. The captain went back to work, but he suffered too. And guess what - they never talked to each other about it. They both carried heavy feelings of responsibility for what happened and what they put the other person through, and they never even talked to each other about it. A few years later, someone came up with the bright idea and suggested to the captain, “Have you ever talked to your firefighter about how you are feeling?” They finally talked to each other about it and dropped some serious weight they’d been carrying on their shoulders.

Kerry and I talked more about the whole thing. I think we spent more time making me feel better than her. But we for sure dropped some weight. I am so grateful I carried that weight for only a week instead of years.

I saw my therapist the next day, and yep, there it was, what we in the first responder healing business call “the juice.” Here, I could admit that although I am extraordinarily grateful I did not have any physical injuries, without those injuries, no one can see the aftermath. This is exactly the problem with PTSD - there’s a shitstorm in your head but no one can see it. And yes, this is the same for all the other mental health issues or any messy emotions and feelings we have. I shed many tears that day in my shrink’s office, and finally, I could utter the words “critical incident.” I had been not allowing myself to call it that because I had deemed it “not big enough.”

That Sunday, eight days after the “critical incident”, began a six-day West Coast Post Trauma Retreat where I was going to be the lead peer. This means I run the week, and it’s a heavy, heavy week. At the retreat, there are six first responder clients, who are in the darkest depths of their PTSD, around nine peers - all first responders who have been through the retreat as a client, two clinicians, and a chaplain. Stick twenty first responders with PTSD in a house together for six days, what could possibly go wrong? I am NOT patting myself on the back, but you have to carry a lot of weight being in that position. It’s the most rewarding thing I have ever done. But I was going into the week already carrying an extra load. So as my shrink suggested, I did something novel, and I pulled someone aside who I know cares about me and can help carry my weight. With someone else knowing, I wasn’t alone.

Two days later, I told a few more people, also in leadership positions, whom I love and trust. And just like that, the weight I carried was lighter as six people shared it instead of two.

Every morning at the retreat, we do a check-in. Every single person shares how they are doing - how they slept, any insights they have had regarding their PTSD, any triggers they have had, etc. Usually, as the lead peer, I keep my shares super short as we are always short on time, and my job is to keep everything running. So that next morning, I made the most important step in all of this - sharing what happened with a room full of my peers. I still carried shame for being the idiot firefighter who blew up a fire pit. While I spoke, I cried and even had to stop to gather myself. But I told my before, during, and after story—and guess what happened? My peers told me they were glad I was ok and that by sharing my shame and how I was affected, they were given permission to share the crap they felt shitty about and that swirled in their heads. And of course they gave me a good old fashioned load of shit about it that made me laugh. The weight was almost gone.

ALL OF US carry pain and grief and shame, but we walk around like we don’t. “I’m good, I’m fine,” we say with an upside-down frown. A smile is different than an upside-down frown. A real smile comes from a light and peaceful place. An upside-down frown is fraudulent. Just like how laughter and yawns are contagious, upside-down frowns are too. “If random Suzy is always fine and smiling, then I guess I'd better be too.” I’m not sure how this article about blowing up a fire pit and almost losing my face has found its way to ‘upside down frowns,’ but here we are.

Also, it doesn’t freaking matter how “big” or “significant” something is to be counted as affecting you. What matters is ALL of the circumstances your are standing in at that moment. I spent way too much effort trying to justify how I felt. In fact the trepidation I feel in having you all read this is someone is going to say, “Really Christy, you are upset over that?”

Brene Brown says, “We are only as sick as our secrets.” This is a fact. So don’t turn that frown upside down. Instead, and I know I’ve said this many times before, find your people and share your shit. You’d be surprised at how much we all carry — even the people who seem to have everything together, all the time. Finding connection is what makes us smile, for real.