You are Not Alone

Even Though You May Sometimes Feel Like it

Since the name of this Substack is A Firefighter Deconstructed, I figure I should write some stuff about being a first responder. But being a first responder isn’t always pretty so writing and then the subsequent reading about it won’t always be pretty. But I think this is important.

A few weeks ago I sat on a bench seat at a large, beautiful dining room table made of a single slab of wood. Around that table sat thoughtful, smart, and kind friends. They were all fellow writers who had read my book (a memoir about the aftermath of being a firefighter), so they knew my story. Someone thoughtfully asked, “When you were in the academy, did they tell you or teach you what was going to happen or what you were going to see?” I immediately knew the real answer — but felt conflicted with how I should answer. The mood in the room was a comfortable joy that I didn’t want to ruin. I started to answer, and as usual, engaged my mouth before my brain. I began fumbling out loud, actually stuttering a truthful but not complete answer. It was like my brain was having a conversation with itself about how I should answer while my mouth was talking, all in real-time. The real answer was, “Well, they taught me how if someone has been shot in the chest and has a hole in their lung, how to put a needle in their chest to alleviate the pressure that will eventually stop them from being able to breathe and will also compress their heart so it can’t contract and pump blood. But what they didn’t teach me was how to feel or what to do while you are in that kinda scary moment of putting a huge needle into someone’s chest, and that person reaches up and grabs your shirt and begs you not to let them die—when you are pretty sure they are going to die.” Talk about a conversation and mood killer. Not to mention how overly dramatic that sounds. How are people supposed to respond to that? Instead of sharing my truth, I ended up saying something stupid and half-assed. I don’t even think I finished my sentences.

And then I felt alone.

I was in a warm and cozy house with amazing, loving people and I felt utterly alone. It’s like carrying a secret you want to talk about, but you feel like sharing it would be wrong.

I may be alone on this rock in the middle of a very cold lake somewhere in the backcountry of Yosemite, but a friend stood on the shore ready if I needed help. This was way before I became a swimmer.

There’s a call that has slept for the past thirty years in a little nook and cranny somewhere deep in my brain and somehow has awoken in the past few days. It crawled to the very front of my brain. This call has been completely dark and silent for thirty years and is now bright and loud. I was a twenty-something-year-old seasoned paramedic. I remember it was dark outside and I sense it was around 11:00 at night. I sat on the bench seat in the back of the ambulance, talking with a lovely woman in her seventies on the gurney sitting up as if she were on a chaise lounge by the pool. We had picked her up from a “skilled” nursing facility where she was recovering from surgery due to a broken hip. Our conversation had nothing to do with her hip or why she was being rushed to the hospital. I’m sure the red lights reflected off the buildings we drove past and the siren wailed, but I didn’t notice either of them. What I remember is sitting there, looking at this frail woman with blue lips, thinking to myself she is going to die from this clot in her lungs and she has no idea. There was nothing I could do for the clot in her lungs, I could only keep her company. I remember sitting there, as I listened to her calmly talk about where she was from, wondering if I should tell her or at least give her some indication of the severity of her situation. I just kept listening to her talk as if we were in a restaurant sharing a meal. As we got close to the Emergency Room I told her what to expect once we got inside because I knew it was about to get chaotic. I never told her this may be her last few hours. I still haven’t been able to decide if I did the right thing. Her signs and symptoms were 100% classic for a pulmonary embolism and I have had so many patients with pulmonary embolisms that I was 99.99% sure that was what she had—and her’s was bad. I don’t know whether they were able to save her or if she died. All I know is for twenty minutes I had a lovely conversation with a woman who didn’t know she was probably going to die while the whole time, I did.

I don’t have a clue as to why this call has crept out and has started its PTSD haunting. I tried to talk about it with my wife but the tears took my voice away. So all day long, I walk around feeling utterly helpless with this woman who is turning blue. Next week I have an appointment with my therapist and we’ll do some EMDR or Brainspotting and that should hopefully tuck that woman back into a nook and erase the overwhelming helplessness. But in the meantime, whether I am walking Harriet or doing the dishes or hanging out with a friend, I continue to sit in the back of that ambulance at 11:00 at night listening to her talk, while I know.

The important part here is that I will talk about it and share it so I won’t be alone.

When I think about it, if they told us about all this in the academy I don’t think I would have listened. This was never going to happen to me. Yea, I might get hit by a car while working an accident on the freeway or I might get killed in a fire or I might get hurt by a violent patient or I might fall off a roof but I will ALWAYS be able to handle my shit. I believed that for twenty-five years until I couldn’t handle my shit anymore. Then I had to talk—and listen. I had to listen to people tell me I am human and have a nervous system that I have no control over and a brain that can only take being hit so many times. I am not alone in this in any shape or form.

All of us, not just first responders go through shit. Life is HARD. You have to talk about it and as Brene Brown says, “You are only as sick as your secrets.” I promise you that no matter what you’ve been through, there are people who have been in your shoes and really get it — FIND THEM. You are not alone!