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I was asked to elaborate on my Firefighter/EMT experiences that form the bases for many of my entries. Funny story, actually.

In 1999, Alex and I decided to move to the Pacific Northwest, so that our son could have a relationship with my mother and stepfather. This, in spite of the difficulties I myself had with them.

Both of my parents were EMTs on the local volunteer fire department.

One month later, I was in firefighting school. Three months later, I was taking classes to become an EMT.

I served as a volunteer firefighter/EMT from June 1999 until April 2004, when I resigned in order to concentrate on several book projects.

Those 4 ½ years were full of excitement, heroism, romance, betrayal and, ultimately, redemption.

No, wait, that was Backdraft.

I should say, instead, that my time as a Firefighter/EMT was replete with boredom, petty arguments, disappointment and, ultimately, failure. Interspersed with some heartbreaking stories, the incidents I usually choose to write about.

But mostly, disappointment.

I remember one call, in particular, when I had just been appointed as the new Emergency Medical Officer for the department, which allowed me to wear a red helmet and boss the other volunteers, including my parents, around.

That didn’t fly over well.

On the way to a chest pain emergency, imagine this. I’m driving the ambulance. My step-dad is in the passenger seat. My mother is in the back. As I pick up the radio to call in our pending arrival, my step-dad starts yelling at me that I’m not allowed to drive and use the radio at the same time.

‘You do it all the time! You do it every single fucking call!’

‘Give me the radio!’

‘I’m a lieutenant, and you’ll stand down!’

‘Give me the radio!’

From the back, ’Stop it, you two!’

‘Give me the radio!’

‘I’m the officer, and I’m in charge!’

‘The officer shouldn’t be driving, he should be in the passenger seat!’

‘Fine!’

‘Fine!’

So on the way to a man dying from a heart attack, a casual onlooker might see an ambulance, full lights and sirens, pull over off the road. The driver and passenger jump out of the car, exchange seats, and pull back onto the road. If this were slapstick, you'd probably see the two of them bump heads crashing into each other, falling on their asses and lifting their fists at each other in 'anger device number 12.'

The passenger then takes the radio and announces their pending arrival. The passenger and driver, unfortunately, are no longer on speaking terms, which probably perplexes the patient, whose heart attack is merely heartburn, brought about, no doubt, by a chunk of bull flesh lodged in his mammoth colon.

I quit the department that day, throwing my gear out of the ambulance and driving home without saying a word to my parents. It wasn’t the first, nor would it be the last time I quit. I quit the department every time this sort of thing happened, which was a lot. In fact, I quit the very next week when on a call, my step-dad in the driver’s seat, radioed in to announce our pending arrival to a scene. I watched him, steering wheel in one hand, radio in the other, barely a week removed from the previous drama. I smiled. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t say, ‘I thought you weren’t allowed to drive and use the radio at the same time.’ I certainly didn’t say, ‘Let me out of the ambulance, you goddamned hypocrite.’ And I most assuredly did not say, ‘I should probably learn to let this go, and accept people for who they are, quirks, warts, roses and all.’

I simply pulled on two pairs of latex gloves, a trick we use, since pulling latex gloves over a pair of sweaty hands is nearly impossible. Nearly as impossible as being a volunteer on a rural fire department run by my emotionally estranged parents would ultimately become.

Goddamn it all, my Monday posts are supposed to be funny. This didn’t turn out quite how I imagined it might. Sorry.

Some of my other Firefighter/EMT posts can be found here:
My Patience is a Bell Curve
Ways of Breathing
Dripstones
Holding Out. For a Hero.
Still House
Off the Grid
The Good Nurse
Sorry for the Memories