You back your truck into a spot at the far end of the parking lot and step out into the brisk fall evening. Walking across the parking lot, you nod to people either coming or going. When you open the wooden doors, you see a few familiar faces, flowers, and a greeter. Yes, you’re at viewing.
You walk up and shake the family members’ hands, sign in, go to the body, maybe say a prayer, and then frantically look for someone you know to spend 20 minutes with before you leave. There’s one similarity for every viewing I’ve been at, and that’s the picture boards. They’re filled with happiness, scattered around a room full of grief and sadness.
When it’s family, you get the close-up view: orchestrating food and flowers, putting together the picture boards, and picking out the casket or urn. This is different from the above scenario, because you’re not just attending but rather planning it all, from the meeting with the funeral home to the last flower thrown into the grave. Most of us have been in one or both of these scenarios. None of them are fun, but they’re a remembrance and honor to the deceased.
Before anyone gets to their final resting place, something has to happen: death. With death comes sadness and some sort of chaos. This is where the first responder comes in.
Different Kinds of Calls
When someone dials 911, it’s typically one of several types of calls we’re dispatched to answer. On these calls, the caller’s voice is shaky, tears dripping from their eyes, and the words they speak don’t seem real. Maybe a natural cause or an unexpected event occurred; either way, someone is either going to live or die on this call.
Every first responder is taught scene size up. On these calls, my scene size up is enhanced. Walking up and entering home, you look for family or police to point us where to go. As you’re walking toward the pointed area, you’re scanning, looking, developing a picture of this person. Walking through the home you get a feel for how this person lived – neat, clean, sloppy, rich or poor – but none of this matters. What matters is how we treat the patient because no matter what, we do our best.
Walking out, head down with remorse, you nod to the family. While we’re putting our tools away and hop back in the truck, all my size up and data comes together. It doesn’t matter how the patient lived, I just hope they lived life to the fullest and that family knows we did everything we could. I don’t measure my life on money or things, but the laughs and togetherness I spent with loved ones.
Priority 4 calls are the calmest. You’re dispatched to a welfare check or a possibly deceased. As you walk in, you see a family who already knows the outcome. You ATF pt (arrive to find patient) deceased, the medic unit runs a strip and calls the doctor for TOD (time of death). Document the TOD, grab your medical bags and walk to the truck, whispering “sorry for your loss” as you walk by the family. They appreciate you and softly say thank you.
The Calls That Stick Around
Trauma calls present chaos because they’re unexpected. These are the accidents. The caller is frantic – and can you blame them? – because the scene looks more like a movie than real life. While walking past bystanders in your gear, carrying equipment, your heart races while you focus on the best outcome for this person.
Once the call is over, your adrenaline is through the roof. While changing out of your bunkers and putting tools away, it hits you. The drive back and dinner that day aren’t as cheerful. All you hope is the patient didn’t feel too much pain and the family can try to rest. Having a good crew helps get you through it.
We see suicide a lot as first responders. Young, old, sick, or healthy, these calls are horrible. It’s usually a family member making the call. These calls are like a Priority 4 combined with a trauma. The family is usually screaming and blaming themselves. Walking past with a rapidly pounding heart, we enter the area of the patient, hoping to bring them back. It’s either the medic gets the TOD or we’re riding in with them. No matter the circumstance, the walk back to the truck is a sad one and you hope the person has no more suffering and the family doesn’t blame themselves. Again, having a solid crew is helpful. A lot of dark humor comes from these calls but it’s not ill willed on the deceased, it’s a way to make it through. Suicide is high in first responders so it’s important we do what we need to do and take care of each other.
The last one is kids, this call is complete chaos, usually the most unexpected one. The dispatcher even sounds sad. Entering the scene, you see distraught parents and siblings who don’t know what’s going on. Your heart is aching, and your senses heighten. You arrive at the patient and again work or call for TOD. This is the worst because as you’re walking out, the family is usually finding out the outcome. If you never heard a mother shriek after losing a child, I don’t suggest it, it’s heart throbbing.
Find Strength in Each Other
These calls make the whole day seem awful. Most of your crew calls their kids just to tell them they love them. The rest of the day drags on and you slowly get by. But by the next shift, you and your crew are back at it, because we love what we do. These calls pull at the heart strings but the smile of a family member after we save a loved one always beats that shriek or cry.
This is no tough man persona. If you need to talk, reach out. Believe it or not, everyone needs help at some point in their life, even an ordinary old firefighter like me.
