Fire doesn’t give AF. A house fire averages around 1000 degrees Fahrenheit. Fire itself is the visible part of a chemical reaction of matter changing forms. In elementary school, I learned fire was one of four natural elements – along with earth, water, and air – but the only one that, when it touches something, it will never return to its former self. That’s because it’s a chemical reaction where it devours what it touches. My elementary school teacher demonstrated this by taking a match, striking it, and setting the school on fire. Thanks to Mr. Jacobson, I knew I wanted to be a firefighter.
The Life of a Firefighter
The call came in on a Wednesday at 1 pm, which was odd. Most calls come in around rush hour as people race home and get in car accidents. When I signed up to be a firefighter, I thought I’d be, well, fighting fires or saving house cats from trees. Instead, my primary job is being a paramedic, helping people after car wrecks or when they’re too hungover to move after a night out. We sprinkle in a few house fires on the side to keep us on our toes. This call was even more odd because it was a house fire in the middle of the day. Those usually happen at night, especially on weekends, after a long night of partying goes awry.
A man called 911, stating his neighbor’s house was on fire. The elderly gentleman who lived there could be seen through his window, throwing buckets of water on a kitchen fire. He gave the address, we got the alarm, and started to suit up.
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The House Call
I know what you’re thinking. A bunch of muscular fighters in a gym, bare-chested and sweaty, who have to cut their workout short to save the day. We all slid down a pole, got our suits on, and ran to the trucks. Actually, I was doing routine maintenance on the truck —checking tire pressure and oil — when the call came in. Our station doesn’t have a pole to slide down because it’s not a strip club. We suited up, took our places on the engine, hit the sirens, and left the station.
By the time we reached the house, the fire was contained within its interior. My initial thought was the old man probably made it out by now, but my training told me most people in a house fire die of smoke inhalation. We needed to get in there.
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Our first obstacle was a gate. The house had an ornate iron gate in the front with six-foot walls surrounding it. I hurried to it as my wingman began to get out the hoses and find the closest hydrant. It was locked. Not latched; locked with a Master Lock padlock. I ran back to the truck to get bolt cutters and noticed the house was lying on the ground, tangled up like a ball of yarn. I’d figure that out later.
Kudos to Master Lock for making a solid product at a reasonable price. It took me three tries to get the damn thing removed. By this time, my wingman was back from attaching the hose to the hydrant. We untangled the hose, I grabbed my ax, and started the long walk to the front door.
Pressure Cooker
A fire hose filled with pressurized water is a hell of a thing. It’s like trying to maneuver an anaconda. Once the pressure is released, using the handy release valve at the end, it’s like the old cartoons where a child it trying to hold on to the tail of a dinosaur while it flails around. We doused the door, I grabbed my ax, and I entered, my wingman right behind me.
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The trick to fighting a fire is to remove sources of combustion. The fire ax, along with looking awesome, is used to rip, cut, and pull fuel sources away from the fire. In layman’s terms, it’s a demolition tool, and I was in full demolition mode. I felt like Paul Bunion slung the ax from side to side. In my head, I looked awesome. In reality, I probably looked like a kid hitting a hornet’s nest with a broom handle.
Backup
I don’t know what they make the gloves we wear out of, but it’s fantastic. My hands felt great even as my arms and face began to burn. Not heat up, burn. In my haste to win the Timbersports competition, I hadn’t noticed that the ceiling was on fire and it was collapsing on me. I looked back for my wingman, and he was gone. Come on, Maverick, you never leave your wingman. I sprinted for the door.
Upon exiting, there he was. Maverick had the hose and was outside the broken window, dousing the flames. I realized I was Goose in this scenario. Then again, he was doing the right thing. It was way too hot in the house, and he went outside, broke the window, and provided me with cover water. Granted, he probably should have told me he was leaving. Then again, he probably was tired, but I was in the zone.
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The Unthinkable
The nice thing about being burned as a firefighter is that everyone with you is an EMT. I got expert medical care within seconds. The bad news of being burned is that it hurts like hell. My ears and forearms had 3rd degree burns on them. Thanks to the gloves, they had no burns, and my hopes of being a hand model were still intact. Total win.
I was put on a gurney and placed in an ambulance almost immediately. Maverick jumped in the back with me and began to apologize profusely. I looked him in the eyes and said, “You never leave your wingman, Maverick,” which I thought was hilarious. He was too young to get the joke. I saw the look in his eyes and said, “It’s a Top Gun joke. You need to watch that movie.”
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I got a nice tour of the burn unit when we arrived at the hospital, but I was a bit disappointed when they told me to make myself comfortable. This was going to be my home for the next few days. I laid in bed, in agony but keeping my sense of humor, until they hit me with morphine. I could feel it burn in my vein up my arm until it hit my heart, then the burn pushed through my entire body until it hit my toes. After that, nothing hurt. I floated to the ceiling and back down to my bed.
The Healing Begins
The next couple of days were a blur, both because I was medicated and because I was very popular. Everyone came to visit. The fire chief, a random politician, my fiancé, more firefighters, Maverick, medical staff, and the insurance case managers. The doctors explained to me that I would need to go through a procedure where the burn sites were shaved using a tool that looked like a cheese grater. My fiancé told me she loved me, even though I looked like a grilled ham sandwich. Maverick told me he watched Top Gun the night prior and still didn’t get the joke.
After three days, a psychologist came in. This was the final boss to getting home. I told Bowser I was fine. In a previous life, I’d done a tour in Afghanistan and was in good mental health. In fact, all my problems stemmed from my mom refusing to breastfeed me, not the fire. As a side note, joking with a psychologist is not the best way to get released from the burn unit.
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A Firefighter is Never Off-Duty
Finally, at home, I milked it with my fiancé. “Honey, can you help me put my socks on because I’m a hero,” and “Baby, your hero needs a glass of water” came out of my mouth frequently. Don’t get me wrong —the burns hurt terribly, made worse by having to get them cheese grated every few days to “encourage the skin to grow back” — but that’s no reason not to laugh.
Maverick called me multiple times a day to check in. It was adorable except I couldn’t hold the phone to my ear. The recovery was far worse than the burns. Thankfully, I’ll be getting married soon and, when I open up my wedding presents, I’d better see the fanciest cheese grater from Crate and Barrel.
