By Annette Dashofy
As some or all of you already know, I spent five years as an EMT on the local ambulance service. I have had fantasies of being a cop. But there is not enough money in the world to make me want to be a firefighter.
It’s not that I don’t admire them. Quite the opposite. I think guys who charge into a burning building to rescue people and pets are the biggest kinds of heroes.
When I was little, lightning struck a power pole outside our house and caused a small fire in our kitchen. I can still see the flames licking the kitchen wall. I can also still see my mom pouring water on the fire from a drinking glass. Water. On an electrical fire. Not good. I think the only thing that saved her was the fact it was a plastic glass. Firefighters arrived in minutes to finish the job of putting out the flames and checked to make sure there was no fire burning between walls. I was awestruck.
A few years later, arsonists torched our barn. Neighbors risked their lives, going inside to make sure my ponies weren’t in there (they weren’t). The wonderful firefighters battled long and hard, but were unable to save the barn or its contents. However, I remember them hosing down my dad who ran through the flames into an adjoining garage and drove my grandfather’s 1957 Chevy pickup truck out to safety.
I LOVE firefighters. I just don’t want to be one. I’m too much of a chicken. And too scared of being a charbroiled chicken. Besides, they work in horrendous conditions. Hot beyond words. They lug a ton of equipment around on their backs and must respond regardless of the weather to battle a heartless, uncaring opponent that kills in a multitude of ways.
Saturday, I worked as a proctor once again…this time for the civil service written exam for firefighters. A month ago, I had the opportunity to view what kinds of people wanted to be cops. This time, I saw first hand what kinds of people dream of being firefighters. As before, it was a diverse crowd. Men outnumbered women. And there were fewer nerdy types than had taken the police exam. There was at least one young gal who I really believe needs to rethink her chosen calling. I couldn’t see this cute little blonde weighed down by bunker gear, dragging a hose into a burning building in sub freezing temperatures.
But I could be wrong. Appearances, they say, can be deceiving.
One woman had to make an emergency trip to the restroom to barf. From nerves. She may want to rethink the whole Emergency Services thing, too.
The first part of the test involved studying a detailed drawing of a room for four minutes and memorizing every detail. We proctors then collected the drawings and the test takers had to answer questions about the room. I saw a lot of wide eyes when they learned they had to memorize that sketch. I’d have been sunk right there and then. My memory is on sticky notes all over my house. TBS. Teflon Brain Syndrome. Nothing sticks.
About a half hour or so into the written exam came a different kind of test. A fire emergency in the building. A recorded voice announced that we should quickly leave the building. Over and over and over again. Emergency lights flashed from the ceiling. “Do not use the elevators.”
It was great. If you’re going to be a firefighter, you’d better be able to perform under duress.
We proctors all turned to look to our supervisor, who was frantically making calls on his cell phone to find out what was going on. Was it real? Or was it Memorex?
One of the guys at my table decided to heed the recorded voice’s recommendation and got up to leave. I told him to sit down.
What kind of future firefighter runs from a potential fire?
A smart one, probably.
But we were on the ground level with exit doors on two sides of the room. If I’d smelled smoke, I’d have been leading the charge to jump ship. As it were, test security had to be considered. If we evacuated, most likely the test would have to be scrapped and rescheduled. At great expense. I mean, if a test taker needs to use the restroom, a proctor has to escort him while guarding the test booklet and answer sheet. How would we deal with over a thousand tests during an evacuation?
But no one wants to burn up. Todd, our fearless leader finally cued the mic and was stating that we had to leave the building when someone ran in and shouted that it was a false alarm.
Huge sigh.
The proctors led the test takers in some stretching and breathing practices (how convenient that I happen to teach that kind of stuff in my yoga classes!) and Todd tacked on an extra twenty minutes to the allotted test time to compensate for the “distraction.”
This was just the first step for these potential future heroes. If they pass the written exam, they will then have to face the physical tests.
Good luck to all who struggled through the cold winter morning, upset stomachs, fire alarms, and memory tests to shoot for their dreams. They’re already heroes in my book.
Showing posts with label Fire. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fire. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Monday, October 13, 2008
AUTHENTIC DETAILS
by Gina Sestak
In 1994, my house burned down. I've been thinking about that lately, not because of any incendiary leanings, but because my old insurance carrier, AIG, has been in the news. Being in a fire is something that I wouldn't wish on anyone but, as a writer, the experience provides a wealth of material. One of my unsold manuscripts, Risen From Flames, involves a fire and I was able to use so many of the sensory/tactile memories not only of the fire itself but afterwards: the smell of damp burnt carpeting, the crunch of fallen plaster under foot.
I always thought I knew what to do in an emergency, but I hadn't reckoned on the brain-addling effects of smoke inhalation or how disorienting it can be in the dark when all electric power has gone out and a thick cloud of smoke is billowing through the halls. I forgot the basic rules of fire safety, so let me repeat the most important one here now: When the building you are in is on fire, GET OUT.
The fire started sometime during the night. My ex-husband, Terry, had lost his lease and was staying in my guest room. He came into my bedroom around 3 a.m. and said, "Gina, wake up, the house is on fire." He was still listed as beneficiary on my life insurance at the time. Those eight little words cost him $40,000.
Once awake, I heard the smoke alarm. I think I must have been inhaling toxic fumes to have remained asleep. The smoke alarm was hanging right outside my bedroom door and blaring very loud. I got up and looked into the room where Terry had been sleeping. Mid-way through, there was a solid wall of flame.
"We have to put this out," I said.
"We can't put this out," Terry responded.
It didn't occur to me that he might be right, or that I had a fire extinguisher on the first floor -- assuming that fires were most likely to start in the kitchen or furnace area, I kept in hanging near the cellar stairs. Instead, I went into the bathroom and filled a tiny waste basket with water from the sink, then went to throw it at the fire. The water disappeared into the fire. It didn't even turn visibly to steam. I realized then that he was right. We couldn't put this out.
Terry had been waiting nervously in the hallway while I did this, perhaps wondering whether to leave me there or drag me out. We went downstairs and I sent him to wake the neighbors. We were in the end house of a four-unit row. No one slept in the house next door, which functioned as a doctor's office in daylight hours, but a couple with a baby occupied the next house down. It was important that they be warned. I, meanwhile, went to call the fire department, from the room directly under the room that was on fire. Fire safety rule number two: Things cave in when they burn. DO NOT STAND UNDER THE BURNING ROOM. A smart person would have gone with Terry to the neighbors, and asked them to call 911.
The 911 operator told me to get out of the house.
City paramedics took Terry and me to the hospital. We had inhaled a lot of smoke and he was burned. The mattress he'd been sleeping on caught fire; that probably saved our lives because he woke up when his hand began to burn.
The house wasn't a total loss. Saying it burnt down is an exaggeration. Between the flames and the fire hoses, though, it was essentially gutted. The brick walls made it through okay and some of the floors survived, but there was a point when you could stand in my kitchen on the first floor and look up through what had been the second floor and attic to the underside of the roof. AIG came through. The house was rebuilt from the walls in and all my damaged furniture, etc. was replaced. No one was hurt. Even the pets (about a dozen mice) survived.
So, in retrospect, the fire was an interesting experience.
In 1994, my house burned down. I've been thinking about that lately, not because of any incendiary leanings, but because my old insurance carrier, AIG, has been in the news. Being in a fire is something that I wouldn't wish on anyone but, as a writer, the experience provides a wealth of material. One of my unsold manuscripts, Risen From Flames, involves a fire and I was able to use so many of the sensory/tactile memories not only of the fire itself but afterwards: the smell of damp burnt carpeting, the crunch of fallen plaster under foot.
I always thought I knew what to do in an emergency, but I hadn't reckoned on the brain-addling effects of smoke inhalation or how disorienting it can be in the dark when all electric power has gone out and a thick cloud of smoke is billowing through the halls. I forgot the basic rules of fire safety, so let me repeat the most important one here now: When the building you are in is on fire, GET OUT.
The fire started sometime during the night. My ex-husband, Terry, had lost his lease and was staying in my guest room. He came into my bedroom around 3 a.m. and said, "Gina, wake up, the house is on fire." He was still listed as beneficiary on my life insurance at the time. Those eight little words cost him $40,000.
Once awake, I heard the smoke alarm. I think I must have been inhaling toxic fumes to have remained asleep. The smoke alarm was hanging right outside my bedroom door and blaring very loud. I got up and looked into the room where Terry had been sleeping. Mid-way through, there was a solid wall of flame.
"We have to put this out," I said.
"We can't put this out," Terry responded.
It didn't occur to me that he might be right, or that I had a fire extinguisher on the first floor -- assuming that fires were most likely to start in the kitchen or furnace area, I kept in hanging near the cellar stairs. Instead, I went into the bathroom and filled a tiny waste basket with water from the sink, then went to throw it at the fire. The water disappeared into the fire. It didn't even turn visibly to steam. I realized then that he was right. We couldn't put this out.
Terry had been waiting nervously in the hallway while I did this, perhaps wondering whether to leave me there or drag me out. We went downstairs and I sent him to wake the neighbors. We were in the end house of a four-unit row. No one slept in the house next door, which functioned as a doctor's office in daylight hours, but a couple with a baby occupied the next house down. It was important that they be warned. I, meanwhile, went to call the fire department, from the room directly under the room that was on fire. Fire safety rule number two: Things cave in when they burn. DO NOT STAND UNDER THE BURNING ROOM. A smart person would have gone with Terry to the neighbors, and asked them to call 911.
The 911 operator told me to get out of the house.
City paramedics took Terry and me to the hospital. We had inhaled a lot of smoke and he was burned. The mattress he'd been sleeping on caught fire; that probably saved our lives because he woke up when his hand began to burn.
The house wasn't a total loss. Saying it burnt down is an exaggeration. Between the flames and the fire hoses, though, it was essentially gutted. The brick walls made it through okay and some of the floors survived, but there was a point when you could stand in my kitchen on the first floor and look up through what had been the second floor and attic to the underside of the roof. AIG came through. The house was rebuilt from the walls in and all my damaged furniture, etc. was replaced. No one was hurt. Even the pets (about a dozen mice) survived.
So, in retrospect, the fire was an interesting experience.
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