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The long-awaited Dublin Fire Brigade update!

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A voice rang out from down the hallway, with it’s owner appearing around a corner seconds later.

“Hey! We’ve got a call near the Liffey!

Glenn turned his head from us and cursed quietly.

“Are we goin’ swimming?” he asked, tentatively.

“Nah, I don’t think so.”

Glenn’s head lolled back towards us with a sheepish grin.

“Oh, thank God for that. I’m on the back step tonight, and that river’s dirty as hell.”

Glenn Delves is 29 years old and has been with the Dublin Fire Brigade for seven years. Currently assigned to the Tara Street station (which also serves as Brigade headquarters during the the day), his role as a firefighter, paramedic, and swiftwater rescue technician is nothing unique to the 40-some other firefighters in the house with him.

“Oh yeah, we’re all paramedics… and it just makes sense for most of us to be SRTs, since the river is right nearby and we go in there pretty frequently for all sorts of stuff.”

Waitaminute, back up. Forty firefighters?

“It’s the biggest house in Dublin. Even after HQ shuts down for the day, we still have a lot of people here.”

Almost as if he anticipated the question (probably by the incredulous look on my face), he added:

“Oh, and kitchen duty is horrible.”

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The tour of the firehouse was brief but fascinating. The station opened at the intersection of Tara and Pearse Streets was opened as DFB headquarters in April of 1908—the old brick watchtower still stands, and is a historically protected structure by the city of Dublin. Today, it exists as an open-air station with canopy covers for the apparatus and multiple floors for bunkrooms, the mess hall, administrative offices, and “Control Room” (the call-taking center for the entire city as well as many surrounding counties, staffed 24 hours a day by full-time Brigade personnel).

Unfortunately, our trip was cut short by Glenn and the rest of his crew headed out on calls—with approximately 133,000 calls annually, the Dublin Fire Brigade must balance the average 364 daily calls amongst twelve full-time (and three on-call or “retained”) stations. However, with locations like Tara Street staffing two engines, two ladder trucks, one tower ladder, two ambulances, a Haz-Mat Unit, and a District Officer, the workload seems pretty well spread-out.

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It was a wonderful trip, and I can’t express my gratitude to the DFB enough. If there’s any Dublin Fire personnel reading this, I sincerely appreciate your hospitality and wish you all the best in your careers—take care and stay safe, brothers.

Oh, and if you ever need a place to crash in D.C., drop me a line and I’d be more than happy to help out.

/RL

ireland_RL-13_smGlenn Delves, a seven-year veteran of the Dublin Fire Brigade, opens compartments on the fire engine and describes the equipment contained within.


ireland_RL-14_smAs Swiftwater Rescue Technicians (SRTs), the crews of the Tara Street station keep their river rescue gear ready on the apparatus at all times.


ireland_RL-15_smThe Dublin Fire Brigade utilizes Dräger breathing apparatus; three SCBA packs line the rear wall of the bench seat for the firefighters “on the back step” for that shift.


ireland_RL-12_smI think it’s universal: DFB personnel dislike their ambulance rotations just as much as their American counterparts do, it seems.

(I can just hear Dave Dennis now: “That suck-ass rookie paramedic would go to an Irish firehouse and take pitchurrs of a ambalance!” Yep—go ahead, Dave, have your fun.)

ireland_RL-9_smThis button from the DCFD Emerald Society is older than I am. There’s quite an impressive wall of patches just inside the entrance to the station—incidentally, one of Glenn’s coworkers is now the proud owner of a classic E26/T15 “Foghorn Leghorn” patch.


ireland_RL-17_sm(I bet they hate the sound of their printer winding up, too.)


ireland_RL-26_smAfter Firefighter Delves (unfortunately) stated that he disliked his appointed nickname of “Glennsy,” the jokes compounded until his gear was permanently branded with “Glennsy Delvesy” in permanent marker. Much to his chagrin, he discovered it just as he was escorting these visitors through the facilities.


ireland_RL-28_smThe distinctive markings on this helmet indicate the rank of “sub-officer;” personnel advance from Firefighter to Sub-Officer to Station Officer to District Officer and beyond, receiving increasing responsibilities with each promotion.


ireland_RL-25_smWe arrived just in time for evening shift change, so we were witness to the daily equipment checks; it would appear that DFB ladder technicians get to ride in comfortable style while operating the turntable.


ireland_RL-24_sm(I would be remiss if I didn’t include something about “raising” a “ladder”, no? Terrible joke, I’m sorry.) Both DFB aerial ladders within the Tara Street Station reach 100′ in the air when fully extended. “There aren’t too many high-rises throughout the city,” say Firefighter Delves, “but we’re downtown. The business district around us has the highest buildings you’ll see in Dublin.”


ireland_RL-16_smAll hose carried on the apparatus is kept rolled. At a fire, the equivalent of the American lineman’s position would get off the piece, unroll a section of hose, connect a nozzle, and then advance to the structure; the Dublin Fire Brigade does not utilize pre-connected lines.


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The DFB operates on a 39-hour work week, across four shifts (designated A through D). The spacious accommodations of Tara Street are more than enough to feed and house approximately forty personnel per shift, from firefighter through the on-duty District Officer.

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On a non-fire department note: a little bit later, I’ll add some pictures from the highlights of the remainder of my vacation. I know it’s not particularly relevant to RL as a whole, but it’s a beautiful country, and I would highly recommend Ireland for anyone who enjoys traveling.

I used to like snow. Really, I did.

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I used to like playing in the snow, stomping through it… snowball fights, snow angels, the whole nine wintery yards.

But after working in all this?

I’m kicking the head right off of the next snowman I see (and see them I will, because it’s dumping snow right now and I’m working tomorrow).

So many streets were impassable, even with snow chains. Many of our calls involved parking the engine and ambulance way down the block and hiking our equipment through the streets to get to the patient’s house—which may or may not offer us a shoveled walkway for access.

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I lost count of how many times we had to dig the ambulance out. The engine became stuck a few times, too—and without fail, as soon as we dig ourselves out, here comes a shout from down the street: “Hey, can you guys come give us a hand?”

Why you’re out here at this ungodly hour of the night, trying to make headway on an unplowed street in a little-ass sedan, I have no idea. But never mind that, intelligent citizen. We’d be happy to assist you in your time of need. *grumble*

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A few funny moments:

  • Walking back down the street—carrying the med bag, cardiac monitor, and O2 bottle—I slipped and landed, cartoon-style, right on my ass (I only wish the oxygen bottle hadn’t fallen between my legs at that exact instant). A few concerned folks who were out shoveling their sidewalks sharply stifled their laughter and asked if I was okay. Ah, everything’s okay here; my pride broke my fall.
  • Warning: not all packed snow is as sturdy as you might think. Standing on what used to be a sidewalk, I was asking questions to a patient outside. Suddenly, I found myself three feet lower than I was before. I’m sure it was quite comical (including my awkward climb out of the thigh-deep snow): “So sir, how long have you been FOOOM—uh, dammit.”
  • “Hey rookie! Why don’t you climb up front and see how the engine handles in the snow.” Shit. As I hauled myself into the driver’s seat, I experienced a horrible recurring dream that always ended with me typing a very long letter: “Dear Fire Chief…”
  • Calls delayed dinner until 8pm; calls further delayed my cleaning duties, such that I was still mopping at midnight. (Being a rookie; ain’t it grand??)
  • 1:30 a.m. – “Ma’am, how long have you been experiencing this headache?”   “Since July.”
  • 4:20 a.m. – resetting a fire alarm at a large garbage facility, slogging through (what I hope was) water as we contemplated what time our relief would arrive.

I folded up my sheets and pillow at 4:45 a.m., having not even climbed into bed once.

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As far as keeping up with changing weather conditions, Twitter can prove extremely useful.

DC Fire/EMS (@dcfireems):

DC Dept. of Transportation (@DDOTDC):

Maryland State Hwy Administration (@MDSHA):

They’re perfect for mobile updates, so you can keep updated whether you’re out and about or stuck inside.

I’ll be out there tomorrow, and I’m looking forward to another fun-filled tour on the Northeast streets…

Stay safe, everyone.

/RL

DCFD’s own in Haiti, plus picture compilations.

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First and foremost, I’m proud to see one of DCFD’s own searching for survivors after the terrible earthquake in Haiti.

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From www.tampabay.com’s All Eyes feature: Christopher Holmes from the Fairfax County Urban Search and Rescue searches for survivors in the rubble of a building after a massive earthquake on January 14, 2010 in Port-au-Prince, Haiti. Planeloads of rescuers and relief supplies headed to Haiti as governments and aid agencies launched a massive relief operation after a powerful earthquake killing possibly thousands. Numerous buildings were reduced to rubble by the 7.0-strong quake on January 12. (Photo by Joe Raedle/Getty Images)

I’ve had the pleasure of meeting Sergeant Holmes and his dog before, and they do make quite the team together. Great work, Sarge—be safe out there.

Dave Statter of Statter911 has been doing an excellent job chronicling the efforts Virginia’s Task Forces One and Two; more information (video interviews, news updates, pictures, etc.) is available here.

Alan Taylor, the brains behind Boston.com’s The Big Picture, has kept up an excellent feed of images from various stages of collapse, rescue, and recovery; Earthquake in Haiti; Haiti 48 Hours Later; Haiti Six Days Later.

(As he writes on the Big Picture “About” page, these photos are the best selections from various wire services that flow into the Boston Globe; he’s got a hell of an eye, and I eagerly await the Mon/Wed/Fri updates.)

Lastly, I’d like to include this image: from the UK’s Evening Star comes a photograph from Port au Prince (© Matthew McDermott) that shows a much greater side than most of the typical pictures of death and destruction so rampant in the news today.

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This is Kiki, an eight-year-old boy who was rescued in the Nazan district after being trapped for over a week underneath the rubble. I’d be pretty ecstatic, too!

A great job and best wishes to every rescue worker who is down in Haiti doing something to help—and here’s to hoping everyone makes it home safely.

Recruit Class 360: congratulations, and good luck! (w/pictures)

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Happy New Year! Yes, I haven’t put up a new post since last year, but there were several factors that led to this:

  1. I wanted to leave the Nikon Festival instructions up for a while, so visitors could make sure to see them (be sure to vote if you haven’t already, and tell your friends/coworkers about it!);
  2. I’ve been keeping busy by helping a recently-graduated recruit class with photography;
  3. I wanted to finish processing all the photos before I posted any of them here.

Anyways, most of that is boring stuff you don’t care about. Let’s get to the pictures!

Some context: Recruit Class 360 invited me along on a special tour (i.e. not the one that the general public gets) tour of the Capitol Building, so the first four photos are a few shots from our chilly winter trek to downtown D.C. They also took one of their official class photos there.

They liked my work, so they asked me to come along to their graduation on December 31st, in which public speaker and Pro Football Hall-of-Famer John Riggins was the guest of honor—the remaining photos are some of my favorite frames from the ceremony.

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Mayor Adrian Fenty stopped by to deliver his remarks, and then shook the hand of each member of 360.

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Mr. Riggins was given a ceremonial helmet, signed by the recruits from 360, as well as a new pair of boots for working around his farm.

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This last frame is my personal favorite from the entire day. Mr. Riggins’ daughter was present at the ceremony with him, and I caught her just as she was trying on Dad’s new helmet.

The full sets of both the Capitol Tour and the Graduation are available through my other site, RaisingLaddersPhotography; there, you’ll find all of these pictures and more, plus all the “hold your certificate and grin at the camera” shots that are inevitable at any ceremony. They’re cheesy but necessary—tell your mother to buy a few!

Just a quick note: All of my photos are my exclusive property, and should not be used, printed, or displayed without my express permission… *ahem*  Engine 6 / Truck 4, I’m looking at you! (source). I’d be more than happy to agree to the use of my photos, I just want to know if you’re doing it.

All the best to the new Probationers from Recruit Class 360; one of them is coming to E26 on the shift after me, so I’ll be seeing him more than a few times; to the rest of you, thank you for the wonderful opportunities to be a part of your graduation. Take care, and good luck!

/RL

The Gauntlet.

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"You should stop…"

I froze in place, realizing for the first time how sweaty I had grown in only a few minutes in gear.

"…drop…"

I crumpled to the ground, covering my face and bashing my knuckles in the process. Come on… stage training be damned—why commit to a fall when they probably don't care how it looks anyways?

"…and roll!"

I could barely contain my laughter as my world went alternately bright and then dark, bright and then dark. The ecstatic squeals and shouts of first-graders were all around me as I flopped around, probably looking for all the world like a big tan fish rimmed in Scotch-Brite.

Yes, it was time for the elementary school kids to meet their Friendly Neighborhood Fireman!

Gijoe Don't play with matches, don't use the stove, ask your parents if you have a smoke detector… 

I had to seriously stop myself from quoting a childhood hero: "Now you know. And knowing is half the battle!"

Demonstrations for elementary schools seem to be pretty common in the Department; the only unfortunate part is that it usually falls to the rookie to demonstrate the finer points of, well, everything.

"How quickly can you get dressed?" Uh, let me go get my gear, and I'll show you!

"What's the stuff on top of the fire truck?" Give me a second to climb up there, and I'll show you!

"How do I call 9-1-1?" Well…

The kids really seem to enjoy having us come by their school; it's really not all that bad unless the children turn violent. And I don't mean playful-violent. I mean full-on, someone-call-a-priest, Children-of-the-Corn violent.

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The Gauntlet.

We try to teach children not to be afraid of us in gear. Admittedly, with our helmets, masks, gloves, air cylinder, and Darth Vader voice, we do tend to frighten the little ones (we always get a few at every school who hide behind the teacher). However, when the children are encouraged to approach and see us up close, one of them always gets a little adventurous. This "fun" spreads like wildfire, and before I know it, I feel like Mickey Mouse on a bad day at Disney World.

Once, I had a child raise his hand not three feet in front of me. In his calmest voice, he asked his teacher: "Can we slap the fireman?"

That was not a good day.

Nevertheless, it's a pretty rewarding experience. From showing them the inside of the engine, to making sure to give the siren a little extra juice when we (inevitably) have to go on a run, they love every second of our show-and-tell.

I may have felt like an idiot while I crawled around on a sidewalk, or been embarrassed by getting bowled over by a bunch of sugared-up six-year-olds…

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…but it's totally worth it.

National Fallen Firefighter’s Memorial – Live Streaming Feed!

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For anyone who is unable to physically attend the memorial ceremonies in Emmitsburg, MD this weekend, Firehouse.com is offering live streaming coverage of both the candlelit vigil Saturday night and the ceremony on Sunday. 

More information is available at the link above, or at STATter911.

The first probation test.

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"Rookie! It's tiiiime!"

Punctuated by the sound of the door being kicked open, Sarge strode out of the officer's quarters with a grin on his face and a taunting inflection in his voice. He was covering for my usual officer that day, and what a special day it was: time for my first ("sixth-month") probation test with the Battalion Chief.

I had been studying all morning, reviewing and memorizing the questions I had researched for the past month. There's a little over seventy of them, and—despite advice to the contrary—I couldn't help but pore over the answers again and again, as if desperately trying to catch some token of knowledge I missed in the first thousand times I read them. I climbed into the wagon, forcing myself to stare out the window instead of at the papers piled on the seat beside me. I mean, what's the point? If you don't have it by now, you don't have it at all.

The office of the Chief for the First Battalion is located on the upper level of Engine 12. As we pulled around the back, the other guy on the engine tried to calm my nerves: "Damn, it kinda looks like a prison. And the warden is waiting for you upstairs!"

Thanks, good pep talk.

He laughed. I didn't. With its drab concrete walls and tightly-barred windows, he wasn't far off.

Image © http://www.dcfd.com
I had difficulty hearing anything but actor Bob Gunton's voice in my head as I slowly climbed the fluorescent-lit stairway.

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"Put your trust in the Lord… 

your ass belongs to me. 

Welcome to Shawshank."





Fortunately, I was granted my freedom a few hours later (we were still in service the whole time, so I had to run a handful of medical calls in the middle of it. Eventually the nervousness gave way to mental exhaustion right before the test was over). It wasn't nearly as bad as I was making it out to be, but again: all this stuff is new to me, and I'm just trying hard not to %@*$ anything up too badly. It's a little nerve-wracking to sit one-on-one with a Battalion Chief, but thankfully he was very fair, as well as open to discussion if I didn't understand something fully. 

Well, the first one's over. Unfortunately, there really isn't any rest for the weary; now it's back to the books for the seventh-month questions!

Random thoughts from last tour.

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Don't stick your head too far out the window to look at stuff when driving around—while wagon drivers are quite adept at avoiding obstacles, tree branches don't really count.

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Chicken gravy is a rather unprofessional thing to find splattered on your pants as you pull up to a medical call. It's even worse to reach in your pocket for gloves and find an actual piece of chicken.

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When you encounter someone who clearly blows you off/ignores you when you make an effort to introduce yourself (simply because you're a rookie), the very next person you meet will give you hell for not introducing yourself.

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Corrollary to the above: You can't win—but try anyways.

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It's great fun to look through a Fire Department yearbook (if that's what it is; it's a similar layout) from thirteen years ago and look up your current instructors/officers/chiefs. There's some wonderful history to be found… and some excellent mid-nineties haircuts.*

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If you sleep late in the bunkroom after you've been relieved, you may or may not be awakened by an air horn and a strip of firecrackers thrown in the door like a SWAT-team's flashbang grenades. I, uh… heard about that happening once. In a magazine. Yeah, it was in a magazine.

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I wasn't aware that they sell pink tank tops with "FLIRTY SEXY SPOILED GIRL" written in glitter… in XXL sizes.


/RL


*It's not mine, so I'm trying to grab a few snapshots. Trust me, I want the pictures, too.

Expectations.

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"Holy shit—she's having a baby!"


I couldn't help but laugh; what is this, a bad movie? Get me some towels and hot water! And ring Doctor Swanson, immediately! 

The way-too-excited MPD officer went sprinting past me; admittedly, I was a bit weighed down with the medical bags, but even if I wasn't, I wouldn't be barreling full-speed down the sidewalk.

I approached the gathering crowd, dropping the bags next to the blurry figure that I assumed to be my patient. I rubbed the 5 a.m. sleep out of my eyes; slowly, the shape in front of me materialized into a twenty-year-old girl, writhing on the ground.

She was on her third pregnancy, with her due date exactly one month from now. Contractions were approximately one minute apart, lasting about one or two minutes each. (Um, this may be getting… complicated soon. Time to go.) I didn't need to be showing off all her business in front of God and creation, so we placed her in the ambulance as fast as we could. After a quick set of vitals and a cursory examination, we were off.

The radio report was quick: age, due date, vitals, no crowning or broken water yet. Seeya in five.

All the way to the hospital and into the OB ward, she kept time like a metronome. Every minute, her body would tense up, followed shortly thereafter by a pained look of exhaustion. The elevator doors opened, and I'm sure that the look of relief on my face was evident to the OB nurses standing down the hall—the last thing I wanted was for three people to get in the elevator, and have three-and-a-half come out. 

My relief quickly turned to surprise when instead of moving to get us into a room, the nurses ambled over with knowing looks on their faces. One marched right up (munching on Skittles, I think) and began scolding the patient.

"R————, are you serious? Again?"

The patient answered with her face shoved into the pad of the stretcher, her awkward positioning and constant movement making her end of the conversation barely intelligible.

"No, this time it's real, I swear! I hurt, real bad!"

"You've been smoking that rock again, haven't you?" It was phrased as a question, but we all knew that it wasn't.

The patient denied it several times, but to no avail. All of a sudden she went limp, the signs of her pain and obstetrical discomfort vanishing before my eyes. She resigned herself to rolling onto her back and scratching her very pregnant belly, as she half-listened to the continued berating from the head nurse. Her expression of anguish was now replaced with a bored look as she asked for pain meds. 

"My stomach really does hurt pretty bad, um… just not right now. Can I have some stuff to take home, in case it hurts later?"

Dammit… I've been had.

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"Yeah, I think we ran her about a month ago. Before you came here. She was just like that, too."

I looked over at my partner drearily as we made up the stretcher for the last time. Normally I would have been mad, but I was just too tired to care.

"That might have helped me identify her as a crack-addicted faker, instead of a woman who was actually having a baby."

"Yeah, I guess so. My bad, dude." The last sentence was thrown over his shoulder as he wheeled the cot out to the ambulance.

Finally given a moment's reprieve, I flopped down into the nearest chair. I yawned and looked around the ER, thinking of everything I had brought here in the past twenty-four hours.

Let's see… over there was the middle-aged guy whose heart rate was around 220. He was maintaining surprisingly well, nonchalantly telling me that he had gone into cardiac arrest "a coupla times" in the past year. 

Somewhere down that hallway was the best place to isolate the young girl on PCP. Not only was she strong as hell (fighting off two security guards, two firefighters, and a nurse all by herself), but she kept screaming requests for Jesus to do unspeakable sexual things to her. It was, as the TV shows say, explicit language.

My eyes trailed over to the hallway beds. Looking at the clean, fresh sheets, I remembered the old man who we had placed there. There wasn't actually anything wrong with him; he was just too old to make it to the bathroom sometimes, and he had soiled himself earlier in the day. Instead of helping him, his family decided that they wanted him a) out of the house for a while and b) to be cleaned by someone else. 

So they called us. Without so much as a word, the family had slammed the door on us within seconds of carrying their father outside. The hospital staff told me that he stayed there for more than a few hours, because it was a huge process to get one of his family members to come pick him up. Apparently, it was "way too soon," and "too much of an inconvenience."

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The cold air caused me to inhale sharply as soon as the outer doors whooshed open. The tripsheet was completed; the ambulance was clean; and shift change was nearing. My eyelids felt about as heavy as my boots, and I poured myself into the front seat of the ambulance.

"Hey, man! Close that, it's too damn cold out."

I took one last refreshing breath of the wind whipping through the window and obliged. I sank back into my seat, and dozed off as the sun came up over Northeast D.C. 

It's not always easy, and it's not always fun… but at least it's never boring.

The Farm: a brief introduction.

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"Weren't you guys trying to grow something out here a while back?"

The wagon driver turned from the engine's pump panel and rubbed a thoughtful hand on his chin.

"Yeah, we had tried growing corn out back of the firehouse… don't think it worked, though."

As he turned back to the engine, I couldn't seem to restrain the incredulous smile that played at my lips.

Where in the hell did they assign me?

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Several shifts back, I received orders from on high that I was to report to my permanent assignment. So, I said goodbye to Southeast D.C. and ventured northward to a station colloquially known as "The Farm."


(And yes, that is in fact Foghorn Leghorn on the patch.)

Engine 26 is located in Northeast Washington, in a neighborhood called Brentwood. I can't speak much for the area—since I'm still just barely learning how to get around—but it seems like a pretty standard layout; some nice stuff, some ghetto stuff, and a whole bunch of high-potential-to-burn-to-the-ground stuff.

I'm never certain what to expect in a new house, so I try to keep quiet and let more senior firefighters (read: everyone who's not me) be the first to say anything; in the case of certain guys, they're the first to say everything. Much to my relief, the crew has proved to be significantly more pleasant than I expected. In addition to Engine 26, "The Farm" is also the quarters of Truck 15. All together, the two crews have been acting as very helpful resources for the wonderful chunk of my life known as my probationary period. 

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Luckily, the guys at E15 were nice enough to give me a heads up about being a "probie," so I had no trouble falling into the "hey rookie, make the coffee, answer the phones, put the flag up" routine. 

Now, I just have to weather the probationary questions and official tests—two of which will be administered by the First Battalion Chief. 


Monthly tests… learning the local alarm area… remembering EMS protocols (why did I become a paramedic again?)… completing computerized trip sheets… cleaning up… 

Some days my head spins. Everyone says that this little whirlwind will all be over soon; I'm not sure if that's true or not, but I do know this: it's one hell of a way to keep busy. 

Study hard, rookie. Study hard.

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Honoring our brothers in Buffalo.

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The walkway at the National Fallen Firefighter's Memorial. It's paved with inscriptions about our nation's bravest, donated by their loved ones. The post I wrote many months ago still rings true, and I feel a twinge in my heart when I think about how much this memorial site means to so many people.

This weekend, I was at the Academy for a two-day training class. While I was there, I found out that the three recruit classes currently at the school all traveled up to Buffalo, NY to honor the two firefighters who died in a structure fire last Monday. I'm not sure when they arrived back home, but I wanted to offer some recognition for their display of support and brotherhood. 


You never know when or where a tragedy like this will strike, but it's good to know that fellow comrades across the nation are willing to help. 

A heartfelt thank-you is in order to Recruit Classes 359, 360, and 361; may the two fallen firefighters of the Buffalo Fire Department rest in peace, and may their families be taken care of in their time of need.

Incidentally, the city of Buffalo pushed back their annual Wing Festival in their honor; the festival was now slated to begin today, and donations at the event will go to aiding the families of Lt. Charles "Chip" McCarthy and Firefighter Jonathan Croom. 

Please see the Buffalo IAFF 232 website for more information on how you can donate money to the fund by check or by buying a BFD memorial t-shirt.

Shadows.

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"St. E's for the building!"


Chairs went flying back from the table, miraculously not getting in the way of any of the large guys sprinting towards a single door. Like some bizarre, mustachioed and beer-gutted ballet, dancers in black boots weaved their way around any and all obstacles on the way to the apparatus bay. 

Before our forks could settle where they were thrown onto the table, the kitchen was empty. 

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"Man… some bullshit again."

The run had turned out to be routinely boring, with a small mattress fire on an upper floor that (I believe*) the staff had extinguished themselves. As second-due, Engine 15 had pulled our 400' line up through a rear stairwell, and we were busy re-racking the line when I heard a commotion from above.

At first it was just one figure. A single fuzzy outline, with his arms outstretched above his head. 

Then the banging on the glass started, and another blurry shape joined him. 

As if from a bad zombie movie, more and more figures began showing up at the third-floor window. The only clear outlines against the frosted glass were their hands, pressed up firmly to the surface. The rest of their shapes blended backwards into a mess of limbs, indistinguishable from the other bodies crowded around them.

The illustrious inmates of St. Elizabeth's Mental Hospital were officially awake—and judging from the cacophony resonating off the window, they were not happy about the lights and sirens that woke them. 

"Uh-oh. They're up. They're going to be calling all night long." 

"Yeah… but at least it's 25's area."

I wish I had a picture of it. It would have been perfect for a horror movie poster.



*This happened a few tours ago, and I was thinking about it today. I don't recall the details perfectly, so forgive me if something's a little off.

Many thanks to WeLoveDC!

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My interview with WeLoveDC was posted to their website on Wednesday morning. (I'd have gotten around to this earlier, but I was working that day and spent the entirety of Thursday sleeping… it was a long night.)


Lots of credit is due to Katie, the interviewer extraordinaire, and also to Tom for originally picking up Raising Ladders.

And it's not a half-bad self-portrait, if I do say so myself. Clean portraits like this are surprisingly easy to set up, so I'd be happy to do a shoot if any local firefighters are interested; wives and/or girlfriends (haha, kidding) love this kind of stuff. If you're curious, see this post for more information and ideas.

/RL

Favorite posts thus far.

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I was looking through some of my earlier posts today (I was trying to find one specific picture from the Academy), and I found myself having a damned good laugh while doing so. I had forgotten about some of these, but they're definitely keepers. Maybe you'll get a good chuckle out of them, too.


First Due: We're always trying to beat everyone else to the fire.

Flashover: It's just like that one firefighting movie! (Uh… sort of. Not really.)

Searching: I discovered that I cannot fly.

Spaghetti and Murphy's Law, the Engine Operations Clause: Our early attempts to not be morons.

How to stay calm, Lesson 1: Everything's okay, just breathe… relax…

Finally, Trust Your Team: What would a blog called "RaisingLadders" be without a post about a ladder?
Lots of people complain about how terrible the Academy was—"The Nightmare on Shepherd Parkway," if you will. But looking back, I realize that I had a lot of fun when I was there. Where else can you do job training that's anywhere near as cool? (It beats the hell out of a management training seminar.) 

Besides, if not for the Academy, what in the *#$@ would I have had to write about in the first place?

/RL

Projects.

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On the way back from a call, I often think that there were certain situations/moments that would have lent themselves very nicely to a photographer's presence. It's the potential action shots, mostly; but there are of course some interesting, compelling, and out-right ridiculous moments in this job that would most likely never present themselves the same way again (imagine actually being able to see the scene where the crackhead from a few weeks ago found out I was a rookie and stormed off. Images make any story better!)


I haven't been writing on RL for the past week because I've been working on a way to combine my love of photography with my love of this job; while not as extreme (and highly illegal, in the case of medical calls) as stopping what I'm doing to take pictures of stuff/people while I'm actually working, I'm convinced that there is a way to mix these fields. 

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On my off-days, I've been photographing events around the city (performances, a friend's wedding here or there… you get the idea). I've recently been updating Raising Ladders Photography, and I think it's time to branch out a bit. 

From a photojournalistic point of view, there's quite a few stories to be had within the fire service as a whole. Besides, from knowing a handful of people on this job, everyone loves pictures of themselves. I would get emails from guys in the Academy almost every weekend, asking if I could hurry up and post the pictures of them doing Academy stuff so they can show their friends and family. 

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"What'd you do at work today, honey?"
"Oh, nothing really…"

I'm thinking that I could turn this into a nice little portfolio gig. Whether firefighters want posed shots, candid shots of them drilling or on the scene, or even just technically accurate images of their firehouse/apparatus, I can provide them with that. Additionally, it would allow everyone to enjoy themselves at banquets, graduations, retirement dinners, company barbecues, etc. without having to worry about who's taking pictures of it all (Hint: people REALLY love it when you have a slideshow running somewhere of pictures as you're taking them. Yes, it's possible; it actually works really well for wedding receptions.) 

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Recruit Class 358 around the 9/11 Memorial at the Newseum in Washington, D.C.

Photographer ride-alongs strike me as the most exciting possibility, because then it's just a fast-paced, "run-and-gun" scenario (thanks to David Hobby of Strobist for the terminology; as a former Baltimore Sun staff photog with an awesome website, he really knows his stuff). 

I suppose the only challenge now is contacting everyone with what I've been working on, and drumming up some business. So, readers, I entreat you: does this sound like something feasible? Leave some comments* if the idea strikes you as interesting, or if you have any suggestions for me!

/RL

* Seriously, what's with the lack of comments? Is everyone just here to shovel their faces with writing and skip out on the check? I know the posts aren't always great, but at least let me know what you think of 'em. Especially ones like this, where I'd really like to hear your input!

Details.

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A page from The Writer's Block, a cube-shaped book (get it?) 
full of random ideas to jump-start the creative half of your brain. 
I was flipping through it the other day and found this page.

"Paramedic Engine 15 and Ambulance 15, respond for the cardiac arrest…"


Dammit. I haven't even done the run sheet from the last call, I thought as I rose from my chair.

As we pulled up to the outside of a laundromat, a gathering crowd partially obscured our view. As best we could tell, there was one guy on the ground, and other kneeling next to him performing CPR. Sean hopped out and made his way over to the group while I grabbed the ALS bag and the monitor from the rear compartment. 

"Come on, move out of the way… move it!"

As I approached with gear in tow, I could hear a plea for the crowd to give us some space. The bystander who was doing CPR stood up, brushed his pants off, and started fumbling through his pockets for something as Sean did a quick assessment of our patient. 

As if in some surreal form of stereo, I suddenly had information coming from both sides that smashed together in my brain hard enough to stun me for a second.

CPR guy, right channel: "See, I did it right! I got my certifications right here, man!" He produced the fruits of his frantic pocket search, shoving a wallet-worn and very out-of-date American Red Cross CPR card in my face.

Sean, left channel: "Uh, this guy's got a pulse. And a good strong one, at that."

Um…

(#296 on my list of Things I Wish I Had Said to Bystanders: 

"Well then you, my good sir, did not pay enough attention in class.")

The ambulance was already there, and we scooped the patient up and loaded him into the back. He wasn't breathing enough on his own, so we assisted with ventilations until I could get an IV started. It appeared to be a pretty textbook narcotic overdose, so I grabbed the Narcan* and pushed it into the IV line. 

A moment later: [retch] "What the— where the hell am I?"

"You fell out, man. Looks like you took a little too much tonight, and you stopped breathing."

"That's bull, man. Why y'all lying to me? I'm a gangsta, son."

(#297: "You're right, sir. We must have put all these wires and tubes all over you by accident. Our apologies! Please continue with your recreational activities.")

This went on for a while. Ultimately, he refused all further care from us. We talked him down from just ripping all the stuff off himself, but he still wanted to leave the back of the ambulance as soon as possible. 

As he stepped out, he was heckled by his friends, who by now had formed into a small social gathering that smelled faintly of malt liquor. 

One of his more illustrious acquaintances, upon hearing repeated statements of how "gangsta" our patient thought himself, decided to show that she was considerably more so by pulling a large handful of bright yellow boxer shorts out above the waistline of her pants. 

"You ain't nothin', man. I got Spongebob-mothaf***in'-Squarepants. What you got, huh?!"

This may or may not have been the same person who was initially rubbing loose ice cubes on the patient's genitals shortly before we arrived on scene. (Some people think that the cold shock will wake up an overdose patient, but current trends in "D.C. bystander medicine" are best saved for another post. Two words to remember: dairy products.)

—————

The first time I flipped through that Writer's Block book, I must have been in middle or high school. I'm sure I saw the above page, but never ended up using it as a story idea. However, I sincerely believe that if I had followed the instructions at the time, it would have sounded nothing like what I've written in this blog to date. 

Imagination and creativity are one thing; documenting reality is entirely another. 

Oftentimes, I find the latter to be way more entertaining. 

WeLoveDC.com; publicity for RL!

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Tom Bridge, co-founder and author of WeLoveDC.com came across Raising Ladders the other day, and he liked it so much that he posted a brief write-up in the WLDC daily feed.

WeLoveDC.com is a collective blog written by a diverse population of authors who all have one thing in common: they are all enamored with Washington. Whether about politics (of course), food, culture, technology, or any other topic beneath the tip of the Monument, these authors have got it covered.

I honestly didn't expect such kind words, and for that I'm very grateful. Many thanks to Tom and the entire WLDC team!

—————

Last night 15 had a typical "no-sleep-due-to-a-call-every-forty-five-minutes" kinda night. I felt like a zombie this morning, which I've concluded is due to walking throughout a run-down four-building complex for an hour, forcing doors to try and turn off a malfunctioning fire alarm. 

Sure, I understand you don't want building occupants messing with the utility closets, which is why you've placed four different damned locks on the two doors that are barricading the one doorway. Okay, fine. We got through 'em anyways. 

Yawn. Let's pretend it's a forcible entry drill, reset the alarm, and get back to the firehouse already. 

Nope. 

3 a.m.: Respond for the "tummyache" (yes, that was actually the complaint).

4 a.m.: "I think there's a bug in my ear." (Actually, it was more like "AHH HOLY MOTHER OF [censored for the children] THERE'S A BUG IN MY EAR GETITOUT GETITOUT GETITOUT!")
Sigh… I don't suppose it'll even be worth it to try and sleep next tour. Friday night in Southeast? Not a chance.

I, however, wouldn't want it any other way. 

—————

Who knew a vinyl Halloween costume could mean something after so many years?

(I don't think I'll still be able to fit into it, though. I should probably stick to the gear I was issued. It seems… safer.) 

A different view of D.C.

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The John H. Glenn Jr., Washington, D.C.'s 70'-long flagship fireboat. 
It was built in 1962 for the FDNY, and was purchased by DCFD in 1977 for one dollar.

All the air inside my drysuit escaped with an audible whoosh as I stretched the rubber neck seal outwards, à la Rodney Dangerfield. I struggled to stay upright in the water as air compressed upward from every limb of the suit, mindful of the multiple warnings to keep District river water out of my mouth ("…you won't leave the bathroom for a few days, kid.")

Once I had finally settled myself, I looked around again to marvel at what I was doing today (and I'm getting paid for this?!)

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Rescue 3 and Engine 15 had put the boats in at Anacostia Park, and we had motored our way over to where the DCFD Fireboat is harbored. Shortly thereafter, I joined a few other guys who were repeatedly dragged over the bow as the crew of RS-3 practiced "saving" us.

I had never seen the city from the Potomac or the Anacostia before, so the views from the water were an interesting perspective. Needless to say, just zooming around was relaxing enough; it was a beautiful day to be on the water, and everybody had a great time while we ran our drill. 

(Nevermind that my suit had a leak in it; I doffed the outfit to find my clothes completely soaked. Thank God I bring an extra uniform to work with me…)

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I took a few neat bridge shots that I thought lent themselves well to black-and-white.

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—————

As far as my recent meeting with the Medical Director goes, it was a very well-structured test of our knowledge up to this point. While the Doc ran us through varying scenarios to assess our medical knowledge, the Assistant Chief of EMS asked us operational questions to see if we had picked up on the nuances of being an engine company paramedic. Apparently we're all satisfactory, because we were released a few hours later with word that we'd have permanent assignments within the next few weeks. For now, we all stay with our current preceptors.

The next hoop.

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Some good news is being passed around today. I've received word that a handful of us paramedics are being pushed along into the next stage of the DCFD pipeline, starting Monday. There's some meetings, some more paperwork (I'm sure), but it at least it means that we're moving forward. 


Sadly, it means that I may be leaving Engine 15 rather soon. I knew it would happen, but it's just been way too much fun for it to be over this fast. 

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—————

Besides, I got to run at least a couple fires, this one most recently. (For posterity, please note the second sentence in the article. I may not be assigned there, but I can still have pride in my temporary home.)

I mean, it was only a car and a detached garage on fire, but what can I say; it's better than running a medical local. And after all the "food on the stove" and "report of smoke in the area" calls that turn out to be nothing, I remember looking up while running the 400' and being surprised that something was actually on fire.

—————

I've learned a lot thus far from the guys at E15 and RS3; I think I've still got a few more tours there before I go somewhere else, so I'll try and get the most out of it that I can. 

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History.

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"Y'all better be alert! Best pay attention over here!"


The members of Engine 15 and a truck company were standing around the scene of a gas leak; we had just shut the supply off when our attention was drawn to the shirtless man quickly walking up to us. 

"You know why? You know why? Because I'm about to go smoke this rock right here."

He thrust his clenched left hand proudly in the air, pumping his fist like he had just won the lottery.

"…and if I smoke too much, and I need y'all… Imm'a call you on my phone right here."

In mirror image, he reached deep into his pocket and switched his dramatic pose; now wildly brandishing a cell phone with his right arm, he stared and waited for some reaction.

Indifferent to the man's statements (and probably growing bored), one of the guys from the truck company turned to our newfound friend and extended a pudgy finger in my direction.

"Well, I'll tell you what. The man you need to talk to… is right there."

Dammit. 

("Probationary Manual, Chapter Eight: Talking to Excited Crack Heads for the Laughter and Enjoyment of Older Firefighters.")

Mr. Rock Addict began sauntering over to me, when he stopped short. His eyes looked me up and down for only a second, but it was enough to make him spin in place and hightail it back the way he came.

"Naw, f*** that guy. He a rookie… I ain't talkin' to no rookie."

Great. Even the southeast crackheads know I'm the new guy. (Damned red tag…) 

—————

This, of course, is nothing new for the area. Highly entertaining stuff has been happening down here for years. A few tours back, another firefighter and I went looking through the archived logbooks for Engine 15 and Rescue 3, and we were browsing through a book from 1987. They ran a hell of a lot more fires than the department does today… some of the logbook pages were just unreal. A big house fire in the morning, followed by a nasty car wreck, then another working fire, then seeing smoke showing from an apartment and filling out the box on the way back from the previous fire! I suppose the only comfort that today's crews can take is that they ran a whole bunch of medical local calls back then, too; I've included a few of the more interesting excerpts I found.

Medical Local, 1635 hrs / E-15 stood by for medic unit with 1 male who broke his shoot-up needle in his neck, E-15 performed miscellaneous acts.

Medical Local, 2306 hrs / RS-3 obtained a signed release for who knows?

Medical Local, 1258 hrs / E-15 for a man wanting to go to the hospital to get away from the little green people!!!


Seeing as we had access to the entire collection, I had to read about what this house did on my birthday (not that I was anywhere near Anacostia, much less the east coast in general.) So, digging up the proper book, I found:

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We were even able to go all the way back to 1948. Seeing the old script, and the ink bleeding through the fragile pages was like staring back through decades of history. Call it cliche, but there's something slightly poetic and awe-inspiring about having access to a written account of everything that occurred in this firehouse since the Cleveland Indians last won the World Series (yes, that was 1948. They're really just awful.)

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Every call, every announcement, every single thing that happened on that shift, was recorded on paper in the once-prized scrawl of proper penmanship that has fallen into nonexistence today. 

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(It made me wonder about the oldest book in the Department; where is it kept, and whose logbook is it? I'd imagine it's up above Engine 3.) 

Either way, the books haven't changed much. It did, however, serve as a fascinating way to pass the time at the watch desk until the modern-day E-15 had to go run our own medical locals… little green men and all. 

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Enjoying the fireworks.

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We pulled up to the building on 12th street and hopped out. Taking a second to scan the street, I saw only a single truck company and Rescue 3 pulling up beside us.

"Uh… aren't we fourth due?"


"Yep. Come on, rook… let's run the 400."

And so in the front door we went. We stretched as much line as we could, eventually heading down to the basement of this typical Southeast apartment building.

I flicked my light on, and panned it slowly across the room. 

"This is too smoky to just be the idiots setting off fireworks inside the building… something's on fire here."

My mentor's voice cut through the haze of smoke, and the outlines of the guys from Engine 15 were visible as we moved through the debris in the basement.

(I stopped for a moment, remembering my old Sergeant telling me to follow the smoke as you see it in the beam of light.)

"Is it over here? The smoke's going that way, so…"

As if on cue, we all moved towards a big pile of wood that was blocking a small hatch. Two of us started tossing doors and hunks of wood out of the way (one of which gave me a pretty good smack in the face), and we were able to open it up after a minute or two.

I'm not 100% on how it happened, but a mattress was smoldering under the first floor. Extinguishing the fire was pretty anticlimactic, but that's how we found ourselves running the last few feet of our 400' hose line into a four-foot-high crawl space littered with old beer cans and trash. 

—————

Was it a rockin' good fire, full of excitement and good stories? Nope. Was it a chance for me to learn something about working on a fire scene? Absolutely. I mean, I'm happy for whatever I can get to do while in the street—I'm still technically assigned to the Training Academy, so I appreciate the time I've spent crashing on E15's couch (figuratively speaking, that is). 

Besides, the best "tips and tricks" seem to come from the guys when they're actually working a scene. Sure, they can sit at the watchdesk with me and tell stories, but the stuff they share while we're in the middle of doing something can be infinitely more valuable.

—————

As we crawled out and began gathering up our sections of hose, it was impossible not to notice all the fireworks going off around us. I mean, I expected people to be setting off fireworks on the eve of the greatest pyromaniac holiday of the year, but this many?

Damn near every apartment building around us had something exploding, whistling, flaring, or shooting into the air above it at some point. Courtyards, roofs, steps, middle of the street; not to mention the Nationals Stadium was putting on their own show, so we had quite a spectacle to watch as we racked hose. (I had a slightly better view, because the new guy always climbs up into the hose bed for this process.)

It was Friday night, a little after 11pm, and we still had a long night ahead of us.

I love this city.

—————
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I hope everyone had a happy 4th of July, and I bet the crews on #4 had a good bit of fun.

A refreshing viewpoint.

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As paramedics, myself and my colleagues in recruit school have been hearing the same story since Day 1: "Well, just because you're a paramedic, you're going to catch flak from people in the department because they don't like EMS in general." And it's true—not everyone on the job (particularly the older crowd) is keen on the idea of integrating Fire and EMS. 

"Why are the firefighters going on stupid ambulance calls?"

"Why can't these guys just stay on the shitbox* where they belong?"

Granted, it's not common; but it's there. However, such is the burden of working in a department where the administration has embraced the combination system—especially the idea of a paramedic engine company. 

Either way, we've become fairly immune to the groans and (mostly) good-natured ribbing that occurs when someone reads "Firefighter/Paramedic" on our nametags. For the most part, the medics I came through rookie school with actually enjoy the job, and that's been our saving grace throughout this whole process.

Every so often, however, you find a voice in the crowd who offers a hopeful, uplifting viewpoint on the situation. Such was my experience on Monday, when I was bounced around like a pinball to finally come to rest doing a ride-along with the EMS Supervisor for the 4th Battalion. (My original preceptor at E15 was off, and I had an ALS evaluation test to go to, so I was at three different locations until I finally found a home for any reasonable length of time.)

Having joined DC in 1987 after many years of both volunteer and career fire/EMS experience, this Lieutenant has been involved in EMS for longer than I've been alive. Extremely laid back, he carried an easygoing mix of confidence and humor about himself, which has apparently served him well for decades. 

There wasn't too much going on in the 4th, so we didn't have the chance to go to any interesting scenes. We ran a few calls here and there, but they were mostly uneventful. The large majority of the time was spent talking, and he was able to pass on some advice that I would have been unwise to pass up. 

Like I said before, you can learn damn near anything from the experienced guys around you; you just have to know when to shut up and listen. 

I suppose it was surprising to find someone who spoke so highly of EMS and the medical aspect of a fire department. He really loves his job—a rare find in a world where most people would rather complain.

—————

With any luck, I'll be back to my (sort-of) home at 15 for the next tour. I think these occasional adventures in other houses are a good way to gain perspective on different houses, but it's fun over on the other side of the river.

No matter what happens to me, I'm usually guaranteed an interesting twenty-four hours no matter where I go. That's just how my luck goes.

As the EMS Lieutenant said to me as we drove along the Mall that night: 

"It's a great city. You'll get your share of it eventually, but just keep your head up and you'll get through all these hoops."

Well said, sir. I suppose that's all that any of us can do, really.




* Shit box [\ˈshit \ˈbäks\] Slang. An ambulance, particularly one with a notorious history of being poor quality or generally non-working. 

Acclimation.

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"Ow, shit! Sorry, man."


In the dim red light in the back of the cab, I could barely make out the "ah, it's okay" shrug that the lineman gave me. I mean, there's usually only two people being tossed around in the back of the engine, not three—and the sharp left turn we took a second ago on the way to a box alarm threw me against the door, with only Rocky to break my fall. Regroup, keep going. After all, we had a report of smoke coming from under the front door of the house. It might be a good first call for me, right?

Wrong. It was like my own personal comedy of errors. Not only was my brain a little fuzzy (it was around three in the morning, and I'm still growing accustomed to functioning in the early hours), but I kept dropping my stuff everywhere. Just about the time that I find a secure place to put my helmet, my SCBA starts falling over. Okay, got that, now if I can just—dammit, there goes my helmet again! Wait… where the hell did my hood go?!

(Can you tell I've never done this before?)

By some sort of miracle, I managed to get all my gear on before we reached the address. At the beginning of the shift, my officer told me to stick with the lineman; thus, when he pulled the crosslay, I followed behind him and flaked out the line.

At least, that was the plan. 

You see, we had to cross a few front yards and some sidewalks to get to the door, and the terrain can be sort of uneven…

I fell down. Face-first, of course; apparently it looked bad enough that one of the bystanders, a kid of about fourteen, piped up:

"Aw, damn, man. You okay? That looked like it hurt."

I mumbled a lame response as I adjusted my helmet, and scrambled to my feet. I hurried to catch up to my crew, desperately hoping I wouldn't find "OMG DC FIREMAN FALLS DOWN ON WAY TO FIRE LOL STUPID ROOKIE" on YouTube the next day. 

As it turns out, the occupants of the house had burned some food in the kitchen, and their neighbors saw the smoke from next door. They, in turn, called 911, who dispatched us, and then I heroically saved the day by smearing dirt all over the front of my coat. 

But hey, it's not all bad. I like to think of it like that old fishing joke: the worst day in the company is better than the best day at the Academy.

—————

There's a lot that I'm learning out in the street that I was never taught at the Academy. I fully expected that, but it's fascinating to see the practical side of things, instead of the "textbook" knowledge—and the only way to learn something like that is to do it a million times. 

My primary goal during this phase is to learn how to be a paramedic on an engine company. Unfortunately, I'm not allowed to start on my probationary fire studies right now, because my only focus is on learning how to integrate my EMS capabilities with the fire service. I have to keep reminding myself that 15 isn't my permanent assignment, because it's a damned good house and I'm enjoying myself immensely.

That being said, I'm soaking up every bit of knowledge I can. I've found that there's so much you can learn just by being around the guys from 15 and Rescue 3; you just have to know when to listen. 

This is going to take a lot of getting used to, both mentally and physically; but I'm loving every minute of it, and I look forward to where this journey will take me. 


Evaluation.

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Great news for the medics who were formerly stuck in limbo: we've been approved to stay on shift work, so we're being assigned temporary spots on engines until we complete all of our evaluations. We need a certain number of calls (and the accompanying paperwork) to prove that we know what we're doing as paramedics, and then we'll take the next step from there.


So until further notice, I'm working at 15 Engine in Anacostia. The crew is a great group of guys, and we seem to be getting along pretty well; I'm sure to have some interesting stories within the next few weeks.

For now, I have a home… and that's wonderful to hear. 

24 hours on, 72 hours off. Could I have a better schedule? I submit that I cannot.

Breaking: Shooting at 14th/Irving, NW.

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Joe McNally, a famous National Geographic photographer, once said:

"If you want to be a better photographer, stand in front of more interesting stuff."

As opposed to standing, sometimes an opportunity comes along that's just so well-placed in front of you that you can't help but rocket out the door, grabbing your camera and an extra lens on the way out. 


The dispatch: WASHINGTON, DC (DC) *SHOOTING* 14TH X IRVING STS NW. 2 SHOT. SHELL CASINGS IN FRONT OF 5 GUYS. MPD 3RD DIST.

The plan: No, don't go street level… go up! (The street was already blocked off, and I wouldn't be able to see anything through the crowds gathered behind the yellow tape. Time to go bird's-eye view with it!)

All I can say is… thank God for telephoto lenses.

EDIT: The first two images were removed in order to avoid any legal complications stemming from disseminating images of the victims. The captions remain for informational purposes. Yes, I'm aware it loses the impact; but I don't need to get in trouble for a couple of pixels.
Victim 1 was shot six times in the lower extremities, and 
transported via Medic 12 to Washington Hospital Center.


Victim 2 was apparently grazed by a bullet near the Metro entrance, 
and transported to an unknown hospital via Medic 24.

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Oh, Columbia Heights… what would I do without you?