Category: Fire department

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Frequently Flying

Let’s dip our collective toes back in to the pool of memorable calls from my time with the good old FD. I enjoyed looking back in time for the last post, and it seems as though a couple of you did too and that’s all the encouragement I need.

The last post was about a memorable call, how about some memorable people this time? You know them, you love them, you all have them (if you work in this or an allied field), let’s hear it for frequent fliers!!! Here’s a couple, three that stick in my mind for various reasons.

Some of our frequent frequent flyers provided us (me) with lasting laughs.  I still giggle about some of them to this day, when the recollections run through my brain.  Lola would call us on occasion, for any number of minor ailments.  But one of the first times I encountered her, during our initial course of treatment, one of the crew attempted to put a nasal cannula on her.  These are used to deliver low-flow oxygen to a patient in need of a little boost in their oxygenation.  As he approached her face with the cannula, Lola held up her hand to stop him, proclaiming, in no uncertain terms,  “I’m allergic to oxygen!”  This, of course, caused us all to pause so each one of us could, in our own way, stifle the laughter that was vigorously fighting its way to the surface.  Now, do I think she meant to say she was allergic to latex?  Possibly, since that’s a fairly common occurrence.  However this call took place in the years before the switch from latex to nitrile exam gloves, so had that been the case it wouldn’t have mattered.  I’m still not sure what Lola was allergic to.  But I’m fairly confident in my medical opinion that it was not oxygen.

Sometimes, in the course of our dealings with frequent flyers, we would learn that a particular regular was more susceptible to the power of suggestion than others.  Myra, for example.  I remember the evening where most (emphasis on “most”) of our crew determined that Myra was near the top of this list.  Even though I had been told about her behavior in advance, I’m pretty sure this was my first visit with Myra, but certainly not the last, although shift transfers came out soon after this encounter and I was granted a return to the high rise district, so my contact with her was (mercifully) short-lived.  I don’t remember the specific complaint for which we were dispatched, but my partner that day was the report writer, so I was assuming a position in the background.  Often times, the patient’s distress is readily apparent.  On this night, Myra was in no apparent distress, so beyond taking her vital signs, which were all within normal limits, I wasn’t actively involved. But I was definitely listening in as my partner took her history.  And it went something like this-

“Are you having trouble breathing?” “Yes.”

“Do you have a headache?” “Yes.”

“Does your stomach hurt?” “Yes.”

“Does your shoulder hurt?” “Yes.”

“Do you have leg pain?” “Yes.”

Since none of Myra’s answers jibed with what I (or anyone else paying the slightest bit of attention) was seeing, I spoke up at this point and suggested we stop asking Myra questions (since each question brought a new symptom), and instead just get her to the emergency department (since that was obviously her goal).  My partner on this night chose instead-

“Are you having chest pains?” Which, of course, drew a “Yes.”

This, in turn, brought from me a glare at my partner followed by (in my best sotto voce) “What the fuck did I just say?  Stop asking her questions.  And it’s on you to explain to the hospital why we didn’t ALS a patient with chest pain.”

“I know, I know, I know.”

At this point Myra was loaded onto the cot, wheeled to the ambulance, and transported to the hospital for her complaints.  We found out later that night she was discharged less than two hours later when the hospital could find nothing wrong with her either.  Some of us came to believe that a good portion of our contact with Myra came at the urging of her husband.  She didn’t always seem totally convinced of the existence of any particular ailment, yet, more often than not, her husband was sitting on the side, encouraging her to go to the hospital to get checked out.  We noticed he never went to the emergency room with her.  Instead, telling her he would be up to see her “in a couple hours” he would remain in their apartment as we rolled her off to the ambulance.  Of course this was not the kind of thing that could be proven, but the sentiment was almost universal among the crews that dealt with Myra, that the husband, in need of a few hours of solitude, would suggest to Myra that she seemed to be having trouble breathing.  Or whatever other complaint he could come up with to buy some “me” time.

Then there was the single-most foul mouthed patient I’ve ever encountered.  Cynthia would hold a commanding lead in any scenario you can imagine that includes a large quantity of cursing.  Cynthia  would call us at all hours of the day or night, typically for very minor issues ranging from picking her up off the floor to more serious things like chest pain or trouble breathing.  I’m convinced she had Tourette Syndrome due in large part to her creativity when it came to cursing.  Most of the time her verbal venom wasn’t directed at any of us, rather it was more like cursing for the sake of cursing.  And I’m not gonna lie, there’s something entertaining about seeing a woman that looks like one of our grandmothers cursing like the proverbial drunken sailor.  As we would be headed out the door of her apartment, on the way to the hospital, it was not unusual to hear her exclaim to no one in particular “Grab my fucking teeth!”  For another example, asking “Cynthia, what’s wrong today?  Why did you call us?” brought the following reply – “My left titty hurts like a son of a bitch!”  That was one of the milder exchanges we had with Cynthia.  For the record her chest pain that day was not cardiac related.  One of the methods we, as paramedics, employ to measure how much pain a patient is experiencing, is to ask them to rate their pain on a scale of 0-10 with 10 being “the worst pain you’ve ever felt.”  Cynthia’s reply to this query one day was “Come a little bit closer so I can kick you in the scrotum, That’s how much I hurt, you asshole!”  Often times we would have to “shush” Cynthia while we rolled her on the cot, either from her apartment to the ambulance or from the ambulance to her bed in the emergency department, as she would launch into a tirade that would make the late Sam Kinison blush.  Again, usually directed at no one, but as loud as it was colorful.

I’m not gonna lie, at this point in time a lot of memories from the FD days are not as clear as they once were. But as I said up top, some, like these, are still crystal clear and can still evoke various feelings. In these cases, all smiles, if not outright laughter as I play through the images in my head.

I’m gonna wrap this one up for now, but before I go, today’s musical accompaniment has been a continuation from the last post – The Beatles. Abbey Road to be specific. I even stuck it out through Octopus’s Garden, a rarity for me, but I felt like the flow should stay true to the album for today.

Peace

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In Which I Regurgitate A Vivid Memory

Ok, I know, it’s been quite sometime since I’ve sat here in front of my keyboard, I got nuthin. Actually, that may be partly to blame for my lack of posts the last few months. I’ve got a partial draft of one, so I have taken a shot or two, but I decided today was going to be the day to put something out on the interwebz, so lucky you!

To kind of ease myself back into this, I decided to take the bulk of this from a side project that is currently floundering. It’s one of my personal fave job-related anecdotes and I think a large portion of you, dear readers, will get a chuckle out of it too. So, without further ado, let’s get some!

One summer afternoon we were called to a local manufacturing company, a place that made printed circuit boards for electrical devices, for a patient complaining of a headache and nausea.  We pulled in to the back parking lot, by the employee entrance and were met by not one, but a handful of employees, each with the same complaint for which we were initially dispatched.  As we started assessing our patients, a steady stream (well, maybe a trickle) of employees continued out to our location.  Each of the employees we talked to expressed a similar comment about an unusual smell inside the factory.  We started passing out oxygen masks like a Pez dispenser, trying to alleviate the symptoms more quickly than the ambient air was allowing.  We also requested a second ambulance to assist, since our patient total was rapidly exceeding our capability to treat them all effectively.  As the patient number approached twenty, we requested a third ambulance and the Battalion Chief to the scene.  The BC got on the radio and asked if we needed to pull an Ambulance Box (in our terminology, a “Box Alarm” is a call to neighboring FD’s for pre-determined resources, depending on the nature of the call; whether Fire, EMS, Special Rescue, etc.) and we told him we were pretty confident we could handle things with what we had requested.  The ladder truck, dispatched along with us on the initial call, geared up and went inside to evacuate the remaining employees and assess for the cause of the odor. I think it was in between the arrival of the 2nd and 3rd ambulance that one of our patients (all of our patients were female and almost all of them were workers from the plant floor) had worked herself into a little bit of a frenzy, convinced in spite of our best efforts to calm her, that she had inhaled some horribly toxic substance that would inevitably mark her demise, and started gagging, eventually producing a small amount of stomach bile.  This touched off a chain-reaction, the likes of which I had never witnessed before and hope to never see again.  

Sympathetic vomiting swept through our crowd of patients like Sherman’s March to the Sea, laying waste to the lunchtime intake of at least a dozen of our 23 total patients.  Our location was bad in that, since it was summer and we were outside, we were unable to really isolate a vomiter to prevent her triggering the gag reflex of others.  On the plus side, since we were outside, our location meant our ambulance wasn’t turned into a vomitarium so we didn’t have to take our ambulance out of service for an hour to decontaminate it after Puke-A-Palooza had run its course.  With no end in sight to the circular firing squad of regurgitation, we determined it was in everyone’s best interests to transport the most prolific of the retchers to the hospital.  In retrospect most of the six or eight patients we sent in probably didn’t really need to go, but it was the only way we could think of to shut off the tap on the stomach contents several of them kept on vigorously trying to empty; by finally, and definitively removing them from each other.  I’m fairly certain the staff of our local emergency department didn’t share in the belief that this was a great plan, even though we never caught any grief from anyone there.  And the plan did help to mitigate our situation more quickly, so there’s that, too.  I don’t recall what particular chemical was determined to be the offender, but a malfunctioning ventilation system in the plant allowed the concentration to reach a level that triggered the symptoms we found.  I do remember that, whatever the chemical was, it wasn’t the kind of thing that could potentially cause lasting harm, it was relatively benign, otherwise this whole scenario could have taken a much different turn.  And I probably wouldn’t have felt the same way writing about it.  Probably.

Well that was fun, at least for me. Looking back on the day in question, it really wasn’t that big of a deal, and if it hadn’t been for the “contributions” from the patients it might not have really registered. I can think of at least one call that had more patients, from a science project gone awry at a local high school. But that one didn’t involve a dozen or more people giving their lunch the old heave ho (see what I did there?) repeatedly.

One (I think) last thing before I hit the “Publish” button. Since AI has become ubiquitous, even in the creation parcel of this humble, little blog, I decided to give a couple options a try. I’m inherently opposed to non-human authors, but, when in Rome, I guess. Anyway. I tried the generate title option button and found them to be, well, lacking that certain je ne sais quoi that I had in mind. So I scrapped the AI reccos. Next I tried having the little bot create an image to feature with this post. Theoretically, images boost engagement. But no luck. Wait, hold that thought…

Ha! Well there you have it, a featured image to promote the post. Created by AI with a couple of nudges from me to get it a little more accurate. I’m particularly fond of the look on the face of the medic. I’m sure a few of you can relate, lol.

Ok, Imma wrap this beast up and go run a couple errands. Before I forget, The Beatles have provided the background music for today’s missive, specifically Anthology 4 and fwiw it is a delightful listen. Lastly, as always, and perhaps more than ever,

Peace

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Retired Guy Post Number 2

While I was out-of-town, the fall edition of the biannual, official, Illinois retired fire guy magazine (pro tip- not its real name) came in the mail.  That being said, I’m taking this opportunity to share what I wrote back then here with you today.  Like I said when I started doing the regular column for the magazine; A.) I was (still am) thrilled to be asked to submit something and B.) going to share them here after a new article gets published.

So, here goes…

I recently had to travel back to the frozen tundra of northern Illinois.  My Local, DGPFFA #3234, had our Recognition Dinner.  We do this event every year to honor retirees from the previous year, and since I qualified, I came back for the festivities.  Since I’m now on a fixed income, I’d typically drive but due to time constraints, this time I flew.

For the trip home I chose casual attire, which included my union logo’d jacket.  I’m proud of my Union; Local 3234, the AFFI, and the IAFF and I don’t mind representing when I’m out in public.  

Brief side-track…

A few years ago, maybe 2013 or 14, I was helping the fellas collect for MDA.  I was positioned on one of the busiest intersections in town; west bound Butterfield Road at Finley Road.  At one point as I was strolling among the cars stopped at the light, I saw a woman, sitting in the front passenger seat, reach in to her purse.  Of course I stopped at her window.  An older woman along with her husband (I assume) driving a fairly recent model, full-size, Cadillac.  Big money, right?  I leaned over as she rolled down her window and as soon as the window opened the hubby leaned over and asked what we were collecting for.  I politely told him we were collecting for MDA, “you know, Jerry’s kids.”  Even though Jerry Lewis no longer did the telethon I still used that line, especially with folks my age or older.  As the wife deposited a dollar in change (I wish I was making that part up) the husband said, and I quote, “Oh, good.  I thought this was some union thing” Before they pulled away I said “Oh don’t worry sir, it is a union thing, thanks!” and laughed to myself as they drove off.

Back to the matter at hand.

So, while sitting at the gate at O’Hare, waiting for the return trip to North Carolina, a gentleman came over and sat down a couple seats away from me.  He looked at my jacket and asked if I was a firefighter.  I told him I was, that I was actually a recently retired firefighter.  Then he said, with complete sincerity “Thank you for your service.”  I thanked him for his kind words, but assured him the pleasure was all mine.  I meant it too.  I loved being “on-the-job” as much as anything I’ve done and all the good times that came along with it too.  But when someone from the general public drops a “TYFYS” on me, I get a little twitchy.  Don’t get me wrong, I like a compliment as well as the next person.  Still, something about it just doesn’t feel right.  I mean, after all, we’re just doing what we get paid to do, right?  And I may be wrong, but I think most of us got into this business for many things other than accolades.

So, my retired brethren and sisteren, (that may not be a word by the way) I’m looking for a little help here.  Do I just need to get over this or is there a better way to handle unsolicited yet genuine thanks for doing something I loved doing?  Any suggestions are welcome. And, uh, TYFYS…

There you have it.  I actually liked the first one better than this one, but I guess they can’t all be Pulitzer worthy…

That still holds true btw, I still don’t know how to respond when somebody tosses out a sincere “TYFYS” to me.  I mean, on occasion another fire guy will hand one out, but it’s totally different, kind of snarky when given to one another, so it’s easy to laugh off.  Oh well, I guess I just continue to smile and say “It was my pleasure” because, truly, it was.

One last thing before I head off to my next errand.  I’m not sure if I’ll get anything out between now and Election Day (caps mine) and I just want to take a few seconds to remind you of the importance.  I don’t care what your political beliefs are, (ok, that’s a lie, I do, but it’s still your right to vote.  Even when you’re voting for the wrong person…) to me, the single most American thing you can do is get. out. and. vote.  So please, get up off your couch and go do it.  This midterm is a very important election.  They all are, but this one more than most.  So instead of my usual sign off, I think I’ll leave you with this instead…

Vote.

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Leadership. And Lack Of Same. Oh Yeah, Bonus Weather Update Too…

The good news is; the ground is too warm and it’s melting as soon as it hits.  The bad news is; it’s snowing again in central North Carolina.  I know some will take joy at those last two sentences, you know who you are, (wtf indeed) but I figure since I have, on occasion, weather shamed here, I’ve got to own up to the shite weather too so…

This one has percolated far too long so I’m just gonna move on and let it go where it may cause I need to post something for chrissakes.  Bear in mind the timeline is a wee bit off, but still.

Before I get to the titular topic, I’m gonna drop some, well I wouldn’t exactly call it filler, but rather, the events of my last few days.

As I mentioned at the end of my last post, I’m (*timeline alert*) currently traveling via Amtrak back to North Carolina from Washington D.C. where several hundred union firefighters met with our elected officials to promote legislation to try to improve working conditions, health, and safety or firefighters across the country.  It’s an annual pilgrimage where, in addition to fighting the “good fight” we also get the chance to catch up with our brothers and sisters from across the country.

Let me amend something from the previous paragraph… Due to track work, we’re currently crawling through Richmond, VA on the way back to NC.  Grand scheme of things it’s not that big of a deal, it’s not like I have any plans this evening so it really doesn’t matter if I get back later than I planned.  Just an inconvenience.  Over all, I’ve really enjoyed this trip to and from D.C. and I’ll definitely look for more trips to take by rail in the future.

As with air travel, you cross paths with a unique cross-section of America when you use mass transit.  For instance –

I witnessed one of the more unique drink combinations ever on that same leg of the trip.  The woman sitting next to me for a couple of hours ordered, and I swear to you I’m taking no literary license with this; a hot tea with 2 creamers, 2 honey packets, 4 Splenda, and 2 sugars.  Again, I’m not even joking.  Talk about diversification of your sugar portfolio (h/t to Kent for that line btw)

Also, I continue to be amazed at the attire some people choose for their travels.  Again, no throwing of stones intended, and I get it that you choose comfort over almost anything else, but what part of your brain says it’s ok to wear, essentially, pajamas on public mass transportation?  And if you’re that committed to comfort, why not go all the way and leave the gym shoes at home?  Slippers would be the perfect match to your jammies, no?

Now that I’ve got that out-of-the-way, let’s talk about Leaders.

Leaders lead.  It’s what they do, which makes for an easy way to title them.  Leaders, when they no longer lead, are, imho, no longer leaders.  I can point, with relative ease, to an example that hits close to home for me and also for many of my regular readers.  My union.  Not at the local level and not at the state level.  Those two groups are both blessed with dedicated, hard-working, responsive, and responsible leadership.

Not so much at the national level.

Throughout the entirety of my career in the fire service, I was taught that leaders lead.  They decide things.  Sometimes they are faced with two or more awful options and must choose the most palatable.  Or the least offensive.  And they need to prepare, both themselves and those for whom they’re charged with advocating, for whatever outcome their decision elicits.  That’s what leaders do.  They don’t “sit one out” they choose.  If they get pushback from the rank and file, they explain their rationale.

I may have mentioned this here at some point over the last couple years, but I feel strongly enough about this that, frankly, I don’t care and I’ll gladly repeat myself.  Without getting too much into my personal politics (and if you spend any time here, you probably know what way I lean) in the build up to the 2016 election, my union chose not to endorse anyone.  Neither candidate.  In my time in this great union, I have been told, countless times – “we support those that support us, regardless of whether their name has a ‘D’ or ‘R’ after it.” and I have taken that very phrase back to my local as well as at numerous meetings across the state of Illinois as a member of our Labor History committee.  And I believed those words.  They were important to me.  I know a lot of guys on-the-job that are far more conservative than I am.  And that’s fine.  I respect your right to an opposing opinion on many topics.  But, to me, the opinion that outweighs them all is this one.  Does a candidate or an incumbent politician support my position as a member of Organized Labor?  That’s the one that gets my vote.

You know what?  I can’t even finish on this leadership (or lack of same) rant.  It’s frickin’ SNOWING here.  In North Carolina.  On March 21st.  The day after the Vernal Equinox.  Sure it’ll get “up” into the mid 40’s today but come on.

Sigh.

Peace.

PS – As I wrote here I was asked to contribute a regular column at the official retired guy magazine for the Illinois Association of Retired Firefighters.  I was, of course, thrilled at the offer.  I also felt like they should get some kind of exclusivity so I declined to post that column here.  However, since the newest edition is currently going to press (sounds so official doesn’t it?) I figure it’s probably ok to share my pearls of wisdom *snark* here now.  So that’ll be coming up in a couple days…

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The Return of Fables From the Firehouse

I make no excuses for the way my brain works (or doesn’t, depending on your perspective) and this is a fine example of the maelstrom in my head bouncing from thought to thought to thought…

I was listening to a playlist the other morning, and a song came up that always takes me back to when the Oldest One was about six or seven years old.  The song “I Know What Boys Like” by The Waitresses has always made me chuckle and I still remember the first time I heard her singing along to the chorus.  The mixed emotions of her carrying the tune pretty faithfully (Hey!  Maybe she’ll grow up to be a singer and make millions!) blending against my precious little daughter singing “I know what boys like, I know what guys want.”

Insert wide-eyed emoji >here<

That got me thinking about other things from “back in the day” and how things have changed, for the better, around the firehouse.  No, not by my leaving, smartass, I’m talking about the difference in how we protected ourselves then versus now.

*Salt Alert*  When I started in the fire service, the soot on your gear was viewed as almost a badge of honor.  The nastier it looked, the more you had seen/done/accomplished.  And it was the same way to some extent with air packs (SCBA’s) in that we never wore them at, for example, car fires.  Why would we need one for a car fire, we’re outside for crying out loud.  And there was no small amount of new guy shaming to try to impress upon them just how much machismo we had because of these beliefs and how they needed to be “just as manly” as we were.

I vividly (well, as vividly as my memory will allow) recall a garage fire from late summer or early fall of 2002.  I know it was the summer of 2002 because we had a “new guy” with us and I checked with him to see when he started.  The call came in late in the evening; a garage on fire about two blocks from the firehouse.  Vin and I on the ambulance, John, Andy and Zig on the engine.  We got there and sure enough, the garage was on fire.  It hadn’t gotten through the roof or the overhead door yet, but I think it had taken out a window before we got there and was blowing pretty good.  Not too much, mind you , but what you would call a nice little fire.  If it’s not your stuff that’s burning.  Andy got the water supply squared away, John checked on the hazards, and Vin and I took the handline, and Zig, to the garage to put out the fire.  As they got the line and themselves ready to go in at the side door, I walked around to the back to see what all we had.  I found a second, smaller overhead door on the back wall and tried it to see if it was locked.  It wasn’t, and since I figured the line was on the verge of going in, I opened it to lift the smoke for Vin and Zig.  I stuck my head in and could see the fire towards the front of the garage but didn’t see those two inside yet.  I came around to the side and saw them kneeling at the door, Zig trying to get his mask right and Vinnie berating him for not being ready to go.  Berating may be too strong a word, but he was definitely giving him shit for it.  I, of course, joined right in.  Because, new guy, you know?  I don’t remember the exact words but it was something to the effect of “you don’t even need your mask, it’s only a garage fire and the smoke lifted when I opened the door, Nancy.”  Or maybe Sally.  I don’t remember which, but I’m pretty sure I used a woman’s name when I yelled at him for not being in yet.  To his credit, Zig held his ground and went “on air” before he went inside.  I wanted to make sure and put that in there, cause I know his Mom reads this from time-to-time.  Despite our “best efforts” your oldest made sure he was protected.  We made quick work of the fire, quicker than I realized, because as we were walking back up the driveway toward the fire engine we were met by the guys from the ladder truck bemoaning the fact that we put the fire out before they got there.  That’s always the goal btw, for engine guys at least, so we were pretty pleased with ourselves.  Still, looking back, it was pretty dumb on our part to go into a fire without the safety of the air packs on our backs.  That was kind of the culture back then though.  You’d come out of a fire, blow the accumulated crap out of your nose, and if the fire was out, light up a cigarette, because why not?

Fortunately, times change.  And I have to tip my hat to the DGFD and the progressive way they got back-up gear for everyone on the department along with extractors so we could wash our gear when we got back from a fire instead of wearing that shit for weeks after.  I’m not sure, but I think we were one of the first departments in our area to have those.  And I have to believe they made a difference.  Without getting all scientific on you, studies have found that a number of different bad things (medical term) leach into our skin through the gear that protects us and the sooner you get those bad things (medical term) off the gear and off your skin, the better off you’ll be.  I know a lot of places are now carrying softcloth wipes to clean your skin as soon as you get back to the engine, to further reduce the risk of down-the-road cancer.  Whatever it takes.  I’m all in favor of these guys making the workplace safer for themselves and their loved ones.  Without going too far off on a tangent, I think about things like this when I hear someone talk about how much “better” it was before, well, fill in the blank, you know?  The reality is, we’re almost always better off now.

As I said, almost.  This photo just came in courtesy of Dan T. showing a new guy and his attempt at chopping an onion.  And maybe his finger.  Also, note the onion skin still in place on said onion

Sigh.  New guys.  At least they’re entertaining.

 

Peace.

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It’s… complicated

So, this isn’t how I intended to write my last missive from northern Illinois.  But things, as things are wont to do, took a turn.  It will apparently be a brief one, but a turn nonetheless.

And this one may get wordy due to the good news/bad news aspect.  So, first with the bad news…

I got a call from my realtor in NC this morning.  She didn’t receive the final document from the bank in time for Thursday’s closing.  Now, in and of itself this is not a huge deal.  The thing that makes it a huge deal is that I’ve

A.) scheduled the movers to deliver my stuff Thursday.

B.) scheduled the utilities to get hooked up/switched to my name Thursday.

C.) scheduled a delivery for three appliances I need for Thursday.

I was, you might say, displeased to hear this news.  There were, in fact, a handful of deleted expletives that were aimed at no one in particular but rather so I could vent.  I left numerous messages with the loan officer and had a chat or two with my realtor.  I heard back from the loan officer who was, ironically, AT a closing when I called.  She was on her way to the office to find out what was up and as I told her; at this point I’m not concerned with the who, what, how, and why this happened.  I just need it fixed.  Like, right now.

I paced and muttered for a little bit, vented to a person or two (you know who you are.  And thanks for letting me rant) and got in the car to run some errands.

And had an idea.

I called the realtor and told her “I don’t care if this is legal or if it ever happens or what hurdles are in the way, but I want you to contact the sellers and see if they’ll rent the house to me for one day.”  She said there’s actually a provision in the contract that allows it.  I told her I’d like to set that up as a plan “B” and that I was still urging the bank to fix this so I can keep the closing as scheduled for Thursday morning.

But having a plan “B” in place helped unfrazzle me.  Like, a lot.  And I’m moving forward as if everything is going according to plan, but prepared for a change if need be.  As long as the bank gets me the effing document I need today so I can get the funds from my bank here in Illinois…

Sigh.

But, to the good news portion of today’s program…

Saturday I went to a birthday party for the former Beatle Baby.  Or so I thought.  See, a few weeks ago I heard from the Boy Child that they’d be celebrating his birthday six days after the fact at 10:00 Saturday morning at the local park district building.  I thought it odd, but quickly shrugged it off due to

A.) who wants a bunch of screaming six year-olds running around their house?

B.) scheduling at a public facility can be tricky so you take what you can get.

C.) why would I doubt the fruit of my loins?

I should point out here that, in the past, I haven’t always reacted appropriately to surprise parties in my honor.  Don’t get me wrong, I like when it’s all about me as much as the next person, but still, there’s something about them that makes me feel a little twitchy, you know?

So I found a parking spot and got out of the car.  I noticed the Oldest One’s car, the Boy Child’s car and I thought I saw the Quiet Child’s car too.  I had brought a couple of things for her, but wasn’t sure if they would be available for the party.  I walked in, heard a small ruckus to my left and started following the noise.  As I got to a corner in the hallway I saw BC.  I asked if QC was there and he said she was.  I handed him the birthday gift and told him I was going to run back to the car to get something.  I turned and got about ten feet when he called me back saying if he gave the gift to the former Beatle Baby I wouldn’t get the credit for it.  I rolled my eyes, muttered something under my breath and turned around to go with him.  I saw one of the kids dart into a room down the hall, and as we passed an open door, I looked inside.  I saw a couple of my nieces there and thought “why are they here?”

BC told me to go into that very door and, as I walked in and looked around the room, the first thing that came to mind was “Why the f*ck are these people at the former Beatle Baby’s party?”  Friends, family, coworkers, retired DGFD guys, people I hadn’t seen in years in some cases.  All here for a party for my six year-old grandson.

And then, I realized the truth.  My rotten (not really) kids had planned a surprise retirement party for me.

I had no clue.  Not. A. Single. One.

Who knew they could be so conniving?  For the previous couple days, right up to and including Saturday morning, I had gotten what I believed to be unconnected texts, calls, and/or emails about my weekend plans.  I never caught on.

I just want to say it was really a wonderful morning.  And more than a little overwhelming, just as the firehouse festival to me was.  I felt a little like Sally Field (never thought I’d compare myself to her btw) when she said “You like me, you really like me!”  Truly one of my best days.

 

It was a steady stream of well wishes from everyone.  And it was tear-free.  There was one moment where it came close, when the Reigning Princess jumped up into my arms, as is her practice, and hugged me particularly tightly, burying her face into my shoulder.  I did my best to comfort her, told her she could FaceTime me anytime she wanted and reminding her they’d see me at Christmas and that I’d be home in the spring for dance recitals and ballgames.  That was the toughest moment for me, as that kid has had me wrapped around her little finger from Day One and we both know it.

I know this move will have moments, both for me and for those I’m closest to, where my sanity will be (probably rightly so) called into question.  But I’m still confident this is the good and right thing to do.  Comfort zones must be challenged from time-to-time.  It’s part of how we grow as humans.  And, by the very nature of the challenge, it’s at times, frightening.  But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t attempt to expand our boundaries.

Sometimes a “new normal” is forced upon us.  Sometimes we choose it.  Either way it can be terrifying.  And it can be empowering.

Sometimes both at the very same time.

Peace.

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Wendy The Walker

What do say when you’re discussing a legend?  And I’m not even joking.  Around the firehouse (specifically in the high-rise district, but her fame has spread) everyone knows who Wendy the Walker is.  Most of the town does too, at least that part of town that exists along and/or near Main Street.

So how does one become legendary?  Let me tell you…

I don’t remember exactly when the first time was that I met her.  But I remember I was working on another shift; trade or overtime I don’t recall, but I remember I was working with a guy that lives in town.  And I walked out on to the bay floor this particular day and saw Dick standing in the back of the station, talking to a woman.  This was not uncommon, btw, Dick was almost as much of a “chick magnet” as the Great Vincenzo.  Almost.  At any rate, I walked back to see who she was.  I’m pretty sure she was introduced as “Wendy the Walker” since everyone knows her as the woman that walks four miles down Main Street every. single. day.

Thus began a friendship that I value as highly as any I’ve ever had.

Flash forward a couple years.  I remember coming back to work after Diane died.  I had been off for a month, thanks to the efforts of a bunch of guys I worked with back then, and Wendy stopped to chat when she saw me.  I think she asked where I had been since she hadn’t seen me in so long.  And, since Wendy is the kind of person that is truly interested in people, I told her the whole story of Diane’s passing.  She listened intently the whole time and from the look on her face, I knew she heard, and felt, every word I told her.

Now, often times, people will tell you “call me if you need anything” and, it’s not that they don’t mean it; many, if not most, do.  But for some it’s just platitudes and you learn to take those words with a grain of salt.  That’s never the case with this woman.  She said, knowing about our Walk 5k for Caitlin, and knowing how much work Diane did for it, “I’ll handle the publicity for the walk”

And she did.  For the remainder of the time we did W5kfC, Wendy handled it.  She wrote more articles and got them in more publications than I ever imagined possible.  And that was just the start.  Every hare-brained scheme I came up with over the years, she was all in on.  Without question.  And, also without question and, as if I ever had a choice, she became my Jewish mother.  Which worked out well since she’s, you know, Jewish.  And a mother.

She’s had a profound impact on so many of the things I do (i.e. anytime you see a “PS” on here, it’s an homage to Wendy) but not just me.  Pretty much everyone that works or has worked at good ol’ #3 has become part of Wendy’s personal domain.  And if they’re no longer there I’ll hear from her “how is my Mike?” or “how is my Rob?”  She is our chocolate fairy as evidenced by the many random deliveries from her, of something made in large part from the seed of the cacao.  Even “Bagel Saturday” a long standing tradition from a few years back included chocolate bagels.

Wendy knows many of our birthdays and makes a special trip to drop off something because “birthdays are a big deal.”  And, while that may not be a direct quote, I feel it’s close enough to deserve the quotation marks.

Which brings me to today.

Wendy, my very dear friend, you have meant so much to me, and to so many of the guys at “your” fire station, I wish there was some way to let you know just how much I cherish our friendship.  Even though you continue to try and talk me out of moving south.  You mean the world to me and I promise I’ll always keep in touch with you.  And yes, I realize that putting that in here kind of locks me in to it.  And yes, I realize that you will remind me (not so subtly) should I falter in the frequency of our chats.  You win.  Besides, I’m kinda scared of you. And I mean that in the nicest possible way.

So, while I know you’re celebrating with your favorite cellist and this all but assures happiness, I’m still going to wish you the happiest of birthdays on this very special day and I hope the rest of your birthday week (because birthdays are a big deal) is every bit as awesome as I know today is.

Happy 29th!!!

It is 29th, right?

Peace

Gi #m L

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The Last Day At the Firehouse

I’m officially unemployed.

Some might say unemployable, but that’s a story for another day.  Or maybe someone else’s blog.  This one is going to be about my last shift at the firehouse, specifically, my last day as firefighter/paramedic for the Village of Downers Grove.  I’m not positive, but I’m pretty sure I’ve never used the name of the Village or the FD here.   I didn’t want to take a chance on bringing down discipline if I shot my mouth off about something that irritated me in the moment, you know?  Don’t get me wrong, it was a great place to spend the last 25 years, but there have been issues from time-to-time.

But that’s not why you’re here.

Today’s post is going to be all sweetness and light.  And pictures.  Lots of pictures.  One of the perks of having a photojournalist in the family.

The day started with two old guys threatening to jump in the shower with me and just. kept. getting. better.  Actually, I lied.  the day started with my spotting an old “friend”.  If you remember this post You’ll recall my aversion to, of all things, a lamp.  So what to my wandering eyes should appear as I entered the day room for my last shift?

This –

Thanks to Red Shift (B or 2nd if you prefer) the lamp will be, for the rest of my days, a reminder of just how much fun life in the firehouse is.  That sucker burned brightly for 24 hours, until I gently unplugged it to take it out to the car for the trip home.  It will have an honored place, in every residence I have for the rest of my days.  To top it off, I walked in to the kitchen to find a couple of Red Shifters working away on biscuits and gravy to get the Festival To Me off on the right foot.  I knew something was up when I walked into the bunkroom to drop off my bag and the lights were all on and you guys were all awake (even Dan for cryin’ out loud) but I had no idea you guys took things to the level you did.  Thanks one and all.

Now, my intention for this post was to set my laptop out and put stuff on here throughout the day as I had a few idle moments.  The flaw in my plan became obvious quickly.

I had no idle moments.  There was a steady stream of visitors from 6:45 or so until after 2:00 yesterday afternoon.  I mean, nonstop.  When I say I was overwhelmed, that’s putting it mildly.  I mean, I figured (hoped) there’d be a nice turnout to bid me farewell, but the sheer volume of well-wishers left me speechless on more than one occasion yesterday.  That’s not an easy task either btw, leaving me speechless.  I saw friends from the Village and from Village Hall, friends from the union, friends from the FD, friends from the world of politics, friends from Good Sam, friends from all over.

Bob and TJ spent 10 hours cooking on Thursday, getting stuff ready for yesterday.  They made a ginormous batch of gumbo, jambalaya and beans and rice to feed all of our guests and it was Phe. Nominol.  It almost made me wish I’d eaten less from the mountain of baked goods that was dropped off in steady supply all day long.  Just a ridiculous amount of food.  Cal baked a carrot cake and a banana cake for me.   My Bonus Kid, Courtney, made RVCB’S! (editorial note, I’ve decided that henceforth RVCB’s shall always be followed by an exclamation point), banana bread and peanut butter cups.  Brief confession, at one point yesterday I was able to identify everything by who brought it.  I can’t do that now.  I apologize if you brought something and I left it and you out.  But Sweet Jesus there was a lot.

Late afternoon the steady stream slowed to a trickle, but some of my favorite nurses (spoiler alert, I have many) came from across the street to see me off.

Jo, Jenny, and Ida, we’ve had so many wonderful moments over the years.  You (almost) always greeted me with a smile, if not a hug, which btw helped to create somewhat of a legend around here so thanks for that, even if it was just to humor the harmless old guy.  Hearts to you and to so many other nurses, techs, secretaries, admissionists(?), and docs that I’ve crossed paths with over the years.  Truly some of the most talented medical peeps I’ve ever known.  And a lot of fun to hang with too.

Before I go any further, I need to give a shout out to one of my all-time favorite people.  Vinnie and his lovely (and incredibly tolerant.  I mean, saint-like) wife Terri stopped by to help see me into retirement.

Those two are on the short-list of people that have had my back in
so many ways over the last 14+ years.  They dropped off food when they knew we couldn’t deal with going to the store, they were just always there whenever I needed them.  To say I love you both somehow feels inadequate, but it’s the truth.  Thanks for everything.

Before I go any further, can I just say (fwiw I’m going to say it anyway) that yesterday and on in to today, social media has been a source of greater joy than probably any time in the ten years or so I’ve been active on it.  The sheer volume of posts made in tribute to me, misguided though they may be, almost literally brought me to tears.  I saw posts from across the country, wishing me well.  You people rock.

Moving on.

Most of the kids and grandkids came by for dinner.  The Quiet Child, Boy Genius, and Reigning Princess couldn’t make it in, because sometimes stuff happens.  The rest of the crew got in to join us for dinner; home made, deep-dish pizza courtesy of Chef Bob and it was just stellar, as always.  Perhaps not surprisingly, meals like that are one of the things I’m really going to miss.  Scenes like this one-

 are irreplaceable.  The camaraderie  brought to a group that eats together, shared time to discuss shared memories, shared tasks, shared goals, successes, and even sometimes, shared failures are at the heart of what we do.  So many of the world’s problems are “solved” at firehouse tables each and every day.

I’ll miss that.

As I get near the end of this, I’ve got a couple more thoughts.  First, to my many firehouse families; I was, am, and always will be proud to have worked with you.  Whether on the streets of our Village, at the bargaining table, the union hall, or at the Legislature of our state or our nation.  We always put the lives, wants, and needs of others before our own.  It’s what we do and a large part of who we are.  Don’t ever stop doing that.

Thanks for many great meals, many great runs, many great conversations, and for letting me be a part of your lives.  You’ve all been a big part of mine.  I’ll cherish our times together, good and bad, I promise I’ll check in when I’m in town.  And you’ve always got a place to stay if you get out by me.  As long as you cook.  Just sayin…

To my IRL family-

Thanks so much for being you.  Each one of you has a larger role than you know in getting me from Point “A” to Point “B” and you’ve all made the trip not only worthwhile, but so much more enjoyable.  I can’t imagine, nor do i want to imagine, where I’d be without you.  It may be from a distance soon, but I can’t wait to watch each of you evolve towards what, and who, you will become.  I couldn’t be more proud of all of you.  I love you.

Even though I could go on a little longer with this, I’m going to leave it with one final picture from yesterday.  I think this kind of sums everything up nicely for me.

Peace.

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The Penultimate Shift

I’ve got so many things spinning around my brain, each one a thing I want to try and dive into before I dodder off into retirement.

But then, the weekend happened, and plans, as they often do, changed.

And before I go any further, I need to offer my heartfelt thanks to everyone that reached out to me, whether by text, phone call, or comments; made either on social media, IRL, or in the comments here, for the kind words and thoughts.  There were more than a few that brought tears to my eyes and I’m so truly grateful for each of you.

I was also fortunate that my friend, the internationally known podcaster, Seth Rainwater and his Dad, Rick, drove up from south Arkansas to hang out with me for a few days before I get out of here.  The timing was random, but couldn’t have been more fortuitous, given Sophie’s demise.  We had many laughs the last couple days and Seth rode with us for the first half of the shift yesterday.

Typically, when we have a rider with us, we suffer what is commonly referred to as the “curse of the rider” which means, in a nutshell, we get shut out.  As in, no calls for the day.  Seth, however, shattered that curse.  Two calls back to back right out of the chute at 7:00 AM, were followed by ten more before dinner.  Twelve calls, in the first twelve hours, plus EMS training made for a very busy day, but the timing was really quite good since neither lunch nor dinner was terribly affected.  We finished the shift off by running two after Seth left and two more after midnight, so for my next-to-last shift, sixteen was the not-so-sweet total.  For a little reference, on average, as a department, we run sixteen calls per day.  Yesterday, we busted the curve.  Not that I mind, as I’ve said, I take great pride in working out of the busiest house in town so in my mind, this was a pretty good way to start sliding into home plate.

Of course, if the powers that be decide to pitch a shutout at us on Friday, I’m perfectly fine with that too.

Just sayin’

I have many more things I want to say, and a person or two that I want to say some things about, but today, instead, I think I’d like to focus on my guys.

I’ve been blessed throughout my career, to have worked with some incredibly skilled firefighters and paramedics.  I listed some of those guys a post or two back, and I meant everything I said, but I didn’t mention my current crew, because I knew I wanted to tip my proverbial hat to them here.  In order of seniority- Rob my brand new Lieutenant, is off to a fine start (except for questioning my judgement on whether I can fit the engine through a tight spot, or know the best way to get around MY STILL DISTRICT) fitting in quite nicely to our little family on the fly and that’s not an easy task.  He’s very bright, reads a room well, uses each of our strengths well and gives us enough leash to have a little fun, while keeping us reined in enough to keep out of trouble.  I have no doubt he’ll continue to cultivate these guys to become the best they can be.  Wink is our wounded warrior, he’s been off for several months after a work-related injury.  One of his light-duty assignments was working the reception desk at Village Hall.  He’s quite popular with the ladies that work there.  As we’re fond of telling him, it’s taken him 24 years, but he’s finally found his niche.  TJ is one of the smartest guys I’ve worked with and he’s got a huge heart.  He and his wife do advocacy work for disadvantaged kids and I can’t think of a better way to sing his praises than that.  Bob has a twisted ish sense of humor that helps keep things loose around the firehouse, but to classify him as a joker diminishes his abilities on the job.  Mike is our new guy.  He’s often the butt of our jokes, as a new guy should be, and he accepts our slings and arrows with great humor.  Plus, as I like to tell him when he says something a little odd, he’s so pretty.  To his credit though, he no longer thinks everyone’s first name is Kevin, so learning has occurred.  Collectively we’re a high functioning group, and we’ve established a great bond in our time together.  I don’t, for one second, believe they’ll skip a single beat after the festival to me has finished and I’ve moved on and I’m more than a little disappointed in myself for not having a picture of these guys to post up in here.

I think I’ve mentioned it before, while there will be many things I won’t miss around here, hanging out with my guys is something I’m going to miss greatly for a very long time.  We shared many laughs and many unforgettable moments and those will carry me through for a long time as well.  I truly cherish each and every one of you and I’ll carry the five of you with me for rest of my days.

Mi casa su casa.

And, speaking of casa, it’s time for me to make my way to mine.  Empty, for the first time.  Sigh.

Peace

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“Jake” We Hardly Knew Ye

Since my days here at the DGFD are dwindling down to a precious few (shameless lyric plagiarism alert) I figured I’d better take full advantage while stuff is fresh(ish) in my mind.

We caught two back-to-back this morning, fairly quickly out of the chute.  After we returned to the firehouse, while wandering around the apparatus bay floor mid-project, I noticed a pigeon sitting out behind the station.  In and of itself this is a little out of the ordinary, we don’t seem to have very many pigeons hanging around here.  I’m not sure why, we just don’t.  So I noticed him (truth be told, I didn’t check the gender. Furthermore, I’m not sure how to check even if I had) I also noticed (Hey, pigeon A&P wasn’t part of my paramedic training, so what can I say?) he seemed to be sitting in an awkward position.  I finished my project and decided to walk out and see if there was something wrong with the pigeon.

He let me get fairly close to him, maybe four or five feet away, without any response on his part.  His right wing seemed to be out of whack (medical term).  I figured he got clipped by a car since Highland Avenue was about fifty feet from where he sat and it’s four lanes of people basically ignoring the 35 mph speed limit.  I asked TJ, our resident quinoa expert, if quinoa was a grain.  He said he thought it was.  I knew we didn’t have any bird seed here but I was reasonably sure we had quinoa.  Don’t ask.  Young guys.  Any way, I grabbed a handful and it looked enough like bird seed to satisfy me.  I took it out to the bird and dropped it down in front of him.  As I did, he (the bird, not TJ btw) staggered a couple of feet away.

By this time, TJ and Rob both came out to see what I was doing.  As we talked about the pigeon, TJ asked about the name of the crow from Shawshank Redemption and thus, a firehouse name was born. Jake the pigeon seemed indifferent towards my choice of food for him.  I figured something needed to be done and since we have no pigeon specific protocols to follow, I started making the rounds telephonically to see what could be done.

Take a guess how many phone calls it took to find a pigeon person.  Go ahead, I’ll wait…

If you said seven, you win.

Now, in the time it took me to make these seven phone calls we ran to the Jewels for the days groceries, in fact I made five of the calls while Rob and TJ knocked out the shopping.  As we were paying for our groceries, we caught a call, followed immediately by another.  So by the time we got back to the house maybe 45 minutes had passed.  As we pulled up to the back door I looked for Jake but couldn’t see him.

Until Rob pointed out a small, feathered, lump laying right next to the garage door.  Poor Jake had met his maker.  Of course Rob quickly pointed out that it was probably due to dehydration, since I’d neglected to put any water out for Jake.  Or the possibility that quinoa is not, in fact, bird seed and that it exploded in Jake’s gullet hastening his shuffle off this mortal coil.

Sigh.

Lastly, I just want to give a shout to my first Captain from here.  The doorbell rang this afternoon and in walked Paul.  I haven’t seen him in quite some time and I told him I was honored he stopped by to wish me well.  I meant it too.  He was a good dude to work for and I learned a lot from him in our short time together.  We chatted for a little bit, talked about the old days as well as more recent events and then it was time for him to go.

I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again, the people around here are what will be missed.  Well, most of them.  When I thought about what I was going to do with this today it was going to go off in a completely different direction.  Kind of a “Bob, why do you hate me?” turn.

Until Jake started me off on this track.

Maybe next time.

Peace.