Wednesday, January 28, 2009
A Brotherhood
I was at dinner the other night with my brother (Oliver) and a group of friends (some of which I hadn't met before). Upon seeing the jacket Oliver was wearing, one of the guys asked if Ollie was part of the local fire department, and proceeded to talk about his time as a volunteer firefighter in St. Louis County. Ollie had to leave shortly thereafter, but the guy was excited to hear that I was joining too and had all kinds of great stories and positive memories of the fire service. As I was listening, more than happy to participate in a little shop talk (despite my complete lack of experience), I thought back to a question Oliver asked me when I first brought up the whole Firefighting thing to him (to see if it would be stealing his thunder if I joined too). He asked me if maybe I didn't really want to fight fire, but just was lacking in male camaraderie and wanted some dudes to hang out with. After the great time I had last night, just vicariously experiencing the sense of brotherhood this guy had with the people he used to work with, I'm beginning to take a shine to the idea. Don't get me wrong, I want to fight fire, and I want to save lives, but a little camaraderie sure won't hurt.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Idle Musings
Recruit class is approaching fast (Feb 10), and I'm getting more excited by the day. My wife, though, has seemed to become less so as the time gets closer. After talking to her about why her mood seems to be shifting (she's been very supportive about the whole thing) she confessed that she was worried about me. I tried pointing to some statistics that showed I was really unlikely to suffer any permanent damage during my time with the department, but she said that she wasn't really concerned about my body, but more about my mind.
An interesting conversation ensued. She told me about the conversations she'd heard other firefighters having about previous calls they had been on (particularly gruesome ones, in this case). In the face of the macabre, many of the men adopted an air of humor or jocularity that seemed inappropriate given the circumstances. A person has died, should they really be joking about it?
It's a tough issue to address, to be sure. I cannot speak from experience, as I'm not even a recruit yet and I've never seen anything more disturbing than a dead beloved pet. However, living vicariously through my brother (a firefighter) and a few friends I have who are soldiers or in other similar fields (Ambulance EMTs, Medical Chopper pilots, etc), I can attest to the fact that people have to find a way to process the horrible things they see. Certainly even when considering examples of a far less serious nature, we can see a parallel. A common suburbanite may become ill at the sight of a skinned animal, whereas a hunter who has experienced such things uncountable times sees nothing disturbing but only a future meal and is in fact happy to pick up where someone else left off by continuing to dismember the carcass. Is it so hard to imagine that a person who's line of work involves the witnessing of the loss of human life on a daily basis becomes desensitized to the process a bit? What sort of life would an emergency worker live if he was broken up and somber every time he witnessed death? The emotional weight would be unbearable, I imagine that depression and suicide among the people who we count on to protect our communities would be rampant.
The people who fill these jobs deserve to have happy lives outside of their daily struggle through the most tragic events the local community has to offer, and since none of them are blessed with the ability to simply forget what they have seen they must come to terms with their experience in a way that prevents them dwelling on these events. If for some, that route is humor, than who am I or anyone else to speak out against it? If it keeps them from succumbing to the morose existence that I see as the only alternative, then by all means, let them joke!
But now my thoughts turn to myself. Am I willing to expose myself to the inevitable erosion of my sensitivity to death and pain? By learning to eventually harden myself against it, will I lose any amount of compassion or empathy in the process? I can't answer these questions from where I stand, I suppose. I can only go forward knowing that everything gained in life has a price, including the experiences I'm about to undertake.
An interesting conversation ensued. She told me about the conversations she'd heard other firefighters having about previous calls they had been on (particularly gruesome ones, in this case). In the face of the macabre, many of the men adopted an air of humor or jocularity that seemed inappropriate given the circumstances. A person has died, should they really be joking about it?
It's a tough issue to address, to be sure. I cannot speak from experience, as I'm not even a recruit yet and I've never seen anything more disturbing than a dead beloved pet. However, living vicariously through my brother (a firefighter) and a few friends I have who are soldiers or in other similar fields (Ambulance EMTs, Medical Chopper pilots, etc), I can attest to the fact that people have to find a way to process the horrible things they see. Certainly even when considering examples of a far less serious nature, we can see a parallel. A common suburbanite may become ill at the sight of a skinned animal, whereas a hunter who has experienced such things uncountable times sees nothing disturbing but only a future meal and is in fact happy to pick up where someone else left off by continuing to dismember the carcass. Is it so hard to imagine that a person who's line of work involves the witnessing of the loss of human life on a daily basis becomes desensitized to the process a bit? What sort of life would an emergency worker live if he was broken up and somber every time he witnessed death? The emotional weight would be unbearable, I imagine that depression and suicide among the people who we count on to protect our communities would be rampant.
The people who fill these jobs deserve to have happy lives outside of their daily struggle through the most tragic events the local community has to offer, and since none of them are blessed with the ability to simply forget what they have seen they must come to terms with their experience in a way that prevents them dwelling on these events. If for some, that route is humor, than who am I or anyone else to speak out against it? If it keeps them from succumbing to the morose existence that I see as the only alternative, then by all means, let them joke!
But now my thoughts turn to myself. Am I willing to expose myself to the inevitable erosion of my sensitivity to death and pain? By learning to eventually harden myself against it, will I lose any amount of compassion or empathy in the process? I can't answer these questions from where I stand, I suppose. I can only go forward knowing that everything gained in life has a price, including the experiences I'm about to undertake.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Gear fitting
Still a few weeks yet until the first day of recruit class, but I went in and got fitted for gear a couple days ago. That was pretty exciting, in a way. Two outfits, one for structure fires (in buildings, that is) which they call "Bunker Gear", and one called "Wildland" gear which I assume is for wildfires or other outdoor situations. I didn't even know there was a difference until I saw the two sets, but it makes sense. After doing some research, I could even tell you the major differences.
Bunker Gear is heavily insulated. It's a thick, bulky outfit covering every part of your body, and it's probably very hot and uncomfortable to wear, but the reason it must be so is because it's intended to protect up close from high temperatures. Everything's double layered and well reinforced, so it can apparently be a bit restrictive, especially in the gloves, but I'm happy to sacrifice some dexterity for the amount of protection it provides.
The Wildland gear is protective as well (naturally), but much lighter and clearly intended to keep the wearer cool, shedding body heat much more easily than the thicker structural gear. This is probably due to the longer duration that the wearer has to don the gear, and to the fact that there is a lot more ground to cover when working outside (plus there are more strenuous and long-lasting activities).
I don't have it in my possession yet, but I'm eager to go through it piece by piece once it's been issued (is it immature to be excited about this?). Maybe I'll even put some pics up when that time comes.
Bunker Gear is heavily insulated. It's a thick, bulky outfit covering every part of your body, and it's probably very hot and uncomfortable to wear, but the reason it must be so is because it's intended to protect up close from high temperatures. Everything's double layered and well reinforced, so it can apparently be a bit restrictive, especially in the gloves, but I'm happy to sacrifice some dexterity for the amount of protection it provides.
The Wildland gear is protective as well (naturally), but much lighter and clearly intended to keep the wearer cool, shedding body heat much more easily than the thicker structural gear. This is probably due to the longer duration that the wearer has to don the gear, and to the fact that there is a lot more ground to cover when working outside (plus there are more strenuous and long-lasting activities).
I don't have it in my possession yet, but I'm eager to go through it piece by piece once it's been issued (is it immature to be excited about this?). Maybe I'll even put some pics up when that time comes.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Turn your head and cough!
So today I took the next necessary step towards recruit class, as I went in to have a physical. You could see why this would be important information to have on hand before you go running into a burning building, because you don't want to wait until that point to discover that you have lung problems or something like that, but all the same I've never really enjoyed going to the doctor (who does, right?). Maybe it's because if something were really wrong with me, I'd almost be happier not knowing (silly, but true).
Anyway, the first thing I had to do when I arrived at the doc's office was to fill out a large stack of paperwork. I know that's standard operating procedure for most medical facilities, but the redundancy of the whole thing drove me crazy, and the software developer side of me just cringed at the repeated questions. Several forms required the same information: name, birthdate, address, social security number, etc. A software system could gather this information once at the beginning and not have to have the user input it on every form. Then there was the list of things my "job" would require me to do (Firefighting in this case), questions like "do you need to be able to lift more than 50 pounds?", or "will you be asked to breathe through a mask or respirator?" etc. That's just an organizational oversight: 15 new firefighters come through that office for every recruit class, they shouldn't each have to fill out the same job requirements for firefighting. A software system in that office could just ask "Are you here for a physical for the fire department?" and if the answer is yes, all the relevant job requirements would already be known from preloaded data.
Enough on that point, though, I'm not volunteering to implement a medical records system or anything.
After contracting carpal tunnel from all the paperwork, I turned the mountain in to the woman at the front desk (who smiled at me quite sympathetically) and then sat down to read while I waited. Being a technology guy, the first thing that caught my eye in the magazine pile was an article on Steve Jobs (CEO of Apple). Apparently he has fought a bout of pancreatic cancer and every public appearance seems to show his health waning. Awesome. Just what I wanted to read about before going to find out if anything is wrong with ME. I picked up an issue of sports illustrated instead...
After a short 20 minutes, I got asked back into the examination rooms, and was promptly asked to stand on a scale. Not having worked out much recently, I was relieved to see that I still weigh in between 155 and 160. It looks like my slowing metabolism hasn't caught up with me yet.
Then I had to do the thing where they give you the cup and ask you to go in a room and pee in it. No big deal, really. I do this everyday. But it's different when there's someone listening right outside the door. Not wanting to appear to be nervous about this thing, I went about making a noisy show of loosening my belt buckle and unzipping my fly. Happily, I had no pause before commencement and was able to begin filling the cup quickly, but no sooner had I started than I realized that the lady who had handed me this cup said she needed "At least 450cc's" which was about 1/4 of the total cup. I had already reached that mark, though, and thanks to some overzealous pre-physical-hydrating I was FAR from finished. What's the etiquette on this point? What did the "At least" qualifier mean? Would she prefer a full cup, if I had it in me? Or was that overkill? Or even impolite? Can you even BE any more impolite than handing someone a cup full of your own urine?
Already having exhausted my desire to think about the subject any further, I aborted the operation while half full and safely moved the cup out of the way before continuing, figuring that this was the closest to compromise I was going to get.
Anyway, the first thing I had to do when I arrived at the doc's office was to fill out a large stack of paperwork. I know that's standard operating procedure for most medical facilities, but the redundancy of the whole thing drove me crazy, and the software developer side of me just cringed at the repeated questions. Several forms required the same information: name, birthdate, address, social security number, etc. A software system could gather this information once at the beginning and not have to have the user input it on every form. Then there was the list of things my "job" would require me to do (Firefighting in this case), questions like "do you need to be able to lift more than 50 pounds?", or "will you be asked to breathe through a mask or respirator?" etc. That's just an organizational oversight: 15 new firefighters come through that office for every recruit class, they shouldn't each have to fill out the same job requirements for firefighting. A software system in that office could just ask "Are you here for a physical for the fire department?" and if the answer is yes, all the relevant job requirements would already be known from preloaded data.
Enough on that point, though, I'm not volunteering to implement a medical records system or anything.
After contracting carpal tunnel from all the paperwork, I turned the mountain in to the woman at the front desk (who smiled at me quite sympathetically) and then sat down to read while I waited. Being a technology guy, the first thing that caught my eye in the magazine pile was an article on Steve Jobs (CEO of Apple). Apparently he has fought a bout of pancreatic cancer and every public appearance seems to show his health waning. Awesome. Just what I wanted to read about before going to find out if anything is wrong with ME. I picked up an issue of sports illustrated instead...
After a short 20 minutes, I got asked back into the examination rooms, and was promptly asked to stand on a scale. Not having worked out much recently, I was relieved to see that I still weigh in between 155 and 160. It looks like my slowing metabolism hasn't caught up with me yet.
Then I had to do the thing where they give you the cup and ask you to go in a room and pee in it. No big deal, really. I do this everyday. But it's different when there's someone listening right outside the door. Not wanting to appear to be nervous about this thing, I went about making a noisy show of loosening my belt buckle and unzipping my fly. Happily, I had no pause before commencement and was able to begin filling the cup quickly, but no sooner had I started than I realized that the lady who had handed me this cup said she needed "At least 450cc's" which was about 1/4 of the total cup. I had already reached that mark, though, and thanks to some overzealous pre-physical-hydrating I was FAR from finished. What's the etiquette on this point? What did the "At least" qualifier mean? Would she prefer a full cup, if I had it in me? Or was that overkill? Or even impolite? Can you even BE any more impolite than handing someone a cup full of your own urine?
Already having exhausted my desire to think about the subject any further, I aborted the operation while half full and safely moved the cup out of the way before continuing, figuring that this was the closest to compromise I was going to get.
Immediately after surrendering the sample, I watched with interest as the nurse used a small disposable device to test for any sort of drug use. Now, I know I don't use drugs, but I'll admit I get a little nervous waiting for these things to develop. After all, what if there's a false positive? It's not like I can accuse my urine of lying! Fortunately, I did not have to ponder the moral moorings of disloyal fluids for long, as I ended up with a clean slate and a pass to the next part of the physical: the hearing booth.
This was actually pretty neat, because my natural interest in technology led me to marvel at the apparatus they had for testing my hearing. A headset with color coded earpieces was placed over my head, and a thumb stick similar to the device contestants use on jeopardy was given to me with instructions to push the button whenever I heard a beep. Then the door to the soundproof room was closed and I was left to concentrate. As I sat, clicking away at the infrequent and faint beeps, I wondered absently whether my past days as a drummer would affect my hearing at all. My wonder grew to mild concern as I saw the nurses face when she pulled the test results. Maybe I hadn't gotten as many as I'd hoped. Still, I participate in normal conversations everyday without any problem, even in crowded rooms, so I couldn't believe that it was all that bad.
I was wrong.
"Mr. Vizitei, do you have any trouble with your hearing?" the doctor asked as he scanned the results of my test. "No, not that I'm aware of" I replied cautiously. I tried to glance down at the test results he was holding in his hand, and realized immediately that they were very unbalanced. According to what I could decipher from the print out, I was entirely deaf in my right ear.
How could this be? How could I not have noticed this myself?
The doctor excused himself momentarily to talk to the nurse and I sat thinking about what I had just found out. Deaf? It wasn't possible! I plugged my left ear quickly and started making noises with my hand on the desk, trying to test how far gone my hearing really was, but it seemed no different from normal, I felt like I could hear everything without a problem. Or was this just my brain being very used to the level of hearing I had from my damaged right ear? I pondered this for a moment before the doctor walked in and told me that the right channel in the hearing booth had not been plugged in correctly.
Oh. That made more sense.
A wave of relief flooded over me, and I realized how ridiculous it had been that I began to doubt my own body as soon as some piece of advanced technology told me something was wrong that CLEARLY was not the case. Lame.
The doctor went through a series of exercises that must have made it look like we were sparring as he tested the flexibility and functionality of my body. Push here, pull now, resist this, lean back, etc. I must have passed OK as he had no point where he looked concerned. At the speed he was proceeding, I wondered how many times he had gone through this same ritual. Hundreds? Thousands? He could almost have been bored.
His unconcerned look continued unfazed as he blithely asked me to take my pants off.
I knew that was coming, so why the hell did it surprise me so much? Still, determined not to be singled out as nervous, I lowered my pants faster than was probably necessary. The doctors hands were cold against my flesh as he asked me to turn my head and cough, and although I knew the answer I asked him very professionally what exactly he was looking for just to ease the uncomfortable silence for myself.
Allowing me to assume my clothes again, we proceeded through a list of questions to lengthy to mention here regarding my health. Short version: I'm doing ok.
Then I went back for the EKG. If you've never had one of these, this is where they put electrodes on several different points on your body in order to check your heart rhythms. The test itself is no big deal, but I didn't enjoy it very much for a reason I'll be you can guess given 2 clues.
1) the electrodes are held in place with adhesive strips (think "tape").
2) I have a lot of body hair (think "wolverine").
Once that uncomfortable experience was past, I just had to prove I could see correctly and then it was on to lab work (in a different building down the street).
This part was kind of fun, because this was the first time I was having blood drawn when it wasn't because I suspected I had cancer or something like that. As I sat down and rolled up my sleeve, the nurse told me I had "wonderful" veins. Thanks, I guess.
Instinctively I looked away as she descended on me with the needle, but I recovered instantly as I thought to myself "Some firefighter I'll be if I can't even watch my own blood be taken". Bracing my other hand against the table in case of sudden dizziness or something, I looked directly down at my arm as the needle broke the skin. No problem there. I was then nothing short of shocked as she screwed a vial into the needle; my blood shot into that thing like it was being squeezed from a grapefruit. I asked the nurse if I had high blood pressure, and she said that speed was normal. I guess people with high blood pressure must shatter the vial.
And then after a chest x-ray, I was done and headed home. One more checkmark on the list towards achieving my goal.
As I walked into my house I checked my phone to see a text message from my brother:
"has the doc played with your balls yet?"
I smiled wryly as I responded:
"Yeah, but he was a gentleman about it"
Monday, January 5, 2009
The Phone-call
Well, I stand duly chagrined for not being more patient. The day after I complain about waiting on my blog, the phone call comes through.
It happened today while I was working on my computer from home. My desk started vibrating, and I glanced at the face of my phone to see who it was. Not recognizing the number, I got that familiar jolt of excitement as I anticipated what I hoped was a call from the fire-department, but I didn't want to get my hopes up until I picked up the phone.
Sure enough, after giving my standard greeting ("Hello, this is Ethan". Not too formal, but still letting the party know who they're speaking with), I was informed that this call was originating from the Fire District. However, not wanting to give away the verdict in the opening statement, the man on the other end of the phone proceeded to tell me the origin of the decision. Like a game show host, he slowed down to build the tension:
"After conducting your interview....and discussing your merits....and making our recommendations to the executive board....and receiving a decision....and grabbing some lunch...and finishing up some paperwork that got held up last week because of the weather...we have decided...............that we would like you to be a part of our organization".
Man, it felt like he milked that last pause for all it was worth. Of course, it could just be my anticipation making the whole thing seem to slow down, but I was DYING to hear that last part. It's really happening! Now I know that come February 10, I'll be starting the training that will help me save lives in the years to come. My most recent dream-come-true. I finished my conversation with the official, thanking him for his time, and began a private celebration in my head as I contemplated the glory of the days to come.
Then the phone rings, this time my brother on the line:
"Hey, probie!"
Great...So now THAT part starts.....
It happened today while I was working on my computer from home. My desk started vibrating, and I glanced at the face of my phone to see who it was. Not recognizing the number, I got that familiar jolt of excitement as I anticipated what I hoped was a call from the fire-department, but I didn't want to get my hopes up until I picked up the phone.
Sure enough, after giving my standard greeting ("Hello, this is Ethan". Not too formal, but still letting the party know who they're speaking with), I was informed that this call was originating from the Fire District. However, not wanting to give away the verdict in the opening statement, the man on the other end of the phone proceeded to tell me the origin of the decision. Like a game show host, he slowed down to build the tension:
"After conducting your interview....and discussing your merits....and making our recommendations to the executive board....and receiving a decision....and grabbing some lunch...and finishing up some paperwork that got held up last week because of the weather...we have decided...............that we would like you to be a part of our organization".
Man, it felt like he milked that last pause for all it was worth. Of course, it could just be my anticipation making the whole thing seem to slow down, but I was DYING to hear that last part. It's really happening! Now I know that come February 10, I'll be starting the training that will help me save lives in the years to come. My most recent dream-come-true. I finished my conversation with the official, thanking him for his time, and began a private celebration in my head as I contemplated the glory of the days to come.
Then the phone rings, this time my brother on the line:
"Hey, probie!"
Great...So now THAT part starts.....
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Waiting
I was never good at this.
Patience is supposed to be a virtue, but it's one I'm so clearly lacking in. My interview was quite a while ago, almost two weeks now. I was hoping to hear by Christmas, or at least New Years, whether I'd be joining the next recruit class or whether I'd have to try again in a few months.
It's not like anybody's life hangs in the balance, or even that I'm particularly anxious about the response. Yes, I sincerely hope I'm accepted, but will it wreck my life if I miss out? No way, I can always try again. What really gets to me is the little wave of excitement I get every time my cellphone vibrates, so quickly followed by disappointment as I see that it's a friend or family member. Even worse is when the phone rings showing a number I don't recognize, and I answer excitedly only to find out that I'm talking to the public library, or a friend calling from an unfamiliar land line. I'm always checking to make sure my phone's not out of batteries, and that I haven't gone somewhere where I can't get a signal.
Check...work...check again...eat....etc.
I guess it's an opportunity, really. That's always the better way to think about it. My patience is as important as my strength or resolve, and this is just a chance to work on it. So I'm dealing, for now. I'll keep writing, keep working, but all the time I'll keep listening as well. Listening for the call that will decide my short-term future.
Can't write anymore, need to check my phone....
Patience is supposed to be a virtue, but it's one I'm so clearly lacking in. My interview was quite a while ago, almost two weeks now. I was hoping to hear by Christmas, or at least New Years, whether I'd be joining the next recruit class or whether I'd have to try again in a few months.
It's not like anybody's life hangs in the balance, or even that I'm particularly anxious about the response. Yes, I sincerely hope I'm accepted, but will it wreck my life if I miss out? No way, I can always try again. What really gets to me is the little wave of excitement I get every time my cellphone vibrates, so quickly followed by disappointment as I see that it's a friend or family member. Even worse is when the phone rings showing a number I don't recognize, and I answer excitedly only to find out that I'm talking to the public library, or a friend calling from an unfamiliar land line. I'm always checking to make sure my phone's not out of batteries, and that I haven't gone somewhere where I can't get a signal.
Check...work...check again...eat....etc.
I guess it's an opportunity, really. That's always the better way to think about it. My patience is as important as my strength or resolve, and this is just a chance to work on it. So I'm dealing, for now. I'll keep writing, keep working, but all the time I'll keep listening as well. Listening for the call that will decide my short-term future.
Can't write anymore, need to check my phone....
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