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....
Monday, December 22, 2008
The Interview
This week was when I took my first significant step towards joining the local fire department. At the advice of my younger brother (already a long-term member) and of another good friend who works at the same station as my brother, I filled out an application and arrived at the District Office to interview for a position in the next recruit class.
Having been through a lot of job interviews in the last 3-4 years, I can tell you first hand that this was not at all the same. Walking through the front door, I felt my heart start beating a little faster and I could feel my hands trembling a bit. I was actually NERVOUS. This might not seem like a big deal to people who don't like being interviewed, but I've never really had a problem with it. I did a lot of stage work in high school, and was a music performance major in college, so I've never really had any nervousness about being up in front of people. The difference in this case, I guess, is that there was no alternative. Every job interview I've been to for my software career has been along the lines of "I know I'm good enough for this job, and even if they don't see it there are plenty of other companies who will". This was closer to "I have no experience as a firefighter, and I only get one shot at this because there aren't any other alternate volunteer districts I can join if I blow it".
I forced myself to breathe more slowly as the woman at the front desk called to the unnamed individuals in the back of the office that I would be meeting shortly, telling them that I had arrived. Did I dress correctly? Should I have cut my hair before coming in? Maybe it would have made a better first impression...
From the woman's hand signs as she smiled back at me, I could tell that I would have a few minutes to wait before the training chief could see me. "Great" I thought, "Icing the kicker". Feigning nonchalance, I stood up (trying to shake off my nerves) and started perusing the various photographs of firemen in action lining the walls of the lobby, wondering if I might spot my brother among them. No luck, though; before I could finish my search, the door to the back office opened, and a man a few years my senior asked if I was ready. Nodding my assent, I gathered my coat from where I'd been sitting and followed him back to a briefing/training room that had one man sitting behind a table who introduced himself as Chief Leake. I gave him a handshake as firm as I dared, and sat down across from him while the young man who had walked me in took a seat immediately at the Chief's right hand.
They both smiled pleasantly and opened up with the standard preliminaries: "Tell us about yourself", "where are you originally from?", "Are you prepared to work hard?" etc. The only question really worth mentioning here was the one when they asked me why I wanted to be a firefighter. Now THAT one I was prepared for.
You see, this "quest" began for me last February (almost a year ago now). I was the single witness to a bad car accident on a highway near my home. While driving home from work for lunch, a van swerved in front of me, and then off the side of the highway at around 70 MPH, down a steep ravine, over a creek, and into a patch of trees on the other side, no brake lights the whole time. I stopped my car at the side of the road, jumped out, and started scrambling down the steep hill using one hand for balance while trying to dial 911 with the other. As I reached the mangled vehicle and rounded the passenger side window, I saw something that has been burned in my memory for a while. The driver, a middle-aged woman, half-ejected from the van through the passenger window, arms and head drooping down the side of the car and blood running down her arms and dripping off her fingertips into the grass. I just stood there and stared blankly for the few minutes it took the emergency workers to arrive. Afterwards, driving home in my car, I remember wishing that I had been my younger brother in that moment; someone who had the training and the experience to know what to do for someone in a position like that. Instead I was just me, joe software developer, totally unprepared and feeling helpless in the face of a real emergency.
I don't want to feel that way ever again.
This answer seemed to be acceptable to my interviewers, and they began telling me about the commitment I'd be signing up for if I was selected for the department and decided to go forward with it. Long training hours (evenings and weekends), hard work, some disappointments (you can't save everyone, you know). Would I be able to stick with that sort of commitment? Would the benefits that come from that sort of experience outweigh the emotional costs?
Honestly, I couldn't say whether the balance would be favorable. I believe so, and from what I've seen in the lives of my brother and of my friend I could even say I have evidence of it. But I've never been there, and I won't claim knowledge of that which I haven't experienced. I've never been there with a kid who came home to find one of his parents had committed suicide. I've never seen new parents lose their infant child. I can't speak for whether the camaraderie and gratification I'd receive from being on a team like that and saving peoples lives can make up for the ones that you can't help. One thing I could say without fear of being wrong is that I would stick with it, and that every cent they invested in my training (which would be expensive) they would get paid back double in commitment and service. That's the best answer I could offer.
We talked about my family. Would my wife be ok with me leaving family functions if a call came in? We talked about logistics. Would I have the time to sit around a fire-station to be there while all the residents had somewhere else to be? We talked about all kinds of things, and most of what I can remember points towards me getting by the speech part of the interview OK. All I had to do then was dress down to my gym shorts and t-shirt and prove that I was in good enough physical condition to handle the job.
Chief Leake gave me a firm handshake and a smile as I left for the physical training area, telling me that he would make his recommendation to the executive board and that I'd be hearing about my selection status in the next couple weeks. Following the younger man again, I listened as he explained the tasks I was going to have to accomplish in order to show that I was in decent physical condition. None of them sounded too daunting, but I didn't want to get to optimistic before I'd even seen the course.
The training area was in the back of what looked like a storage warehouse. Smooth concrete floors, with big towers of shelving holding all manner of emergency gear. I didn't have time to persue them, though, as I was led to the back of the area where a single flight of stairs had been constructed in the middle of the floor, leading up to nowhere.
"Up and down 10 times in 2 minutes" where the instructions for this obstacle. I didn't think that would be a problem, but I didn't want to cut it too close either; no sense in leaving too much room for error in case I fell and needed a precious few extra seconds. I stretched a bit while the rest of the rules were being explained to me. One foot on each step, no skipping. No prizes for finishing faster than 2 minutes, and he would be calling out the time left for me at 30 second intervals. Nodding that I was ready, I stepped up to the starting line and at a word from the interviewer I powered up the stairs as fast as my legs would carry me, not knowing what kind of pace I would need to make it and trying to err conservatively on the side of finishing early. As I reached the top I spun on the ball of my foot and immediately began pseudo-falling down the stairs, just using a toe-touch on each step to slow my descent. After five repetitions of this exercise, I thought that surely the man in the room with me had forgotten his commitment to keep me informed of the time remaining. After all, I was half-way done and hadn't heard a word out of him. I was wrong.
6 steps into my sixth rep I heard the words "30 seconds" come from behind me. Inwardly I cursed. He hadn't forgotten anything, I was just being a fool as I burned out all my energy at a pace that was twice as fast as necessary. My lungs were burning a bit as I tried to slow my gait a little, but I was into such a rhythm at that point that it was more comfortable to just keep going than to try and figure out how much a 50% adjustment to speed would be. Finishing in around 1:10, I tried to slow my breathing so that it wouldn't be apparent how hard I had been working. The interviewer asked me to sit down in a chair to let my heart rate come down, and offered me a bottle of water that I gratefully accepted while trying not to seem too desperate for it.
After a couple minutes, I was given a fireman mask and told to put it on and tighten it around my head. Once it was on, I would not be allowed to remove it for the remainder of the obstacle course, which would show whether I had any amount of claustrophobia that would be problematic to working in full fire gear. Placing the mask over my face and pulling the straps tight, I tested my breath a few times to make sure I could still breathe ok. It wasn't as refreshing as open air, pulling through the filters on the front, but I'd make do. Turning away from the stairs, the young man showed me a life-size dummy that had a long strap wrapped under his armpits. Indicating some orange traffic cones set up at intervals along the concrete floor, he asked me to grab the strap and drag the dummy backwards in a figure-8 through the cones. Nothing too physically taxing, really. They dummy wasn't too heavy, and the floor was smooth with low frictional coefficients. The real problem was that the mask restricted my field of vision to the sides, somewhat, so I had trouble knowing whether or not I had come to a traffic cone or not. The exercise was not timed, but I didn't think that going super-slow would help my score any either, so I began getting into the habit of frequently turning my head from side-to-side to get a complete field of view as I moved. This sped up my progress significantly, and I brought the dummy back without incident, although I could still feel my legs burning a little from my unnecessarily speedy domination of the staircase.
The same process was then repeated with a fire-hose I had to drag over my shoulder, and a weighted ladder I had to carry. Both were uneventful, as I had now gotten comfortable with the veritable blinders on the sides of my head. The next event of significance was a test of strength. Given three scenarios: a rope over a pulley with a weight on the other side, a weighted and suspended pole that could be pulled from chin to chest, and another weighted pole to be pushed up from belly-button to chin, I was asked to perform varied number of repetitions on each. Being a rock-climber, I'm not a weakling, but I'll admit that a few weeks in an office chair will deplete your strength. I made it through, but not without making a commitment to myself that I would be visiting the gym more regularly before recruit class started. After proving that I could use a sledge hammer to forcibly enter a door, I was given the final task of demonstrating that I could crawl a short distance both on my stomach and on my hands and knees, both of which were no problem compared to the events that had transpired before hand.
And then, without much else in the way of fanfare or process, I was taken to the front desk and thanked for my time. I have no knowledge of whether this venture will prove successful, but what I can say now is that I've given it my best shot, so the rest is up to the guys at the headquarters office. Here's hoping.
Having been through a lot of job interviews in the last 3-4 years, I can tell you first hand that this was not at all the same. Walking through the front door, I felt my heart start beating a little faster and I could feel my hands trembling a bit. I was actually NERVOUS. This might not seem like a big deal to people who don't like being interviewed, but I've never really had a problem with it. I did a lot of stage work in high school, and was a music performance major in college, so I've never really had any nervousness about being up in front of people. The difference in this case, I guess, is that there was no alternative. Every job interview I've been to for my software career has been along the lines of "I know I'm good enough for this job, and even if they don't see it there are plenty of other companies who will". This was closer to "I have no experience as a firefighter, and I only get one shot at this because there aren't any other alternate volunteer districts I can join if I blow it".
I forced myself to breathe more slowly as the woman at the front desk called to the unnamed individuals in the back of the office that I would be meeting shortly, telling them that I had arrived. Did I dress correctly? Should I have cut my hair before coming in? Maybe it would have made a better first impression...
From the woman's hand signs as she smiled back at me, I could tell that I would have a few minutes to wait before the training chief could see me. "Great" I thought, "Icing the kicker". Feigning nonchalance, I stood up (trying to shake off my nerves) and started perusing the various photographs of firemen in action lining the walls of the lobby, wondering if I might spot my brother among them. No luck, though; before I could finish my search, the door to the back office opened, and a man a few years my senior asked if I was ready. Nodding my assent, I gathered my coat from where I'd been sitting and followed him back to a briefing/training room that had one man sitting behind a table who introduced himself as Chief Leake. I gave him a handshake as firm as I dared, and sat down across from him while the young man who had walked me in took a seat immediately at the Chief's right hand.
They both smiled pleasantly and opened up with the standard preliminaries: "Tell us about yourself", "where are you originally from?", "Are you prepared to work hard?" etc. The only question really worth mentioning here was the one when they asked me why I wanted to be a firefighter. Now THAT one I was prepared for.
You see, this "quest" began for me last February (almost a year ago now). I was the single witness to a bad car accident on a highway near my home. While driving home from work for lunch, a van swerved in front of me, and then off the side of the highway at around 70 MPH, down a steep ravine, over a creek, and into a patch of trees on the other side, no brake lights the whole time. I stopped my car at the side of the road, jumped out, and started scrambling down the steep hill using one hand for balance while trying to dial 911 with the other. As I reached the mangled vehicle and rounded the passenger side window, I saw something that has been burned in my memory for a while. The driver, a middle-aged woman, half-ejected from the van through the passenger window, arms and head drooping down the side of the car and blood running down her arms and dripping off her fingertips into the grass. I just stood there and stared blankly for the few minutes it took the emergency workers to arrive. Afterwards, driving home in my car, I remember wishing that I had been my younger brother in that moment; someone who had the training and the experience to know what to do for someone in a position like that. Instead I was just me, joe software developer, totally unprepared and feeling helpless in the face of a real emergency.
I don't want to feel that way ever again.
This answer seemed to be acceptable to my interviewers, and they began telling me about the commitment I'd be signing up for if I was selected for the department and decided to go forward with it. Long training hours (evenings and weekends), hard work, some disappointments (you can't save everyone, you know). Would I be able to stick with that sort of commitment? Would the benefits that come from that sort of experience outweigh the emotional costs?
Honestly, I couldn't say whether the balance would be favorable. I believe so, and from what I've seen in the lives of my brother and of my friend I could even say I have evidence of it. But I've never been there, and I won't claim knowledge of that which I haven't experienced. I've never been there with a kid who came home to find one of his parents had committed suicide. I've never seen new parents lose their infant child. I can't speak for whether the camaraderie and gratification I'd receive from being on a team like that and saving peoples lives can make up for the ones that you can't help. One thing I could say without fear of being wrong is that I would stick with it, and that every cent they invested in my training (which would be expensive) they would get paid back double in commitment and service. That's the best answer I could offer.
We talked about my family. Would my wife be ok with me leaving family functions if a call came in? We talked about logistics. Would I have the time to sit around a fire-station to be there while all the residents had somewhere else to be? We talked about all kinds of things, and most of what I can remember points towards me getting by the speech part of the interview OK. All I had to do then was dress down to my gym shorts and t-shirt and prove that I was in good enough physical condition to handle the job.
Chief Leake gave me a firm handshake and a smile as I left for the physical training area, telling me that he would make his recommendation to the executive board and that I'd be hearing about my selection status in the next couple weeks. Following the younger man again, I listened as he explained the tasks I was going to have to accomplish in order to show that I was in decent physical condition. None of them sounded too daunting, but I didn't want to get to optimistic before I'd even seen the course.
The training area was in the back of what looked like a storage warehouse. Smooth concrete floors, with big towers of shelving holding all manner of emergency gear. I didn't have time to persue them, though, as I was led to the back of the area where a single flight of stairs had been constructed in the middle of the floor, leading up to nowhere.
"Up and down 10 times in 2 minutes" where the instructions for this obstacle. I didn't think that would be a problem, but I didn't want to cut it too close either; no sense in leaving too much room for error in case I fell and needed a precious few extra seconds. I stretched a bit while the rest of the rules were being explained to me. One foot on each step, no skipping. No prizes for finishing faster than 2 minutes, and he would be calling out the time left for me at 30 second intervals. Nodding that I was ready, I stepped up to the starting line and at a word from the interviewer I powered up the stairs as fast as my legs would carry me, not knowing what kind of pace I would need to make it and trying to err conservatively on the side of finishing early. As I reached the top I spun on the ball of my foot and immediately began pseudo-falling down the stairs, just using a toe-touch on each step to slow my descent. After five repetitions of this exercise, I thought that surely the man in the room with me had forgotten his commitment to keep me informed of the time remaining. After all, I was half-way done and hadn't heard a word out of him. I was wrong.
6 steps into my sixth rep I heard the words "30 seconds" come from behind me. Inwardly I cursed. He hadn't forgotten anything, I was just being a fool as I burned out all my energy at a pace that was twice as fast as necessary. My lungs were burning a bit as I tried to slow my gait a little, but I was into such a rhythm at that point that it was more comfortable to just keep going than to try and figure out how much a 50% adjustment to speed would be. Finishing in around 1:10, I tried to slow my breathing so that it wouldn't be apparent how hard I had been working. The interviewer asked me to sit down in a chair to let my heart rate come down, and offered me a bottle of water that I gratefully accepted while trying not to seem too desperate for it.
After a couple minutes, I was given a fireman mask and told to put it on and tighten it around my head. Once it was on, I would not be allowed to remove it for the remainder of the obstacle course, which would show whether I had any amount of claustrophobia that would be problematic to working in full fire gear. Placing the mask over my face and pulling the straps tight, I tested my breath a few times to make sure I could still breathe ok. It wasn't as refreshing as open air, pulling through the filters on the front, but I'd make do. Turning away from the stairs, the young man showed me a life-size dummy that had a long strap wrapped under his armpits. Indicating some orange traffic cones set up at intervals along the concrete floor, he asked me to grab the strap and drag the dummy backwards in a figure-8 through the cones. Nothing too physically taxing, really. They dummy wasn't too heavy, and the floor was smooth with low frictional coefficients. The real problem was that the mask restricted my field of vision to the sides, somewhat, so I had trouble knowing whether or not I had come to a traffic cone or not. The exercise was not timed, but I didn't think that going super-slow would help my score any either, so I began getting into the habit of frequently turning my head from side-to-side to get a complete field of view as I moved. This sped up my progress significantly, and I brought the dummy back without incident, although I could still feel my legs burning a little from my unnecessarily speedy domination of the staircase.
The same process was then repeated with a fire-hose I had to drag over my shoulder, and a weighted ladder I had to carry. Both were uneventful, as I had now gotten comfortable with the veritable blinders on the sides of my head. The next event of significance was a test of strength. Given three scenarios: a rope over a pulley with a weight on the other side, a weighted and suspended pole that could be pulled from chin to chest, and another weighted pole to be pushed up from belly-button to chin, I was asked to perform varied number of repetitions on each. Being a rock-climber, I'm not a weakling, but I'll admit that a few weeks in an office chair will deplete your strength. I made it through, but not without making a commitment to myself that I would be visiting the gym more regularly before recruit class started. After proving that I could use a sledge hammer to forcibly enter a door, I was given the final task of demonstrating that I could crawl a short distance both on my stomach and on my hands and knees, both of which were no problem compared to the events that had transpired before hand.
And then, without much else in the way of fanfare or process, I was taken to the front desk and thanked for my time. I have no knowledge of whether this venture will prove successful, but what I can say now is that I've given it my best shot, so the rest is up to the guys at the headquarters office. Here's hoping.
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