DUTY: A RETROSPECTIVE

It is the eve of Christmas Eve as I sit here. The roads were TFA (Too Freaking Awful) today for me to drive the lebenty some miles in to work, so I had called off.

TDW-Mark II had commented that today would be a good day to NOT be taking road calls, and I agreed.

I remembered a Christmas at home, 2 years ago.

So, TINS©, I was lolling around the house on Christmas Day. TDW-Mark II and I were casually surfing the web. I had my handheld amateur radio on, monitoring our county’s fire dispatch. Because, well, I can.

In our county, emergency personnel are generally volunteers. The EMS is paid/full time (such as THAT pay is!), Sheriff and local PD are paid/full time (but often respond from home, off duty, so to speak), but the firefighters and rescue are volunteers, dispatched by pager. The tones dropped for a cardiac arrest, CPR in progress, in the outskirts of the county. Now my county is rural, primarily (by surface area) farmland. The ambulance was called out, as well as the County Seat Volunteer Fire Department (Hereinafter, CSFD).

I heard EMS acknowledge, and the duty fire chief as well. He (the chief) directed that the firefighters respond without him, as he was a couple of miles from the scene and would respond directly.

Dispatch then filled in the dispatch information, beyond the address. A 70-something male had collapsed. CPR was in progress. He was vomiting, and the family was clearing his mouth as best they could. A couple of minutes later (likely that seemed like days, to the folks on the scene, performing CPR on one of their family!), the fire chief called out on the scene “Chief on scene with one firefighter. Sheriff on scene. Dispatch, roll one engine for manpower.”

So, let’s “dolly back”, and consider this. With the possible exception of the deputy (who might also have responded, off duty, from home in his patrol car), all these folks were snug in their own homes, fat, dumb and happy, savoring the anniversary of The Birth of Our Saviour, as well as immersing themselves in the excitement of the children at All! The! Presents! they had received.

They carry pagers because, well, that’s what they do. More likely than not, they do not see themselves as heroic, or making sacrifices, because, after all, in most of America (hell, I suspect in most of the world), the men and women performing these jobs simply see themselves as doing what needs to be done, because they are able to do so.

And therefore, when the pager alerted them, they grabbed their coats, put on their boots, and left their warm and happy homes, heading to somebody else’s home, someplace where, as Chief Dennis Compton of Mesa, AZ Fire once described it, “We are responding to somebody’s worst day of their life”.

So, as I imagine it, the duty chief was enjoying a Christmas with his family, the tones dropped, and off he went. Before he could get out of the door, one of his sons, or maybe a son in law, (or daughter or daughter in law, here in the 21^st century) said something like, “Hey, Dad! Hold up a second! I’m taking that call with you!”

These folks voluntarily immersed themselves in another family’s tragedy. Strove to hold the line, to reverse the evident course. Went to work on Christmas.

When the firefighter came on the radio requesting the sheriff department’s (volunteer!) Victim Support Team, I could call that play. I do not know if I teared up at the family’s terror, at their loss, at the fact that forever more Christmas would not hold happy childhood memories, but, rather, would be “the day grandpa died”, or if I teared up thinking of the folks who, simply “doing their jobs”, had left their warm homes in response to some stranger’s plea for help.

But, I wept.

Please, give a thought to those who respond to those calls, today and every day of the year, all over the world.

And offer a prayer on behalf of those they go to rescue.

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WHY?

TDW-Mark II and I are amateur radio operators. A couple of weeks ago, we heard one of our small town’s EMS units dispatched to a “woman fell and injured her face” call.

We listen to Fire/EMS dispatch, because it provides an insight into the events of our town, and perhaps distant early warning of spicy times.

In any event, the crew called on the scene, and, very (VERY!) shortly later, got back on the radio, requesting police.

Dispatch inquired, “On the double?”, and the medic replied, “Yes, on the double”.

They next called for another ambulance, and the fire department for manpower. Soon, we heard fire crews negotiating an entry, and one of the medic units transporting one to The Local Trauma Center, as a priority.

That assemblage of folks, all volunteers except the police (the medics get paid so little, that they might as well be volunteers!) led me to contemplate Duty, and the mindset of those who run toward the sound of trouble.

May I present a rerun? Here is the original post from 2019, and a link to the website entry that inspired me.

http://counterjockey.blogspot.com/2019/09/weapons-wednesday-service-smiths.html#comment-form

Why do MEN (and, nowadays, more and frequently, WOMEN) willingly go in harm’s way?

Why do folks bunker up, suit up, gun up, whatever, and run toward the sounds of trouble?

Counter Jockey has gunned up, and sought out the source of those sounds. As have thousands and thousands of others.

Yesterday was The Eleventh of September in the Year of Our lord 2019. Eighteen years ago,  343 members of the FDNY died, doing their duty. 60 police officers lost their lives. 8 EMS personnel died, not employees of the City of New York.

They died attempting to save some of the 2977 people who would wind up dying that day.

“Duty” is the simple answer, and we all are, or ought to be, thankful for our neighbors who see their duty, accept their duty, and pursue their duty.

But what makes someone see such a thing as “My duty”?

What makes someone say, “So help me God.” ? Those who have so sworn, know. Someone has to stare down predators, and say, in effect, “You stop, right here, right now.” Someone has to stand, and hold that line. Otherwise, the dependents behind those stalwarts will lie vulnerable to the heartless. And, those who have selected Duty, will not allow that.

343 members of the FDNY died, that beautiful autumn day, doing their duty. What sort of folks run into a burning building, a building which had already been sized up be one of their own with the prediction, “Some of us are gonna die, today”?

Read the “Never Yet Melted” blog, about Rick Rescorla. Brit born, naturalized US citizen, Director of Security at Dean Witter/Morgan Stanley (https://neveryetmelted.com/2019/09/11/colonel-cyril-richard-rick-rescorla-may-27-1939-september-11-2001-3/) He is credited with saving 2794 of the 3000 employees working that day. He, his deputy, and three other of his security staff were among the exceptions.

So, here’s what I leave you all with. Look for your duty. Do your duty. try not to flinch, try not to step back. Because, you, and I, all of us, are standing in the shadows of Great People. Imagine, if you will, that they are cheering us on, looking over our shoulders, and expecting that we will not falter. Because, they have left us a legacy of honor, of Duty, of doing their jobs, that make it possible for all of us to be here, today, to have the opportunities that we enjoy. Let us not let them down.

Regarding that day an entire generation ago, let us tell of the Heroes who raced into a building, knowing it was to collapse. Let us tell our children of the Heroes, civilians all, who sacrificed their own lives, that others would not die at the hands of the heartless. Let us tell each other of the Heroes who dwell among us, unknown to us, perhaps unknown to themselves, who will rise up to the demands they face, and risk all to save another. Let us measure ourselves against them, and be grateful they dwell among us. Let us hope we can measure up, should our time come. God Bless those who stand in harm’s way, on our behalf.

Another post, from another website

Bad Dancer (commenting at Gun Free Zone blog) says:

October 21, 2022 at 9:50 am

Thank you for the article and links Reltney McFee I’ve read it several times and will go through it again to make notes soon. I appreciate you sharing your experience and advice.

I’m building a few kits as Christmas presents this year. Are there any supplies you recommend added for a family that has a 1-2 year old?

Thank you for reading. Outstanding question! With regard to families that have toddlers (or infants), my first pass suggestions would sound very much like, “What did you want on your last camping trip, that you did not have?” along with, “what sort of comfort item does your child love?”

If I were to add to that, I would look to my own “Grand Kids Are Here: What Might I Need RFN?” (GKAHWMINRFN) supplies. Now, remember, I’ve been a paramedic, paramedic instructor, ED Registered Nurse, and mid level provider since Jimmeh Cahteh was the HMFIC (OK: President).

On the top of my “GKAHWMINRFN” bag is a pediatric BVM (Bag-Valve-Mask: commonly referred to as if they were all branded as Ambu Bags). You might be happy with a pediatric sized rescue breathing mask of some sort, or, easier to pack, mastery of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

Near the top would be comfort items, so as to both distract the child, as well as help the child “buy in” to the procedures to be performed. Blankets, pacifiers, stuffed animals: whatever floats the child’s boat.

Remember that children, particularly infants and toddlers, are NOT simply pint sized adults. Due to differences in body surface area, kidney function, maturity of their livers and other factors, they may metabolize medications quite differently from adults. So, just slapping some QuikClot on Little Johnnie’s wound may be a problem. OTOH, here is what I did find in a reference that I use, myself, clinically every day:

“Compared with standard sponges, the use of the kaolin-impregnated sponges in 31 infants undergoing the Norwood procedure had a significantly lower intraoperative use of blood products and lower incidence of perioperative bleeding requiring return to operating room for hemostasis (0 versus 41 percent) [44].” (source: https://www.uptodate.com/contents/overview-of-topical-hemostatic-agents-and-tissue-adhesives?search=quick%20clot&source=search_result&selectedTitle=1~150&usage_type=default&display_rank=1#H2249912903

That means, better bleeding control. THAT suggests that a kaolin-impregnated sponge (QuikClot), at least, is not inappropriate for use on bleeding in children that is not otherwise controllable by dressing, direct pressure, and (in extremis) tourniquet-ting. So, small (2×2, 3×3) dressings impregnated with QuikClot appear to be reasonable.

Splinting materials for fingers, limbs, or whatever, are going to be a challenge, both because children do not, as a rule, comprehend the entire “lay still while I splint you” thing, nor the bit about “do not wiggle about, you will work you way out of this splint, and your injured (whatever) will hurt, and be injured further.” So, however much tape or gauze you THINK that you will need, you are wrong, and will require considerably more than you guessed. Unless, of course, you have made it a habit to secure IV armboards to infants and toddlers, several times a day, for the past several years. If you have done so, and done so successfully, please tell me when/where your classes will be, and save me a seat.

Another tangent from adult IFAK/Jump Bag/Holy Fertilizer kits, and child directed emergency care, is that children will both dehydrate, as well as become hypothermic way, way more rapidly than adults, and, once they have burned through their reserves, will crash and burn, often irretrievably. The axiom is that children generally do OK with their injuries, until they don’t. And, when they don’t, they crash biggly. Adults generally slowly decline, until they die. Therefore, measures to protect a child from heat loss are important. That means blankets and knit caps in appropriate sizes. The foil “emergency blankets” are a mixed bag: they are not going to get saturated in whatever bodily fluid is present (good thing), but they are not going to trap heat in a maze of air pockets formed by a Mark 1, Mod Ø fuzzy/fleece/wool blanket. (and you will notice the difference). Select thoughtfully.

Another feature of kid injuries, particularly infants and toddlers, is that they are top heavy. Their heads are a greater proportion of their body weight than adults, and that means that their initial point of impact may be more likely to be their heads, than their hands/wrists/forearms. Therefore, when you are in the hot seat, you need to be suspicious of the possibility of a head injury, when children fall. You have learned to spine board/cervical collar/secure for transport, head (and that is often spelled N-E-C-K) injured patients, right?

Right?

Another needful skill, that you pray is never needed.

That is it for my off the cuff, just got home from work and warmed up my laptop, answer to your question.

Thank you for the stimulating inquiry. Gonna be food for more rumination!

Reltney McFee

Proud Poppa Moment

Thank you, ERJ, for the inspiration for another blog post. One of your commenters to your post about the fiscal consequences of “kicking the (payroll and benefits) can down the road”, and the implications of same for actually MAINTAINING a given level of government/police/fire/EMS services, presented the following:

“I suspect another reason for services eroding is lack of employees.
I know that many police departments have openings for lack of qualified candidates, as do many county agencies. Whether their qualification requirements are reasonable is another question. I know that some places intentionally understaff so that existing staff can easily justify overtime, occasionally to a ridiculous degree.”

This ties in, very neatly, to a conversation I had with The Darling Daughter the other weekend. She was talking to somebody with whom she works, this somebody being involved in some manner with providing EMS services. This Somebody (hereinafter referred to as “TS”) was sharing with her the difficulty of obtaining personnel to staff ambulances, in the numbers required to provide ambulances, 24/7/365/surge capacity in the event if BFD emergency.

The Darling Daughter (to be referenced as “TDD”) pointed out that she spent her childhood in the household of a medic, and noted to her correspondent that “You DO know, that McDonalds is paying more than you are, right?”

That elicited an observation about insurance company reimbursement for ambulance transport (TL:DR: meager), and the difficulties that provides in paying personnel more.

TDD noted that for mothers who might contemplate a career Fighting Disease, And Saving Lives, child care, and in particular child care after 5 pm, is AN ISSUE.

Her correspondent, TS, was reported to have metaphorically waved his hands, responding “I KNEW you were going to bring up child care!”

I agreed with TDD, noting that should a crew pick up a transfer to, say Ann Arbor at something like 3 pm, (the drive alone is on the order of 90 minutes, one way, from, oh, let’s pick a town at random: Eaton Rapids, and Sparrow Eaton Hospital. Not mentioned is unload time, as well as the drive back, restocking the rig, and tootling home.), then Our Heroine is looking at being, maybe, in the parking lot of University of Michigan Medical Center, heading home if she is fortunate, just about the time that her day care provider is beginning to blow up her phone with warnings of five-dollar-a-MINUTE late charges for EACH of her children, now that she is late.

At a pay that compares, sort of, with minimum wage.

So, hell YEAH, child care is an issue.

She (TDD) then noted to TS, that there does not appear to be any sort of career ladder for EMS. So far as she knew, it went something like

Basic EMT–>Paramedic–>Do Something Else.

She relates that this sort of issue might adversely affect retention. Which will, as a readily foreseeable follow on effect, “thin the herd” of individuals entering that pipeline. Leading to just this conversation.

Another Proud Poppa Moment!

Small Town Policing

So, once upon a time, my bad example led TDW-Mark II (The Darling Wife-Mark Two) to obtain her own concealed pistol license. She spent some time at the range with me, and eventually decided that she would carry a Springfield Armory XD pistol in 9 millimeter.

As these stories of mine develop, she was driving about our little town, and one observant police officer noted that she had a brake light out. He pulled her over to explain to her his observation.

Being a good doobie, she announced as part of her opening conversational gambit, “I am a CPL holder, and I have it here in my purse on the floor of the passenger side of the car!”

He acknowledged this tidbit, and invited her to carefully produce her license, registration, and CPL license itself.

She did so, and the officer walked back to his vehicle to run her plates and license.

He returned, and returned her cards to her. “So,” he asked, “What made you select the XD for your carry gun? My wife just took her CPL class, and is considering her own choice of pistol.”

TDW recounted her experience with my array of pistols, finding them overly large for her hands (Glock, Browning High Power), or not enough ammunition in the magazine for her preference (Revolver, Colt Government Model). “When I picked up the XD in the gunshop, it felt just right in my hand, and when I shot it, I did pretty good with it!”

They soon concluded their conversation, and she returned home, excited about her contact. “We simply had a nice conversation about concealed carry, and women’s choices in pistols, and why this or that pistol might be more or less suitable. It was kind of nice!”

Entry number 4,385 in my Catalog Of Why I Love Small Towns.

HALLOWEEN

A long, long time ago, in a county very far away, I was an ER nurse working nights. Indeed, this was so very long ago, that The Plaintiff had not, yet, become The Plaintiff.

It so happened that one Halloween I found myself working. At that time, in that county, we had a dispatch radio in the nurses’ station. After all, in a small hospital, in a very rural county, if you have advance notice of ill tidings, well, sometimes you can gather your selves, and more effectively address the particular ill tidings that are brought to your door.

My shift started at 1900 hours, and day shift had hardly departed when the tones went off dispatching the firefighters, rescue, and sheriff’s department from a couple of townships over. The nature of the call chilled my blood: child pedestrian, pedestrian vs auto on one of the local two lane state highways.

In rural The Un Named Flyover State, traffic on our state highways commonly travels at around 60 mph. Now, KE=1/2 MV². That means that a, oh, say, 3000 pound vehicle at 60 mph runs around 361,040 foot pounds of energy. (By comparison, a 30-06 bullet runs around 3,133 foot pounds, and will kill any large game animal on the North American continent). When this strikes a, say, 80 pound child who abruptly darts out from between parked cars, well, it is catastrophic.

And, it was, indeed, catastrophic. Responding to the call, mothers, fathers, uncles, aunts, sons, daughters: the entirety of the emergency response apparatus in that corner of our county: hell, from couple of surrounding counties, as well: responded, praying, hoping, that somehow they could mitigate this disaster.

It seemed as though the medics spent seconds on the scene. It likely seemed like hours to the horrified family. One second, this child was running along, gleeful and excited at Halloween, eagerly anticipating All! The Candy! that would soon be spread out on the living room floor, and a second later, he was unconscious, broken, in the road.

The county and State Police ran interference, shutting down the expressway to speed the ambulance along it’s way. Our local city cops closed the cross streets, and the medics screamed into our parking lot, where we waited, alerted by the phone call from dispatch.

There were an amazing number of personnel in and about our ER that night. Every floor in the hospital detailed someone to either help, or stand by to see how they could help. The lab was there, cardiopulmonary, and that is not to mention the firefighters from our town, and our cops, in the parking lot, waiting to see if they, too, could help.

The ER doc was not about to half step, and employed every tool at his disposal. But, sometimes Death wins, and we can do nothing to forestall His victory.

We nurses cleaned the child up as best we could, tucking him in with clean linens, and a clean fresh gown. We tried our best to make him appear simply asleep.

The family came into the resuscitation room, and wailed their grief. In that setting, there is really nothing that you can do, nothing of any substance. We stood by, silent witnesses to their heartbreak.

Eventually, they had wept themselves dry. Neighbors assisted the parents from the room, to drive them back home. Later, they would have to plan his funeral, put away his toys, clothing, and things, and come to terms with the forever loss of their little boy.

Halloween would never ever be the same for that family.

A couple of hours later, TDW-Mark I (subsequently The Plaintiff) stopped by. She had taken our two kids then aged 6 and 3, Trick-or-Treating, and they were so darned cute, it finished me. I swept them up into a hug, and likely puzzled them by weeping. Truth be told, I suspect that TDW was surprised, herself. Until one of my partners told her the story of earlier in the night.

Sometimes, The Pucker Could Squeeze Diamonds

So, TINS, TIWFDASL at an urgent care out in Flyover Country. It was a typical afternoon, featuring a parade of sniffles, coughs, and poison ivy. Our clinic was on the south side of the road, east of Middling Sized City, and the Big Time Big Deal Hospital And Trauma Center. In other words, to get the the BTBDHATC, one would exit our driveway, and turn west (that is, LEFT!)

Abruptly, the registrar summoned me. My MA and I walked over, to behold a limp toddler. Very Not Good!

The MA escorted the male carrying the child to an exam room, and began to collect vitals. I examined the child, discovering a heartbeat (Crom be Praised!) and spontaneous respirations. The registrar collected demographic information, and I asked the adult what had happened, prior to arrival.

“Well, he started shaking, and then he stopped. He just wouldn’t wake up, so I brought him here.”

Well, the “wouldn’t wake up” part was still descriptive of the child, and I noted that I would have to call an ambulance immediately, because this could have several causes, none of them good. Indeed, “floppy child” is right up there in my Triage Catalogue Of Very Bad Things.

The adult male paused at this. “I don’t want to send him by ambulance. I’ll take him myself!”

I was surprised. I noted, “So, you *DO* realize that several of the things that caused this, could reappear, and he could stop breathing or his heart could stop. EMS is trained and equipped to deal with those things, should they occur. You, while driving, are not, right?”

He persisted. “I’ll drive him myself”.

We directed him to go there immediately, with no delay nor detour. We explicitly directed him to exit our driveway, TURN FREAKING LEFT (that is, west), and not stop until at the ED.

He stated that he understood, and would do so.

He scooped the child up, and exited the building. I sat down to chart, as well as call BTBDHATC, in order to provide them with forewarning of the sick, sick, sick child coming their way. That is, until my registrar called me, excitedly, to report that this sunovabitch had turned EAST! (exactly away from the hospital) upon exiting our driveway.

WTAF!

I had the clerk print a face sheet, and called emergency dispatch. I related the above information to dispatch, along with my concern that a critically ill child was *NOT* being taken to the ED. I provided the street address we had received, as well as the contact information.

I next called the child protective services emergency number, to report the above. I was assigned a report number, which I charted, and my own name and contact information was taken.

Several hours later I received a telephone call, from a gentleman asserting he was from CPS. I asked him to confirm the report number, the child’s date of birth, name and address of our record. He did confirm all these details.

He queried me about the particulars of the child’s presentation. I supplied the requested information. I asked how the child was. The worker paused, and said, “Well, I am not allowed to provide information regarding an ongoing investigation, particularly one where the child in question has been hospitalized. I’m sorry. “

My response? “Yeah, it’s too bad you couldn’t tell me if the child had been hospitalized or anything. I understand. Thank you.”

Two More Tales

Once upon a time, Da City was “The Arsenal of Democracy”, heavily industrialized, and a place where a reasonably hard working high school graduate could graduate, and, within a year, have a solidly middle class lifestyle working in a factory. One auto company had established an industrial complex just outside Da City, and on an island in this complex, had established forges, stamping plants, and coking ovens. Even across the river, the smell had to be experienced to be believed.

I worked with one guy, back on EMS, who had worked, pre-fire department, for one of the private ambulance services. They had caught a run for some emergency or another on this island, and, this being the days of 24 hour shifts, my friend fell asleep, letting his partner, who was driving, take care of things.

He related, “I was awakened when the ambulance stopped. I looked out, at the gas flaring off, and the chemical smell of sulfur heavy in the air. The area aroiund us looked like a hellish war torn moonscape, and I thought, “Oh my f@@king Ghawd! He’s wrecked the ambulance, I’ve died, and this is Hell!”

Another story, from a slightly later time, had me working with Doug and Rob, at a house in the far western area of Da City. We were dispatched to an assault, and met the cops on the scene. Upon entering the house, a gentleman (looking to be something like 6 feet and some change tall, probably running probably 220 pounds) reported that the woman of the house, who, herself, looked to be like 5 feet 2 inches, maybe 120 pounds, had assaulted him, striking him with her fists. He reported that he needed to be “checked out” due to his (non evident) injuries. She interjected that she had not assaulted him, he had, rather, assaulted her (and inflicting no perceptible injury in that process). He responded, loudly, and it was on. The Great West Side Debating Society Quarterly Meeting began.

While “the adults” were yelling etc, I noticed, in corner of the next room a perhaps 5-7 yo little girl, crouched in corner, mouth open, fists clenched as in a silent scream. While cops refereed “the adults”, I crouched down in front of child, attempting to verbally soothe her. One female officer noticed, and came over. I introduced the officer to the child, “This is my friend, Officer Evans. She would like to talk to you for a while. Is that OK? She, and the rest of her friends will keep you safe.”

We disengaged, everybody signed no transport forms, we went in service. As Rob finished the trip sheets, he paused, and commented, “You know, I think we may have just witnessed a watershed moment in that little girl’s life.”

Bastard. I fear that he was right.

Duty.

Occasionally, I am humbled. Sometimes, I am moved to tears.

So, TINS©, I was lolling around the house on Christmas Day. TDW-Mark II and I were casually surfing the web. I had my handheld amateur radio on, monitoring our county’s fire dispatch. Because, well, I can.

In our county, emergency personnel are generally volunteers. The EMS is paid/full time, Sheriff and local PD are paid/full time, but the firefighters and rescue are volunteers, dispatched by pager. The tones dropped for a cardiac arrest, CPR in progress, in the outskirts of the county. Now my county is rural, primarily (by surface area) farmland. The ambulance was called out, as well as the County Seat Fire Department (Hereinafter, CSFD).

I heard EMS acknowledge, and the duty fire chief as well. He (the chief) directed that the firefighters respond without him, as he was a couple of miles from the scene and would respond directly.

Dispatch then filled in the dispatch information, beyond the address. A 70-something male had collapsed. CPR was in progress. He was vomiting, and the family was clearing his mouth as best they could. A couple of minutes later (likely that seemed like days, to the folks on the scene, performing CPR on one of their family!), the fire chief called out on the scene “Chief on scene with one firefighter. Sheriff on scene. Dispatch, roll one engine for manpower.”

So, let’s “dolly back”, and consider this. With the possible exception of the deputy (who might have responded, off duty, from home in his patrol car), all these folks were snug in their own homes, fat, dumb and happy, savoring the anniversary of The Birth of Our Saviour, as well as immersing themselves in the excitement of the children at All! The! Presents! they had received.

They carry pagers because, well, that’s what they do. More likely than not, they do not see themselves as heroic, or making sacrifices, because, after all, in most of America (hell, I suspect in most of the world), the men and women performing these jobs simply see themselves as doing what needs to be done, because they are able to do so.

And therefore, when the pager alerted them, they grabbed their coats, put on their boots, and left their warm and happy homes, heading to somebody else’s home, someplace where, as Chief Dennis Compton of Mesa, AZ Fire once described it, “We are responding to somebody’s worst day of their life”.

So, as I imagine it, the duty chief was enjoying a Christmas with his family, the tones dropped, and off he went. Before he could get out of the door, one of his sons, or maybe a son in law, (or daughter or daughter in law, here in the 21^st century) said something like, “Hey, Dad! Hold up a second! I’m taking that call with you!”

These folks voluntarily immersed themselves in another family’s tragedy. Strove to hold the line, to reverse the evident course. Went to work on Christmas.

When the firefighter came on the radio requesting the sheriff department’s (volunteer!) Victim Support Team, I could call that play. I do not know if I teared up at the family’s terror, at their loss, at the fact that forever more Christmas would not hold happy childhood memories, but, rather, would be “the day grandpa died”, or if I teared up thinking of the folks who, simply “doing their jobs”, had left their warm homes in response to some stranger’s plea for help.

But, I wept.

Please, give a thought to those who respond to those calls, today and every day of the year, all over the world.

And offer a prayer on behalf of those they go to rescue.

An Additional Thought on 9/11

Sometimes, in my web wanderings, I come across a page, a video, that reflects that the author GETS IT.

This fellow, whose page, The History Guy, often reflects occasions of valor, of courage, of dedication to duty, gives me every indication that he, himself GETS IT.

Today, 13 September, he reprised an episode from 11 September 2019, with a new introduction. I guess my allergies were acting up, because I wept.

He devoted something like two full minutes scrolling the name of every FDNY member who died doing their duty, that clear, sunny September day.

Say their names. Know their sacrifice. Honor their memories.