I Wish You Could
I wish you could see the sadness of a business man as his livelihood goes up in flames or that family returning home, only to find their house and belongings damaged or destroyed.
I wish you could know what it is to search a burning bedroom for trapped children, flames rolling above your head, your palms and knees burning as you crawl, the floor sagging under your weight as the kitchen beneath you burns.
I wish you could comprehend a wife's horror at 3 A.M. as I check her husband of forty years for a pulse and find none. I start CPR anyway, hoping against hope to bring him back, knowing intuitively it is too late. But wanting his wife and family to know everything possible was done.
I wish you could know the unique smell of burning insulation, the taste of soot-filled mucus, the feeling of intense heat through your turnout gear, the sound of flames crackling, and the eeriness of being able to see absolutely nothing in dense smoke--"sensations that I have becomed too familiar with."
I wish you could understand how it feels to go to school in the morning after having spent most of the night, hot and soaking wet at a multiple alarm fire.
I wish you could read my mind as I respond to a building fire, `Is this a false alarm or a working, breathing fire? How is the building constructed? What hazards await me? Is anyone trapped?' or to an EMS call, `What is wrong with the patient? Is it minor or life-threatening? Is the caller really in distress or is he waiting for us with a 2x4 or a gun?'
I wish you could be in the emergency room as the doctor pronounces dead the beautiful little five-year old girl that I have been trying to save during the past twenty-five minutes, who will never go on her first date or say the words, "I love you Mommy!", again.
I wish you could know the frustration I feel in the cab of the engine, the driver with his foot pressing down hard on the pedal, my arm tugging again and again at the air horn chain, as you fail to yield right-of-way at an intersection or in traffic. When you need us, however, your first comment upon our arrival will be, "It took you forever to get here!"
I wish you could read my thoughts as I help extricate a girl of teenage years from the mangled remains of her automobile, `What if this were my sister, my girlfriend, or a friend? What were her parents' reactions going to be as they open the door to find a police officer, HAT IN HAND?'
I wish you could know how it feels to walk in the back door and greet my parents and family, not having the heart to tell them that you nearly did not come home from this last call.
I wish you could feel my hurt as people verbally, and sometimes physically, abuse us or belittle what I do, or as they express their attitudes of, "It will never happen to me."
I wish you could realize the physical, emotional, and mental drain of missed meals, lost sleep and forgone social activities, in addition to all the tragedy my eyes have viewed.
I wish you could know the brotherhood and self-satisfaction of helping save a life or preserving someone's property, of being there in times of crisis, or creating order from total CHAOS.
I wish you could understand what it feels like to have a little boy tugging on your arm and asking, "Is my mommy o.k.?" Not even being able to look in his eyes without tears falling from your own and not knowing what to say. Or to have hold back a long-time friend who watches his buddy having rescue breathing done on him as they take him away in the ambulance. You knowing all along he did not have his seat belt on--sensations that I have become too familiar.
Unless you have lived this kind of life, you will never truly understand or appreciate who I am, what we are, or what our job really means to us.
I WISH YOU COULD!
When I am called to duty, God
Whenever flames may rage,
Give me the strength to save some life
Whatever be its age,
Help me embrace a little child
Before its too late
Or save an older person from
The horror of that fate
Enable me to be alert and
Hear the weakest shout
And quickly and efficiently
To put the fire out
I want to fill my calling and
To give the best in me,
To guard my every neighbor and
Protect his property
And if according to my fate
I am to lose my life,
Please bless with your protecting hand
My children and my wife.
This is dedicated to my wife. Without her love and support I would not be able to be a Volunteer Firefighter.
The table's set, the meal's prepared, our guests will soon arrive. My husband once more disappears with a hope of keeping a child alive. While waiting at home again alone, our plans having gone awry. My first impulse is merely to sit down and cry. But soon again I realize the importance of my life when I agreed to take on the duties of being a fireman's wife. While there are many drawbacks, I'll take them in my stride The gusting winds and raging flames may be his final fate, But with God's help I can remain my fireman's faithful mate.
Battling The Beast
Wearing blue coveralls, they sit
sometimes for days, laughing,
for one sound, a siren
that transforms them.
They abandon their armchairs for overcoats
of canvas and for rubber boots,
their armor heavy and hot.
Instead of trading jokes they relay
directions, and orders, and shout
reports of the status of the enemy--
"FLAMES ARE VISIBLE"
Fear and excitement grip the hearts
of the freshest rookie to the oldest veteran
as they jump into their steel Trojan horses
perfect from polishing,
washing, checking over and over--
they pray that they have made no mistakes.
The driver navigates
the craft through the city streets
he knows as well as his family,
dodging when possible those
that get in the way, hoping those
he can't avoid will see him first,
the spot the enemy from blocks away--
the phoenix rises far above the trees,
licking the sky.
They arrive at the scene, and again
the battle cry is heard--
"FLAMES ARE VISIBLE"
Smoke fills tha air and their lungs
as they approach, hoses snaking,
crisscrossing, coming to life
as they surge with water
from yellow and red hydrants
that suddenly become grotesque
heads of Medusa.
They kick open the doors, rubber
from their boots leaving a print
melted by the heat, and trickling
over bubling paint.
Orange liquid flames roll
through the building, slithering
up and over the walls, breathing
in and out with each puff of air.
With swords of water they charge
and the war begins.
They battle--nine or ten against one--
seemingly great odss.
But the nine soldiers will win,
emerging from the battlefield victorious
as they always do, and eventually,
they'll retire to their armchairs,
thanking God that this time nobody
was hit by the enemy fire...
Back To Vernon Fire Rescue Dept.