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Since my night shifts on the
squad run from 7 PM to 7 AM, five o'clock in the morning is about the
worst time in the world to get a call. If we haven't managed to get much
sleep, five is when we need it most. Instead, we find ourselves limping
back to the station at around 6 AM, which is not enough time to bother
trying to sleep again, and just enough time to get bored watching the
atrocious early-morning television shows. Lots of chirpy anchor-gab interspersed
with lingering grainy video from traffic cameras on the beltway. It's
enough to make me wish someone else would call an ambulance out there
just to give me something to do. I'm not asking for anything too drastic
-- maybe just a little dizziness or sprained ankle.
It's hard for me to keep in
mind that when I look forward to an interesting shift, I'm basically hoping
that someone out there with suffer some sort of catastrophic event. In
EMS, building an enormous wall between those two realities is an effective
and common coping mechanism. A barrier of some sort may be necessary,
but I am trying to keep mine relatively low to the ground. I at least
want to be able to see over it.
On Saturday, I'm attending
a long training on protective equipment, so I picked up a compete set
of fire turnout gear from the squad. Gotta love the lure of gear. I bet
millions of people have done a variety of incredibly stupid things --
go to war, for example, or attempt long sea voyages in small wooden ships
-- simply because it afforded them the opportunity to play with interesting
gear.
Now it's all lying around
in the living room, from boots to helmet. I still feel a little ridiculous
donning the complete outfit, like I'm getting ready for a costume party
instead of a hostile environment. Suited up, I look like an action figure,
the hero of children everywhere. Then I take a step. Suddenly, I more
closely resemble the Pillsbury dough boy. But I have heat-resistance
that the dough boy only dreams about, and I don't giggle when someone
pokes me in the stomach. I head-butt them with my bright red helmet.
Incidentally, the bunker
pants really are held up with red suspenders, just like that old joke
says.
To pass one stage of the
training, I must get into my turnout gear within 60 seconds. You would
have to have some trouble distinguishing between your arms and legs
for this to pose a serious problem. My idea is to go out drinking the
night before the training, come home smashed and time myself. If I can
struggle my way into the gear then, I should have little trouble when
sober.
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