We lay in bed in the late afternoon. I was in my uniform, as I always seem to be these days, and Susan was in her gym togs. We were having our customary little moment before I headed off to the rescue squad for the fourth straight night.

I'm in the uniform so often now that my wallet and keys permanently live in the pockets of my tough blue pants. It's like my life resides in those clothes, smelling faintly of fuel and latex gloves.

This condition, in which I spend most of my non-work time at the squad, is temporary -- when I get all my pre-aid reports and pass my aidperson test things will ease up a bit. Unfortunately, things won't stay placid for very long after that.

Just outside the training room at the rescue squad is a bulletin board where they post the latest classes at the county fire and rescue academy. I've been keeping an eye on the board, anticipating that someday soon they'll open registration for the fall Essentials of Firefighting class, and we'll reach the point of having to replace the idle talk and halk-joking threats with a genuine decision.

Susan dislikes the idea of me becoming a firefighter. I point out that my rescue squad is not a firefighting outfit -- we carry no hoses on our units. Instead, we are generally responsible for search and rescue, which can involve going into a burning structure ahead of the fire-suppression folks. My case is weakened substantially by the likelihood that this is at least as dangerous as firefighting. The six firefighters lost in the recent blaze in Worcester, Massachusetts were performing search and rescue.

At the corner store, we pass a magazine stand and see that Esquire has a front page article about the Worcester fire. I have to buy it, and end up staying up late absorbed in the devastating article.

On my last night crew, I walked past the board and saw the decision, printed out on red paper, class dates and a deadline for application. So now we are talking about this in bed. Why is this so important that I will do it despite the discomfort it causes the people who matter most to me? I have little ability to explain it. And I have no idea what I'll do if Susan says that she absolutely, adamantly will not support me in this. But she doesn't say that, and we work out a compromise between our desires, one that will allow me to be a part of the heavy rescue gig but eventually get me back to the potentially safer world of the Paramedic.

Today I'll go in for a few hours to try to pick up some more pre-aid reports. Between riding the ambulances wherever they may take me, I'll spend a moment to fill out a little carbon-paper slip and apply for the class. There's a little mail slot in the front dispatch office where class applications go -- and like a real mailbox, once they go in there, they're gone.

(I tell myself that. In fact I could back down at any time and lose nothing more than face. But it's a convenient way of telling myself that I need make this decision only once, when in fact, like most decisions, it is made and remade every day you live the results.)

And my grandmother died yesterday. No matter what you do, people keep going away.