It was my fourth year as a firefighter and I was holding the intestines of a six year old in my hands. We had been dispatched to a motor vehicle collision in a Walmart parking lot and there weren’t many hints in the call notes on what we had been dispatched to; but it became apparent that something terrible had happened as we rolled up to the scene. There were police cars everywhere with their flood lights on, forming a massive perimeter around a tangled shape on the ground. As I got out of the truck, I realized that the tangled shape was a little girl, and in that moment, all hell broke loose. Every detail came flooding in at once: her father screaming and sobbing at the perimeter, the look of horror on the officers’ faces nearest our patient, the smell of burnt rubber from the tire tracks of a car that had left the scene in a hurry, and the movement of our patients broken limbs as she tried to drag herself to safety.
I was the only paramedic in a 5 mile radius and I had no idea where to begin. Thank God for our training and my crew as we went to work on that kid, doing what we signed up (but never really expected) to do. We treated, loaded, and transported our patient to the closest pediatric hospital, and by some miracle, she made it through the night. When we got back from the hospital, we had a meeting with those involved with the call, as we do after traumatic calls. We talked about the events, were directed to some mental health resources that the organization knows of, and told to go take a shower, all while being congratulated on a job well done. Everyone dispersed and I stumbled to the shower, barely registering the water on my face as I cleaned up. We ran a couple more calls that night as per usual at my station, but I couldn’t tell you what they were.
When I woke up the next morning the firehouse was quiet, and everyone went their separate ways to pack up their gear and go home. I drove home in silence, not realizing that I hadn’t turned the radio on until I pulled into my parking space. I carried my things inside, sat on the couch, and cried for the next four hours. I was an absolute mess and I had no idea how to handle it. I’d run plenty of nasty calls over the years, but somehow this one got through in a way that none of the others had before. I was at a loss, trying to get a handle on myself and wondering what the hell was wrong with me. Thankfully, my wife was there to help me and support me in what has been the worst experience of my career in the fire service.
Speaking with others, many of the firefighters had similar experiences to mine in the days that followed. Within the week, those involved in the call were required to get in contact with a mental health professional sponsored by the department. Although it was great that the department provided us resources to contact, I realized it was hard to get a first responder friendly mental health resource, someone that was trained specifically in the trauma that we see throughout our career.
From this instance began the inspiration for Modern Firehouse, a place where first responders can build a community and have access to the resources they need for the job that they do. Modern Firehouse features easily accessible mental health resources, recipes by firefighters for a full crew, a compendium of training materials for all aspects of the job, workout programs to stay healthy on shift and off, and a built-in shop for everyone to get their side businesses up and running. I built this for us. A tool to help us continue to train hard, keep our communities safe, and go home to our families. A resource that is bigger than just one station, just one department.
Welcome to Modern Firehouse, where there is always a seat at the table for you.