Ready at a moment's notice

A RECENT FRIDAY, 7:15 A.M.

John McDonnell inspects a pan of Southern-style potatoes on the gas stovetop. “They're ready,” he announces.

Drew Gerken closes in and starts his plate with a heaping spoonful of the golden cubes.

Meanwhile, Jerry Hall — designated cook for this meal — flips two fried eggs in a black skillet and smiles. “OK, let's eat.”

As if three men weren't a crowd in this 3-foot-wide galley, rookie firefighter Matt Fadell, “The Candidate,” is stuck at the far end doing dishes.

“The rookie pretty much is our slave,” McDonnell quips. “But we've all had our turn in the barrel.”

* * *

The other six firefighters working the C Shift at Station 34 filter into the galley. Adjoining it is a well-worn open area with a couple of hardwood tables and mismatched benches, four refrigerators (one for each shift and one for the house), a low-watt microwave, three recliners, a couch, a large-screen TV and a vendor-style popcorn machine (a gift from a doting neighbor in her 90s).

The fire and rescue scanner chatters in the background as well-conditioned arms reach into familiar cupboards and drawers for plates and utensils.

“Food is very important here,” Gerken says, poking fun at firefighter portions. “Pigging out is mandatory.”

Plates are piled so high, outsiders often exclaim, “Oh, wow!”

The speed of eating is even more mind-boggling. It's a good day if you can clean your plate before the next alarm comes in.

“Lunch is anywhere between 10 and 2,” says Capt. Jeff Lampe, the shift boss. “It just depends on the calls we get.”

McDonnell and Gerken, breakfast plates clean, already are on to the midday menu: Homemade enchiladas, nachos with cheese and olives, homemade salsa, and carrots and celery with Drew's Creamy Ranch Dressing.

The firefighters have a saying: “If you like lunch, you're going to love supper.” That's because it's usually leftovers.

* * *

8:02 A.M.

Before we get too far into the morning, my photographer-husband and I want to know the drill when the alarm sounds.

Lampe assigns us to Medic 34 with firefighter paramedics Brian Mead and Todd Callanan.

Mead and Callanan ride up front. We ride in “the box,” seat belts fastened.

We trace the steps from the kitchen to the apparatus and practice opening the door. We determine who will sit where, exchange nervous nods and return to the kitchen.

Most of the men are hanging out here, so we lob a series of lighthearted questions. Favorite TV shows (reality), best places for burgers and barbecue (Station 34). When ice cream comes up, we learn that firefighter Andy Goodwin loves the stuff. Wisecracking ensues, then stops abruptly as ears capture the incoming alarm.

It's 8:15 a.m.

I pick out “attempted suicide.”

We grab our reporting gear and make a mad dash to Medic 34. We're in but only reaching for our seatbelts as the unit leaves the garage.

The ride in the 10-year-old truck is bone-jarring and nerve-racking as we watch motorist after motorist dart in front of us. Appalled, we call them “morons” and “idiots” for failing to move to the right side of the road or yield to our lights and sirens at intersections.

“We have to assume that nobody sees us,” Mead says later when we ask about the terror. “We have to look each motorist in the eye before proceeding through an intersection. We stop at every stop sign and stoplight. That's the rule.”

* * *

8:18 A.M.

We're on the scene with Truck 34, along with a police squad car. We steel ourselves for the “attempted suicide,” then relax our guard. How bad could it be? We're at the Douglas County Health Center.

A staffer leads us down a white, U-shaped corridor, to a clinic area and a passive middle-aged man sitting in a chair, back toward us, across from a staffer's desk.

Mead, the designated “interviewer” for this run, assesses the situation with a series of questions for patient and staff.

Two responders inspect the man's lacerations while another prepares the gurney.

As the firefighters transfer the patient, a clinic official notices Medic 34's “tag-alongs.” She asks who we are and what we are doing and then shoos us out “for patient confidentiality” reasons.

Inside Medic 34, our patient meekly asks Mead, “I'm not going to go to jail, am I?”

“No,” Mead tells him, and continues his assessment for the ER handoff at the Nebraska Medical Center.

“Where do you live?”

Pretty much on the streets. And at the mission.

“The Open Door Mission?”

Yes.

“Are you taking any meds?”

No.

“Are you supposed to be taking any?”

Yes, but I don't have any.

“Are you depressed?”

Yes.

“How long have you been feeling this way?”

A few days.

Mead reaches for the man's duffle bag. “Do you have any weapons in here?”

No.

“OK, but the police are going to go through your stuff because they don't want you to have anything that you could hurt yourself with. OK?”

OK.

Leaving the ER, Mead tells us, “He's been living on the streets and feeling like too many things are going wrong in his life. His injuries were a cry for help.”

* * *

8:47 A.M.

Gerken, McDonnell and a few others are in the kitchen, watching a cooking demonstration on the “Today” show. Gerken looks at the prepared dish and quips, “Barbecue Surprise. Now, that should be called Attempted Suicide.”

Mead apologizes, then explains. It's firefighter humor. It's how they cope.

Assistant Fire Chief Dan Stolinski, who hooked us up with Station 34's C Shift, said the same thing a few days earlier. “You have to make light of situations. If you don't, you'll be torn up inside.”

* * *

9 A.M.

An order comes over the PA system: “All hands to the kitchen.”

Time for school: An hour-long refresher on trench collapses led by Mead, a hazmat specialist. Lampe shares a personal account of a trench response gone bad — before the department had standardized response procedures. The incident involved an 18-year-old worker who fell into a trench when the edge collapsed. Two firefighters were injured when they became trapped in a second cave-in that covered the victim.

“Trench collapse is one of the most dangerous calls we respond to,” Lampe says. “We can't just rush in and help, which is our instinct.”

There's a reflective pause and, then, a medic run brings the day's school to a close.

* * *

10:35 A.M.

Medic 34 is dispatched to a modest split-level home in a tidy neighborhood lined with mature trees and curbside mailboxes on wooden posts.

Engine 33, which doesn't have a medic unit, arrives at the same time.

Inside the home, they find a 77-year-old man, weak but standing. Complaints of “chest pains and difficulty breathing” prompted the 911 call by someone else in the home.

The paramedics start an IV and oxygen and hook up 12 leads for an EKG transmission directly to the ER at Bergan Mercy, the patient's hospital of choice.

The readings don't suggest heart distress. Callanan's assessment: Generalized weakness and shortness of breath, possibly from dialysis earlier that day.

The doors close on Medic 34, and Engine 33 immediately rolls on to a fire call.

In the ER, the attending nurse recognizes our patient. He coded on her shift a week earlier.

* * *

12:15 P.M.

A gritty plush piggy with a sing-song oink announces lunch over the intercom.

McDonnell, C Shift's chief cook, stands in the galley, apologizing for the meal. “If I had known you were coming,” he tells his guests, “I would have made something better.”

Who is he kidding? It's hard to beat enchiladas made from scratch.

McDonnell takes charge of menu planning and grocery shopping.

Occasionally, a checkout clerk will make a wisecrack about firefighters eating well off taxpayer dollars. They don't. They eat off their own dollar. C Shift contributes $10 per day per shift for meals.

“Hopefully, you can find some good buys on groceries,” McDonnell says.

House dues of $120 a month per firefighter pay for cable television, telephone, newspaper, paper products and other general household supplies.

***

12:50 P.M.

Medic 34 and Engine 33 are called to a private home.

A 72-year-old woman visiting her sister from Texas has passed out on the bathroom floor.

As the firefighters move her from the cramped space onto the gurney in the middle of the living room, the paramedics gather her vitals. Slow heart rate, low blood pressure.

They learn the patient felt dizzy, so her husband gave her two nitroglycerine tablets.

“That didn't help the situation,” Callanan notes. Nitro is for chest pain, which the patient didn't report. This time, the EKG readings are fed to the ER at the Med Center down the street.

The patient, alert but still, is encouraged by her sister to open her eyes. “You'll feel better, dear. There's lots of handsome guys around you.”

As we exit the house, the chatty sister calls out, “I just love these guys. They're so nice ... just like the Cox repairmen.”

***

1:58 P.M.

“All hands to the kitchen” for a routine briefing from Batallion Chief Chris Greger. He shares information about Firefighter & Police Appreciation Day and requests that firefighters be current on their 127s — reports on equipment needing repairs.

The briefing ends and Medic 34 is out the door.

* * *

2:05 p.m.

We meet up with Engine 30 at Select Specialty Hospital, where a 48-year-old male patient with pelvic pain needs a transfer to the ER at adjoining Bergan Mercy.

A respiratory tech gives the paramedics as much patient information as she has, but Mead would like more. “Makes me look bad, and I don't want to look bad when I deliver a patient to the ER,” Mead tells us as we leave the area.

To lighten the moment — because we have learned how — we tell Mead about the Select Specialty staffer who asked under her breath as we passed, “Who are those two?”

Perplexed by the dispatch in general, we ask why the transfer couldn't have been handled by in-house staff. The care facilities, we are told, operate independently and, per their protocol, dispatch EMTs or paramedics for some patient transfers. Doctors' offices connected to hospitals have similar protocols. “If it's not an emergency, they usually call a private ambulance,” says Assistant Fire Chief Dan Stolinski. “This appears to be a unique situation.” Emergency or not, the fee for the medic unit's services is $800.

* * *

* * *

2:50 P.M.

Callanan takes us on a tour of the station. The garage area looks like the receiving dock of a used-furniture store.

“We furnished the place ourselves,” he deadpans. “We have 6,000 TVs — one per guy. And one really nice big screen in the kitchen for everyone. The remote control is operated by whoever has seniority in the room.”

Another good thing to know: “The captain has a certain chair. But we won't tell you which one it is. You'll find out quick enough.”

* * *

3:10 P.M.

“Seizure” at Parkside Terrace. This call takes Medic 34 and Truck 34 north of Dodge for the first time today.

Firefighters find a barely-clothed, 62-year-old man lying on the floor of his garden-level apartment. The patient is responsive but extremely weak and barely able to move. Callanan speculates that he's been down on his left side for quite some time.

While the paramedics do their assessment, the firefighters bring in a portable stretcher called the BOT (short for Big Orange Thing). All hands are needed to move the patient from his apartment, up a narrow, L-shaped stairwell to the gurney outside.

Inside Medic 34, the patient tells the responders that he did three tours of duty in Vietnam. “Thank you for your service,” Callanan replies respectfully.

“I spent a lot of time in the grass.”

“You mean they didn't put you up in a luxury hotel?” Callanan says, drawing a chuckle from the patient.

“We've picked you up before,” Lampe tells him. “Do you smoke cigarettes with your oxygen on?”

The patient laughs. “Yeah.”

An IV is started, oxygen is administered and the EKG monitor is set to transmit to Creighton University Medical Center's ER.

Callanan doesn't suspect a seizure. More likely, the patient suffered a heart incident and passed out. When he came to, he called a friend for help.

* * *

What the dispatchers relay and what the first responders find on the scene can be entirely different.

“We don't know what we're getting into when we go on a call,” Lampe says.

It takes a trained ear to decipher the address and nature of the emergency over the raspy station speaker.

We couldn't have played back one piece of information if our lives depended on it. The thing is, somebody's life does depend on it. There's no room for error.

“We all try to listen,” Mead says. And repeat what they've heard as they scramble for their trucks and calculate the most direct route.

Though rigs have mapping systems, Lampe says you can't rely on them to get you to the scene in the shortest distance or the fastest time. While a phone GPS can be useful, the best method is memorization of street grids and addresses.

* * *

5:20 P.M.

“Personal injury collision; 44th and Farnam.”

McDonnell, on the run to Engine 34, shouts to us over his shoulder, “You're not coming on this one.”

Huh?

We lost our ride. Medic 34 had to take candidate Matt Fadell to the training center.

* * *

5:40 P.M.

Engine 34 is back in the barn.

We retreat to the kitchen, where a few firefighters are starting to think about supper. The TV is tuned to local evening news.

We mention hearing of a practical joke that went awry. Something about C Shift initiating Fadell with a bucket of water followed by a bucket of flour. Gerken's aim was bad with the water. But McDonnell was spot-on with the flour. A fire call came in before Fadell had a chance to dust off.

McDonnell gets the idea to celebrate Fadell's latest passing test score with a dousing of ice water. He sets the trap via the intercom: “Matt, please bring up eight flat-iron steaks from the freezer.”

Gerken and Goodwin fill a 5-gallon bucket and position themselves in the basement stairwell. McDonnell follows, looking forward to the ambush.

They miss.

* * *

8:30 P.M.

We originally planned to spend six hours with C Shift. We extended our ride-along to 13 hours, but wish we had stayed the full 24 hours.

The night played out with an assault call, a female in labor, and two Code 4s — a suicide by hanging and a death by suspected heart attack.

This writer returned to the station twice during the set for follow-up reporting.

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