By David Westbrook
Mayday, Mayday, Mayday! That is a phrase firefighters pray they will never need to utter in the performance of their duty. Nevertheless, firefighters have been properly trained in safety and survival and have been given the tools necessary to get the help they need if they ever find themselves in a position where they can’t help themselves.
Throughout my firefighting career, I have had countless hours of training in firefighter safety and survival. The fire department has developed entire educational programs addressing the need to help firefighters who find themselves in a position where they become trapped, disoriented, or injured and need to be rescued. We have standard operating procedures outlining when and how to call Mayday. Fire departments across the country stress the importance of calling a Mayday early rather than waiting too long and getting deeper into trouble. They say, “If you think you might be lost, disoriented, or trapped, call for the Mayday. You can always cancel it.”
We have a rapid intervention team (RIT) assigned on every structure fire. The sole job of RIT is to stand by at the scene of a structure fire with all the tools and recourses necessary to rescue a down firefighter in the event that a Mayday is called. Not only does the RIT stand by ready to respond if needed, they also proactively look at all sides of the building on fire and identify egress points and potential hazards. The RIT members preemptively place ladders beneath windows just in case conditions on the inside deteriorate and a firefighter needs to bail out. The RIT is the safety net that has been established for the firefighters who are actively engaged in fighting the fire.
The last thing in the world a firefighter wants to do is call a Mayday. Nobody goes to a job and says, “I hope I get hurt or trapped on this fire so I can call a Mayday.” That would be silly, but they do go to that fire with the knowledge, skills, and ability to know exactly what to do to get the help they need if things go sideways. Furthermore, their comrades have been given the tools needed and have been properly trained to respond immediately to help save their life.
In February 2016, I was sitting at the firehouse kitchen table when we were alerted for a dwelling fire in our first due. I was the lieutenant on Engine 15 that night; as we followed the ladder truck into the neighborhood, you could smell the smoke. We knew we had work. As we turned the corner onto the street, I could see the thick, black smoke billowing out from the rear of the house on the first and second floors. The house looked to be a newly constructed two-story house in a neighborhood of older 1½-story “Cape Cod”-style homes.
What we didn’t know was that the homeowner had recently begun remodeling the home, adding a full second floor. The original roof was taken off and the new second floor was added and completely finished on the outside. On the inside, however, the entire second floor of the home was unfinished. It was completely open except for the wood framing. There was no drywall on the wood studs and there were holes in the floor where the ductwork from the old HVAC used to run.
The fire began on the first floor in the rear laundry area and quickly spread to the second floor. My engine arrived at the same time as Engine 6 from the neighboring fire station. The crew from Engine 6 took a line to the rear of the first floor to attack the fire while my crew took a line to the second floor. I knelt at a pinch point and began feeding hose around the corner while two members of my crew advanced the hose up the stairs to the second floor. I also noticed a firefighter from the truck crew followed them up the stairs to do a search of the second floor.
As I knelt there feeding the hose around the corner, it happened: the perfect storm. There was a miscommunication over the radio, and a crew on the porch roof busted the windows out of the second floor on the front of the house before the hoseline was in place. This action rapidly drew the fire toward the fresh air on the outside of those windows and, with no interior finishing on the open framework, the second floor lit off in a flash. A ball of fire raced past me from the rear of the house on the first floor and chased the hoseline up the steps where three of my crew were now trapped. Just as the fire took off, there was a problem with the pump on the fire engine, and I felt the hose go limp in my hands. The only hope of survival from the flames for my crew trapped on the second floor was now gone.
“Mayday, Mayday, Mayday! First floor Alpha side, Lieutenant Westbrook. My crew is trapped by fire on the second floor. Bring me a line and deploy RIT!” At that very moment, feeling completely helpless, I feared the worst. I believed my crew was burning alive and there was nothing I could do other than call for help. But guess what? I called for help and help showed up. Fortunately, all three firefighters who went up those stairs were able to recognize that something bad was happening and they were able to dive down the steps and out through a first-floor window to safety, effectively saving themselves from certain death. Within seconds, everyone was accounted for, and the Mayday was cancelled.
All our training worked exactly the way it was supposed to work. The interior conditions rapidly deteriorated and, at the same time, there was a catastrophic equipment failure, putting three firefighters in severe risk of being killed. Their training kicked in. They recognized the danger and were able to save themselves. At the same time, I recognized the threat and effectively called for help. I was able to identify and communicate exactly what was wrong and where the help was needed. The RIT was in place according to how it is spelled out in our SOPs, and they were deployed immediately. Lastly, a PAR (Personnel Accountability Report) was communicated, quickly identifying that the three missing firefighters were safe and accounted for and the mayday was cancelled. Amazing!
It wasn’t too long ago when the fire service in general was a lot less organized. When I began volunteering in the early 1990s, I can remember the fireground being a sort of free-for-all. There was a lot of freelancing, and accountability wasn’t a thing. We were lucky more times than not, and there was nothing in place to save our own if we found ourselves in a bad spot. Unfortunately, a lot of firefighters had to die before the fire service as a whole decided there needed to be something in place to give firefighters a fighting chance at survival.
It took a few years, but eventually the culture was changed. It wasn’t easy either. There was a lot of pushback from some heavy hitters–legends in the fire service, if you will, speaking their mind about how there is a warning label on the inside of fire helmets that says fighting fire is an inherently dangerous job. I recall hearing things like, “If you want to be safe, become a florist.” Some of the arguments were legitimate. There is a such thing as being so safe it’s dangerous, but that’s a conversation for another time. The point here is that we as firefighters were putting ourselves in grave danger by not thinking ahead and having safety measures in place to save our own lives. We were and still are resistant to change, and it’s killing us.
Everyone knew we needed to do a better job when it came to being safe, but we were too proud, too macho. Firefighters get struck and killed by distracted and drunk drivers all the time at accident scenes. The “higher ups” decided to spend some money on reflective vests for us to be more visible. We have policies in place that require two fire engines to respond on all interstate calls to block the scene with apparatus to prevent us from being run over. But wearing a highly visible reflective vest on the interstate at the scene of a car accident didn’t look as cool as a dirty unbuttoned turnout coat, so we wouldn’t wear it (I say we because I’m guilty of some of this as well).
Take a look at cancer in the fire service. I know a handful of good firefighters who lost their lives to job-related cancer. The fire department recognized that cancer was a concern and decided to take action to reduce the risk. Even with safety measures in place, members were still working in smoky environments with a tank full of fresh air strapped to their backs only to have their masks dangling in front of them like an ornament rather than on their faces protecting them from lung cancer. Why? Pride. We don’t want to admit that what we’re doing to ourselves is damaging, and we certainly don’t need anyone helping us. “We’re firefighters. We can handle anything, and we don’t need help from anyone.” We are our own worst enemies sometimes.
Lucky for us, despite our resistance, the culture has changed. We now operate in a system where safety is second nature. We’re wearing our vests on the interstate, we’re wearing our mask in the smoke, and we’re properly trained to call a Mayday if things go wrong and we become lost, trapped, disoriented, or injured inside a burning building. We are finally okay with being safe on the fireground. We recognize that even though being assigned to the RIT means you’re probably not going to see any action on this job, your function is one of the most important on the fireground if things go south.
I called mayday back in 2016 because Ithought my crew was trapped by fire. I wasn’t 100% positive they were trapped, but I believed it was a definite possibility, so I called for help. As I mentioned before, calling for help was all I could do to help them at the time. Fortunately, they relied on their training and were able to get themselves out of a sticky situation and they didn’t need the help that I called for. Even though they didn’t need the help, the help was still there. The help was put in place ahead of time just in case they needed it.
When I called Mayday for those three firefighters, I did it instinctively. I had been trained to make that distress call early, even if there was a chance it wasn’t needed. I didn’t have to be afraid to call for help. I wasn’t too proud to call Mayday. That’s what we do if things go wrong. That’s how we get the help we need right away. It’s designed to work that way. There’s certainly no shame associated with a Mayday. Everyone on the fireground was glad I called for help. The crew who bailed out and saved themselves weren’t upset with me for calling for help on their behalf. They were thankful. At the end of the day, everyone went home, alive and well. So, what’s my point?
Mayday for myself
Fast forward a few years. I needed help. I needed to call Mayday for myself this time, but I was too afraid, too proud. In the beginning, I didn’t even realize I was in danger. I had never been trained to recognize the warning signs. Ironically, my colleagues weren’t trained either. I didn’t understand how close to death I was actually getting. By the time I called Mayday, it was almost too late. I was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), anxiety, and depression and it was about to destroy me, maybe even kill me. I didn’t have the knowledge, skills, or ability to save myself. My coworkers were never trained to pick up on the warning signs of suicide, and there really wasn’t anything solid in place within the department to handle such emergencies. It was a sort of a free-for-all, much like the fireground of the early 1990s.
As bad as it was not having a system in place to handle mental health in the fire service, the stigma that came along with asking for help was even worse. Even after realizing I was struggling with something much larger than I could handle on my own, I still refused to seek help. I was a lieutenant in a large metropolitan fire department. I was proud–too proud. I wanted people to look up to me on the job. I couldn’t let them see weakness in me. They might look down on me or make fun of me if I ask for help. There was no way I was going to admit to having a problem.
I was also dealing with a great amount of denial. I wasn’t drinking every night because I was abusing alcohol and using it as a coping mechanism. Nah, I just liked the taste and it helped me sleep. Lie! I wasn’t angry all the time and yelling at people because I didn’t know how to cope with my own feelings. They were the problem. It was their fault I was angry. Lie! I wasn’t so depressed and anxious that I was withdrawing from all the things that used to bring me happiness. I just wasn’t interested in that stuff anymore. Lie! I wasn’t constantly in trouble at work and in jeopardy of losing my job (which eventually happened) because I was acting out and violating the rules. It was that chief’s fault. He was out to get me. Lie! Are you starting to see a pattern here? I was destroying my life, and I didn’t know how to escape the pain and destruction.
I was in trouble–big trouble. I was scared and alone and I felt like nobody cared. I believed that even if I did say something, nobody would understand. I had successfully destroyed every relationship I had. My wife was done with the way I was treating her and the kids. My friends didn’t want to be around me. The people I worked with were starting to notice I was a mess. In my mind, there was only one way out: suicide. But why? How did it get that far? Why didn’t I just ask for help? If I was trapped in a fire and about to die, I would surely have called for help. What’s the difference in this situation? After all, wasn’t the danger just as real? Wasn’t the opportunity for death just as present? Pride and fear. That’s the answer. I was too macho to show weakness and ask for help and I simply had too much pride. I was so afraid to ask for help that I was willing to jump off a bridge and die instead.
Nobody ever taught me that PTSD, depression, and anxiety were things that I really needed to be concerned with in this job. I wasn’t trained to recognize the warning signs of suicide in myself, much less recognize them in someone I worked with. I wasn’t alone. None of us were trained to recognize this stuff. My department had a few members commit suicide recently and nothing was ever said about it. An e-mail would be sent out with a message saying something about the “untimely tragic death of the member,” but no further details were ever given. As far as we knew, they had a heart attack at a young age or something. I mean, there were rumors but nothing concrete that said they killed themselves. Mental health was taboo. We didn’t talk about it because we didn’t understand it. Even the chief of the department was ignorant when it came to the issues associated with mental health. This point was made perfectly clear when my employment was terminated and I was denied any further mental health treatment. That’s right, I was begging for my life and the fire chief (recognizing my mental health issues in writing and ignoring them) took it one step further, leaving me jobless with no health insurance, treatment, or access to much-needed prescription medications. That needs to change.
After a few firefighters fell through the floor into a burning basement, what happened? There were all kinds of new training classes and articles written related to identifying basement fires before committing crews to the first floor. So why aren’t we conducting training classes and writing articles on preventing suicide in the fire service after one of our own puts the barrel of a gun in his mouth and pulls the trigger? It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, does it? The culture will never change if we continue to ignore the problem.
How do we change the culture? It starts at the firehouse kitchen table. We need to talk about this stuff. There are a few people out there who are trying to erase the brotherhood/sisterhood aspect of the fire service. They’re of the belief that this is just a job. They expect us to come to work, keep to ourselves, and go home at the end of the shift, leaving work at work. They don’t want us spending time together, bonding, preparing large meals, or anything else that brings us close together. They are going as far as designing firehouses with individual bedrooms rather than the traditional dormitory style bunk room, allowing for even more isolation. That way of life simply cannot exist in the fire service. Contrary to what some of these folks say, we are very much a family. We rely heavily on one another for support whether we realize it or not.
Firefighters and paramedics regularly see and experience things in this profession that most “normal” people will never experience once in their lifetime. We are the only people in the world who can truly understand and appreciate the pain that comes along with those traumatic experiences. So, who better to talk to about how it makes you feel? Think about it. There’s no shame at all in being a little shaken up after someone hands you a dead baby. So why do we try to hide those feelings and act like it didn’t bother us? It did bother us–a lot! We’re human beings, not superheroes. That’s not a normal thing to experience. Furthermore, if it bothered you, you can bet that it bothered the person sitting across from you at the firehouse kitchen table. That, if for no other reason, is why the fire department will forever be a family. We need each other. More importantly, we need to be ready to help a brother or sister who is struggling. I wasn’t afforded that luxury, but it is my mission to make sure no one else has to go through what my department put me through.
I don’t pretend to have all the answers when it comes to mental health. I can only tell you what I’ve experienced. There are plenty of people out there with a bunch of letters behind their name who can really help you dig in and get to the root of what is bothering you, but it all starts in the firehouse. We are the experts when it comes to us. We know each other better than anyone else. We sit around the firehouse kitchen table and open up about things we don’t even discuss with our spouses. Why should our mental well-being be any different?
You wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to the firefighters sitting across from you, just like they don’t want anything bad to happen to you. If you’re in trouble, if you’re struggling with anxiety, depression, or thoughts of suicide, say something. Call Mayday for your mind. If you notice a change in the behavior of someone you work with, don’t be afraid to ask questions. They may need you to call that Mayday on their behalf. We’re all in this together, and together we can change the culture.
BIO:
David Westbrook is the author of Ashes Ashes We All Fall Down: A Firefighter’s Memoir and a former Baltimore County (MD) Fire Department lieutenant with more than 20 years of experience. Diagnosed with job-related PTSD, anxiety, and depression, he is an advocate for mental health treatment within the fire service, focused on erasing the stigma associated with seeking help for mental illness.
