By Angela Hughes
Near miss or close call? When a firefighter is hurt during an accident in the fire service, the terms “near miss” and “close call” are often used interchangeably. Merriam-Webster defines a near miss “as an attempt that is almost successful; an accident that is just barely avoided.” A close call is defined “as an escape that was almost successful.” So what do you call that incident that changes your life, your career, your way of thinking? For me, it wasn’t a near miss or a close call; I called it an attitude adjustment.
Driving into work, I was thinking to myself, “Why did you sign up for this overtime shift? It’s a Saturday, the kids are sleeping in; there is so much to do around the house, but the extra money will be great for Christmas.’ Next, I wondered with whom I would be working on the overtime shift at the station. Some of the people assigned to that station had that old-school mentality. Plus, although no one had ever said it, I didn’t think they were crazy about women in suppression either. I told myself to think positive–it’s just one day.
I signed in; of course, my assignment as a fire specialist with 18 years is on the engine; the probationary firefighter gets assigned to the truck. Hmmm, interesting. Then, I notice another overtime firefighter is assigned to the engine with me. The other firefighter is a woman who works at a neighboring station on my shift. I think to myself, “This is going to go over well.” I don’t know the other firefighter, but the word on the street is she can handle her own. My thoughts, at the time, are that it’s going to be a good day after all.
The first thing I to do is to check my equipment. I know this shift is famous for setting the nozzle at 95 gallons per minute (gpm). As I check the nozzle setting, the engine driver is watching me. I know that he knows what I am thinking. Immediately, I hear his unwanted opinion, “If you can’t fight a fire with 95 gpm, you don’t belong doing this job.” Does he have that opinion just because I am a female? I want to say something, but he is the senior blue shirt and the last guy I want to be on the bad side of.
Next, I move the thermal imaging camera (TIC) from the back compartment and to next to the jump seat. The senior man chimes in again, “You can’t have that unsecured; it is against policy.”
“It’s just one day; it’s just one day,” I am saying under my breath. I set my gear next to my side of the engine and walk to the kitchen.
Preparation
The on-duty captain briefs us on the plan for the day. Crews will be heading out after station-hour cleaning work for a public safety day at the local mall. Almost everyone is in the kitchen, drinking coffee, reading the paper, or eating breakfast. The captain sits next to me. I think, “I hope he isn’t going to give me his famous ‘have you ever had a basement fire’ speech.” Surprisingly, he congratulates me for my score on the lieutenant’s list and offers pointers for my anticipated interview. As we were chatting, the warble tone goes off, and everyone goes running. The only things I heard were “dwelling fire” and “our first due.” Let’s roll!
My gear was moved when the driver pulled the engine out for his morning check. I stepped into my boots, put on my hood. “Where is my turnout coat?” I run to the engine. It’s on the floor. I jump in and stand up to zip up my coat. I hear the driver say, “Smoke showing.” I turn around. Yep, I see a column of black smoke. As I was putting on my self-contained breathing apparatus, I look over to the other firefighter, and said, “We got one!” I had no idea what it was other than a dwelling fire.
There were comments from the dispatcher over the radio about a chair on fire in the basement. This would have been a helpful piece of information had I been listening; but I was in the back of the engine preparing to fight fire. We are less than a mile from the station. There is not a lot of time to talk about a plan. The only thing I was thinking about was how I was going to show this shift that I, a woman firefighter, can get this done.
On Scene
We pull in front of the house, and the driver says, “I got the line.” The procedure in our department is that the driver wraps the hydrant. I look over; instead, the driver is pulling the 1¾- inch cross lay off the engine on my side. I tell the other firefighter that the driver isn’t wrapping the plug pulled the cross lay. We both jump off. I grabbed the hook; we mask up. The captain is out front on the A/B corner, front door wide open with dark smoke pouring out. It is just an engine and truck on scene. I look over at the captain, and he says, “Go get it.”
Did I hear his size-up? I had no idea if he had done a 360˚ walk-around of the house, but all I can think of was that it was time to prove myself. I am on the nozzle, and the backup firefighter is feeding me hose. The smoke is banked down, but the floor level still has some visibility. I am following the wall on my right, and it’s all smoke. I was so focused on finding the fire that I never heard any radio communications. The backup firefighter met up with me about 10 feet inside the door, and the visibility was not getting any better.
I am not sure where the fire is. I find a door on my right, and I am sure it leads to the attached garage. The fire was not in there. It is getting hot, but I’ve been in hotter fires before. All I am thinking is that I have to get this. I open the nozzle at the ceiling a few times, and nothing.
Suddenly, everything is pitch black and a strange sensation goes from my head to my toes. A ball of fire filled a door frame about four feet in front of us. I opened the nozzle to knock down the fire; then, it hit me: the fire is below us in the basement. I looked at the other firefighter and told her we need to back out. I had not given a single update to command or heard if he said anything. Just then, the crew of the next-in engine entered the front door. I looked at the captain and said we are backing out. He had a better perspective and told us to drop the line and get out. I felt defeated.
Introspection and An Injury
The first person I see is the senior guy. I was thinking, “What could I have done better?” I wondered what he was thinking. I took off my face piece and walked toward the engine. The on-duty chief looked at me and called my name. I put my head down and walked over to him. He asked if I was ok. He slid his glasses down his nose to get a better look at me and said, “You are really red.” My pride was hurt, but I didn’t think anything was wrong. He told me that I looked as if I had burns. I felt fine. There was no way I was burned.
I walked to the back of the structure to report to the captain that I was no longer in the house. I heard an, “Oh my” as I looked at the house to my left. The neighbor was watching the incident from his back deck and was talking to the captain. I started to feel a burning sensation and heard the captain call for a medic. With all my protective equipment in place, I still had suffered burns to my face, ears, and neck.
I started to feel the pain while sitting on the stretcher in the back of the medic. Crewmembers are coming to the back of the unit as the medics start an IV and give me medication. I hear someone say, “She looks like she was in the top of a chimney.” It just wasn’t making sense to me. Maybe it was the pain medication, but I could sense something went wrong. It was not until I was released from the burn center that the pieces started to come together.
The days and weeks after this incident were filled with questions. I wanted to learn as much as I could from this fire and be a better firefighter and officer. Since I suffered second-degree burns to my face, neck, and ears, I was delegated to a restricted-duty assignment. I relived this fire every day with each person who wanted to know what happened. Yes, mistakes were made. I just wanted to learn from them and move forward. My department had lost a firefighter during an apartment fire that same year; therefore, my burns caused the emotions from this incident to be high. The words of my mentor, “You are never a failure until you blame someone else” resonated with me. I wanted to tell my story and help make a change. What I did not realize was my biggest mistake that day was trying to prove myself. I was taken aback when a chief asked me why I felt the need to prove myself. He was frustrated with my disregard for safety and the need to prove myself. He told me I should reach out to the other women in the fire service and tell them my story.
Reaching Out; Attitude Adjusted
Without hesitation, I looked at him and proceeded to tell him, “I don’t like most of the other women in the department.” There was a moment of silence, then he told me that that without a doubt that was my biggest problem. This conversation played over and over in my head. I was hoping to promote to lieutenant soon. How would I be a good leader with that attitude? He was 100 percent unequivocally correct. I was a part of a problem that was much bigger than I.
As I healed and returned to work, I struggled with my emotions. How could this happen, and how can I make things better? What can I do to change this culture and be a better firefighter? “All or nothing” was my motto. I worked with another captain in the department, and we created a local support group for women firefighters. The group’s mission was to mentor, support, and encourage success. It was amazing to watch the group come together to create a positive culture.
As I searched for information to make the group successful, I came across the iWomen organization. My first thought, “What is iWomen?” It stands for the International Association of Women in Fire and Emergency Services. I never knew it existed. I called and e-mailed board members of the organization; they provided great resources to share on the local level. As chance would have it, they had an opening for a trustee in my area. I had few questions about the position but never thought I would be considered.
I applied with the encouragement of my fire chief, and I was selected as the Eastern Division Trustee. The support and encouragement of this organization amazed me. I finally felt as though I belonged somewhere.
I now serve as the president of the organization. It has been a whirlwind of learning and growing both personally and professionally. Truly, I went from being a self-admitted “queen bee” to an advocate for women in the fire service. In the process, I have had the opportunity to learn so much about fire service culture, science, and tactics from many leaders in the fire service industry.
To this day, I am glad that I had my close call, near miss, or attitude adjustment. I am a firm believer in the saying, “Everything happens for a reason.” The things I learned from that fire go way beyond tactics. The things I learned have made me a better wife, mom, friend, firefighter, officer, and employee. My once narrow perception has been changed for the better.
What will be your fire department lesson learned, and how will it shape your attitude?
BIO
Angela Hughes began her fire service career in 1989 as a paramedic with the Baltimore City (MD) Fire Department. She was hired by Baltimore County in 1992 and functioned as a paramedic, preceptor/coach, firefighter, fire marshal, lieutenant, and her current rank of fire captain. As the co-founder of the Baltimore County Women in the Fire Service, she continues to mentor women and serves as the president of the International Association of Women in Fire and Emergency Services. Her committee work includes the U.S. Fire Administration Severity of House Fires, Federal Emergency Management Agency grant reviews, Volunteer & Combination Officer’s Section of the International Association of Fire Chiefs Diversity and Inclusion, National Fallen Firefighters (NFFF) Tampa 2, NFFF Suicide Symposium, and National Fire Protection Association Needs Assessment Summit. She has been published in Fire Engineering, serves on the FireRescue advisory board, and has spoken at several fire service venues.
