By Anne Gagliano
My husband Mike and I pulled into our driveway, tired but happy for having just successfully completed a wonderful birthday party for our 7-year-old son this night of January 5, 1995. Our perspective on life as a firefighter family was merely moments away from changing forever.
Our neighbor and fellow Seattle firefighter Tom Nelson called a short time later to tell Mike of a major fire—the Mary Pang warehouse fire—that was ongoing and that there were reports of firefighter injuries. Tom was barely out of recruit school, so Mike, the five-year vet, casually replied that there were always rumors of injuries at fires. They usually ended up being smoke inhalation or sprained backs. No big deal—nothing to be alarmed about.
Since Mike seemed unconcerned, I was unconcerned as well. We got the kids inside and I quickly got their sticky, party-grubby little bodies into a bath in preparation for bed. We were happy, we were at peace, then the phone rang again. Mike had been called-in off duty before, but tonight would be a very different event. The Mary Pang warehouse fire had gone to five alarms; was raging out of control; and, worst of all, there were four firefighters caught in the collapse of the main floor, trapped somewhere in the hellish inferno of the warehouse’s basement.
Mike grabbed his clothes and was immediately out the door. It was an abrupt and unsettling turn of events to what had been a wonderful day. He briefly told me what was happening prior to leaving, and my blood turned cold. This was my worst nightmare, every wife’s worst nightmare, hearing of her firefighter being trapped in a fire. Were they hurt? Were they suffering? I couldn’t even let myself imagine the final possibility. He had to go and try to help those already on scene do everything they possibly could to save these guys; they were his brothers, even though we did not as yet know exactly who they were.
It’s funny how life suddenly changes from a moment of family bliss to this horrific spectacle announced by a simple phone call. We both felt a numbness, a heart-pounding chill, a dull ringing in our ears. Somehow we knew that our lives would never be the same. Mike’s profession up til this point was all cool stuff—fire trucks and hoses and ladders. He’d spoken at our kids’ school and church groups in full bunker gear—pretty exciting for little boys to display Dad in this regalia to their classmates and church mates. Dad was a hero—his job was fun and he got to dress differently from the other dads. Dalmatians and horns and flashing lights announced his presence. Daring rescues and water gushing from large hoses were his daily routines. And who could forget the fire pole? Every kid loves to slide down one of those. But firefighters possibly dying, burning to death–how could we ever be at peace again with this grisly reality? Til now, we as a young firefighter family had never had to deal with the more dangerous aspects of Mike’s job. The call we received that night was a grim wake-up call to what this profession can and does bring.
Mike raced to the scene; it was a hellish one. Crews were working feverishly to extinguish the raging blaze as the building was coming down around them. Everyone there was willing to risk everything if there was any hope of getting those men out of that fire. The horror of what Mike saw that night still haunts him today. He set about his tasks with a new level of urgency never before experienced.
We didn’t have cell phones back in those days, so I was in for a long, sleepless night. The boys were finally asleep after repeated questions as to why Daddy had to leave so abruptly. Rick’s birthday presents sat piled on the dining table, already all but forgotten. The joy of this special day was now replaced by their confusion and my anxiety.
I sat glued to the T.V. screen hoping for bits and pieces of news on the fire. When I finally got a glimpse of it, my heart sank and my eyes filled with tears. The blazing inferno that was once a building still housed the four firefighters, and I knew their chances of survival were pretty slim. But maybe their gear would protect them; or perhaps they had found a safe niche; or, better yet, they could have already escaped unbeknownst to the reporters. I had to hope these things for them and for me, because without hope I wasn’t going to survive this night, let alone the many years ahead as a fire wife. The scene was surrounded with firefighters and I knew my husband was there, risking everything to try to save his friends.
It was a long night. I waited and waited for him to return, to hear word, to see if the fire was out, but no word came. Firefighter wives over the years have felt this heavy weight of tension, of not knowing, of nearly crawling out of your skin with anticipation as your loved one is out there, somewhere, battling death itself. I had not known this feeling before, but now I did, and it was terrible. I suddenly wished with all my heart that my husband was anything but a firefighter, that he could be home safe in bed with me, and I cried myself to sleep with tears of self-pity and resentment and fear.
When I awoke the next morning, Mike was still not there. I was nearly sick with disappointment. I somehow got my little boys off to school, then returned to my hellish vigil. Finally his car pulled in—I nearly screamed with relief at the sight of him. He never looked so good to me, despite the fact that he was haggard and black with soot, his eyes red-rimmed and bleary. He seemed to have aged overnight. When he saw me, he grabbed me in a desperate embrace and his tears began to flow.
“They’re gone,” he croaked. “We couldn’t get to them in time. My brothers are dead.”
Keep it all in perspective, I thought in that moment, be strong for Mike, don’t break down. Four families have just been destroyed; my heart is broken for them. But my family is okay, for my love has safely returned to me this day. That is the juggle of this life—holding on to hope and joy so as not to be crushed by grief and worry and helplessness.
Lt. Walter Kilgore, age 45; Lt. Greg Shoemaker, age 43; FF Randy Terlicker, age 35; and FF James Brown, age 25, entered into eternity the same night we celebrated our son’s birthday party. For us, now, the two events have been forever linked. We could let the sorrow of this tragedy ruin our son’s birthdays, but we choose instead to keep it all in perspective; we choose to remember the fallen four with love and fondness and respect, and we are grateful that Rick’s birthday never lets us forget them. This is but one of the ways our lives were changed that fateful night; there are so many more that I will continue with the rest of the saga in my next column.
Anne Gagliano has been married to Captain Mike Gagliano of the Seattle (WA) Fire Department for 27 years. She and her husband lecture together on building and maintaining a strong marriage.
