Calling a Mayday for Your Mind

A Mayday Call

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 Engine 15 lieutenant that night, and 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 a 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 homes.

We didn’t know that the homeowner had recently begun remodeling the home, adding a full second floor. The original roof was removed and a second floor was added that was completely finished on the exterior. Inside, however, the entire second floor was unfinished, completely open except for the wood framing. It had no drywall on the wood studs and had holes in the floor where the ductwork from the old heating, ventilation, and air-conditioning ducts 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 (E6) from the neighboring fire station. E6 took a line to the first-floor rear to attack the fire while my crew took a line to the second floor. I knelt at a pinch point and fed hose around the corner while two members from my crew advanced the hose up the stairs to the second floor. I noticed a truck firefighter followed them up the stairs to search 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. As a result, before a hoseline was in place, a crew on the porch roof broke out the front windows on the second floor. This rapidly drew the fire toward the fresh air outside; with no interior finishing on the open framework, the second floor lit up in a flash. A ball of fire raced past me from the first-floor rear and chased the hoseline up the steps, where three of my firefighters were now trapped. Just as the fire took off, the engine pump had a problem 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 I called for help, and help showed up. Fortunately, all three firefighters who went up those stairs recognized 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 canceled (photo 1).

All our training worked exactly the way it was supposed to work. The interior conditions rapidly deteriorated and, at the same time, a catastrophic equipment failure put 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 called for help, identifying and communicating exactly what was wrong and where the help was needed. The RIT was in place as per our SOPs and was deployed immediately. Lastly, a personnel accountability report quickly confirmed that the three missing firefighters were safe and accounted for; the Mayday was canceled. Amazing!

A Free-for-All

Not too long ago, the fire service in general was a lot less organized. When I began volunteering in the early 1990s, the fireground was a sort of free-for-all—a lot of freelancing and no such thing as accountability. We were lucky, more often 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 would die before the fire service decided something needed to be in place to give firefighters a fighting chance at survival.

Eventually, the culture changed. It wasn’t easy; there was a lot of pushback from some “heavy hitters.” Legends in the fire service spoke their minds about how there is a warning label on the inside of fire helmets saying fighting fire is an inherently dangerous job. I recall hearing guys say things like, “If you want to be safe, become a florist.” Some of the arguments were legitimate. You can be so safe it’s dangerous, but that’s a conversation for another time. We 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 or drunk drivers all the time at accident scenes. The “higher ups” spent some money on reflective vests so we would be more visible. Policies are 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 took action to reduce the risk. Even with safety measures in place, firefighters were still working in smoky environments with a tank full of fresh air strapped to their backs but with their masks dangling in front of them like an ornament rather than protecting them from lung cancer. Why? Pride. We don’t want to admit that what we’re doing to ourselves is damaging; we certainly don’t need anyone helping us. “We’re firefighters. We can handle anything and we don’t need help from anyone.” Sometimes, we are our own worst enemies.

Lucky for us, despite our resistance, the culture has changed. We now operate in a system where safety is second nature. We wear our vests on the interstate; wear our masks in the smoke; and are properly trained to call a Mayday if things go wrong and we become lost, trapped, disoriented, or injured inside of a burning building. We are finally comfortable with being safe on the fireground. We recognize that being assigned to the RIT means we’re probably not going to see any action on this job, but we have one of the most important functions on the fireground if things go south.

It’s funny (not funny), 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 they might be, so I called for help. It was all I could do to help them at the time. Fortunately, they relied on their training and got themselves out of a sticky situation; they didn’t need the help I requested. Even though they didn’t need it, the help was still there, put in place ahead of time if they did need it.

I called a Mayday for those three firefighters instinctively, as I had been trained, even if it wasn’t needed. I wasn’t afraid or too proud to call a Mayday. It’s designed to work that way; everyone on the fireground was glad I called for help. The firefighters who bailed out and saved themselves were thankful. At the end of the day, everyone went home, alive and well.

My Own Mayday

Fast-forward a few years. I needed help. I needed to call a Mayday for myself, 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, neither had my colleagues. I didn’t understand how close to death I was getting. By the time I called a Mayday, it was almost too late.

I was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), anxiety, and depression—it was about to destroy me, 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. Like fireground safety in the early 1990s, it was a free-for-all.

As bad as it was without a system to handle mental health in the fire service, the stigma of asking for help was even worse. Even after I realized I was struggling with something much larger than what I could handle alone, 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 felt like nobody cared. Even if I did say something, nobody would understand. I had 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. How is this situation any different? After all, wasn’t the danger just as real? Wasn’t the opportunity for death just as present? Pride and fear. Those were the answers. I was too macho to show weakness and ask for help; 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 must be concerned with in this job. I wasn’t trained to recognize the warning signs of suicide in myself much less in someone I worked with. I wasn’t alone. None of us were trained to recognize this. A few members of my department had committed 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”; no further details were ever given. As far as we knew, maybe they had had a heart attack at a young age or something. There were rumors but nothing concrete that said they had 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 regarding mental health issues. This point was made perfectly clear when my employment was terminated; I was denied any further mental health treatment. That’s right, I was begging for my life, and the department chief (recognizing my mental health issues in writing but ignoring them) took it one step further, leaving me jobless with no health insurance, treatment, or access to much-needed prescription medications. That must 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 on 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 a gun barrel 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.

Changing the Culture

Changing the culture starts at the firehouse kitchen table. We need to talk about mental health. There are a few people out there who are trying to erase the brotherhood/sisterhood aspect of the fire service. They believe that this is just a job and 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 so far as to design 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 people 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 even 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 kitchen table. That 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 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 firefighter sitting across from you, and he doesn’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 a 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.

David Westbrook is the author of Ashes Ashes We All Fall Down: A Firefighter’s Memoir and a former lieutenant with the Baltimore County (MD) Fire Department with more than 20 years of experience. Diagnosed with job-related post-traumatic stress disorder, anxiety, and depression, he is an advocate for mental health treatment within the fire service and for erasing the stigma associated with seeking help for mental illness.