Editor’s Opinion ❘ By BOBBY HALTON
I always enjoy being asked to keynote, particularly at awards banquets. The best part of those exceptional events is hearing the stories of outstanding firefighters’ bravery and sacrifice—stories of men and women going into raging fires; exposing themselves to collapse, disease, and injury; often risking death without hesitation and routinely at tremendous personal cost physically and emotionally. These stories remind us that everything in life has a cost, everything—a cost these men and women knew was worth it.
I always dread receiving a call or letter from a friend or an acquaintance who has developed cancer or heart or autoimmune disease. I am inspired by the bravery and strength of firefighters facing these times and the elegance of those, who, outside a few close and true friends, suffer in silent dignity. These friends remind us that this mission we have accepted has costs, sometimes unimaginable costs.
I always feel terribly sad and overwhelmed when I attend a killed-in-action (KIA) line-of-duty-death funeral or memorial service. These events tear at our heartstrings and rip raw our emotions in ways that defy explanation. Perhaps it is the suddenness, the finality, and the awareness that someone irreplaceable and uniquely special is gone forever that make us feel so crushed. When we attend these events, it reminds us that the life we have chosen has consequences, costs.
We all have friends and family who often ask, “Was it worth it?” Being a firefighter—spending holidays, birthdays, and special moments away from family—was it worth it? Risking or getting cancer; being burned; sustaining broken bones, broken hearts, and broken marriages; often living so drained emotionally and spiritually that you find yourself tired all the time—was the price you paid or are paying worth it?
I have routinely noticed that great firefighters, like the ones we recognize on medal day or KIA funerals, all fight or fought to get on busy companies. These strong, hard-charging companies don’t take on slackers or square rooters; they look for and recruit the best, the most dedicated, the go-getters. These strong, high-powered officers are clear: The price you pay will be high; you will work harder, you will train more, and you will be expected to be better with every day. Ask any member of these elite teams, and they will tell you the sacrifices to be on these companies are worth it.
The fire service has many of these houses; we respect these strong men and women. When these firefighters face adversity, they do not hide from it; obstacles are opportunities to these strong firefighters. Oh, they complain about them, don’t get me wrong. They complain about everything, but no one leaves. They agree with Proverbs 27:17, “Iron sharpens iron, so one man’s countenance sharpens that of his friends.”
When I was sent to the Personnel Department for the annual wellness checkup, I routinely got the “If you had to do it all over again, would you do anything differently?” question. It is always an interesting but a pointless question to ponder. It is pointless because of the character of the American firefighter.
It is in our American blood. President Kennedy once said, “We choose to do these things not because they are easy but because they are hard.” Doing hard things—dangerous, painful things—makes us who we are, American firefighters.
Thinking back to our friends in the Personnel Department, if we had to do it all over again, would we do anything differently? Sure, we would have avoided getting in the wreck on the way to the call or falling off that roof or the ladder; we would have avoided getting burned or stabbed. We would have preferred a life without autoimmune disease and cancer. Most of us would have avoided marrying our third or fourth spouse.
We would have loved seeing our kids take their first steps, being with Mom before she passed, not seeing a friend take his own life. We would’ve had our friends leave those buildings sooner or not let them go in at all. Yeah, it would be nice to be able to clean up the past—rearrange the deck chairs, as they say. But if it meant not being there when that lady on the 12th floor needed us or not being there to intubate that baby or pull the driver from the submerged car or hold the rope during the rescue, no, we would not change a thing. We would be willing to do all over again, despite suffering the consequences; we would do it all over again, no question about it.
I was sitting outside a coffee shop with a friend, enjoying the sunshine, and telling fire stories—well, “fire lies”—when a young woman walked by. She stopped, pointed to my friend’s Vietnam veterans ballcap, and asked him, “Were you a soldier”? My buddy leaned back, pointing to his cap, and said, “I sure was; it’s how I got this hat!” The young lady smiled, started to walk away, then turned and said, “Thank you. Thank you for your service.” My friend looked her in the eye and said, “You were worth it.”
I guess there never has been and never will be a better explanation for why the best men and women join the fire service. Every call, every incident has a face—a human face—behind it, and that person, irrespective of his station in life, his circumstances compelled the heroes we honor at banquets and funerals to do what they did. So, to all our fellow citizens, to our fellow brother and sister humans, who called us in their time of need, you should know that, in our eyes, our hearts, whatever it took, whatever price was paid, whatever the cost, “You were worth it.”
