Firefighters come through

This is a love letter to firefighters.

Their service, sacrifice and heroism are well-known, most poignantly, of course, because of the terrorist attacks of Sept. 11, 2001. As people streamed out of the fatally wounded twin towers of the World Trade Center in New York City, they streamed in.

We know intuitively that firefighters are good men and women who do good things for us.

But it’s different when you know it firsthand. When firefighters rescue you.

One Friday in May, I began having rapid onset of severe pain and great distention of the right side of my belly. I could hardly move as the pain increased.

When I called my husband, he was too far from home to get there quickly, so I called 911, then fell back on my bed.

I lay there just a short time when I heard sirens in the distance. How warm and wonderful that sound was. It was for me.

Soon, several firefighters from Spokane Valley Fire Station 6 were all around me.

I live in Fire District 8, but workers from Station 6 were able to get there faster that day. Responders from District 8 were just minutes behind them.

My eyes were closed most of the time as I tried to stay on top of the pain. One firefighter sat by me, asked me some questions and did a quick but thorough assessment.

The phone rang; one of the firefighters answered and told my husband, who was on his way, to meet us at Sacred Heart Medical Center.

Two IV lines were put in, and two strong arms reached around me to lift and carry me to a waiting gurney.

The firefighter who was by my side the whole time had a calm, firm voice. He never spoke loudly or excessively, directing his remarks quietly and in measured tones to others in the room as needed.

Giving directions for the fastest way to Sacred Heart, calling out my vital signs, things like that.

It was a scary situation, but yet, I wasn’t scared. In pain, yes. Confused about what was going on with me. But rather serene.

The firefighters were calm, deliberate, professional. I was being taken care of.

After two days in the hospital for evaluation and tests to rule out a bunch of potentially scary stuff, it turned out that my colon had twisted temporarily. Life quickly returned to normal.

But on that Friday, there were firefighters, a sea of dark blue shirts moving about, doing what they do.

I don’t recall any of their faces and don’t know their names. I kind of like it that way.

Now, when I see firefighters outside a fire station or at the grocery store or anywhere else, I like to think they’re the ones.

I know they’re human, the old putting-their-pants-

on-one-leg-at-a-time thing. And they’re certainly subject to all the imperfections of the rest of humanity.

But not when they’re saving you.

When everything is going wrong, when the pain is so great you can’t even speak in sentences but squeak out only single words such as “pain” or “cold,” when you know you’re really in trouble, please take my word for it.

There is nothing better to hear, nothing more comforting or calming when you’re being carried from your house than those three little words I heard that day from a firefighter:

“I’ve got you.”