The Western Unsung Hero

Some of us are born with a calling.

For me, my heart beat steadily for emergency medicine and ministry. I answered the call for many years. I didn’t want to know another life. Unbeknownst to me, years of working on the outskirts of the frontline gave me a different perspective. Death was a normal part of the day. Being consistently in a readied state of mind, without processing trauma and tragedy, left me dissociated and desensitized.

As a patient, I was heavily medicated, being harmed, severely neglected, and medically abused. The medications had me in a bubble. Being numb allowed the traumatic layers of my life to be woven together so tightly that I was hydroplaning and seemingly functional. Then, one day, I was away from the trauma, and my body made the decision for me to take a beat.

Twenty-eight days later, spent in a partial hospitalization program for trauma and PTSD-I was still stunned.

I spent ten months dismantling and processing the past as my savings dwindled. Whether or not I could do it, it was time to take a leap.

I started in a different field — in nature — an ideal match for working with cPTSD. I tried to convince myself I could find fulfillment with trees. The truth was that I missed EMS's heightened sense of urgency. Once you work in emergency medicine, the words “asap” and “important” take on a new meaning.

Then, the most important person in my world passed away. Deadlines and urgency for anything other than life or death felt trivial. At work, I was physically present but emotionally checked out. I felt like I didn’t belong anywhere. I thought, “Is this meeting necessary? Are we micromanaging? Are we following established policies and procedures or pushing paper? Is each person’s title accurately represented, or are we feeding an ego? What’s it all for? What’s it all about? Does any of this matter?”

I tried to assure myself that I was in a “return to the workforce,” in a position that paid the bills. In reality, I was paralyzed with complex grief, on top of complex PTSD.

Two weeks after she passed, I downloaded a dating app (I never said I was smart - back then). I had no business dating, but I needed to feel an emotion other than pain.

A fireman popped up (Hubba Bubba!). To say he looked like an Adonis is not enough. I swiped right and made a cheeky comment, wildly out of my character. He responded.

Note: To this day, we have never met. His virtual presence with regards to “how we save each other” is paramount.

I wasn’t ready to date. I was a shell. The fireman’s playful banter was a healthy distraction. It was refreshing to talk to a man who didn’t know who I was. I could just be me.

Then, three weeks later - I was wrongfully terminated in a most cruel and callus fashion. So much for healing in nature. I imploded.

• Without a job, I had no income.

• Without my grandmother, I had no guidance.

• Without responsibility, I had no routine.

While twirling, I decided to try going off a mood stabilizer (that I never should have been on in the first place). Dr. S put me on Lamictal in 2017. It was the last of the meds that was the prickliest. If there was a time to commit, without the demands of work - this was it. Note: while successful at this - I was alone and should have been under medical care. This is one rollercoaster ride I wouldn’t recommend flying solo with. I ruminated in thoughts and swirled the drain, numbing the pain away.

The fireman’s virtual presence provided a safe, holistic form of EMDR. His digital connection tugged the canoe I had become through treacherous waters quite uniquely. Months passed before I realized we hadn’t met and probably wouldn’t.

A friend asked: “Why are you so obsessed with his profession?!”
I responded: “I have no idea — but it’s helping me remember.”

I asked myself why - why was I so obsessed with his profession? Then, I remembered …I lived across the street from a fire department for a decade when I was younger. It was a traumatic time I blocked out. As we talked, memories started to resurface. I remember looking out the window and watching the firefighters go out on calls. They always came back. When I couldn’t sleep, I would sit in front of the window and look outside and watch the truck with its lights and sirens off, silently backing into the garage. 24/7, 365, the firetruck always came back. Oftentimes, I looked longingly and tried to send a silent message of Mayday. If only they knew that right across the street in their front yard was a little girl who needed rescuing.

It took me almost two years to realize that his friendly “Good Morning” and “Good Night” texts were a warm line of support. His sweet, innocent, steadfast consistency in checking in (or, simply the way he let me flood his phone with text messages without showing he was bothered) was healing for a grieving heart.

Sometimes, we pray to God for an answer, and God sends us people. The fireman was one of those.

To the western fireman whose patient spirit melted the fortress that guarded my heart, you saved me when I didn’t realize I was surrounded in flames. What various entities left in ashes, you sparked a revival. You were a lighthouse in a hurricane. The resurfaced memories became master keys that unlocked the psychological shackles of Stockholm and freed me. Thank you - isn’t enough.