EMOTIONAL RESCUE

Meet a firefighter with PTSD who empathizes with the plight of many Canadian war vets.

It was in late 1979 when the County of Strathcona decided to construct and open its fifth fire department, in the hamlet of Josephburg, Alta. A meeting was held for a call for volunteers to join the new department, and by the time the meeting was over, I was one of the firefighters chosen to be trained, together with seven other women and 13 men.

We met at the fire hall every Monday for training. We trained in first aid treatments and CPR, skills that were tested and updated annually to keep us at the ready should we need to apply them on duty. We also learned about the mechanical workings of the fire trucks, proper handling and caring of hoses, ladder handling and maintenance, and the use of air packs in entering burning or smoke-filled buildings. After a few months, we were answering fire calls in town or at one of the numerous farms situated in the north end of the County.

I loved being part of the firefighters. There was a lot to learn and I became more confident in myself. I learned to climb up roofs of buildings and to rappel down to the ground again. I also learned to wear those air packs and go into a smoked-filled building in a mock rescue of victims lost in a would-be fire. We were a small, organized group of 20 who worked well together.

LIFE ON THE LINE

One day in 1990, my husband and I drove down to visit my parents. My dad had not been feeling well the last few weeks and we wanted to check on him. We arrived on Friday, spent an enjoyable evening visiting

and laughing at my father’s many jokes. The next morning at breakfast, Dad said he was not feeling well and had to go lay down on his bed. After a few minutes, I said to Mom that I would check on him. Dad was sitting on the edge of the bed with one hand clutching his chest. I spoke to him, asking how he was feeling. He managed to say, “It hurts.” As he said that, he arched his back and fell backwards on to the bed. I yelled out to my mother and husband to call for an ambulance, then turned to Dad and started CPR, which we had been trained to continue until a doctor intervened or pronounced the victim deceased. Dad’s attack occurred at 10 p.m.; my parents lived half an hour from the nearest hospital and we knew it would take at least that much time for help to arrive.

I applied compressions and mouthto-mouth recitation until the ambulance arrived, continuing without stop until we were met by another ambulance in the next town. I was exhausted by then and the other paramedics continued CPR until our arrival at the hospital, where a doctor took over.

Dad had suffered a ruptured aorta, the principal artery through which the blood leaves the heart and passes to the body; his time of death that day was 3 p.m. My husband and I called my eight siblings and told them all what had happened.

SURVIVING PTSD

After the funeral was over and seemingly things had settled down, I tried to go back to “ordinary” life but something was very wrong. I felt myself unable to think, completely hollow inside, lifeless, which got me to asking myself, what is wrong with me? I was deeply depressed, unable to concentrate, feeling distant from others and not participating in activities I used to love.

One night, while driving home from work, I stopped the car by the side of the road, got out and standing alone in the dark, staring up at the black sky and the stars, I yelled out at the top of my lungs,“what’s wrong with me! Please, help me!”

The next day, I went to fire practice and my Fire Chief asked me to meet him in the office. He had noticed my withdrawal and felt something was wrong. I entered the office and closed the door. He no sooner asked me what was wrong when I started to cry. After I calmed myself, I managed to tell him what had happened with my dad and how I felt, and he recommended a doctor I should see. Every fire and police department in the county has a psychologist on stand-by for anyone who has had any type of trauma on the job. I had trained in CPR every year in case I needed to apply the technique as a firefighter, and the first time I used it in a life-and-death situation was on my father.

The doctor I was sent to evaluated me and said I suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) brought on by the mix of emotions generated when I was performing CPR for so long trying to save my father’s life, only to have him die hours later, all compounded by the intense grieving that ensued.

I spent six weeks in therapy, in conversations, going through the grieving program offered by the fire department, and it helped me tremendously. I was able to face my fears, understand what had happened and get a new focus of my life. I am thankful for the help I received, as without it, I would have probably taken a longer time to recover.

Today, I look back at my experience and understand so much better what it must be like to be a veteran suffering from PTSD. For me, it was a one-time trauma, but for a soldier, being involved in war every day must create a continuity of traumas, exponentially worse than what I faced. Thankfully, I had access to the support I needed because of my service with the fire department. I find myself asking though, shouldn’t all veterans who served their country be entitled to at least the same level of PTSD support programs as those provided by your typical fire or police department?

The horrors being faced by war veterans confronting PTSD are devastating and must be properly addressed. The government of Canada should provide the comprehensive support programs that are needed. They do help, I know that firsthand.