I had just fallen asleep in my bunk, eyes shut tight, lulled by the hum of a desk fan and a day that started out far earlier than my days normally do. Despite sleeping in my clothes, I still managed to get comfortable enough that not even the snores of another firefighter in the bunk next to mine were keeping me awake.
In seconds, the peaceful night was interrupted by a flashing red ceiling light bouncing off the painted cinderblock half-walls, followed by alarm tones that pierced through the otherwise quiet fire station.
Adrenaline shot my eyes open, and I flipped off the covers, my feet finding my unzipped boots with ease.
It was about 10 p.m. when the tones went off, followed by the automated voice calling out what was needed — Ambulance 81 — and the address of the call. It was a car accident.
In the dark red glow of alarm, I made it out into the hallway, my body still half asleep but my brain totally and wildly awake. I was glad I slept in my clothes and set out my boots because I was out in seconds.
“This is us, yeah?” I asked the lieutenant to confirm it was ours. I learned earlier in the day that sometimes the tones would go off, but it might be for the other station in the district. Another station responded, but because there were three patients, an additional ambulance was needed.
“Yeah, that’s the ambulance, you can go,” he advised. I took off down the stairs in lockstep with the two responding firefighter-paramedics. The other guys had returned to their bunks, the lieutenant keeping an eye on the call from the station.
I watched as the firefighter-paramedics put on their gear in seconds, like muscle memory had taken over as they undoubtedly still were waking up. I put on a safety jacket, hopped into the back of the ambulance, and buckled in.
The lights were bright, but the sirens were muffled through the thick walls of the patient compartment as we raced down the street.
“No more white cloud,” one of the paramedics joked through the passthrough window from the cab to the compartment where I was.
A white cloud is a term that describes someone who ends up with no calls, when one shift ends. My “white cloud” had been thick, nearly 48 hours in, and up until the accident, the shifts I rode along on had only yielded a lift assist, a bad smoke detector, and a minor gas leak.
It didn’t take long before we arrived on the scene of a two-vehicle accident on a country road, the stop sign knocked down. The scene was quieter than I had imagined it would be, with the darkness and crisp night air underscoring the stillness of the chaos that had just occurred.
The front end of the passenger vehicle was just gone, a crumpled mess of metal that disappeared into the darkness of the cornfield where it had come to rest in.
I stayed back, probably farther away than I needed to, but close enough to observe as the paramedics worked to assist the two patients in the passenger vehicle. The sole occupant of the pick-up truck was outside the vehicle.
The driver thankfully was awake, alert, and conscious but with a badly broken ankle. I watched how carefully the paramedic assessed the patient from head to toe, confirming the driver’s foot still had a pulse. “Does this hurt?” and “What’s your pain level on a scale of one to 10?” the paramedic asked.
The other was assisting with splinting the ankle and loading him onto the gurney, before they found their way back to the ambulance, stepping over broken corn stalks and trudging through mud.
Another ambulance crew tended to the second patient in the passenger seat. The paramedics on my shift worked in tandem and with an ease that only hours of training and a good rapport could create.
Together, the duo helped the patient with pain medication and, what seemed like seconds but certainly wasn’t, it was time for lights and sirens to the hospital.
On the way, family members repeatedly called the patient — and, with the patient’s approval, the paramedic answered and shared what happened, undoubtedly providing relief in a moment of panic.
With sirens screaming through intersections, we quickly arrived at Silver Cross Hospital, the staff there taking over on arrival. The team restocked and disinfected the ambulance, the paramedic in charge finishing up the report. It wasn’t long before we were back at the station.
When responding to a call, ambulances are typically out of service for two full hours — but this whole process seemed like minutes. I glanced at the clock — it was after midnight, the run time ringing true.
I did two ride-alongs with MFPD, one at Peotone Station 83 and one at Manhattan Station 81 — 48 hours between the two stations, each day starting off with inventory and equipment checks and a district-wide Zoom call.
The fast-paced action I experienced responding to the car accident was a blip on the radar.
During one of the shifts, they reviewed everyone’s performance of a previous call from start to finish. Together in the training room, we listened to a 9-1-1 call and radio traffic. The goal was to identify what could’ve been done better, if there were any mistakes, how they could perfect their work, and do it more efficiently.
They are constantly training, reviewing, and practicing. When they’re not actively training, they’re talking about it. They live it, breathe it, love it — I could see it as they worked.
There was practice with equipment — new ambulance restraints for combative patients, practice with using the pediatric straps for small patients, practice tying what seemed like a hundred types of knots, but was only a handful applicable for a certain type of incident.
They practiced confined space rescues on top of the training tower, determining where the anchor point would be, what to touch, and what not to touch when getting lowered down or brought back up.
The autumn wind and gray skies, absent an ounce of sunshine, made my nose run, and everyone else’s too — but no one complained. They remained steadfast and intent on soaking up what the more experienced firefighters had to offer, each watching and doing repeatedly.
At every turn, they’re learning. This is what went well, this is what didn’t. It’s ingrained in everything they do.
One firefighter told me it’s even more rewarding when things play out exactly as planned in real life. That’s the goal with training, but real life always presents the unexpected.
It’s not about food runs to Berkot’s, when they’re not on a call; they’re constantly training and learning. -Photo by Stephanie Irvine.
Most of the calls in this district are EMS-related, and lift-assists are common.
While I didn’t get to experience many calls outside the accident, thanks to the white cloud I brought along, we did get a call for a lift assist at an address they routinely visit.
What struck me was how kind every firefighter-paramedic was to that patient — even though our shoes stuck to the floor of the squalid space, even though it took a team to try and move the patient to just the right spot, even though the smells were strong, and even though it was a frequent flyer. None of that mattered.
From what I gathered, the individual’s health issues likely warrant more care than they can get at home, but the patient refused a hospital transport, and the crew did their best to help the person and make them more comfortable. They did what they could.
Each one treated the patient with dignity, respect, and care — they didn’t make the patient feel like a burden. They were there to help.
When I asked the crew about it afterward, it never crossed their mind to be anything other than what they were, but in a world that can be so cold and cruel, I could see how compassion could get compromised. But it didn’t, and I didn’t get the feeling their kindness was just for show, either.
As evening fell and the workday tasks were completed, they talked. I listened.
In our chats, something firefighters from each station commented on is that people will give them a hard time when they take the rig to Berkot’s, but it’s because they need to be able to drop everything and respond should a call come through. If they took personal vehicles, they’d be out of service.
While most people not working in EMS would do their own shopping and bring their lunch, they aren’t working an entire 24-hour shift. It’s necessary to pick up food at some point. Half the time, they get called out as soon as it’s ready, anyway.
A false alarm called us out at dinner just as we had picked up our forks on one of the shifts I observed. If it wasn’t true, it’d be funny how cliché it was.
Another misconception — taxpayers aren’t funding their food runs — a common complaint they say they overhear or are outright told when they visit the store. One told me some people get mad at them for having a pension, not realizing they don’t get Social Security.
In between the training and the calls, there were jokes. There were stories. There was cleaning. There is no janitorial staff at a firehouse; they clean it as if it were their own home, and it’s spotless.
Although they don’t always have to shower on shift, some circumstances require it. I asked one of the lieutenants what happens if you’re in the shower and a call comes through.
“You hurry up. It sucks. Same thing if you’re in the bathroom,” he told me.
Firefighters cook together, eat together, and work together. They live one shift at a time, one quick nap between calls on a busy day, one 24-hour time period that is a different world, but a good one.
One lieutenant told me what he found most rewarding was seeing those under him come up.
Several firefighters said they enjoyed being part of the community and helping people. Some liked fires, some liked technical rescue, and another loved the medical aspect.
But above all else, what one young firefighter told me was his favorite part about the job was particularly poignant: “Doing something more than for yourself.”
I wasn’t sure what to expect out of the ride-alongs or even how I’d write the story. One thing I am certain of now: Few people care more than people who choose this profession. Maybe that’s something we can be grateful for this season.
Stephanie Irvine is a freelance reporter.