I still know how I felt. If I close my eyes and hold the image in my mind the anger will boil from somewhere deep. From an even deeper place will well the sadness and the frustration. It will rise up and pool just behind my eyes and without knowing it I will clinch my fists. Then I will sigh, shake my head, smile just a little, and breathe deeply with the sweet and bitter tingle of memory. Strong. Severe. But, as I look back now, just another stop on the gameboard.
The superstorm had past. In its wake billions of dollars in damage, dozens of lives lost and a community crippled. Not just any community—the largest city in the United States. Among the damage left by that October storm—over twenty fire dispatchers with no homes—and over 80 fire dispatchers who had worked through the disaster, non-stop, for three days. These were my colleagues—my friends—my family.
We asked to get help for them—physical and emotional. PTSD was a “thing” then. When I mentioned it I was told I was not a psychiatrist. My pleas to go outside to help start the long process of physical recovery for those who lost their everything was met with a snotty look and a flicked wrist. “I survived 9/11 just fine, they do not need any help now.”
I stormed back to my office, slammed the door and realized right then a few truths that have always stuck with me. Just because someone is supposed to do the right thing does not mean they know how to. Just because someone is supposed to care does not mean they will. Sometimes those whose job is to care for you will, at the worst possible time, fall into their personal cauldron of whatever makes them tick and you will be left to wander and wonder. Alone.
I do not think the terrible reactions of those in-charge meant they were bad people. It just meant there was danger of their ignorance hurting something far bigger than themselves. With their callous disregard for the wellbeing of the people they were supposed to serve, they risked finding ways to make a terrible disaster even worse.
What happened next is important in my life story. And maybe a day like it will be important in yours as well. Perhaps it was emotional fatigue or exhaustion or the spirt of a higher power that took me over completely. Maybe a mix of all three. Whatever it was, I knew what I had to do, roadblocks be damned. There was a right and there was a wrong and I knew what side I wanted to be on. I knew what side those whom I served wanted me to be on.
I made the calls anyway. I sent the emails anyway. Others stood up to and the help eventually arrived. Seven months later I replaced the first of the roadblocks, nineteen months later I replaced the other one. Along the way I tried to show others the way things can and should be. What it means to look out for those who need a little extra help every day and maybe a great deal of help on the worst days.
How the rest of the story unfolded is full of lessons about how to manage change, how to communicate, how to engage others in a mission to improve the world, or perhaps a small part of it. Some of the times I succeeded, some of the times I failed. Every time I learned. But no matter what, I know that from that terrible morning after onward, my best days and hours have been when I remembered the feeling of knowing things can and should be better and when I accept my responsibility to make that “better” a reality. And even more when I remember it is not about me—ever. To serve is about others. First, foremost, always. To lose sight of that in the field of public safety is to risk losing it all, and hurting people in the process. Maybe without even knowing it.
I hate to admit I know that you too will have a day like that. Maybe it is the context of a personal event or maybe it is part of you facing something much larger. Whatever it is, I pray that you find the strength and the passion to forge your anger into resolve and your frustration into progress. We will all be better for it if you do. Especially those who depend on you to do nothing less.
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