In a Heartbeat......

By Brian Zelmer

In this memoir, Brian Zelmer takes a look back at 35 years of excitement, tragedy, sorrow, and elation. "In a Heartbeat" sheds light on the real world of heartaches that First Responders face that aren't depicted on TV.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667892559

Book preview

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ISBN 978-1-66789-254-2

eBook ISBN 978-1-66789-255-9

Table of Contents

About the Author

Dedication

Introduction

Early Years

Fire District Number 1

Air Force

Paramedic School

First Job as a Paramedic

Fire Dist. #7

The Everett Fire Department

The Beginning of The End

Glossary

About the Author

Brian Zelmer was born in Everett, Washington, on March 20, 1958. He has been married to his wonderful and beautiful wife, Barb, for 43 years. He has four wonderful kids, Nichole (Jason), Stephen (Jenna), Kyle (Kacie), and Jennifer (Jacob). He has two wonderful grandsons, Garren and Edison. Brian was an EMT, firefighter/paramedic and captain for 35 years. After retirement, Barb and Brian became franchisees with Jersey Mike’s Subs for eight years. After living in the State of Washington for 60 years, Barb and Brian decided to take their webbed feet and moved to Arizona to enjoy the warm, sunny weather. With the writing of this book, Brian has scratched another goal off his bucket list. Brian has only two goals left: scale Mount Everest and become a Chippendales dancer.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my wife, Barb, for always being there and pointing me in the right direction.

To my kids, Nichole, Stephen, Kyle, and Jennifer for being the lights of my life and putting up with my absences from your important events and understanding that what I did was always for you.

To my baddest boys, grandsons Garren and Edison: You will never know how much I love and miss you. Stay on the path that you’re on. You’ll be great.

To the Linnell and Wetstein families: Thank you for always being there for me. You are an inspiration.

To all my fellow firefighters: Thank you for getting me home safe after every shift.

To the dispatchers, doctors, nurses, ER techs, and police: You are all teeth in the cog of this crazy machine. Without any one of you, the machine doesn’t run.

Introduction

This is my first time writing a book. I am not a literary person by any means so please bear with me. If you’re reading this, I want to wholeheartedly thank you for taking the time and spending your hard-earned money to take a journey with me through my life as a first responder. I have read several books during my 35+ years about my occupation. These books have been well written and have shone a light on our profession, but I have not read the incidents that I have experienced in any of these books so I thought I would share them with you.

Hopefully, this book will inspire at least one person to gain interest and pursue their passion to enter this rewarding field. Unfortunately, unlike the good old days, numbers are dwindling, and departments are having difficulty finding volunteers and members to fill vacancies in paid departments. Some say it’s because of COVID; I think it’s just a new generation that is not community-driven or would rather do high-tech. Who knows?

There are millions of fire/rescue, EMS, nurses, doctors, and law enforcement professionals (although the lowest amount since 1991) who put their lives on the line every day. I know in the back of their minds they have all thought, I should write a book about all the chaotic, bizarre, tragic, and at times, heartwarming events that have impacted their lives. Just like me, it was probably always Yeah, maybe someday I’ll do it, but for some reason they haven’t followed through. Perhaps they (like me) decided that no one would be interested in their story, or perhaps they want to leave those memories deep in the vault of forgetfulness and not dig them up again. I procrastinated on this adventure for the past 20 years. It was only until recently when I moved to Arizona and, while unpacking, found all these boxes full of memories and memorabilia (from the Vault of Forgetfulness) that inspired me to finally do it. Plus, you can only work so much on your tan and golf game in Arizona. Tan is good; golf is bad.

I worked in very rural, rural, suburban, and urban settings. Some responders may have only experienced one or two of these settings so they may not have been exposed to the different types of incidents that can occur. In the very rural areas, people have the old west mentality of rub some dirt on it and get back to work. I recall an incident where a farmer got his arm detached from his body when it got caught in an auger attached to a tractor. He extracted the bloody extremity from the auger and walked a quarter mile to his house (his wife then drove him to the hospital). On the other hand, in an urban setting you can get a different definition of emergency: I have a build-up of earwax, and I can’t hear. (I responded to that.)

A fair warning: My descriptions, profanity, quotes, graphic detail, etc., will be nothing new to first responders but the layperson may find what they read to be rather offensive, unbelievable, or plain disgusting. The environment that we work in is neither rated G nor utopian. There are a lot of ugly, tragic events in our profession that we see 24/7/365 that ordinary citizens don’t even know exist. Every story I’m about to tell is true. For the most part, the names mentioned are real people. Some names have been changed to protect the innocent (as well as the guilty). I tried to keep this story in chronological order, but sometimes events may have gotten in a little earlier (or later) than they occurred. Sometimes events tie in with others. I have included a glossary of words, terms, and quotes at the back of the book to help you navigate our lingo.

Finally, I would like to give a shout-out to all the great first responders, law enforcement, and fire departments out there like New York, Boston, Seattle, Los Angeles City, Los Angeles County, Washington D.C., Miami/Dade, and the smaller ones in the USA. Lastly, I want to give a thank you and job well done to all the nurses, doctors, and dispatchers who are the backbone of what we do. Without you, our job means nothing.

Early Years

When I was five (back in the early 60s), I wanted to be a fireman (today termed firefighter). When I was eight, I wanted to be an Everett fireman. When Emergency aired in the early 70s, I wanted to be a fireman/paramedic. This ambition was clinched when I read the book Report From Engine Company 82 (my all-time favorite book). The book was written by the great author Dennis Smith, a New York fireman who chronicled his life and career in the New York Fire Department. Sadly, Mr. Smith recently passed away.

I was like most other kids in my early years, building forts, playing with the neighbors, and playing in the mud. One strange thing that set me apart was I chased ambulances and fire trucks. I lived in Everett, Washington (located approximately 30 miles north of Seattle). In Everett, there was only one ambulance company, named Barker’s Ambulance, and they responded all over Snohomish County. In the old days, Barker’s Ambulance looked just like a hearse but was painted differently and with a lot of red lights. They had electronic sirens but also a windup siren growler (also known as a Q2, used by many fire departments today). They would push a button until the siren would wind up from a low growl until it maxed out with a high shrill. These sirens had what was called a siren brake so the ambulance crew could slow down and then stop the siren as they approached the scene. If not used, the siren would wind down over several minutes. This siren could be heard from miles around so every time I heard it, I would jump on my bike and peddle as fast as I could to the end of the road to watch them go by. My friends just shook their heads.

Back in the 60s, 70s, and early 80s, 90 percent of rural/county fire departments were made up of volunteer firefighters. Most departments didn’t have the luxury of pagers, so they were issued plectrons. Plectrons were medium-sized radios that the volunteers plugged into the wall (they also contained a chargeable battery so they could be portable) and this was how they were notified of a call. Before the advent of 9-1-1, people would have to dial a seven-digit number for emergencies. As a backup, fire stations would have large civil defense sirens attached to the roof of their station that would go off simultaneously with the plectron to notify volunteers who were outside working in the garden, shopping, or when they weren’t in hearing range of their plectron that a call was being dispatched. These dedicated, non-paid people would drop what they were doing and make a mad dash for the fire station to work the apparatus required and respond to the call. Late-arriving volunteers would either respond with requested equipment or standby in the event another call came in. If the call was between the volunteer’s house and the fire station, they would just drive to the scene. In today’s world, volunteer fire departments are being shut down and being replaced with paid, professional fire departments from neighboring towns because they cannot recruit new volunteers, (referred to as part-paid firefighters). I remember at an early age, a real estate office at the end of our road caught fire. A volunteer fire department (Silver Lake Fire Dist. #11) showed up and put it out. Unfortunately, the building rekindled and this time the Everett Fire Department responded, all that was left was a large burn pile.

I remember when I was six and in the first grade, my mom took me up the road to Lowell Elementary School, where they were having a combination cub scout and boy scout (I joined both) jamboree. There were all types of demonstrations, ranging from building a fire, putting up a tent (there were probably 50 tents up as they were spending the whole weekend there), and how to make a rope bridge, but my favorite was a staged car accident with victims. I remember victims on the ground with moulage props for broken bones, cuts, burns, and an avulsed eye sticking out of one of the victims’ heads.

One victim that particularly caught my eye was a person that had been thrown through the windshield and had a wound on her neck that spurted blood every couple of seconds (controlled by a bulb in her hand that you couldn’t see). It was gory and scary at the same time, but it didn’t affect me. Apparently, it was all I could talk about, and I couldn’t wait until Monday morning to tell my teacher and all of my classmates. On Monday morning I ran into the classroom and told my teacher how cool the demonstration was. She grabbed me by the arms and got about two inches from my face and started shaking me and screaming, That is not cool, and I don’t ever want to hear you speak of this again. She went on to lecture me about not telling any of my classmates and that if she heard that I did, I would be in big trouble.

Naturally, on the way home, I told everyone. I couldn’t believe the scolding that I got, after all, I didn’t know what all this meant. To me, it all seemed like a cool Halloween costume. I didn’t know what injury or death was. I was only six years old. I had two classmates the same year that had been killed after each being hit by a car four months apart. We were told by the same teacher that they wouldn’t be coming to school anymore. Again, death did not register with me. I just thought they moved away without saying goodbye.

When I was eight, I played little league baseball at the old Roosevelt Elementary School (now the 4 Square Church) up the street from Everett Fire Station 5. My mom worked at the local K-mart and started work at 4 p.m., but my practice didn’t start until 5 p.m., so three times a week I would walk down to the fire station and visit the firemen. I remember them being so nice and showing me around and letting me sit at the table while they smoked, read the paper, or ate dinner. I’m sure those firemen have long passed but if they are still with us, Thank you for making a huge impact on my life. You were why I wanted to become an Everett fireman.

I remember starting school at Mariner High School in September 1972. On our first day, the big event was the Olympic hostage situation that led to the killing of several Olympic athletes. I turned out for the freshman football program and had the pleasure of meeting Coach Tag Christianson, Coach Bill Hill (who became a mentor), Coach Ken Sather, and Coach Reg Nelson. My dad had just died six months earlier and I had no structured male adult interaction in my life and these gentlemen stepped up nicely.

After the first airing of "Emergency," that I started concentrating on subjects that could prepare me for that type of profession. I excelled in science, anatomy, and physiology. During one of the classes, we had to go to the commons area and learn how to do CPR. Everyone in the class was moaning and groaning about having to learn this technique and how they would never use it (except me). Pat Lorbiecki (ironically, I would work with Pat 20 years later), was an Everett fireman who taught our class. I listened intently to his every word and aced the written test and got my first American Heart Association CPR card.

As I mentioned earlier, my father died six months before I started high school. He went into the hospital on my 13th birthday and died the next day. He died of complications from alcoholism. It wasn’t pretty. In 1973, mom met a man at an event, and they started dating and they eventually married. I despised this man (for lack of a better term) more than anyone I’ve ever known. We relocated to Edmonds, Washington, and I left all my friends behind. Living with my mom and this guy was a living hell. He verbally and physically abused me, and I just took it. It all came to a head one day when I hadn’t emptied the garbage in a timely matter, and I came home and found it in my bed. Coffee grounds, potato peels, stale beer…you name it, it was probably in my bed. I ran away from home.

At this point, I had just enrolled at Meadowdale High School (my junior year) in Lynnwood and didn’t know anyone. I remember my first day was during football homecoming week and I was watching people walk by. The hallways were all decked out in paper banners, crepe paper, confetti, etc. After the hallway cleared, I noticed one of the students close his locker and pull out a lighter. He ignited some of the crepe paper and the flames started traveling down the hallway. The fire alarm went off and everyone started running. Teachers came out of classrooms and when they saw flames, they grabbed fire extinguishers. The fire was out by the time Lynnwood Fire Department arrived, but the hallways were still full of smoke, so everyone had to wait outside until they were given the clear. At that point I thought, This school is going to be interesting, and I made friends easily. As it turned out, transferring to Meadowdale High School was a blessing. Heck, I even met my future wife there. Also, to this day, there are only two people who know who lit that fire. Him and me. I haven’t told anyone, Ray.

After running away from home, I came back several days later and found all my belongings in the backyard. Dickhead had kicked me out of the house, and they arranged for me to live with a woman who was renting out a room in Lynnwood, but I wouldn’t be able to attend Meadowdale. I would have to attend Lynnwood High School. It was the summer of 1975, and the beginning of my senior year, and I was expected to start as running back for Meadowdale’s varsity football team and this didn’t sit well with me or my teammates. The lady who was renting out the room was very specific about where I could and could not do or go in the house and that she worked evenings and would entertain clients in her home. If she was home, I wasn’t allowed to come out of my room. The lady was a hooker. One of my teammates went home and told his parents about what was going on and his dad said bullshit, he’s moving in with us.

I had never met this man before, but he was opening his house for me to live in. The family that was my salvation was the Linnell family. My teammate (and great friend), Steve Linnell, had told his parents about my situation and without hesitation (I’d like to think), they graciously opened their home to me, and I quickly became their favorite. Thank you and God bless you Dad (Larry Linnell, RIP), Mom (Mary Linnell), (Tom, RIP), Steve, and Diane (also a big kiss and hug to Kay and Charlie). You will never know how much your kindness and acceptance meant to me. I had such great respect and love for Mr. and Mrs. Linnell that I have never called them by their first name. I would jokingly call them mom and dad just to piss Steve off. Even though Steve and I have not talked in years because of political differences, you know I still love you.

Fire District

Number 1

In the Spring of my senior year of high school (1976), I heard that Snohomish County Fire District 1 (referred to as Fire Dist. #1) was recruiting for volunteer firefighters. The only prerequisite was to be 18 years of age and to have a vehicle. Bingo, I fit the bill. I went to their headquarter station and filled out an application. They told me that recruit school started in two weeks and that I would have to take a physical agility test before recruit school, so I made an appointment for the end of the week. On a sunny Friday afternoon, I arrived 30 minutes early, sat in my car, and took in the fact that I was finally going to become a volunteer fireman (if I passed the physical agility test and recruit school). I was beyond excited. At my scheduled time, I was met by firefighter Larry Keller, who explained to me how the agility test would be administered and told me if I failed any station, I would be disqualified and would have to go through the process again in six months. I had no problem passing the test. Larry congratulated me and told me to go to Station #3 on Monday to get my bunker gear (coat, pants, gloves, and helmet). I reported to Station #3 as directed and was issued my gear by Lt. Dave Mullins (it’s amazing to remember all these names after 47 years). As it turned out, Station #3 became my responding station, as I lived only two miles away.

Saturday morning, the first day of recruit school had finally arrived, and I was out the door early. Unfortunately, my car wouldn’t start. I thought, Great, the first day of recruit school and I’m going to be late. Mr. Linnell, who was a sergeant with the Washington State Patrol, was just leaving for work and gave me a ride. I’m sure I made a great first impression when I pulled up to the station in a WSP vehicle. The recruits (probably 12 of us) were met by Captain Larry Farrar (Capt. Farrar was a big man with no sense of humor. He was a volunteer fire captain, but his professional occupation was sergeant of the narcotics division for the Seattle Police Department). Our other instructor was Volunteer Captain Len Champion (Capt. Champion was a fit individual with a calm demeanor and a southern drawl. He was the Ying to Capt. Farrar’s yang.) One of the first recruits that I became friends with was Brent Chomos. Brent was a very energetic and outgoing individual who was always encouraging others. Brent went on to become a paid firefighter for Dist. #1 and just recently retired at the rank of captain.

We started class at 0800 hrs. and went until 1700 hrs. (with a 30-minute break for lunch). We were taught the basics of hose handling, how water went into the engine from a supply (hydrant, another engine), and how it came out at the end of the hose. We proceeded to pull every foot of the hose off the engine, spray water, then pick it up and load it. We did this probably eight times on that hot first day of training. It was hot, sweaty work and I lost probably 10 pounds, but it was rewarding, and I thoroughly loved it. We figured we deployed and loaded 8,000 feet of hose that day.

Recruit school lasted eight weeks (eight full Saturdays and four hours a night, twice a week). Over the next eight weeks, we learned about proper loading of hoses (yes, there is a way, so the hose comes out easily and doesn’t get hung up). Different ways to deliver water to extinguish the fire, (Forward Lay, Reverse Lay, Blind Alley, Water Shuttle, Drafting, and Tagging Tight to a hydrant), (just the basics to get you to the front door of the fire). We learned breathing apparatus (BA), buddy breathing, what to do if you run out of air while in a fire, refilling bottles, forcible entry, searching for victims, ladders, ventilation, salvage, and overhaul. This training just scratched the surface of all the knowledge and technical skill of the fire service. Paid fire departments train every day to keep their skills sharp. Like the old saying, Train Like You Fight.

After eight weeks we finished off our training with a drill fire. Note: There is no realism simulating putting out a fire; you need fire. Departments will go out and look for old abandoned or soon to be torn down structures that benefit the department as well as the owner of the building. First, the department gains valuable experience by fighting a real fire, which can include forcible entry, ventilation, fire behavior, and search and rescue. The owner wins because they don’t need to demolish and haul away the building. There are several hoops that must be jumped through before you can legally burn a building. You must get a permit from air pollution control, the EPA (if there is potential environmental impact), and maybe the FFA, if the building is in a direct path of flight activity. All asbestos must be removed, asphalt roofing must be removed, windows boarded up (to retain heat) and vent holes in the roof need to be cut in case of emergency (these holes are usually covered with plywood and pulled off if needed). Once everything is in order, you need to load the house with combustibles (fire load) to get good heat production.

Our drill fire was held on Sunday morning so volunteers who had to work Saturdays could attend. Safety was paramount. Backup lines, exposure lines, and every conceivable piece of equipment were in place. Captain Farrar took us, eight recruits (four had dropped out), into the living