Turning In My Turnout Gear

I don’t think I would have believed someone if they had told me that when I signed up for that half marathon, not only would I not run it, but I would still be dealing with issues from it four years later to the point of limited mobility. Like, what the hell could I have done that it would upheave my life so much, other than like getting hit by a freaking car?

But here I am. I have been very vocal about my leg struggle, in part in the hopes that someone might have some type of advice or insight . 

Four years, three surgeries, countless doctors visits, physical therapy appointments, medications, injections…and somehow I am worse than when this started. So many things I haven’t done or gone to because it would simply cause too much pain. If I’m going to be there for more than a half hour, I need a place to sit. But then I also can’t sit in stadium seating or even at a desk because it cramps my leg up too much. Can’t be too much pressure on my quad. Frankly, when my leg can be straight out or with a slight bend in front me - like if you’re lying down - that is the ideal. Obviously, this is not a realistic way of living. I’m limited on the shoes I can wear without causing my leg pain.

My life revolves around my leg, and no one is giving me any answers. At this point, honestly, I don’t know what to do. You don’t feel like you’re being heard or understood, you feel crazy,  but you know something just is not right. I don’t even know what questions to ask anymore.

Chronic pain is also exhausting. I feel like because I am so tensed up when it's hurting, it wipes me out. Like, three separate times now, I’ve started to recover to the point I am becoming more active and doing things again (walking, yoga, biking) and then it is like I slam into a freaking wall and regress, and the pain returns.

Last time, last time I was so close. I was going to private yoga a couple times a week. I was walking without problems. I was even looking at how I could return to firefighting. It was going to be a while still because I was so out of shape, but I thought it was going to happen. My company did a pump operators class that I took because I thought I was on my way back.

And it all went to shit. More questions with no answers and shrugs. More than once I thought I was going to the ER because I was in so much pain, and at this point, my pain tolerance when it comes to my leg is fairly high.

So, the last time I was at my doctor’s trying to figure out what the hell we were going to do next, I asked it. 

“I’m not going to be able to go back to firefighting, am I?”

He didn’t hesitate. “No. You’re not.” 

And I knew. Of course I knew. I had just never heard it said, confirmed. Now, I am looking for the minimum - to live a life pain free where I can function as a normal, active adult. I’m not even looking to run a 5K. I’m talking about spending a day at an amusement park. Stand in a bar - or anywhere without having to worry about cutting my time short because I can’t sit. Go to a concert. Shop at an outlet mall. I can’t do those things now. Returning to firefighting is such an alien concept. 

If I can get back to where I can live my life, I can’t risk that. Walking. That’s what I want to be able to do. Walk. It is insane because in theory, I’m not asking for much. To get it back would be everything. But I know it comes with a loss. 

The whole thing is weird. I was 14 years old when I joined the fire department. At 16, I became an EMT. I grew up there. Never really stopped growing up there. What magazines have I been published in? Firefighting ones. 

Now, I didn’t up and quit. I’m still there. Not that easy to get rid of me. In the four years I have been unable to do firefighting, I have still managed to keep quite involved and busy with things on the administrative end. I’m proud of the work I’ve done. I’ve enjoyed it. And I have plenty of things I want to get done.

But it's not firefighting. It is not getting geared up, riding the trucks, and all the work. Packing up and going on air, throwing ladders, holding a hoseline, training with forcible entry tools - the feel and the memory could be from yesterday. All of it. The only way I can think to describe it is like a phantom pain, but pain isn’t appropriate? It’s just there. Now I guess it’ll stay a ghost.

For the longest time I went back and forth on what I should do. My gear just continued to hang in my locker. I’d change the battery in my portable radio. I would wonder aloud if I should pull my gear out, and it was always, no, no, I’d be back.

I really thought I’d be back. If anyone didn’t, they didn’t tell me. I really thought I’d be cleared, start working out, get in the best shape of my life, and go back into firefighting, where I’d have to do a lot of relearning, but I’d be a firefighter again. I thought I’d be back.

Well, now, coming back wasn’t going to happen. It was a gut punch. 

No one was forcing me to make the switch - hell, no one knew beyond me, my mom, my college roommate, and my doctor until I told my chief that I wasn’t coming back-, but, as much as I didn’t want to “end” being a firefighter, I knew that moving forward meant closing that door. That’s literally how I saw it - turning in my gear was closing the door, not looking back, and walking forward.

When I told my chief that I was switching to a support member because I knew that I would not be able to return as a firefighter, I had told no one I made that decision.. Like a Band-Aid. 

Even though to whomever is reading this, it might make perfect sense that I was turning it in on the firefighting side, it still sucked to make that decision. It was emotional. It was a lot. For more than half my life, I had belonged to the fire department, and I could say “I am a firefighter.”

I held out hope for so long. So long. It just didn’t make sense. I don’t think I ever truly considered this possibility becoming reality. Yeah, life isn’t fair. But I had done everything I was supposed to. Hell, this happened because I was trying to get in better shape to be a better firefighter. And none of that happened. Pretty much the opposite, in fact.

Many, many times have I heard over the last couple years how important the work I do on the administrative end is. I know this. There are plenty of administrative aspects I enjoy. Some of it, I’m good at. But I didn’t dream of sitting on the board when I was a kid. I wanted to ride fire trucks. I still want to ride fire trucks.I should have had years left riding fire trucks. The administration end just isn’t the same. I hate everything about what happened. 

And, I get people trying to make me feel better by saying they’d make the same decision. But I’ve watched enough firefighters over the years to know that is not the case. Just don’t want to let go. “It could be worse” doesn’t help either. I know it could be. But this is what I was given, and it’s ruined my life, well beyond not being able to be a firefighter. Everything I want to do is dependent on estimating pain. I get stupidly stressed about shoes because I have so many problems finding shoes that don’t cause my leg pain. The amount of time I think about shoes baffles me. I’ll let myself be bitter.

Also - it wasn’t really that I made the choice to give up firefighting. That choice was made for me, and, honestly, I don’t know how long ago it was made because I kept holding onto hope for something that wasn’t there. I had to accept that it wasn’t. Letting go of that hope was acknowledging I wasn’t going back. There’s a difference. It wasn’t my decision.

I never got to go on a call with my youngest brother. It never was the four Mikulans on a call. That hurts, a lot, too, in several ways.

There wasn’t any rush on cleaning out my locker and going through my equipment to turn it in or anything; it’s not like anyone was lining up for it. But it was the Band-Aid. I wanted to get it over with. I went up on a Saturday night because I knew there was going to be a good chance that no one else would be up there. 

I had asked if I could keep my shield, which I could. I had a “Livestrong” style bracelet on my shield for Officer Michael Crawshaw - a Shaler graduate who died in the line of duty as a Penn Hills police officer my senior year of high school. I was an awardee of his scholarship and had participated in a couple events in the years since. I’m pretty sure that had been on my shield since about 2017. Frankly, I was a little afraid of trying to take it off and it snap and break and then I would have been a whole other level of upset. 

Taking apart my gear was definitely something I had to do alone. There were emotional moments, there were tears, and I had to let it happen. I had to let those emotions out and just let them be. I didn’t want comfort. Letting my emotions free was part of letting go and closing that door. 

The first couple weeks after, I had to have thought to myself a million times, “I am not a firefighter.” The fire department still is a huge part of who I am, but the identity was different. When someone asks if I am a volunteer firefighter, the answer is now no. I’m not. Plenty will say I’m overthinking it, but those are the facts. I’m not a firefighter. No, it isn’t like everything I knew about firefighting is now erased from my mind. I have firefighting certifications that won’t expire (thanks, Pro-Board!). But it’s different now. 

It is bonkers to me that my dad wasn’t part of this decision. Although, he would’ve told me I had to do what I thought was right and that it wasn’t a decision anyone else could make for me. Even though it was not quite a year after his death that I made this decision, I really didn’t think it was one I’d be making so soon. Not returning as a firefighter wasn’t a consideration. I was going to find some way back. I vividly remember the training and the night I took myself out of service. I remember the call we had that day, too. The engine didn’t leave the station. I had just climbed in when we were returned. 

In what world could I have known that was the beginning of the end?

The other thing I’ve realized with this is that I have to remain committed to this decision. Some have said about medical advancements or whatever, but unless I have a new leg or with bionic parts or something, I can’t consider going back. I can’t play that game. My hat (helmet) is hung up, the door is shut. I’ll keep trying like hell to find relief. There has to be something out there. I miss running, but I miss walking much more.

I didn’t think the beginning of my thirties would bring the end of my firefighting. There is slight relief in just knowing, I’ll admit. No more wondering how hard a comeback will be, how much will I have to relearn, will I be able to after so much time, wondering when I could start making those moves? No more stressing about possibilities that (I now know) weren’t going to happen. 

It is definitely not the way I thought anything would go. I’m pissed. I’m probably going to be pissed for a long time. I’m not even going to try and understand the “why” because I don’t think there's an answer that won’t make me more pissed off. I’ll stay angry, but it is what it is. 

I always thought I was lucky to be a volunteer firefighter. Thankful. I still am. I may hate how that part of my life ended, but I’m still grateful I got to do it. That’s an always.