Dec. 30--As soon as I put the oxygen mask on my face, I had to ask: What did I just get myself into?
There I was, my 5-foot-tall stature drowning in firefighter gear, with the kneepads of my pants bunched at my ankles, suspenders cinched to the max, a heavy jacket, some kind of white babushka on my head and now an oxygen mask.
I was getting fitted at the Benham Hill Fire Station for my "fire outfit" as I called it on a recent afternoon, just a few days before I was set to enter a burning building during firefighter training for an unusual reporting assignment.
But what if my oxygen tank malfunctions and suddenly blows no air? What if my sneeze disease takes over and I'm achoo-ing out of control in the mask?
I was already panicking and nowhere near a fire yet.
I like to think I'll try anything once, so when West Shore Deputy Chief Patrick Pickering invited me to tag along on a training excursion with his crew, I didn't hesitate.
Time to re-evaluate my decision-making skills.
Chief helped me try on the gear that recent Friday afternoon at the fire house and told me what I was in for at the New Haven Regional Fire Training Academy on Ella Grasso Boulevard. We used my iPhone to snap a couple shots of me wearing the latest in firefighter fashion, and boy, did people have fun with that.
My mom showed the picture to her co-worker, who apparently couldn't stop laughing. A graphic designer friend in Guilford superimposed my image onto a "I Want to be a Firefighter When I Grow Up" coloring book cover and emailed it to me. Meanwhile, I fretted the entire weekend about the conditions I'd encounter.
When I drove up to the training facility in West Haven that Monday morning, members of all three of West Haven's separate fire departments -- West Shore, Center district and the City of West Haven Fire Department Allingtown -- were already working on a fire. The building is cement, so it can never burn down, and filled with hay, which makes a ton of smoke.
The day's lessons focused on hose handling and basement blazes. I listened to a group debrief after the latest evolution -- one round of the day's training -- and finished piling on protective equipment, including an unwieldy 40-pound oxygen tank.
Now it was my turn.
By the time Pickering and I went in the building through a ground-level door, the fire set just one room over was already getting drenched. But that made for a tsunami of extra smoke, haze and noise -- my ears, buried under layers of gear, struggled to listen for directions as hoses blasted and firefighters hollered to each other.
"Kneel on the ground!" Pickering yelled, as I tried to get my bearings and wipe fog from my face mask. I obeyed, but still could barely see a thing. Focusing on my fear of this temporary blindness took my mind off the stifling oxygen mask, but then another element brought anxiety: the intense heat.
"Don't pass out, don't pass out," I told myself.
We used Pickering's flashlight and thermal imaging camera, called a TIC by the pros, to look around the room and determine the temperature of different areas. I was in there for only a few minutes at that point, but couldn't wait until he gave the go-ahead to leave.
Soon, someone opened the door, and the light pouring in was the best thing I'd seen all day. I got out, ripped the oxygen mask off my face, and gulped down water from a cooler.
"Did ya like it?" a few firefighters asked me while I took a break. "Ummm," I stammered, wondering how I could answer honestly without offending them. "It was pretty bad. You couldn't pay me enough to do this for a job."
For my second time in the building, we climbed a set of outdoor stairs. I was huffing and puffing by the time we finished thanks to that tank on my back, and then Pickering told me we'd be going down stairs inside.
"What?! I can't see them. I don't wanna fall! Where are they?" I shrieked, flailing my arms all over the place in the dark to find his for guidance. I was told to go down each step on my butt as a flashlight led the way.
Despite wearing thick gloves, it almost felt like my fingers were burning as they grabbed the steps and railing. When we finally got to the bottom, Pickering told me to lie flat on the floor and peek around the doorway.
I could see huge orange flames leaping around the room and firefighters trying to tame them. No wonder this heat was the worst I'd felt since I started the exercise. Pickering handed me the TIC, which, when pointed at the fire, read 600, then climbed to 700 and 800 degrees. We shut the door and watched the TIC's numbers fall.
When we opened it again, the fire was still raging. "Where are they? Why aren't they putting it out? Why are they taking so long?" I pestered Pickering, starting to feel frustrated, sweaty and impatient.
A few minutes later, the "orange dragon," as one guy called it, was hosed down and chief said I was done. I couldn't have been more relieved.
I asked West Shore firefighter Rebecca Wilson, who is around my height, how she handles all of this. She said she does exercises that mimic rescue work: running up and down flights of stairs with a weighted vest.
When I questioned if they still get scared, some firefighters told me that mostly stops once they complete fire school. Allingtown Capt. Marshall Sampietro told me a few weeks later, "If any firefighters tell you they never got scared, they're lying."
I attempted to get an answer that would satisfy me as to why in the world they keep willingly running into burning buildings.
As Center District firefighter Billy Bruneau said, it's all about the times you "make a save and get someone out."
I think I'll stick with the one role I do have at fires: standing on the sidelines with my notepad asking questions.
Call Susan Misur at 203-789-5742.
Copyright 2012 - New Haven Register, Conn.
