8 Buttons

         We lost you. It was Thanksgiving at the station, a day that I love. The two company house is filled with so much food that you lounge around in pain, bellyaching about not eating another thing as you grab a paper plate for just one more bite. It takes all day to prepare dinner for more than 30 family members coming to eat with us, all while running calls to those who need us in the community.  Children’s laughter echo through the station as they run around. There are at least 14. The laughter permeates every corner of the building as the adults have scattered conversations catching up, running a call and coming back to catch up some more. The children know what to do when it’s time for us to go.  Everyone steps back from the trucks and as the tones go off, watch us get dressed, lights on, hurry up, we have a job to do. We come back to the questions of the older ones, “What did you go on, what did you do,” while the little ones want to hear the siren again.

         We clean up and prepare for bed after our families say their goodbyes; reflecting on how the  fire station is a wonderful place to break bread on holidays. The best job in the world they say. We are family, they say.

        We sleep almost all night and awake as usual to the tones in not-so-subtle suggestion, “Hey you, get out of bed.” We all file into the bathroom for our morning routines as the oncoming shift joins us. Both men and women share this space together. We are family. It is there someone enters, dazed, serious and quiet. “Ashley was killed last night.” While we were full of love, family and food, you were being shot down on a porch in a town not too far away by a stranger looking to make a point to someone you didn’t even know. You tried with all your might to survive, but lost that war in the night as we slept. Some stood silently, others asked a million questions all in disbelief of the announcement.

        The next few days were a blur as the hustle and bustle of preparing for a firefighter’s funeral began. Taking care of your family, our crews, ourselves. Preparing for people from as far as other states to come pay respects to you. You were the second major loss this year and we weren’t ready. Like a baseball bat to the knees we felt the pain and no medical knowledge we had could help us stop it.

        With so much to do I volunteered to get your burial uniform ready;  I lived close to the shop cleaning it. While picking it up I was told there was no time to get the eight gold buttons on your jacket. In excitement of your recent promotion you hadn’t gotten your new buttons, silver to gold. They had to be hand sewn. I asked for the buttons and went home.

        Eight gold buttons. I was going to make sure it was right. I cried as I sewed the first one knowing that this is the suit that you spend your eternity in. I thought about the last time you wore it during the promotion ceremony as your family pinned the gold badge and celebrated your successes. How wearing it this time would be shrouded in sadness. Just 8 gold buttons.

        As I sewed the buttons on I thought of your dedication to this job. How you tried a little harder than the rest and how it showed in your work. Your beautiful smile radiating a room with comfort , kindness and wisdom to those around you whether it was new recruits, community or the old guys who loved your spirit despite being grumpy about the job itself.

        As I sewed the buttons on I thought of how the community lost you. How you created an open house to welcome them. How they embraced it. How much they needed you and your calm approach on scenes. How a city full of little brown girls needed you so much, so they too knew they can do anything if they put their mind too it and not to give up on dreams. How all children need to see  a mirror of themselves doing great things. How being a woman in this field showed strength, both mentally and physically. How you can show compassion as a woman  in this job even hugging a stranger on scene that needed it. A power that women hold of both nurturers and doers.

        As I sewed the buttons on I thought of your crew. So wounded by the events that the tears flowed openly. Something grown men struggle with, but not today. How instead of handshakes it was hugging. Instead of salutations and quick-witted banter, it was silence. How you could feel the grief, the tense muscles and clenched jaws. The deep breathing and sniffles as they tried to compose themselves.

        As I sewed the buttons on I thought of your mother.  A stoic matriarch as I brought the family meals to the house. How she greeted me with smiles and Thank you as she introduced me to every family member in the house. “This is Ashley’s father, this is her aunt, her godmother, her sister.  You know she is my only daughter left? Her other sister died last year, ” she said casually as she gently put an arm around her.  “Yes,” I replied, “ I did and I am sorry that you have lost your beautiful daughters.” What do you say to a mother who has lost two of her three children in less than 2 years? Not much that helps. She looked at me as I set up the food, “If you do all this I will have nothing to do.”  “Take a few minutes alone if you would like, you have a lot of people coming soon.” “Yes, I think I need a minute,” she replied as she excused herself.

        As I sewed the buttons on I thought of your boyfriend. Father of the very child you shielded from danger that night. He was with you. He is our fire brother. A man I have known since he was 14. A troubled kid who made it, but gave you all the credit. What will this do to him?  What road will he choose to take while healing? He knows enough about this job that he knew at that moment it was bad. He knows the reality of EMS. There was no denial for him to rest on as he was questioned by the police and taken to the hospital.

        As I sewed the buttons on I mourned for your children. The baby who was old enough to know what happened as you grabbed him then crumpled to the ground; the  screams and chaos that ensued after. Don’t remember that night, baby. Remember going to the park with you. Remember your laugh and how you sang him to sleep while in your lap. Remember you loved helping others. Live his life in your beautiful footsteps. I thought of your sister’s children. They lost not one, but two women in their life. How death changes a family in a second.

        As I sewed the buttons on I thought of the medic. One all of us knew. He once worked in the city side-by-side with us. He is the one who we all want to step off the rig during an emergency. It brought me comfort to know he was there with you. If you had an opportunity to live, it was with his strong hands and sharp mind. Yet I cried for him, too. The burden of working on your own work family, the personal pressure, the guilt that sneaks in in the night. Maybe, just maybe, he didn’t do everything he could. That worn-out tape in your head that haunts you awake and asleep.

        As I sewed the buttons on I knew I would miss you and that I, along with many of us, would never be the same, altered slightly as we continue to try to live and work giving so much of ourselves to others while we tended to our own hearts, broken and battered.  As we felt the pains so close of the violence that we are witness to every day. How close it was. How it burned. How we could do nothing else for you but care for what you loved so dearly. I finished sewing and held your coat for a few minutes in my arms as I finally stopped crying. I text your boyfriend to let him know that we were here for him. We are family.