I love being an EMT. Nothing makes me prouder than serving the community and helping folks in need. So when the local volunteer fire department asked me to monitor their members at trainings and on fire scenes I didn’t hesitate to say yes.
“We could really use more firefighters,” said a volunteer one day. “The certification class is coming up. Why don’t you take it?”
Helping out was one thing but me? A firefighter? I didn’t think I was strong enough. Plus, I’m afraid of heights! Although it would be nice to be able to help out in a bigger way than I already was. If only I could ask my father for advice, I thought.
My father had been a dedicated volunteer firefighter for more than 30 years. He passed away several years after I became an EMT. I cherished the memories I had of him being a firefighter and remembered how he’d never pressured me to become one too. Would he want me to take this opportunity?
“Sure, I’ll take the test,” I said, hoping I’d made the right choice.
The physical test was intense! I dragged a hose up and down flights of stairs; conducted searches with my facemask blacked out, navigated an obstacle course—even climbed a ladder two stories up to the roof of our community center. So much for not liking heights!
Soon it was time for the written state exam. I breezed through the questions as if I’d known the answers for years. The only thing left was to wait for the results.
Days went by with no word. No letter. No phone call. Nothing. Maybe I’m not meant to follow in my father’s footsteps, I thought, still longing to ask him what he thought of all this.
Five weeks later, the phone rang. It was one of my fire instructors.
“Congratulations, Rachel! You’re a firefighter!” he said.
The date? January 13. My father’s birthday. I didn’t have to wonder what he thought anymore.
