I Buried My Friend

Last month I buried my friend. A man who wore several uniforms, each with the purpose of helping others.

He was an EMT, a firefighter, father, son, brother, husband and friend to the hundreds who came to pay their respects to the man who’d made an impact on all of our lives in his short time here. All with equal sadness for his passing, tempered with equal anger because my friend committed suicide. He took his life from us, and selfishly we are hurt and mad at him.

Hundreds of us dressed in black and uniform blues. The words on everyone’s lips were, "How come he didn’t reach out? How come he didn’t call me? I was there for him.”

Here’s the thing. He did. He did reach out. Every day in EMS, fire and police, we reach out to each other as we struggle with difficult calls, but we don’t recognize it and we don’t address the problem the way we should. Then we're standing at a funeral, dressed in black, angry, repeating ourselves and blaming the victim or saying, “I should have done more.”

I watched speaker after speaker talk about how we need to recognize the symptoms and help each other in earnest over my friend’s casket. I worried that after the service, we’d just slip back into our old habits and continue to ignore the signs that we've all witnessed in every station.

The partner who boasts of getting black-out drunk—again—during the week. The one who sits in the truck instead of joining the group for meals. The one who laughs the loudest and seems the happiest. The one we all least suspect.

Studies on PTSD in first responders continue to climb, and the risk of suicide is double that of any other profession. I haven't talked to anyone in medical, fire or law who's been on the job for less than two years who doesn’t assume a vacant look when I mention PTSD as they quickly change the subject. Rarely does anyone want to engage.

Our culture in the United States is driven to not recognize these issues. We find ways to laugh at horrible situations and walk away so we can respond to the next call. To not show weakness. To not be pulled away from our duty so we can be there for the next one while our stress continues to build.  

Did my friend reach out for help? Yes, I know he did. As I have. As I know many of you do.

It comes in those quiet conversations when your shift is almost over. When you’re out having a beer and someone starts to open up. It shows up as they turn down an invitation to something they would always do. It’s the pause when you hug and say “how are you doing?” and they laugh...and lie...and say they are fine. But they paused. You heard it. You pat them on the back and gloss over it.

We gloss over it because we feel it too.

When over 85 percent of first responders have PTSD-related symptoms related to their work, how can we adequately treat each other when we all have the same problem?

We’re able to put on the uniform, smile, ask the questions, and act the part for the patient, but we don’t do it for each other because we need each other to be OK. We need our partners to have our backs so we can make it through the shift.

That’s why it is so devastating when one of us is lost to suicide. It’s not just that person in the casket. It’s a part of ourselves that lost the fight.

When I hear people say “I don’t understand why he didn’t reach out” or post the suicide hotline number on social media, I want them to understand that calling a number with strangers is not an option. Please understand that it’s not always a rash, insane decision. Sometimes it’s well planned.

The person has reached out. They just weren’t heard. They were told, “you’ll get through it” or “it’ll be OK, you’re tougher than you think.” They are not. No one is. Just because someone smiles does not mean they are happy. Happy Facebook posts do not mean life is perfect. Take the time to call them—don’t text them—if you are worried, so you can hear their voice.

Even better, go see them. That time to get coffee is better spent than sitting at another funeral, asking “why did this happen?”

Isaac “Skippy” Greenlaw was an integral part of the National EMS Memorial Bike Ride for several years. His uncomfortably long hugs will be greatly missed, as well as his goofy smile, his hearty laugh, and his “hello brotha’” that could be heard for half a mile.

Jen Lyon is a paramedic and member of the National EMS Memorial Bike Ride. She has written several short films including American Deportation, MindFull and The Light Watcher. She is in pre-production for Through The Cracks, a feature-length film about a paramedic struggling with PTSD. www.JenLyon.com