at Gwern's request
The ambulance screeched to a halt with the flair outside an apartment block whose hallway smelled like dry leaves, soggy cardboard, and… was that melted cheese? Best not to investigate. Within seconds, we found a woman—, lifeless, sprawled in the kitchen next to a pool of blood and a knife.
In the dining room, there she was: a five-year-old girl playing with dolls. No sobs. No tremors. I couldn’t tell if it was Buddhist calm or the prologue to a trauma that bills you for therapy later.
"Were you waiting for your mom?" I asked in my best cotton-stuffed teddy bear voice.
"Yes," she replied without blinking, like she’d rehearsed for the role of creepy-kid-in-a-horror-movie.
From my backpack, I pulled out the Kiko hat, the firefighter who carried toys instead of hoses. (El Chavo del 8, the show that in Brazil makes us laugh till we cry—from joy or second-hand embarrassment, like I do here).
I puffed out my cheeks with an invisible pill like a party balloon and held up the cap as if it were the Holy Grail of giggles.
There were no epic belly laughs, but she let out a tiny, sweet chuckle that made the kitchen's death-stench about 2% less suffocating with my cheeks.
My crewmates were already in the truck. The kind of guys who compartmentalize pain like it’s part of the job description.
“Get down here, come with us!”
“No, no, no, sergeant. I’m staying until the child protection officer arrives,” I said, firm, like I wasn’t just a firefighter clown but the damn ringmaster of this circus.
It was one of those rare moments where I let the anger through—the kind I’d always been afraid to use.
He choked on his own fury and spat,“We’ll talk later. Seems like you don’t want this job...”
I stayed.
Forty minutes later, an officer arrived—carrying more folders than dreams. We headed to the agency and spent three hours sitting on plastic chairs. The girl and I made an unspoken pact: either laugh at my goofy faces or die of boredom.
When her aunt finally arrived—so calm even the air got bored—I felt a brief relief. The kind that only lasts until the next call.
Back at the station, the sergeant cornered me and dropped his favorite sermon:
“You need to learn to detach, like the rest of us. Otherwise, you won’t last ten years in this job.”
And me thought:
I’d rather last two years being human than ten as a protocol-driven tin man.
But I didn’t have the energy to say any of that.
I just spent months hurting quietly, convinced that maybe the most rational thing to do… was to stop being rational.
Twelve years later, I see it differently.
Now I can ice dive. Feel the sharp ache in my hands, the numbness in my feet, my skin turning foreign under the cold. I stay just long enough not to break. Then I step out. I warm myself by the fire of silly laughter, of shared coffee mugs, of hugs that solve nothing but hold everything together. It’s about choosing when to inhabit the pain—and when to let it go.
These days, my work revolves around identities and human traits. What’s the right proportion for each in my life? Am I a martyr, a firefighter, or someone who’s learning to be more strategic—and sometimes, more empathetic?
Sometimes I’m more shield. Other times, more shelter. Never just one thing.
Well, these seem to be the 4 stories of the most extreme moments as a military firefighter:
https://www.lesswrong.com/posts/5XznvCufF5LK4d2Db/the-semi-rational-militar-firefighter
https://www.lesswrong.com/posts/zzMbNKYaGqazwBnjF/when-the-wannabe-rambo-comedian-cried
It was something that I tried to forget for a good part of my life, but if anyone is interested, I can continue trying to remember others.