Being a first responder – a police officer, firefighter or emergency medical worker – isn't a vocation, it's an advocation, Harford County's director of emergency services, who's a longtime volunteer firefighter in Bel Air and a former Harford sheriff's deputy, says.
Day in and day out, first responders put their lives on the line to help others. It's what they're trained for, to render aid to a victim. But their job becomes more difficult when the victim is a colleague, which was the case in Tuesday's accident that killed Bel Air Volunteer Fire Company paramedic Erik Steciak.
The 29-year-old had worked as a paid paramedic for Bel Air Volunteer Fire Company since December 2011 and was on duty Tuesday, responding to treat a patient at a home on Patterson Mill Road when he was fatally struck by a fire company utility vehicle as he walked down the driveway. In addition to working for Bel Air, he was a captain with the West Friendship Volunteer Fire Department in Howard County, where he lived.
Having to treat one of their own is particularly hard for emergency responders.
"It's difficult because you have to set whatever emotions, feelings you have, you have to set that aside. You can't let emotions enter into the rescue and treatment of a patient. To do so would not allow you to treat patient quickly, responsibly and efficiently," Edward Hopkins, director of the Harford County Department of Emergency Services, said Wednesday.
Hopkins is a former Harford County Sheriff's deputy and has been a member of Bel Air Volunteer Fire Company for 40 years, serving as fire chief for several years up until last summer. He was at the accident scene Tuesday afternoon both to support the fire service and as a liaison for Harford County Executive Barry Glassman, himself an ex-volunteer firefighter.
"In this case, you have a public safety service worker, providing service to a company, clearly Mr. Glassman want to know how he can help in whatever means possible," Hopkins said.
When emergency responders deal with the public, they're caring and compassionate, but they don't necessarily have an emotional attachment to the patient they're treating. They're there to do a job and the patient's family depends on them to be somewhat detached, Hopkins explained. They depend on them to make decisions without emotion.
"The tendency for emotion to override judgment comes into play when working on colleague. That person is a friend, for all intents and purposes a brother or sister," Hopkins said.
Emergency workers are exposed to everyday things the general public is not, and "they develop a bond because they see some of the most horrible things they see in society - murder, suicide. They develop a close bond with each other," he said.
According to Hopkins, it's easier to detach when emergency responders don't personally know the person they're treating.
"When you see a brother or sister go down in the line of duty, because you care about them as a friend, a colleague, a brother or sister, you set those emotions aside and then work. That's different because you get caught up in the emotion. You have to detach yourself and do what's best for the patient," Hopkins said.
Ripple effect
Capt. Steciak's death has had what Hopkins called a "terrible ripple effect" throughout the community.
It affects the dispatchers who took the call, police officers who witnessed the accident, the paramedics who treated him.
"Not only are the people at the scene emotionally involved, but the people who support those in the field, they're all affected by what occurred," Hopkins said.
They may not have worked with Capt. Steciak directly, but they know his name, his face, his voice from being at emergency situations together.
"There's a ripple effect of someone, a police officer or EMS worker, who puts themselves out there to protect the public, to do what they do and expose themselves to danger," Hopkins said, adding that when something happens to them, "it has a far-reaching ripple effect. That's how deep the roots of public safety go in the community."
Never them
Emergency workers never expect to be the victims, Hopkins said.
"The people who work in this industry, who invest themselves in this line of work, they never see themselves as being on the other side of the coin," he said. "They're there to help people, to provide a service so people can hopefully live good, quality lives."
They don't see themselves as being infallible, or super people who can't be hurt, he explained, "but we don't see ourselves in this kind of situation. So getting your head wrapped around the situation is difficult for everyone."
It's emergencies like this when the emergency community as a whole comes together, Hopkins said.
Even as members of the Bel Air fire company tended to their colleague Tuesday afternoon and mourned his death later that night, the members still had to answer calls to help other people.
"They don't stop just because we have a member down," Hopkins said. "Fortunately, it's a built-in thing with fire and EMS, they can count on other fire companies to help us out."
Hopkins said he saw numerous Baltimore County vehicles at Bel Air's Hickory Avenue firehouse Tuesday night, responding to calls to give Bel Air members time to grieve.
Lean on each other
Gone are the days when first responders heard "you're a man, take it like a man" when it comes to handling situations like a co-worker's or colleague's death.
"Society has evolved so everyone truly cares about one another," Hopkins said.
Today, those first responders, who tend to keep things close to the vest, are encouraged to talk about stressful incidents and those involving fatalities.
The county's department of emergency services and the fire service have a critical incident stress management team made up of people who are trained to let the responders talk and listen to them and guide them in their conversation.
"They encourage you not to keep it in, don't seek solace in alcohol or loneliness. If you need to cry, cry; if you need to lean on someone, ask for help," Hopkins said.
The more first responders train, the more automatic their response becomes, so almost instinctively they know what they need to do.
"But it's more intense when it's someone you know," Hopkins said. Afterward, he added, emergency responders will question what else they could have done, could they have done more.
"They're second-guessing themselves forever when the reality is sometimes the injuries and deaths we see are so obvious to us, our efforts are mostly likely going to be futile, but we give every effort for survival," he said.
As part of the recovery process, the peer support staff let the first responders vent those thoughts.
"They listen, they let you grieve, express grief and emotion in a controlled environment where not alone," Hopkins said.
Drawing from experience
Capt. Steciak's death in the line of duty conjures up a lot of memories for Hopkins.
His father, Harry E. Hopkins Jr., had a heart attack while working at the Bel Air firehouse and died Jan. 3, 1974, when Hopkins was 16 and had just a few months earlier joined the fire service.
"My father's death made me more sensitive to what Mr. Steciak's family is going through. I can help families and work with fire companies to provide a sense of recognition, that what their loved one did mattered, was important and kept society safer and in many cases helped restore lives to people," Hopkins said.
"I would much rather have had my dad, but I honor his memory every day because he was doing what he loved to do. And Erik was in the field doing what he loved to do. It's not a vocation, it's an advocation."