Supporting Firefighters

When I was a child, I waved from the back of a big, red fire truck in almost every parade that wound through the streets of Beckley, West Virginia. I also spent a lot of time at the fire department watching the firemen slide down the shiny, brass pole—all because my dad was a fireman.

My friends liked dinner at my house because the conversation described the gory details about fires. One night I knew something was different. Mom had dinner on the table, but Dad was not home yet. It was unusual that Dad hadn’t called to tell Mom that he would be late. But then again, there had been a huge warehouse fire that day and he may still be busy with that.

The ring of the harvest gold, rotary-dial phone attached to the wall, startled my mother, brother and me. It was the hospital. My father had passed out in the fire and had been taken to the emergency room. The doctor said that he would be okay, but was suffering from smoke inhalation.

Later, when Dad told us the story, he described the new masks that firemen were required to wear. He had removed his during the fire because it wasn’t working and was overcome by smoke. Little did we know this would foreshadow his later medical condition.

Many years after this incident, a chest x-ray revealed spots on his lungs with a diagnosis of pneumoconiosis. Being from West Virginia, I was familiar with black lung disease for coal miners, but not firefighters. The doctor determined Dad could no longer work as a fireman. He retired from his much-loved career with 22 years of service.

Eight years ago he won a battle with lung cancer. However, it was to be short-lived because Dad’s death last week was caused by the return of lung cancer.

Before he passed away, Dad requested a small family service with no flowers. We hadn’t asked him where he wanted friends to send donations so I called the Beckley Fire Department to inquire about a donation fund.

The lieutenant explained that they did not have one established. He told me a story about a fireman who had cancer but was not eligible for retirement and that a fund such as this would have helped him and his family.

After discussing it with my mother, brother and sister we decided that Dad would have wanted a fund to help others since he often took firemen under-his-wing and showed them the ropes. I was pleasantly surprised when the Lieutenant said the firemen fondly remembered my father and still told stories about him. He said they decided to call it the Bob Perdue Firefighters Relief Fund in my dad’s honor.

My gift for the day was helping establish the fund and giving the first donation to it.

In Giving and Remembering,

Robin