Isn’t it always like this: We were having a quiet night and preparing to head home when things began to pick up. We are in and out of this building regularly and think nothing of it because it is at the end of the business district, well hydranted, and fully sprinklered. No signs of problems from the outside so we head into the kitchen to see and ask what’s going on there.

I was the second firefighter into the kitchen area backing up one of our newer guys. There was a light smell of smoke but again nothing unusual for a large commercial kitchen in the process of closing for the night. I was even hearing light hearted banter from voices I would identify as kitchen workers. No sweat we’ll be back in time for the news. Almost instantly I felt the entire tenor of the room change from a summer evening to excruciating heat. The thought ran through my mind, you should be crawling under whatever this is not standing up. But the heat is coming up from the floor driving me back. My feet burned, my legs ached and I couldn’t get my bearings. The next thing that I know the guys behind me are speaking in loud voices and I am being dragged into the storage area outside the main kitchen.

The pain is incredible. I begin helping others take off my clothes as quickly as humanly possible. As I take off my slippery footwear I understand that I have been burned by hot cooking oil. It has soaked into my socks and it’s hot to the touch as we try and pull them off. Skin comes with the socks, yet some of the sock clings to the foot. One of the other officers brings over a large plastic box filled with ice and they put my feet and legs in it. They prepare me for a trip to the ER as others begin taming the hazmat spill in the kitchen, dealing with gallons and gallons of hot oil literally everywhere. There is no more light hearted banter.

As is often the case Fire and EMS are no strangers to emergency rooms. We seem to be there delivering the needy and sometimes just checking in with the other family that we have there, each of us appreciating the work the other does in their 24/7 parallel universe. But now I am firmly ensconced in their care and they have never been more attentive to me than they are tonight. That is not necessarily calming for me. You see, you don’t get care in the ER because they know you, you get what you deserve, and I was apparently at the top of someone’s list. I notice my wife next to me biting her lip. She has worked in hospitals up and down the East coast and I can see that it bothers her that she is not asked to help. I turn to say something to her just as all my breath is suddenly taken from me by the doc exploring my burns. “Does this hurt?” He asks with a sadistic smile borne of the knowledge that I will not immediately kick him in his privates and ask him the same question. Mental note to self, bring in the drunk car accident AND the frequent fliers the next time Doctor Pain works the over night.

I will not bore you with a more in-depth discussion of my stay, the ice cold water, the requests for drugs, and the wound debriedment. But suffice it to say that I knew it was time to leave when they started joking with me again. Bandaged, medicated, and humbled I was pushed from the hospital in a wheelchair into the quiet night.

There was a catastrophic failure of the used oil containment system is the official finding. In plain English I was near the fryer when the oil was draining from the reservoir and it came out like a waterfall without regard for anything in its path splashing against appliance and foot alike, simply following the rules of physics involving liquids and gravity.

I was “lucky.” The whole crew not only knew what to do, but did it and in record time. This limited the extent of my burns. They were confined to 1st, 2nd, and 3rd degree on my right and 1st degree on my left. Obviously the people taking my clothes off on the left side were more practiced than those on the right. This may have something to do with being single vs. being married, but we will research that particular angle at another time. Needless to say, I have a whole new appreciation for patients with burns and their associated pain.

After two months of light duty, mostly wearing sandals and bandages I’m back to boots and bunkers. The guys are making fun of me again and I found out that the thing that impressed them most was that I didn’t curse when it happened. Rats! Maybe I am growing up after all.