Some time ago...

We were watching a documentary about parasites on the Discovery Channel, my number one son, A, and I. We sprawled on the couch, a summer breeze wafting through the house. On the TV, we were guided through an exposition on leeches. Terrifying, misunderstood, they have a time-proven value in reconstructive surgeries, promoting blood flow, for instance, in cases of digital reattachment. The leech secretes both anesthetic and anti-coagulant, painlessly gorging on its host's life's blood. We watched, fascinated, as our host placed a half-inch long leech on his forearm. In less time than it took to write this paragraph, the leech had swelled to three inches in length, thick as one of my meaty fingers. Grinning, he plucked it from his arm, and the blood continued to ooze from the tiny wound while he spoke.

Number 1 son: "I think I'm gonna puke."

The last time my son hurled, he was watching TV, in this very same room, on this very same carpet. It is a Persian carpet, wool, eight by twelve feet, and dead-body-heavy. The closest carpet cleaner, in Seattle, is a ferry ride and more than an hour's time away. Puke on the carpet is huge pain in the ass.

Dad, logically, "Well, get off the damn carpet."

Number 1 son sprang up, made for the bathroom, through the kitchen. Three steps - WHAM. What the hell? The family converged on the kitchen, drawn by the noise. My son, A, lay on his right side, against the oven. I rolled him onto his back, his limp body flopping over on the cold slate, his bloodless face white against the jade.

"Not again."

The men of my in-laws' family (Do in-laws remain in-laws after the law is broken?) have a long tradition of fainting. Getting a shot poses an existential crisis for my son's uncle. Grandpa E has hit the deck a few times in his time. Number 1 son, recently, pulled a loose tooth at my behest, goaded by a fat ten dollar bill if he could just get it over with, instead of worrying over the dangling incisor for days. I found him, then, on this same kitchen floor, passed out after seeing the tiny drool of blood in the white porcelain sink. I am not surprised, but I am filled with a disgusting guilt for not expecting this. I feel like I should have recognized the signs of a pending fainting.

A's right eyebrow is split open by the impact against... the stove? the cabinet? I'm not sure. I imagine a ripe tomato, on hitting a hard and immovable surface, would pop in exactly the same manner. He's not awake, nor is he bleeding. It looks serious enough to warrant stitching, as, in childhood, my sisters were stitched up after certain bouts of horseplay. Not sure what to do, I call 911.

The fire station is less than a half mile down the road, and shortly there is a fire engine and a medic unit in the gravel drive. A is now awake, still lying on the floor. He's still pasty, and the gash on his forehead refuses to bleed. His mom gets a blanket. The paramedic and his bunker-clad EMTs assess his vital signs: his blood pressure is low. Volunteers arrive in their cars. We stand in the kitchen, over number 1 son, in a loose circle. It is a pretty big kitchen. I feel foolish for calling these people to our home for such a silly drama. The paramedic calls our family doctor. I drive him to the doctor's house and A's eyebrow is glued together, with a caution to sleep on his back for a few days, lest his eyebrow heal crookedly.

I resolved that I would become an EMT. With three kids in the house, and living on an island, I could protect my family and help my neighbors. The next Monday I found the training office at the fire station down the road, and was welcomed into the volunteer fire service. I attended King County Medic One EMT classes in Bellevue, carpooling on the ferry ride with new friends every Thursday evening. Saturdays we spent at a fire station in Kent, practicing our new skills under the eyes of our instructors. We took our tests, and received our certificates from the state. When the volunteer fire academy rolled around, I signed up for that, too.

In rural America, people become firefighters for the same reason I did: to help your neighbors, to learn something useful, and because someone's gotta do it. In 2006, the National Fire Protection Association (NFPA) counted 823,950 volunteers in the fire service, against 316,950 paid, or career, firefighters. Clearly, most of the firefighters out there, 72%, are doing this out of altrusim, perhaps a family tradition, or a desire for excitement. Unfortunately, the same census disclosed an 8% decline in volunteers since 1984. As our populace migrates into the denser metropolitan areas, there will be fewer volunteers covering an increasingly isolated rural population. In the two departments for which I volunteered, this decline in the local volunteer pool prompted a call for candidates from outside the community. Unlike myself, these were people motivated to attain employment in the fire service, looking for training and experience to further a professional career. I came to embrace the idea that I could actually be a paid firefighter, and threw myself into my studies.

I fantasize, like many firefighters, that my son would make an excellent firefighter. He is whip-smart, and breezes through tests. He's more than up to the physical challenges of the work, and he possesses that vital quality measured and weighed during probation - he's nice. He is on the cusp of eighteen, with a university education all lined up. He may change his mind about business school, as I changed mine repeatedly in college. I think he'd love firefighting, the learning, the helping, the camaraderie - if he's outgrown the fainting.