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The firefighters were at our front door. Again. In the middle of the night. Again. For the eighth time in four weeks.
My husband is a polio survivor. He overcame the paralysis that left him in metal and leather leg braces as a child to have a mostly normal life of school, marriage and a job . . . until his mid-30s. Then, post-polio muscular atrophy set in. Some muscles had never completely recovered from polio, so other muscles had compensated. As a result, the strong muscles were overworked and became weaker earlier in his life than they should have. Now he has leg muscles that will not support him, often when he is tired but usually without warning.
The crash of him falling jolts me out of a sound sleep. I rush, stumbling to his location. I assure the responder from the medical alert company, and a few minutes later the local 911 dispatcher, that my husband is not bleeding, that nothing is broken, that he just needs a lift assist. A few minutes later, a large fire truck parks in front of our house. From the moment of the fall to the arrival of the firefighters, less than 30 minutes have passed. Still, the time feels like an eternity.
They don’t look like angels, these ordinary men and women in work boots, baggy pants with suspenders, and t-shirts with the fire department emblem on the left chest. You know those firefighters you’ve seen in photos and calendars, all buff and shirtless and gorgeous with their pants slung low on their hips? Well, they don’t work at our local fire station. The ones who do work there, however, are an even more welcome sight. Getting my husband up takes two of them, because he is not able to help in any way. They guide him to the bed and make sure he is comfortable. Usually, he is asleep before I can sign the paperwork and see the rescuers out. I also rest easy, knowing that I have seen the Lord at work.
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