Critical Incident Stress Management Team Offers Peer-To-Peer Talks
March 15, 2020 at 11:26 p.m.
Critical Incident Stress Management Team Offers Peer-To-Peer Talks
By Teresa [email protected]
The emergency responder secures the scene, maybe an individual or two, puts out the fire, supports and transports the ill or injured, packs up equipment, restocks, writes a report and does it all over again, hour after hour, day after day, month after month and year after year.
“Emergency personnel are Type A personalities,” said Mike Wilson, Warsaw-Wayne Township Fire Territory chief, “Type A’s who fix everybody else’s problem. In the 80s, 90s and early 2’s, the motto was ‘Suck it up, buttercup.’”
No matter what had happened in the field, the firefighter, police officer and medical technician were expected to get right back in the truck, the car, the ambulance and answer the next call.
Now emergency departments take a proactive approach to critical incidents with a team certified in critical-incident stress debriefing.
In Kosciusko County, the team is Wilson, Warsaw Police Capt. Joel Beam, Warsaw police chaplain Layne Sumner, Parkview Samaritan EMT Carl Wireman, WWFT EMS coordinator Chris Fancil and Derek Shilling, a WWFT firefighter.
“A defusing takes place two to three days post-incident,” Sumner said. “We hear what they experienced. A debriefing is three to five days after an incident. We rehearse what happened and hear what they are experiencing emotionally.
“Police officers and firefighters can’t be distracted. They have to be focused at all times. Immediately after an incident they may be sad. Three or four days later they might be mad or feel guilty.
“A critical incident causes them distress or dysfunction,” Sumner said. “It could be a smell, a name, a sound.”
There are emergency personnel who have been on the job for 30 years. They’ve seen and experienced things most people never see or experience.
“They’ll be fine for years. They’ll rock along, incident after incident,” Wilson said. “and then something can hit them. Usually when there’s a child involved.
“Maybe they didn’t have children when they first started the job. Now they have children. A mother might meet them at the front door with a two- month-old, hand the child over, and say ‘Fix it.’”
The team offers peer-to-peer support. They’re not mental health professionals, although that’s available through the employee’s assistance program. The discussions are limited to the situation.
“We visited one department after five people died in a fire,” Wilson said. “Some of them couldn’t open their mouth. They sat with their arms over their chests.”
Wilson said he usually sits on the floor in the middle of the group. The team sees the guys who can’t talk, who won’t talk.
From the floor, Wilson launches the secret weapon. The secret weapon unerringly approaches the targets, the silent ones. The secret weapon can’t be denied.
Maverick, the secret weapon, is a therapy dog who lays in front of the person who needs him the most. The German Shepherd’s stars and stripes vest has a “I’m friendly, please pet me” patch.
The group conversation continues. The team remains present and listens. A hand reaches down to ruffle up some fur.
Maverick is five. He’s a young dog who looks like an old dog with a graying muzzle and a coat shot with silver. Wilson said Maverick gets his coloring from his sire who also tended toward gray patches.
“He’ll recognize someone who’s stressed and he’ll lie down before that person. It might take an hour before he’ll talk,” Wilson said. “Maverick gets it done. He takes on that stress and the next day doesn’t do anything but lay on the couch and crash.
“We have to help those emergency responders. If they don’t talk about it at work, they’ll decompress at home and everyone suffers.
“Police officers and firefighters have a high rate of suicide and we’ve hid it from the public all our lives. You can’t quit the job, but you can quit your life. Before that there might be problems with alcohol or drugs or a behavior that leads to divorce.”
Critical-incident stress debriefing was created in 1974 by Jeffrey T. Mitchell after the then-paramedic witnessed a horrific accident. He couldn’t get the scene out of his mind until he described the situation to a co-worker. He felt better, much better, after talking about it.
Also studying to become a psychologist Mitchell realized something: He talked about what happened and how he felt and found relief in that process.
Mitchell developed the debriefing method for high risk occupational groups and went on to form the International Critical Stress Foundation, which certifies the peer teams like the one in Kosciusko?County.
First recognized during the Vietnam War, post-traumatic stress disorder causes destructive behaviors and has debilitating effects on individuals. And, often the simple process of talking about the incident will not only relieve symptoms, symptoms might not develop.
Wilson took his first critical incident stress management class in 1978 when he was with the military police in the Army. He was stationed at Fort Harrison and his commander thought he might want to take the classes offered in South?Bend, close to his hometown, Warsaw. Wilson has taken the courses with national standards ever since.
“Many people respond to a faith-based approach,” Sumner said. “God puts us on the right team to take care of people one way or another.”
Maverick, who Wilson describes as just another tool in the toolbox, cruises through the courthouse and judge’s chambers, too. Wilson’s wife, Tracy, works with children in abusive situations and often takes the dog with the big brown eyes along for them to pet.
He didn’t have a promising start, this dog.
When Maverick was seven months old, a neighbor made an animal abuse call to the sheriff’s department. Found tied in a yard on a rope attached to his dead sister, with just green kiddie pool water to drink, Maverick was nursed to back health by the Wilsons and the late Richard Sasso, DMV.
At the time Wilson had retired from the fire department and took Maverick to work at McHatton-Sadler Funeral Chapel as a comfort dog.
“We noticed he responded to the front door bell, sat with the children, curled up on the seats with grieving men and women,” Wilson said. “He could always be found near the casket where the most grief was felt.
“We spend time in central dispatch, too, if someone is having a hard time. The dispatchers are the first to hear the screams.”
The emergency responder secures the scene, maybe an individual or two, puts out the fire, supports and transports the ill or injured, packs up equipment, restocks, writes a report and does it all over again, hour after hour, day after day, month after month and year after year.
“Emergency personnel are Type A personalities,” said Mike Wilson, Warsaw-Wayne Township Fire Territory chief, “Type A’s who fix everybody else’s problem. In the 80s, 90s and early 2’s, the motto was ‘Suck it up, buttercup.’”
No matter what had happened in the field, the firefighter, police officer and medical technician were expected to get right back in the truck, the car, the ambulance and answer the next call.
Now emergency departments take a proactive approach to critical incidents with a team certified in critical-incident stress debriefing.
In Kosciusko County, the team is Wilson, Warsaw Police Capt. Joel Beam, Warsaw police chaplain Layne Sumner, Parkview Samaritan EMT Carl Wireman, WWFT EMS coordinator Chris Fancil and Derek Shilling, a WWFT firefighter.
“A defusing takes place two to three days post-incident,” Sumner said. “We hear what they experienced. A debriefing is three to five days after an incident. We rehearse what happened and hear what they are experiencing emotionally.
“Police officers and firefighters can’t be distracted. They have to be focused at all times. Immediately after an incident they may be sad. Three or four days later they might be mad or feel guilty.
“A critical incident causes them distress or dysfunction,” Sumner said. “It could be a smell, a name, a sound.”
There are emergency personnel who have been on the job for 30 years. They’ve seen and experienced things most people never see or experience.
“They’ll be fine for years. They’ll rock along, incident after incident,” Wilson said. “and then something can hit them. Usually when there’s a child involved.
“Maybe they didn’t have children when they first started the job. Now they have children. A mother might meet them at the front door with a two- month-old, hand the child over, and say ‘Fix it.’”
The team offers peer-to-peer support. They’re not mental health professionals, although that’s available through the employee’s assistance program. The discussions are limited to the situation.
“We visited one department after five people died in a fire,” Wilson said. “Some of them couldn’t open their mouth. They sat with their arms over their chests.”
Wilson said he usually sits on the floor in the middle of the group. The team sees the guys who can’t talk, who won’t talk.
From the floor, Wilson launches the secret weapon. The secret weapon unerringly approaches the targets, the silent ones. The secret weapon can’t be denied.
Maverick, the secret weapon, is a therapy dog who lays in front of the person who needs him the most. The German Shepherd’s stars and stripes vest has a “I’m friendly, please pet me” patch.
The group conversation continues. The team remains present and listens. A hand reaches down to ruffle up some fur.
Maverick is five. He’s a young dog who looks like an old dog with a graying muzzle and a coat shot with silver. Wilson said Maverick gets his coloring from his sire who also tended toward gray patches.
“He’ll recognize someone who’s stressed and he’ll lie down before that person. It might take an hour before he’ll talk,” Wilson said. “Maverick gets it done. He takes on that stress and the next day doesn’t do anything but lay on the couch and crash.
“We have to help those emergency responders. If they don’t talk about it at work, they’ll decompress at home and everyone suffers.
“Police officers and firefighters have a high rate of suicide and we’ve hid it from the public all our lives. You can’t quit the job, but you can quit your life. Before that there might be problems with alcohol or drugs or a behavior that leads to divorce.”
Critical-incident stress debriefing was created in 1974 by Jeffrey T. Mitchell after the then-paramedic witnessed a horrific accident. He couldn’t get the scene out of his mind until he described the situation to a co-worker. He felt better, much better, after talking about it.
Also studying to become a psychologist Mitchell realized something: He talked about what happened and how he felt and found relief in that process.
Mitchell developed the debriefing method for high risk occupational groups and went on to form the International Critical Stress Foundation, which certifies the peer teams like the one in Kosciusko?County.
First recognized during the Vietnam War, post-traumatic stress disorder causes destructive behaviors and has debilitating effects on individuals. And, often the simple process of talking about the incident will not only relieve symptoms, symptoms might not develop.
Wilson took his first critical incident stress management class in 1978 when he was with the military police in the Army. He was stationed at Fort Harrison and his commander thought he might want to take the classes offered in South?Bend, close to his hometown, Warsaw. Wilson has taken the courses with national standards ever since.
“Many people respond to a faith-based approach,” Sumner said. “God puts us on the right team to take care of people one way or another.”
Maverick, who Wilson describes as just another tool in the toolbox, cruises through the courthouse and judge’s chambers, too. Wilson’s wife, Tracy, works with children in abusive situations and often takes the dog with the big brown eyes along for them to pet.
He didn’t have a promising start, this dog.
When Maverick was seven months old, a neighbor made an animal abuse call to the sheriff’s department. Found tied in a yard on a rope attached to his dead sister, with just green kiddie pool water to drink, Maverick was nursed to back health by the Wilsons and the late Richard Sasso, DMV.
At the time Wilson had retired from the fire department and took Maverick to work at McHatton-Sadler Funeral Chapel as a comfort dog.
“We noticed he responded to the front door bell, sat with the children, curled up on the seats with grieving men and women,” Wilson said. “He could always be found near the casket where the most grief was felt.
“We spend time in central dispatch, too, if someone is having a hard time. The dispatchers are the first to hear the screams.”
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