Even after leaving that fire, he never left her.
Back at the station and home, she struggled with recurring nightmares and disturbing, intrusive thoughts. Whenever she saw trees, she hallucinated that flames were coming out of them.
For four months, she was nearly sleepless and vomited daily, turning into a semi-functional zombie. Bahnmiller developed an irrational belief that if she fell asleep, her fire crew would die. Sleep was not a relief, but a portal to something worse. She was unable – then unwilling – to sleep, lest the nightmares engulf her.
The Lodge fire was not only on his mind, quite busy his mind. It set her on such a dark path that she eventually contemplated suicide.
“I was very concerned about the fire, but at the same time I was trying to push it away,” she said. “It was very acute for me, especially when I was trying to rest. These images would rush through my mind.
Experts say his experience is a common example of trauma that leads to post-traumatic stress disorder and suicide among wildland firefighters: Like many, she suffered no physical injuries but fought an out-of-control fire, heightening feelings of helplessness and anxiety that firefighters find particularly stressful.
Bahnmiller was raised not to give in to pain or fear, or even acknowledge it. Her father was a Marine officer attached to a Marine Corps unit at Camp Pendleton. Stoicism, service, and success were all family watchwords, part of what she calls her “dad mythology.”
At the age of 30, she spent months cycling across the country. After watching a pregnant woman run her car in Maine and wishing she had the training to help her, Bahnmiller thought it was time she devoted herself to public service.
“I was raised to do my duty,” she said.
She became a certified paramedic and worked for a private ambulance company and in a hospital’s trauma department. She entered the basic academy at Cal Fire and was a fast rising star, graduating second in her class from the officers’ academy. She is now a battalion commander.
Women make up only 6% of Cal Fire’s firefighter corps.
Now 54, Bahnmiller often talks about resilience: like when you face your worst demons, when you fear you’ll never regain your balance, you somehow find a way to pick yourself up. Like when steel gets stronger after going through fire.
“I thought I had to fix this because firefighters solve problems. We don’t have problems that we can’t solve,” she said. “I didn’t tell anyone that I had this constant feeling that I was still on top of this ridge, watching the crown fire burn these people and I couldn’t stop it.
But Bahnmiller hid her pain from her boyfriend, a federal firefighter who is now her husband, who recalls she acted seemingly normal after the Lodge fire and for months afterward. She also hid it from her friends and colleagues, suffering in silence and isolating herself as much as she could.
“Even though I had a wonderful life back then, I became secretly suicidal because I couldn’t stop it,” Bahnmiller said. I had this feeling of helplessness. They train us to be responsible. Be decisive. Take action.
“I decided at some point that the only way to fix it was to kill myself. I became obsessed with this idea that for these images to stop, I just had to go.
Four months after the Lodge fire, Cal Fire Peer Support Officer Steve Diaz was at Bahnmiller’s station, following up on phone conversations they had about someone she says , needed advice.
His job was to explain the agency’s support services, which are voluntary and confidential. But to Bahnmiller’s surprise, he spoke to her directly and said, “Call this number if you ever need help.”
She was in deep denial and was not receptive to the message. “He tells me about this program and I’m like, ‘That’s good,'” she said. “I asked him, ‘Why are you telling me about this place?’ He said, ‘Noelle, I think you’d like to go.’ »
She was offended, thinking, “I’m fine. It’s not a place for me. I’m fine.”
Bahnmiller’s life was falling apart. She isolated herself and stopped meeting friends for coffee. She began to load up on work, taking all the overtime offered.
One day, months after the fire, a longtime colleague said, “What’s happening to you? You are not yourself. She only told him that she hadn’t slept.
She also left work intending to shoot herself in the head. “I was driving to my boyfriend’s house to kill myself,” she said. “I felt trapped. I didn’t know there were other issues. I decided the only way to fix it was to kill myself.
Instead, for reasons she still doesn’t understand, Bahnmiller stopped, reached into her uniform pocket, found the helpline number, and called.
Bahnmiller agreed to attend a “trauma camp” for a week of intensive therapy.
The camp, in Napa County, is run by therapists with extensive trauma experience inherent in high-risk occupations such as firefighting and policing. Cal Fire pays for the program.
Clinicians diagnosed at Bahnmiller acute post-traumatic stress. She took classes in group and individual therapy, yoga and meditation, and learned calming breathing techniques. A clinician also guided her through a realistic re-enactment of a traumatic event to reprogram how her mind processes the trauma.
This combination of approaches can have a powerful therapeutic effect. “It was like a moult. I left completely changed. I felt free. I wasn’t frozen on that ridge. It gave me my life back,” she said.
She finally opened up to her husband, who was shocked at the severity of her depression and pain.
