
Hi, Smurhwaite here. I'm currently 67. Thirty three years ago, I was blown up in a backdraft explosion as a Webster, NY, volunteer firefighter. A single mom had left her three kids in a rental house, and one started a fire upstairs. We were called in on mutual aid. By the time we arrived, the upstairs was fully charged and puffing smoke everywhere. Mom met us at the front door screaming.
My crew of two went ahead of me up the stairs. I grabbed the handline and tried to find the room and contents. I opened up on a room to my left, then the next room to the right. Nothing. As I moved one more room to the right, the room and contents opened up, and a backdraft occurred. My hydrant man said it blew out 20-30 feet, and I blew through the hallway, down the stairs, and landed on my Scott air pack (back then, they were hard plastic and steel, not the cool ergonomic ones like now). I came to, my airline free-flowing and unattached. I hooked it back up, crawled up the stairs, and opened up on the ceiling and hallway to give my guys cover. They had finished the last room. Luckily, our captain saw the imminent flashover and barricaded the door as the building wasn't laddered yet. Nice call, Sow; you saved yourself and Carl with the experience that being in hundreds of charged buildings gives a true hero.
My 34 years of physical therapy every day, being housebound for 17 years, and being in pain 24/7 had begun. The first year was the worst. Watching someone else mow my lawn, snowblow my driveway, walk my dog, or get the mail—any task was brutal. I could only walk with crutches at a baby-step gait, and I was unable to sit. My main location was on the floor in the living room, lying on ice packs, thinking about what lay ahead, and occasionally considering ending it all.
It wasn't until fourteen years ago that I really came close to killing myself. I hadn't been able to sleep for three weeks except for 1–2 hours at a time, and two members of my pain clinic had "checked out," and the seed was inside my head. One night after those three weeks, I woke at 3:00 AM from one minute of sleep in a cold sweat, and my .32 automatic with hydro shocks was talking to me. It was clear that it wanted me to kill myself, and it didn't matter that the .22 would have been cleaner for the police or fire cleanup crew (just saying)—the .32 wanted things to happen.
Then I heard another voice. This one was pointing out that the nuns told me suicide was a mortal sin, and I'd be headed to hell. Also, I thought about my two-man crew that I gave SOP cover to and got them out. I couldn't lay that on them. So, I made the weapon safe, cleared it, broke it down, and put it into a box of cornflakes. I did mention I hadn't slept in three weeks, right? Cornflakes, for some reason, offered safety. I then left the building and looked for a friendly face.
As the sun began to rise I remembered that my neighbor was an early riser and I headed to her State Farm Insurance Store.
Deborah, my neighbor and local insurance agent, talked to me, offered me breakfast, acted normal, and gave me a spiral notebook and a pen so I could start a journal, as she said I had started a new chapter in my life. I owe that woman the world. She is a sister to me, and now, after fourteen years of therapy, I will be sending her this website to read. I hope she approves.
If you have bad thoughts or are thinking of suicide and can't get to a sister or brother in the military, try a sister or brother in the fire department, police, or correction officer. We all wear the flag, and we are all sisters and brothers, and we get keeping things on the down low if need be.
If you know anyone who can't sit, send them this website. Doesn't need to be military; can be anyone, even civilians. It's all good, all love to everyone who is in pain and can't sit. I've helped a design college run by Pascal for the last 15 years or so with my ergonomic drawing. They worked off grants from the VA and the DOD. The three prototypes never took off, and nobody wanted to manufacture them due to cost or liability. Well, Whiskey Tango Foxtrot!! Forget them, we can do this ourselves, right?!
~Tom Smurthwaite

Dedicated to My Father;
Richard J. Smurthwaite,
Pfc. (82nd Airborne Division)
Saw and Helped at Concentration Camps,
Walked into Germany after the Battle of the Bulge.
Commanding General Gavin under Patton,
Worst Christmas and coldest winter he ever had, in the Arden Forest.
Tom, who is a regular customer at the local convenience store where I work overnights, was definitely a strange character the first time that he came in. Lying prone on the back of a tractor with hand controls and lights, he was very visible as he drove along the side of the road. I was intrigued, and we talked for a long time. Tom told me his story of how he was injured and how he built his Prone Tractor. While it seems like we became fast friends, we really didn't connect until several months later, when Tom offered to hire me to help him with maintenance around his property. It was during this time that we got to know each other much better, and he told me about how he wanted to make a website where he could spread his story and help others in situations similar to his. I am glad to be here with him now; it is exciting to have come this far with him and to have this opportunity to help people with conditions similar to his. He is a great man, and I am proud to be friends with him.
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