Captain Timothy Stackpole: A Hero Remembered

The courage and dedication of 9/11 first responders is etched in the national consciousness. Polls throughout the last decade reveal that near the top for “most admired profession” in America is the firefighter. We want to be reminded of the heroic among us in order to restore our faith in mankind. Our belief in the inherent goodness of mankind, and a search for its whereabouts, led me to one of my own personal heroes.                                                                            

I found my living hero—not a public figure, just a model human—in the late spring of 2001. I had read an unforgettable story in the Daily News about NYC Fireman Timothy Stackpole, detailing his miraculous recovery from critical burns he had sustained after falling waist deep in fire in June 1998 and triumphant return to the job he loved. I later learned his nickname among brothers in the department was “Jobs” because he lived for the work.

Stackpole’s story of resilience so moved me that I found his home number through Information and found myself speaking to kind Tara, his wife—so open was she to a stranger, now stumbling to find the right words of thanks. Her Timmy wasn’t home she told me, but she knew he would be so pleased to hear I called. Her words spilled out with unmistakable pride for this husband and father of five who endured unfathomable pain—pass out kind of pain—from burns sustained to over 30 percent of his body, followed by months of skin grafts and physical rehabilitation.                                  

Timothy “Jobs” returned to light duty just as soon as he was allowed, the article had pointed out, despite being eligible for full medical disability, so severe were his burns. On that ominous day in June, 1998, Ladder Co. 103 lost two of its own: Lt. Jimmy Blackmore, and, weeks later, Captain Scott La Piedra.       

“We fell ten feet into a crackling orange furnace. I thought no one would ever find us…I remember the pain in my ankles, burned to the bone. And I remember just praying to God: ‘just let me die bravely,” he said in the Daily News article.

Our conversation took on the quality of old friends as Tara shared freely about how Timothy had been productive during the long months since the fire: Completing a Bachelor’s Degree at St. Francis College along with daily physical therapy and gym workouts. He prepared himself for the dream; a return to full active duty. And, I learned the definition of hero when Tara explained that her husband started each day with a phone call to a neighbor who was suffering her own nightmare of pain and depression from debilitating illness. He cheered her on through his own suffering.         

Just recently, I discovered that Timothy also taped a public service announcement for Cornell Burn Center where his life was saved. He said: “The greatest high you can get in life is by helping somebody.” 

I remember asking Tara to please tell her husband that I would keep his story alive by repeating it to the students at my elementary school, where I worked as an Instructional Assistant. I did share his story that spring, with second and third graders. In their eyes, I saw that he was a superhero; a real life superhero, brave and true, with the power to save others and to make their spirits soar.     

School was just starting up again, and my delight was showing when I read another newspaper story announcing Timothy’s promotion to captain. The photograph of Timothy in his white captain’s hat and crisp uniform surrounded by a glowing Tara and children, captured a man at the pinnacle, who had climbed out of the depths of darkness.  

He was doing what he loved best when the Towers collapsed. Tara was rushing home after the planes collided with steel and humanity to await his phone call. On the way, a detour led her directly past 2530 Atlantic Ave., the Brooklyn building where the fire had raged three years ago, nearly taking brave Timothy's life.

She knew then.          

"So I’m not going to be bitter at how he died. Because this was the kind of thing Timmy was born to do, to help people at a time like this," she said in the Daily News.

Entering the funeral parlor to pay my respects that September evening meant passing through a line of mourners that extended as far as the eye could see; a line filled with all of Brooklyn, it seemed, standing patiently and reverently. Firemen, too many to count, stood looking dazed and restless as they hopefully searched the faces for brothers still unaccounted for. I remember the flowers everywhere and the scent of roses, and the shaken, noble firemen in their dress uniforms. On the closed casket rested his captain’s hat and all around there were photographs of a wonderful man living his wonderful life. I felt in the presence of a Medal of Honor recipient, and in my hand I held his award: A batch of letters of thanks from my daughter Kristen Therese, and her seventh-grade classmates. I presented the letters to Tara, felt truly astonished by her strength, and I promised to keep her husband’s name alive and to honor his sacrifice.    

My hero—our hero—was taken too soon. Courageous in living and in dying, Timothy embodied human kind’s capacity for goodness. He walked through fire. He captained the ship through its sinking. He loved and laughed and lifted up all who knew him.