By – Cherie Bartram, ENP
For the past several years, I have written articles honoring the work done by 911 Emergency Telecommunicators. I have so much pride in what you all do. I was one of you, and I will feel that calling and the honor that it was to be part of the profession all my life. I can count on one hand the number of letters we received from citizens and our fellow first responders. But what if the people whose lives you touched could find the words and time and write a letter? In honor of you this year, here is a collection of letters for you, for what you do, for what you’ve done, and for what you have yet to do. Never discount your acts of kindness and professionalism over the phone and radio. Those simple acts do make a difference in the lives of others, even if you never hear about it. We at Equature will continue to work hard to bring you products and training to enhance your profession. Thank you for your service to the public.
Dear 911 Dispatcher, I called and talked to you last month. It’s taken me some time, but I wanted to apologize for my behavior. I screamed at you, I cursed at you, and I even, if I remember correctly, threatened to sue you. Some of what I said is a little cloudy in my memory, but what I clearly remember is you. You were kind. You were quiet in the midst of my screaming. You did not judge me when I told you that my child had overdosed again. I never heard any tone in your voice that sounded like you felt I had screwed up as a parent, because it was my fourth call that week. Instead, you showed me compassion and helped me to calm down enough so that I could administer the Narcan myself. So that maybe this time, I thought, my child will wake up and realize she is going to get another chance. But the Narcan didn’t work, so you calmly told me how to start CPR. I wasn’t kind. I was so scared, but you just had me take deep breaths as I did compressions, trying to save my little girl. I wanted to thank you and again, to say I’m sorry for how I acted. I lost my daughter that night, but I will always remember your kindness. You made a difference when everything around me was dark. Thank you for being the light.
Hey Jim, Just wanted to thank you so much for being on the other side of the radio last week. Wow, what a crazy call that was. I gotta tell you, when I get out of this hospital bed, I’m coming to give you a big hug – you saved my life, bro. If you hadn’t warned me that dude was armed, I wouldn’t be here today. You are one awesome dispatcher.
Dear Ms. Karen, My mommy is home now from the hospital. She is helping me write this letter. I was so scared when she fell down the stairs. Thank you for sending help and for talking to me. Thank you for telling me how to show you the video pictures. I’m glad that helped. When I grow up, I wanna be just like you. Your friend, Mindy.
Dear 911 Dispatcher, I didn’t want to call you that night. I had already made up my mind. I had written the notes, I had made my peace, or at least I thought I had. I don’t even know why I picked up the phone. Maybe it was a habit, maybe it was fear, maybe somewhere deep down I wanted someone to tell me not to do it. You didn’t panic. You didn’t lecture me. You didn’t tell me I had so much to live for, because in that moment, I didn’t believe that. Instead, you just talked to me. You asked me about my dog. I don’t know how you knew to ask about my dog, but when I started telling you about how Duke greets me at the door every night, something shifted. You kept me talking long enough for me to hear the sirens, and long enough for me to realize I wasn’t ready. That was fourteen months ago. Duke still greets me at the door. I wanted you to know that.
Dear Partner, We don’t talk about it much, do we? We sit across from each other, shift after shift, and we hear everything. I heard you took that call last Thursday. The one with the little boy in the closet. I watched you mute your mic for half a second, take a breath, and then come back steady as steel. Nobody else saw that. I did. I know what that costs because I’ve paid it too. I just wanted to say thank you for being the one sitting next to me. Thank you for the look you give me after a bad one that says, “Yeah, I know.” Thank you for not pretending this job doesn’t leave marks. And thank you for showing up again the next day anyway. We don’t say it enough, so I’m saying it now — I couldn’t do this without you.
Dear Mom, I know you think I don’t understand what you do. I’m only twelve, but I understand more than you think. I know that when you come home, and you’re quiet, it means something bad happened. I know that when you sit on the edge of my bed and just watch me while you think I’m sleeping, that you’re carrying something heavy. I hear you sometimes, late at night, when you think I’m asleep, I hear you softly talking to Dad. Sometimes, I hear sad sounds; sometimes, you sound angry. I know this job takes pieces of you. But I also know that somebody’s mom came home last night because of you. Somebody’s kid still has their dad. I don’t always know how to say this, but I am so proud of you. Even on the quiet nights. Especially on the quiet nights. I love you.
Dear 911 Dispatcher, I’m 82 years old, and I live alone. My wife passed three years ago, and my son lives out of state. I fell in my kitchen last Tuesday, and I couldn’t get up. I lay on that cold tile floor for what felt like forever before I could reach my phone. When you answered, I have to be honest with you, I was embarrassed more than anything. An old man who can’t even stand up on his own. But you didn’t make me feel small. You called me “sir,” and you talked to me like I mattered. You stayed on the line with me for eleven minutes until help arrived, and during those eleven minutes, you asked me about my wife. I told you about our honeymoon in Lake Placid, and I swear I could hear you smile. I haven’t had a conversation like that in a long time. The paramedics fixed my hip, but you fixed something else that day. Thank you for reminding an old man that he’s not invisible.
Dear Me, You were twenty when you put on that headset for the first time. Your hands were shaking. You thought you were ready. You weren’t. Nobody is. I wish I could go back and tell you that the first call you lose is going to stay with you. That you’ll replay it in the shower, in the car, at 2 AM when the house is dark. I wish I could tell you that it’s not your fault, and that one day you’ll actually believe that. I’d tell you that this job is going to change you. It’s going to make you stronger in ways you didn’t ask for and softer in places you didn’t expect. You’re going to miss birthdays, and holidays will be different. You’re going to hear things that no training manual can prepare you for. And some days, you’re going to sit in the parking lot after a shift and wonder why you do this. There will be a day that you’re going to go home, pick up your newborn baby, and hold her tight, and you’re going to be so grateful. You’ll cry because you can hold your baby, but the mom that you talked to earlier can’t hold her baby anymore, and your heart will break for her. But then the next call is going to come in, and someone is going to need you, and you’re going to answer. You always answer. That’s who you are. That’s who we are. Don’t ever forget that. Making a difference is going to drive you all through your career, all through your life. I wish I could remind you to make sure you take care of yourself, because I know you’re going to forget, and it’s so important.
The people whose lives you touch with your words will never fully know the difference you made. Your voice will pierce the darkest of places. I would like to tell you that your words will always save a life, but that is just not true. Some calls, no matter what you do, will end in ways that can break you. But your words and your actions will be a powerful guide to those you train, those you mentor, those you supervise, those you talk to on the phone, and those you talk to on the radio. You are in a profession where even the smallest act can change everything.
But it takes a toll. Please — take care of yourself. Monitor your stress. Watch your wellness. Talk to someone. You cannot do what you do if you are not well. The world needs you on the other end of that line, but it needs you whole. Not only one week in April, but all 52 weeks of the year, we honor you.