And Then the Phone Rings Again

I've been trying to figure out how to explain what it feels like to finish a terrible 911 call.

The caller hangs up. The ambulance is still responding. The deputy is still on the road. Firefighters may still be working. Somewhere, a family is still crying, praying or trying to understand what just happened.

And I'm still sitting in the same chair.

Our communications center is usually dark. We shut the overhead lights off because they're bright and annoying. Most of the light comes from the monitors in front of us. Phone screens, maps, radio channels and call information that keeps changing as fast as we can type it.

The room may look calm, but what comes through the phone is anything but.

A mother is screaming because her child isn't breathing. A wife is begging her husband to wake up. Someone is hiding from a person who wants to hurt them. Someone else is telling me they don't want to live anymore.

I'm trying to understand them. I'm trying to get an address. I'm giving instructions, listening to the radio and sending help while trying to keep my own voice steady.

Then the call ends.

For a few seconds, I may sit there and think about what I just heard. If I'm lucky, I may even get a chance to take a breath.

And then the phone rings again.

So I answer.

That is one of the hardest parts of this job to explain. We don't always get time to process what just happened. There usually isn't time to walk away, clear our heads, or even find out how the call ended. Somebody else needs help, and we have to be ready for them.

I've worked as a 911 dispatcher and supervisor in a small rural 911 center for years. I've also spent the last several years fighting for a 25-year retirement option for New York State 911 dispatchers.

At this point, it isn't just a bill to me. It's personal.

A few years ago, I came in to work overtime for a coworker on Christmas Eve. I left my wife and children at home so someone else could spend that time with their family.

That's part of the job. The 911 center always has to be staffed. Emergencies don't stop because it's Christmas Eve, because your child has a concert or because your family is waiting for you.

That night, the 911 phone rang.

On the other end was a veteran suffering from PTSD. He was suicidal. He had a rifle and was threatening to end his life in front of his family.

I could hear him crying.

The room may look calm, but what comes through the phone is anything but.

I could hear his wife crying.

I could hear his 10-year-old son crying in the background.

His son was about the same age as my own boys.

For about 40 minutes, I stayed on the phone with him. I tried to keep him talking and focused on my voice. I tried to give him one more reason to stay with us, and then I tried to find another.

I don't remember every word I said to him that night. I do remember his voice and the pain in it. I remember hearing his wife and son in the background and knowing they were watching someone they loved fall apart right in front of them.

When the troopers arrived, the situation changed. I had to keep him from forcing them to shoot him. I had to try to stop one tragedy from becoming several.

He needed help, and in that moment, I was the voice he had.

He survived that night. I'm thankful for that. I'm thankful I was there when he needed someone, and I'm proud that I was able to help him through one of the darkest moments of his life.

The call ended, but the shift didn't.

And then the phone rang again.

I answered because that's what we do. I pushed that call down somewhere inside me and tried to give the next caller the same calm voice and attention I had given him.

But I'd be lying if I said I simply moved on.

The next morning was Christmas. I was home with my own family, but part of me was still on that call.

I kept hearing his voice and his wife crying in the background. More than anything, I kept thinking about that little boy and what he had witnessed on Christmas Eve.

I looked at my own children and wondered what that family was doing. I wondered whether they were trying to have a normal Christmas morning too.

It made for a very heavy Christmas.

That was one of the first times I admitted to myself that these calls were really starting to bother me. It wasn't that this call was worse than every other call I had taken. I think it was the call that made me realize how much I was already carrying.

His pain, his family, his son being close to my sons' age, the fact that it happened on Christmas Eve and the fact that I had left my own family behind to be there - it all added up.

I think that's what cumulative trauma is. It isn't always one call that breaks through. Sometimes it's hundreds or thousands of calls that you've pushed down because you had to keep working.

Eventually, all of that has to go somewhere.

Dispatchers are sometimes called "the first, first responders." The phrase is true, but I don't think people really understand what it means.

It means we're there before anyone else.

We're there when a mother finds her baby not breathing. We're there when a husband or wife collapses and the person who loves them most is begging us to tell them what to do. We're there when someone has been shot, when someone is trapped, when someone is bleeding or when someone is threatening to take their own life.

Sometimes we're the last voice a person ever hears.

We give CPR instructions to people who are panicking. We tell them where to put their hands and count with them. We listen to them cry and beg while we wait for help to arrive.

We may hear someone's final breath or hear the exact moment a family's life changes forever. We may know that we did everything we could, and still feel like it wasn't enough.

And then the phone rings again.

The next caller doesn't know what we just heard. They don't know that our hands may still be shaking or that we're trying not to cry. They only know that they need help.

So we answer and try to give them everything we have.

I want to be clear. This isn't a competition between dispatchers and police officers, firefighters, EMTs or paramedics. I have tremendous respect for what they do. They face physical dangers and see things that no person should ever have to see.

What I want people to understand is that dispatchers carry a different kind of trauma.

We may not be standing in the burning building or beside the wrecked car, but emotionally, we're there. We hear the fear before anyone arrives. We hear the pain, the begging, the helplessness and sometimes the silence afterward.

One of the hardest parts is that we often don't get closure.

Sometimes we're the last voice a person ever hears.

Our police, fire and EMS partners may see what happens. They may watch the patient begin breathing again, see that person transported to the hospital or talk with one another afterward and have a better understanding of the outcome.

We may be left with nothing but a voice and a disconnected phone line.

Did the child live? Did the husband make it? Did the woman hiding in the bedroom get out? Did anything I said make a difference?

Sometimes we never find out.

The call disappears from the screen, but it doesn't always disappear from your head. You sit there wondering what happened and whether there was anything else you could have done.

And while you're still wondering, the phone rings again.

Even in a small rural county, closure isn't guaranteed. In some ways, working in a small community can make these calls harder. The address on the screen may be familiar. The last name may be one you know. The caller may be a voice you’ve had conversations with.

The police officer, firefighter or EMT you're sending into danger may be a friend, neighbor or member of your own family.

You sit at the console listening to someone you care about go into the fight. You hear the stress in their voice. You send them what they need and wait for them to answer the radio again.

You're part of everything that's happening, but you can't physically go help them.

That helplessness stays with you.

In a single shift, we may be connected to a house fire, a domestic incident, a cardiac arrest, a serious crash and a suicidal person. We may take calls from people who scream at us, curse at us, call us names or threaten us and our families because we're the voice they can reach.

We absorb it. We keep working. Then we carry it home.

That's the part my family knows too well.

This job has cost me birthdays, holidays, school concerts, sporting events, anniversaries, family dinners and ordinary moments that I'll never get back.

The phone rings whether it's Christmas morning, my child's concert or my anniversary. Someone still has to be there to answer it, and too many times, that person has been me.

There are times when I feel like I've spent too much of my life putting the job first. I feel like the job gets the best of me, and my family gets whatever is left.

That is hard for me to admit.

My wife has told me more than once that she sometimes feels like a single parent. Not just because I'm physically gone at work, but because even when I'm home, I'm not always completely there.

I may be sitting in the same room with my family, but my mind is still at the console. I'm still hearing the call, thinking about what happened and carrying something that I don't know how to put down.

It breaks my heart to know that she has felt that way.

I love my wife and children more than anything. I want to be fully present for them. I want to be the husband and father they deserve, but this job doesn't always let go when the shift ends.

The stress follows you home, along with the exhaustion and sadness. Then there is the guilt, because you know your family is paying part of the price for your public service.

I come from a public-service family, and I'm incredibly proud of that. I'm the third generation. My grandfather, father, uncle, brothers and cousins have served in law enforcement. My mother was a career teacher.

I grew up around service, responsibility and the belief that when someone needs help, you show up. I also grew up in a world where people didn't talk much about what the job did to them.

My grandfather said more through what he didn't say than through what he did. My father and uncle would talk sometimes, but I almost had to pry it out of them. My siblings and cousins are similar.

That isn't a criticism. It's just the culture many of us were raised in. You deal with it, keep it to yourself and go back to work.

Recently, I was involved in a traumatic incident that I've spoken about publicly. Neither of my brothers called to ask whether I was okay.

I feel like the job gets the best of me, and my family gets whatever is left.

I'm not angry with them, and I don't fault them. If I needed anything, they would be there in a heartbeat. I know that without a doubt.

But it shows how deep this culture runs. We can love one another, respect one another and be willing to do anything for one another, yet still not know how to ask a simple question:

"Are you okay?"

That is what I want to help change.

I want the next generation of dispatchers and first responders to know that it's okay to say a call bothered them and to admit that they're struggling. They should be able to talk to a coworker, spouse, friend, counselor or peer-support team without feeling weak, embarrassed or ashamed.

It's okay not to be okay.

Mental health can't continue to be something we only talk about after someone is gone.

This isn't theoretical for us. Our small 911 center has experienced the loss of one of our own to suicide.

I wish that sentence wasn't part of our story, but it is.

I don't mention that loss to exploit anyone's pain or reduce someone's life to a talking point. I mention it because silence is part of the problem.

If suicide and mental-health struggles can reach a small rural 911 center like ours, they can touch any center, any department and any family.

The emotional toll of this work doesn't look the same on everyone. It can show up as sadness, anger, exhaustion or isolation. It can keep you from sleeping or leave you sitting quietly with your family while part of you still feels like it's at work.

Sometimes it's hearing a voice from a call you answered years ago.

We've spent too long expecting dispatchers to absorb the worst moments of other people's lives and then continue as if nothing happened.

That expectation is hurting people.

Even writing this has shown me how difficult it is to stop long enough to face these feelings. I've been trying to write while still answering the 911 phone and working the radio.

A thought gets interrupted by a call. A sentence that should take a minute takes ten. I answer, dispatch the call, work the radio and then come back to the page, trying to remember what I wanted to say.

This editorial is taking me three times longer to write than it should.

I get a few more words onto the page.

And then the phone rings again.

That's the job. I'm constantly multitasking and redirecting my attention. I'm pulled away from my own thoughts and feelings because someone else needs me.

Some people will read this and say, "You knew what you were signing up for."

To an extent, yes, I did.

I grew up around public safety. I served as an EMT. I was a firefighter. I rode with members of my family in law enforcement. I knew more about this world than many people do before I ever put on a headset.

What I didn't know was how impossible some calls are to prepare for.

I don't know how anyone could be fully ready for the sound of a parent screaming for help, talking someone through CPR on their child or being on the phone during the last moments of someone's life.

It's okay not to be okay.

The same is true when you hear friends or family members in trouble over the radio while you sit at a console, unable to physically help them.

I've experienced trauma in other areas of public safety, but nothing has affected me in the same way dispatching has.

That doesn't mean other first responders have it easy. They don't. It means dispatchers are exposed to a huge amount of trauma, over and over again, without the same recognition, closure or understanding.

The public doesn't always understand what happens inside a 911 center. Sometimes even other first responders don't fully understand it.

I can't begin to count the number of people who have come through our center as employees. Many couldn't handle the work. That isn't an insult. It's the truth. This job isn't for everyone.

The people who stay are special, and I'm proud to work beside them. They answer the phone on the worst days of their own lives and still find a way to help someone else through theirs. I've watched them bring calm into complete chaos and save lives without ever meeting the people they helped.

For many of us who stay, it stops feeling like a job or even a career. It becomes a calling.

I don't want this to sound like every call is awful, either. Some calls end well, and those moments remind us why we keep answering.

Delivering a baby over the phone is one of the greatest feelings a dispatcher can have. I've had the honor of doing it several times, and there's nothing quite like hearing that first cry through the same headset that has carried so much pain.

Those calls stay with you too. They help keep us going.

We still need to laugh. Sometimes humor is the only way we release enough pressure to make it through the rest of the shift.

But the good calls don't erase the hard ones. They don't erase the missed holidays, sleepless nights, calls involving children, suicides, threats or grief. They don't erase the feeling that part of you is still sitting at the console long after you've gone home.

That is why I'm fighting so hard for A.9162A/S.7635B, the optional 25-year retirement legislation for New York State 911 dispatchers and emergency communications professionals.

When I talk about a 25-year retirement, I'm not asking for a handout or trying to take anything away from police officers, firefighters, EMTs, paramedics, correction officers or anyone else in public safety.

I'm asking New York to recognize that dispatchers are part of public safety too.

The legislation would allow participating public employers to provide eligible dispatchers with an optional 25-year retirement plan.

I'm one of the lucky ones, if you can call it that. Under my current plan, I may "only" have to do this work for about 30 years. For me, this legislation might shorten my career by approximately five years.

The generation behind me could be looking at 40 years or more.

A Tier 6 dispatcher who starts at 18 could be 63 before receiving an unreduced retirement benefit. That's potentially 45 years of answering these calls, missing holidays and family moments, hearing people on the worst days of their lives and bringing pieces of those calls home.

Forty-five years.

That is too long.

I'm not fighting this battle only for myself. I'm fighting it for the young dispatcher who is just starting and has no idea yet which voices will stay with them.

For eligible 911 professionals, 25 years of creditable service is a full public-safety career.

For me, this legislation may mean five years. For that dispatcher, it could mean 15 or 20.

That is a lifetime in this profession.

After 25 years of taking emergency calls, giving lifesaving instructions, working nights, weekends, holidays and mandatory overtime, and carrying the voices of people in crisis, a dispatcher should have the option to step away with dignity.

I don't think that's unreasonable. I think it's humane.

A fair retirement plan would also help 911 centers recruit and keep experienced dispatchers. When centers are short-staffed, the people who remain work more overtime. They miss more time with their families and become more exhausted. Eventually, some leave because they or their families can't take any more.

Retirement reform won't fix everything. Dispatchers also need confidential mental-health care from people who understand emergency communications. We need peer support, supervisors who recognize trauma and enough staffing so that, after a devastating call, a dispatcher might actually have a few minutes to step away.

We have to stop pretending that hearing trauma is harmless simply because we weren't physically standing at the scene.

The New York State Senate and Assembly have passed this legislation. Now I'm asking Governor Kathy Hochul to support it and sign it when it reaches her desk.

It's also why we launched the NY 911 Retirement campaign.

Our website, https://ny911retirement.org, gives dispatchers, families, first responders, elected officials and community members a place to learn about the legislation and ask the governor to support it. We also created a Facebook page so people can follow the campaign and help us keep this issue in front of the public.

This campaign started because dispatchers began speaking honestly about what this job does to us.

There is a real person behind the voice answering 911. That person has a family and a life outside the communications center. They get tired. They feel sadness and fear. Sometimes they're struggling while still finding a way to help a complete stranger survive the worst moment of their life.

I'm proud to be one of those people.

I wouldn't trade this calling for anything in the world. It's hard to describe what it feels like to know your voice helped keep someone alive, brought a baby into the world or got help to someone who had nowhere else to turn.

I love this work, and I'm proud of what I do. But I'm also tired, and I can't pretend this job hasn't hurt me. There are calls that have taken pieces of me and affected the people I love most.

I can admit that without loving the job any less.

For eligible 911 professionals, 25 years of creditable service is a full public-safety career.

This has been one of the hardest things I've ever written. It has brought back calls, voices and feelings that I normally push down because that's how I get through the next shift.

We answer. We help. We carry it home.

I probably won't write something this personal or go this deep again for a long time.

Even now, as I try to finish, the phone and radio keep calling. I stop. I answer. I help someone. Then I come back to these words and try again.

The phone keeps ringing. It has to.

Somewhere out there, someone is having the worst day of their life, and we're here to answer their call for help.

That's what we do.

We are 911 dispatchers.

We answer. We help. We carry it home.

And then the phone rings again.