Some calls stay with the people who answer them.

Have you ever left work and cried? Have you ever experienced entire-body and joint pain when you hadn’t done anything physically demanding? I have. All I did that morning was answer a phone, but for days afterward, I felt like I had been in a physical battle. That was the aftermath of adrenaline.

I was still fairly new to dispatching. I had taken some difficult calls during my first year, and they say in this profession, you either sink or swim. I guess I swam. But there are some calls you never truly leave behind.

This was a structure fire, but not a normal structure fire. It was a local pizza shop on the main street, in one of those old brick buildings where the businesses are all connected. A fire in the middle of that row could destroy an entire block. It was winter, adding another challenge for the firefighters responding.

I try not to think about the bad 911 calls I’ve taken too often. Over the years, some of the smaller details have become foggy. But one thing I will never forget is hearing the word MAYDAY come across the radio.

A MAYDAY is something every dispatcher hopes they never hear. But this wasn’t just any firefighter calling for help. These were my friends. These were hometown firefighters—people I knew, people I cared about, people who ran toward danger while I sat behind a console trying to get them the help they needed.

A wall had collapsed on firefighters inside that building. I didn’t know who was underneath it, but there was a very good chance I knew them. This was a small community, and the fire was just one town over from my hometown. I had friends and family in that community. I knew people were under that wall, and I knew they needed help immediately.

My partner and I went to work. We toned and toned for additional help. We called every helicopter in and out of the area, trying to find one that could respond. But it was the dead of winter. No helicopter could fly.

And we couldn’t go in. We couldn’t physically pull our friends out. All we could do was keep working the phones, the radio, and every resource available to us and hope we could get them help in time.

Nearly 18 years later, my hands are cold and shaky as I write this. My eyes are watering. That call still affects me.

So when we talk about giving 911 dispatchers a 25-year retirement, please understand that we aren’t asking for special treatment. We are asking for recognition of what this profession actually demands of us.

Dispatchers absorb people’s worst moments. We hear the fear in their voices. We stay on the line while people are injured, trapped, dying, or fighting for their lives. We send our friends and fellow first responders into situations that we can only hear unfolding through a headset. And sometimes, when the radio goes silent, we are left carrying the weight of what we just experienced.

We may not be the ones physically entering the burning building, but our bodies don’t always know the difference when that adrenaline hits. The physical and emotional effects can stay with us long after the shift ends.

Governor Hochul, I am asking you to listen to the people behind the headsets. Listen to the dispatchers who answer the calls, send the help, talk people through their worst moments, and then go home and try to carry on as if everything is okay.

We are first responders, too.

Please give New York’s 911 dispatchers the 25-year retirement they deserve. We’ve spent our careers answering the call.

We are asking you to answer ours.