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Bearing Witness

Tag: life

  • Valerie

    Alex Richardson

    Working in emergency services, we have what we so lovingly refer to as “frequent flyers.” For most of the population, calling 911 is a rare occurrence, something that happens only a few times throughout your life. Or, if you’re lucky, never.

    Then there are the few who call us all the time. Some even multiple times a day. At times, I get frustrated with them. Even so, they bring a sense of routine to a job defined by unpredictability and chaos. After some time, I find myself growing attached to them. When they don’t call for a while, I wonder if they’re okay or if something happened.

    Some are better than others. While the reasons they call rarely change, each person brings something different with them. They all have their own patterns and rhythms. Some call just to tell you about their day. Others scream and cuss until you can barely get a word in.

    My favorite was an elderly woman with schizophrenia. I’ll call her Valerie.

    Her calls always went the same way. She would announce herself, say her protection order was being violated, list off random numbers and letters, then ramble for a few minutes. I would wait. When she finished, I’d say, “Okay. I will have this documented.”

    She never wanted the police. She just wanted someone to listen.

    They were some of the easiest calls, and yet every time, without fail, she would spend a minute or two complimenting you. She’d ask for your operator number, then tell you to pass a message along to your supervisor: “Operator 122. You are an asset to 911. Your dedication is truly unmatched, and the city is lucky to have such a kind, compassionate young man,” etc.

    In a job where gratitude is rare, it mattered. Even on her worse days, like when she called to tell me they were shooting acid into her teeth, she still recognized me and the work I did at the end of the call.

    A lot of my coworkers groan about frequent flyers, but Valerie had a special place in all of our hearts. I don’t think there was a single person who didn’t enjoy getting her calls.

    Eventually, she passed away. We got the call from her apartment building’s maintenance man, who had entered her unit for a welfare check and found her deceased. The news traveled quickly. The sadness did too. 

    We pooled our money together and sent flowers anonymously to her funeral.

    Thank you for the memories, Valerie. We miss you.

  • The last message

    Alex Richardson

    The call came in as an active dispute. I heard yelling and the sounds of a physical struggle, but I didn’t yet understand what was happening. Then I heard a car door slam. The struggle stopped. After that, there was only her voice. She pleaded for her life, begging him to let her and her baby go. I realized I was listening to a kidnapping in real time.

    Officers were sent to the address where the call originated, but they found nothing and closed the call while I was still on the line. The car was already moving, and our location tools weren’t updating. I had to rely entirely on her, but she wasn’t responding to my texts.

    For about thirty minutes, I listened to her plead. Her baby cried in the background. I felt helpless. Tears began to form in my eyes.

    Then, she texted me back. She sent cross streets. I immediately called my supervisor over to have the call reopened and officers reassigned. The car was still moving, so we relied on landmarks, street signs, and anything she could see.

    I had asked her to keep the line open while we texted so I could hear what was happening. It didn’t last. About an hour in, the call dropped. My heart sank. I anxiously waited for another message.

    When it came, she said the vehicle was stationary. This was our chance.

    I asked her to describe everything she could see. Restaurant signs. A billboard. Other parked cars. A city bus.

    I asked for the bus number. That detail mattered. We contacted bus dispatch, who gave us an exact location. Officers began checking nearby parking lots. 

    Roughly an hour and a half after the call came in, officers finally made contact. She and her baby were safe.

    I stepped away from my desk but left the text thread open. When I came back, the last message I saw from her was simple.

    Thank you. 

  • Healing one trauma with another

    Alex Richardson

    The first time it happened, it was a little girl who had found her brother stabbed to death.

    She called because no one else in the house spoke English. Her little voice was so panicked. She kept telling me there was a lot of blood, that he was unconscious, that he wasn’t breathing. When I asked what happened, the only detail she could give was that his face was unrecognizable.

    I didn’t know he was beyond help. I only knew what my screen told me to do next.

    I tried to get her to do CPR. I tried again. I tried to get another family member on the phone. I tried to slow her down. She was too scared. Her screams filled the line. Nothing I said was reaching her anymore. We were both helpless.

    After the call ended, I replayed it over and over. Not the screaming. Not the blood. The decision.

    I wished I had told her to go outside.

    It goes against policy. You’re supposed to keep the caller with the patient. You’re supposed to keep trying until they refuse. But she was a child. She had already seen more than she ever should have. I knew, even then, that following the rules wasn’t the same as helping her.

    That regret stayed with me longer than the call itself.

    Years later, it happened again.

    Another child. Another Spanish speaking household. This time she had found both of her siblings dead. Fentanyl.

    This time, I knew what I was dealing with. 

    I got her mom doing compressions on one sibling. I got her dad doing compressions on the other. Once I knew hands were moving and help was coming, I made a different choice.

    I told her to go outside.

    I told her to flag down the fire department. To watch for them. To tell me when she heard the sirens. I stayed with her while she waited. She was still scared. It was still horrible. None of that changed.

    But when the call ended, something inside me was quieter.

    It didn’t fix the first call. It didn’t make the second one less traumatic. But it healed something small and specific. The part of me that believed I had failed that little girl years ago. The part that wished I had told her to go outside.

    Sometimes healing doesn’t come from peace or time or closure. Sometimes it comes from being given another chance to do the thing you wish you had done before.

  • Sometimes it’s just strange

    Alex Richardson

    Not every call that sticks with you is traumatic or symbolic. Some stick with you because they are deeply, profoundly stupid.

    The past two days had been filled with high priority, stressful calls. The type that I have to remind myself to relax my shoulders after. Then I answered a call from a woman reporting that her friend had put two gerbils in his rectum.

    Yes, you read that correctly.

    He had purchased them from a pet store earlier that day. He put them inside his body without realizing he was allergic to them. He then began having a full anaphylactic reaction while they were still stuck inside him. Facial swelling. Throat closing. The whole nine yards.

    Despite the circumstances, this was still a medical emergency. I kept my voice nonjudgmental. I asked my questions. Help was sent.

    After that, it was out of my hands. And hopefully out of his rectum.

  • I don’t have another explanation

    Alex Richardson

    Before I became a 911 operator, I identified as an atheist. I grew up Christian, but lost my faith around the age of twelve. I moved through life believing there was no higher power, until I found myself struggling to explain the number of coincidences I experienced while working in dispatch.

    One of the first calls that made me question my belief was a 5 year old who had accidentally shot herself in the head while playing with a gun. When I went home that night, I felt desperate to make sense of what had happened and asked the universe to show me a sign that she was at peace in the afterlife.

    The next morning, I walked out to my car and saw a dead crow in my assigned parking spot. I remember stopping in place, struck by the timing and peculiarity. I looked up the meaning afterward.

    Dead crows are often said to represent a recently deceased loved one is at peace and protected.

    Another call that felt significant involved a man harassing women at a 7-Eleven. He had followed my caller all the way to her front door. I had a friend who lived near that same 7-Eleven and visited it frequently. When I first took the call, I felt an urge to text her and tell her to avoid going there, but I brushed it off as overthinking.

    About ten minutes later, the feeling returned. This time it was overwhelming, like a fire burning in my body. I couldn’t ignore it. I messaged her.

    She told me she was one foot out the door, about to walk to that 7-Eleven, when my text came through.

    I’ve received other calls like this, and I’ve learned not to ignore them. Once, a woman was being actively raped outside my friend’s apartment. My friend was about to leave for work, and I was able to warn her just in time. She exited the building through another door.

    I’ve started to feel that these calls come to me for a reason. And I don’t think it’s just me. I see it in my coworkers as well, and becoming a trainer has only solidified that belief.

    We all have our strengths. Some of us handle certain types of calls better than others, or have more knowledge in specific areas. Those calls seem to find the people most equipped to handle them. One of my trainees excelled at talking to callers in mental health crisis, and she received more of those calls than anyone I knew. Another was deeply passionate about animals and familiar with local resources and rescues, and she, too, seemed to receive those calls more than anyone else.

    I don’t have a single explanation that fits neatly into words. I only know that these moments happened often enough, and with enough weight, that I could no longer ignore them. What replaced it wasn’t certainty, but a deeper sense of connection. A feeling that all of this is a part of something bigger.

  • You still have to do the laundry 02/14/23

    Alex Richardson

    I wrote the following piece in the aftermath of what was, at the time, the most traumatic call of my career

    ____________________________

    One of the most grounding things after dealing with a traumatic event is the mundanity of the everyday routine that follows. It often feels like the world stops moving, that you cannot possibly ever move on from what happened, but the endless cycle of everyday life does not stop for anyone. There will still be laundry when you get home and dirty dishes in the sink. 

    It’s easy to get overwhelmed, but I’ve found that these tasks can become a source of comfort. Knowing that one day, you will return to how you were. You will fall back into the same routines and you will feel happy again. Your future self will look back on you and feel proud for persevering through it all. 

    Life is unforgiving and cruel. It’s necessary to allow yourself to feel negative emotions when you need to. However, no matter how bad it gets, it is important to still seek out the beauty in this world. Because like routine, it does not cease either. 

  • The first call I never forgot

    Alex Richardson

    I started as a 911 operator when I was 18 years old.

    I understood going into the job that I would be exposed to trauma. However, it was nothing like I had imagined.

    Before I had even graduated, I took an active shooting call while on one of my four hour observations. During academy, we were required to take calls for one hour at a time to ease into the job before starting OJT, when we would be taking calls for ten hours a day.

    During that single hour, there was a shooting at one of my city’s apartment complexes. One of the victims had been shot just outside my caller’s balcony. He was still alive and begging my caller to help him. I advised them not to. There was still an active shooter, and it was not safe to go outside while shots were continuing to be fired. He died.

    I learned quickly that this job would often place me in the position of listening, not saving.

    Within my second week of taking calls, I received one on our animal protection line. The man had blocked his number before calling. He told me he was in a hotel with a litter of puppies and said I needed to get a female animal protection officer on the line with him. If I didn’t, he said he would kill the puppies.

    I kept my voice flat. I knew the call was likely sexually motivated, and that my fear was part of it. I refused to give him that.

    I tried to explain multiple times that I could not transfer him directly to a female officer and that I would need to arrange for one to call him back. We went back and forth for several minutes before he gave up. He said it again. This time, it wasn’t a warning. He was going to kill the puppies.

    He placed his phone speaker next to them. I listened to their small whines and cries.

    Then the line disconnected.

    The wall I had built dropped immediately. I turned to my trainer, who had been in the job for five years. Her expression said everything. She asked if I was okay and told me it was one of the worst calls she had ever heard.

    I was understandably upset, but I knew I needed to finish processing the call. I informed my supervisor and continued with the rest of my shift. Nothing ever came of it. Because he had blocked his number and never provided the hotel address, we were unable to track him down.

    To this day, I still struggle most with the calls where there is nothing I can do but listen.