Life in Emergency Services

The Call I’ll Never Forget

I’ve spent more than a decade in emergency services — from crisis lines to 911 communications.
If there’s one constant, it’s this: you rarely get the ending.

You answer. You gather details. You send help. And then you move on to the next voice in crisis.
Most of the time, you never know how the story ends.

Some callers just need someone to listen. The lonely. The scared. Those fighting invisible battles.
Others truly stand on the edge of life and death.

And then there are the ones who call for reasons you never expect.

I learned that lesson the hard way.

I was new — fresh out of training at a distress center and my first shift totally on my own — when the phone rang.
A young woman, sobbing, told me she was suicidal. She said she had pills, was home alone, and might have already taken them.

She refused an ambulance.

But then she added: She’d only go to the hospital if I sent a cab to take her — and met her there.

Meeting callers was strictly forbidden. But I was green, terrified of making the wrong choice.
What if she was serious? What if she died because I didn’t show up?

So I broke the rule.

I went straight to the hospital and told the nurse on duty who I was waiting for. The nurse sighed and said, “Her? Again?”

My heart sank.

Minutes later, a cab pulled up. Out stepped the young woman — calm, collected, no tears. She wasn’t there for help. She wanted a cigarette, and whatever sedatives she’d managed to get prescribed the day before.

Her father arrived soon after (the nurses had instructions to call him each time she showed up there).

I left, shaken and embarrassed.

A week later, I saw her again. Not at the hospital — but at a bar. She recognized me. She stared.
My husband and I walked home immediately, the bar only a block away.

The next morning, I found something waiting on my doorstep. A hospital bracelet with her name on it.

That’s when I knew I had to come clean.

I wrote down every detail — every word, every choice — and presented it to the board of directors. Four people sat across from me, reading in silence. I was certain I’d just ended my time there.

But they listened. They understood.
I was reprimanded, but I wasn’t dismissed. I stayed on for two more years.

Ironically, that mistake became a teaching tool. The rules were tightened, and when I began training new volunteers, I always shared my story.

Because here’s the truth: you can’t always see the trap ahead. That’s why the rules exist. They aren’t there to make your job harder. They’re there to keep everyone — both the caller and the responder — safe.

Lesson learned.