Dispatch Memories

As excited as I am about the new job (and I am awfully excited) one could accurately say that I have been deeply saddened by ending my career as a dispatcher. My phone doesn't ring at night anymore; I don't get calls on the weekend; no one ever asks my opinion about anything that could cause lives to hang in the balance.

Mary suggested that as a salve for my soul I should probably take time to write some of them down. That seemed like one of those great ideas that I'd just never get around to. I've spent some time recollecting about some memories, and I've typed out twenty-seven pages so far. As these stories are not meant for sharing, I've not been careful about maintaining anonymity. As I've recorded them though, I've found that maybe I'd like to post one or two up here. (Or three or four).

I want to say up front that many times answering 9-1-1 lines puts you in touch with folks at moments when they aren't necessarily at their best. People aren't that dumb; people aren't that mean; people aren't that clueless -- we all get a moment or two in life that we'd like to have a do-over. That includes the caller, my peers, and especially myself. I won't share anything here that could cause someone (even someone I don't know) any angst. I also will remove enough detail that identities will remain safely shrouded in secrecy (except for maybe a coworker or two as a partcipant in the story.)


Let's start with my first night as a dispatcher. (Any naughty words are direct quotes and I use them only if necessary to clarify the situation - there won't be any really naughty words. Just a little bit naughty.)

That Vacuum Really Sucks

My first trainer was C.A.. The first night on graveyard I can remember her telling me that we had some custodial duties to accomplish. After the terrifying experience of trying to talk on the radio and the frustration of trying to figure out the CIS CAD system, custodial duties were something I quickly jumped all over. The center had a central vacuum system which meant that rather than moving a little vacuum and dragging a cord, we had a 20-foot hose that we had to drag out of a closet.

“That vacuum really sucks,” C said to me as I laid the hose across the floor.

“Okay, thanks,” I said. I fully expected the vacuum to start pulling the carpet right off the floor. That warning must mean I should keep my hands and feet away from the nozzle at all times lest I lose a digit.

I plugged one end of the hose into the wall socket right after I made sure that the business end wasn’t in position to destroy furniture or kill small children. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that by saying that vacuum really sucks, she meant that it really doesn’t suck.