A Voice

Who am I?
I'm the voice that calms the officer wrestling criminals to the ground.
I'm the voice who calls the firefighter in the house that's burning down.
I'm the voice that helps the mother whose baby cannot breathe.
I'm the voice assuring the child her captors won't be freed.

I'm the one who listens quietly as an old man calls to say
his wife has wandered off and she doesn't know her way.
I'm the one who cries silently for the child I tried to save,
but every effort I put forth could not have changed that day.

I'm the person who takes sympathy on the hooker who was raped,
And the one who tells the addict there's hope, he can escape,
for addictions can be broken and lost souls can find their way.
If only they could see the consequences underway.

I'm the one you call on the worst day of your life,
And you'll never realize you've stripped me of my blithe.
You'll pass me in the store and never realize what I've done.
For all I am at the end of the day is a voice you needed once.

A typical day

As the shift comes to an end, I cant help but smile at the thought of a full 24 hours off. As much as I love my job, I can't tell you the last time I've taken the time to do all my laundry and really clean the apartment. I haven't taken Judah for a run in days, but he's not typically one to complain. He does tend to get a little restless after being locked in the apartment for a few days, not that I can really blame him. I've pretty well decided that as long as I'm running 12-hour shifts at work, Judah should either be boarded or sent to Mom and Dad's, where he'll at least have room to run around.

Before I get too far into this blog, I should probably ensure everybody's up to date on the terminology I tend to use on a daily basis. Judah, my 120lb German Shepherd mix is often referred to as 'Big Dumb Dog.' The more you read, the more you'll understand why. I often call my parent's place 'The Ranch.' Not because it is, or even resembles a ranch, but because it's so far out in the country that it seems like it should be. More often than not, I refer to my callers (as far as work is concerned) as 'The Natives', a term I stole from one of the firefighters. My Supervisor will often be referred to as Koalemos. Google the name. You'll understand. Our record's clerk I often call Eris, who, in Greek Mythology, is the goddess of strife and pointless turmoil. Most dealings between she and I seem to accentuate these traits in her, so we've pretty well decided at this point to simply stay out of one another's way.
There are more nicknames I've awarded to various places and people, but I can't think of them all off the top of my head, so I'll just fill you in as needed. As you've probably noticed, I've got an odd interest in Greek mythology, and often give people nicknames based on their character's parallel to the gods and goddesses of the ancient world.

But back to the day. With two hours left in my 12-hour shift, I mentally make a list of all the things I need to get done in the 24-hours I've been awarded off. Laundry. Clean. Pay bills. Groceries. mail birthday cards. Groceries - another mental list begins. Soy milk. Turkey meat. Cookie dough. Dog food. Sugar. Wheat bread. Fish...
Suddenly my thought process is interrupted by the most annoying phrase to come across the radio.
"3-16 Traffic"
I felt my eyes instinctively roll and heard myself say "3-16, go ahead." It doesn't take a day of dispatching for a police department for traffic stops to get annoying. They're time consuming, typically come at the most inconvenient moment, and tedious. I listen and typed as he calls out his location and gives me the license plate (28) of the vehicle he's stopped out with. I run the 28 to ensure it isn't stolen and check to see if we've ever stopped out on it before. The keystrokes take mere seconds on my part, and the waiting game begins. There's no point in attempting to do anything productive at this point, because I wouldn't even get started before hearing 316's voice on the radio again. I briefly start thinking about my ever-growing list of things to get done on my mere 24 hours away from the department when his voice interrupts my thoughts again.
"316, twenty-seven"
In the most dull voice I can muster, I hear myself respond. "316, go ahead." He rattles off the number of the driver's license and waits for my response. The waiting game continues. Now its my turn to make him wait. The difference in our anticipation is extreme. When I'm waiting on him, thoughts of his security race through my head. Is he okay? Is the driver a wanted criminal that was waiting as he walked up to shoot him? Did I make sure I understood exactly where he said he was so back-up can be there on a moment's notice if he needs it? Are the other cars moving over so he has enough room to safely run his stop? His anticipation, however, is not filled with questions of my security. He knows I'm safe in the 'closet' that we claim to be our communications center. Rather, what he wonders is what's taking me so long. He wants to be finished with his traffic stop as much as I do, because he'd like to be able to stop the two cars that have already passed him going ten miles above the speed limit. I'd like to be finished with the traffic stop because I have better things to fill my time with than stopping everything I'm doing to run his returns.
"3-16 returns," my voice blares over the radio.
"Go ahead."
"Twenty-seven on Texas D.L. two three nine one eight seven eight seven, comes back to a Renee Elise Sanders, white female, twelve, two of eighty-nine, five-six, one-thirty, blonde over green. Shows address out of Midland, eligible, class C, expires two-thousand seventeen. Clear, no twenty-nine, no locals.
Twenty-eight on Texas four three eight John Victor Nora, expires April two-thousand twelve, two-thousand six chrysler utility, to John Sanders out of Midland. No twenty-nine. No locals. Insurance shows confirmed."
(all returns are completely fictional and made up just to give you an idea of what is said)
"10-4" responds 316 from the other end of the radio.
What may seem like a garble of numbers to any normal person, is anything but to the two of us. I've just given him all the information he needs regarding the person he's encountered. More importantly, I've ensured that he's out with an average woman, not a dangerous criminal, so he knows that he will most likely be sending her on her way with a simple citation, rather than transporting her to the county jail.
After a few minutes, I heard my officer announce he was clear (10-8) with a citation. I clear the call on my end, ensuring his times are prompt so when I go to pull reports for Chief later, they'll be accurate. As I'm waiting for his next traffic stop, an inevitable chore with 'The Traffic Man' on duty, I make sure all the necessary information is entered into his call sheet, and in the correct spaces.

I'll give you a slight insight to myself. I'm self-diagnosed OCD. I insist that everything I touch be done to perfection. It's a trait that comes in handy in this field, but often causes me more stress than necessary. I often find myself 'fixing' other dispatcher's calls, whether or not they're done according to standards. Not only do I prefer all the call sheets to match, but I like to see them done to perfection, not to standards. This is one of the issues I face with Koalemos on a seemingly daily basis. She doesn't seem to care whether the other dispatchers' call sheets meet policy standards, much less exceed them. She tends to brush me off when I bring up any topic regarding the communications center. Now, if I'm sharing information about my personal life or listening to her talk about her own, she's cordial and pleasant. But, if I have an idea regarding improvements in the workplace, she instantly shuts down. She prefers things to stay the way they are. Understandably enough, change is different and can be a bit scary. I'm one of the few people I know in this world that embrace change. I love the thrill and excitement of new things, so Koalemos and I - simply put - don't see eye to eye with one another. I've come to understand that neither one of us will see the world through the other's view, but just because I understand the root of our problems, it doesn't decrease my frustration level when dealing with her.

I spend most of my shift pondering improvements, and mapping out plans for the improvements I think of. Currently, our communications center is more of a closet than what most would consider a communications center. The records are stored there, along with anything else nobody can find a place for. As my shift ends, I realize the weekend is quickly approaching and, since Koalemos doesn't work weekends (refuses to would probably be a more accurate term), I have the chance to organize dispatch. I map out a plan in my head, which includes buying a literature organizer so we don't have to lay papers out on the counters and hope the officers pick them up in a timely manner. Additionally, I'll need to find a shelf so our binders, which are currently spread in various places throughout dispatch, can be consolidated to one, easily-accessible area. I'll buy labels for the drawers and maybe a cabinet to throw all the 'junk' in that has started to pile up. Most importantly, I'll need to get a shredder. Ours has been out for months and we currently have about four two-foot stacks of paper that need to be shredded. Obviously our shredder is not going to be replaced if it hasn't been already, and just like everything else that breaks in dispatch, one of us will either have to replace it with our own money, or go without. I'm always the one to break down and buy. Everyone knows this, and some days I wonder exactly how messy it would get in there if I weren't there to maintain it. Another revolution I've discovered regarding dispatch is that if changes are to be made, it's much easier to ask forgiveness than permission. Koalemos, as I mentioned, hates change, so any mention of it gets a negative response. So, I've realized that the best way to approach her with change is to just throw her into it. Typically, she lives with the changes made for the shift, realizes by the end of shift that it was for the better, accepts the change, and never mentions it again.

Then again, there was the time I retyped a form and didn't tell her about it. The response was typical Koalemos, but I wanted to walk out and because of her attitude. We were working 8-hour shifts at the time, and I got off at midnight, relieved by another dispatcher, who was relieved by Koalemos, who I relieved the next day. Upon my arrival the next day, before even setting my purse down, Koalemos was jumping down my throat about not getting approval before releasing the form. Let me back up for a minute and explain the form she's talking about. It's our manual call-sheet form. So if, for some reason, the computers go down, we pull out these forms to document the calls until the computers are revived. In layman's terms, it's a glorified piece of scratch paper. But, back to the lecture. For about five minutes, she questions why I felt I had the authority to release the form and if I do it again without approval, expect a write-up. Typically, I let Koalemos's words run in one ear and out the other, but this particular day not only did she jump me the minute I walked in, but she had a trainee in the room to witness it all. I was infuriated. Then, to top it off, Koalemos waited until her trainee left, about twenty minutes later, and told me that the form looked really good and I'd done a good job on it. I think what infuriated me the most was that she lectured me in company and praised me in private over the exact same thing. Later that night, she sent me an email to 'document our discussion' from earlier in the day. One nice thing about Koalemos is that she never went to college, so her intelligence level is lower than mine, despite her age. Additionally, I've been blessed with the God-given talent of 'words.' I can throw a professional email together with passion, words strung like art, and make myself shine. Koalemos often underestimates me. You'd think she'd learn, but she doesn't. I replied to her snappy email very professionally, explaining to her that I understood that she was upset with me, and it would not happen again, then requested - politely and professionally - that the next time she felt the need to reprimand me, she do it in private, as it made the situation more uncomfortable than necessary. Then, I forwarded the email to Chief. Amazingly enough, Koalemos left me alone for a good month after that.

I glance up at the clock and realize that, while I've lost myself in my thoughts, my shift has drawn to a close and Koalemos and her trainee should be here any minute. (Have I mentioned that we always - ALWAYS - have a trainee because we can't seem to keep any good people around for longer than a year. You'd think they'd start re-analyzing why they can't keep anyone around. Maybe I'll mention that in my next meeting with Chief. Maybe I'll wait until opportunity presents itself.) I start to gather my pens and supplies that have slowly managed to find themselves scattered on the counter and put them away. I grab a can of Lysol I'd bought and spray down the keyboards, mice, phone, drawer handles and door knobs in dispatch. I love the clean smell of disinfectant. Koalemos hates it. She says it messes with her allergies, but I secretly think she just enjoys the filth. I adjust the stacks of papers set out on the counter for the officers. I smile to myself knowing that this disaster of a countertop will be clean and clear by the end of the weekend. I know the reaction of the boys will be positive, as will be the reaction of the other dispatchers, which tends to ease the blow of Koalemos' attitude, and decide to call my latest project 'Operation De-Clutter Dispatch.'

I hear the door open behind me and I'm greeted by the stench of cigarette smoke, so I know Koalemos and her trainee are here to check on duty. I give them a quick run-down of the events of the night, make small-talk for about ten minutes, grab my purse and book-it. I've got a lot to do in the twenty-four hour break I have from this place, and not enough time to do it.

A Sneak Peak Into The Life

The life of a public safety worker is a highly unique experience. Regardless of station or rank, each and every individual dedicated to this line of work will find themselves overworked, underpaid, and unappreciated. Public safety workers face long, tiring hours and high stress levels. Additionally, they face broken-hearted children who don't understand why their loved ones didn't make their little league game or dance recital. They face spouses who can't comprehend why they answer the phone every time duty calls, instead of saying 'not today' and letting someone else respond to the scene. Public safety workers experience heartbreak daily - at work and on the home front. They hold lifeless children, who had no defense against the flames that engulfed them. They look into the eyes of criminals daily. They face constant attack and criticism from outsiders who don't understand their jobs. And at the end of their shifts, they return home, filled with guilt for not responding fast enough, constantly wondering if a life would have been saved had they been able to shave seconds off their response time. Their jobs are unpredictable, nerve-wracking, shocking, and gut-wrenching.

Why would anybody choose this kind of life?
Why would anyone choose such a horrible job?
Why would anyone decide to live in constant emotional turmoil, always on stand-by, always aware of their surroundings?
What on earth could possibly make such a life bearable, much less worthwhile?

When I first became a 911 dispatcher, it was nothing more than a job to me - a paycheck. I only came to work for the money, which wasn't much, but to a nineteen-year-old living at home with her parents, it didn't take much to get by. I spent my days staring at the clock, dreaming about the days off to come. I lucked out in the schedule I was given. I worked 12-hour shifts for the first three or four days of the week and spent the rest of the week off - the perfect schedule for a young adult in her social prime. Looking back, I probably never would have accepted the job offer to begin with had it not been for my mother, who insisted it'd be fun - the experience of a lifetime. Most likely, her enthusiasm was masking her desperation to get me out of the house, but regardless, I found myself lost in the midst of the heart of public safety - dispatching.

As time went by, I decided that this job may suffice until I could figure out what I wanted to do in life. I changed departments a few times, mainly for the raises that are more graciously awarded in bigger departments, but still ended up finding myself drawn to the family-like atmosphere that smaller departments offered. As more time passed, I developed what could have been a novel's worth of stories to tell - from calls I'd personally taken, calls my colleagues had received, calls my coworkers had responded to, and stories from the countless faceless people I'd build relationships with over the phone and radio working for other agencies. Some of these stories were heartbreaking, others were heroic. Some would have me in tears, while others would put a smile on my face for days. Some were funny, and others made my heart stop.

After a few years the job my mother had originally talked me into taking became a career. Somewhere in between the laughter and tears the job had provided me over the years, I realized that I'd never really want to leave this field. Despite the horrible hours and stressful moments, I'd come to love it all. I looked forward to coming to work. I loved my colleagues and I looked forward to the adrenaline rush the atmosphere provided. I wanted to advance, looking for every opportunity to make myself shine, so when promotions arose, my name might be mentioned. I was ambitious and eager, feeding off the ambitions and excitement of others. And yet, more time passed and my 'career' in public safety became more of a calling. It was fulfilling. It wasn't about making myself better than someone else, or finding ways to advance within the department. It was a passion. I was making a difference - if only a small one - in the world. I rarely left work on time, but stayed after sometimes for hours at a time because I didn't want to miss out on an exciting call. I started worrying about my colleagues when I wasn't there, questioning their safety without me there to back them up.

So, back to my original questions.
Why would anybody choose this kind of life?
Why would anyone choose such a horrible job?
Why would anyone decide to live in constant emotional turmoil, always on stand-by, always aware of their surroundings? What on earth could possibly make such a life bearable, much less worthwhile?

People don't choose this kind of life. This kind of life chooses them. Though it may seem horrible at times, the connections and support you receive from your colleagues are beyond words. The constant emotional turmoil and awareness are counteracted by the peace and security we find in a job well done.
And what would make this life worthwhile?
Knowing that, at the end of the day, you helped improve the world in a small way - whether it was talking a suicidal person from the ledge, putting a criminal behind bars, rescuing an infant from a flaming vehicle, or simply talking to a lonely elderly woman, who just needed to hear a kind voice on the other end of the line.

I could not imagine a job in any other field. I could not imagine living any other kind of life.