Human beings work in 9-1-1. Sometimes, it’s easy to forget that.

Dispatchers train hard to assist our citizens unemotionally and efficiently. Doing the job well requires us to set our feelings aside.

But our human side is always there, and we are always vulnerable.

In the 90’s I worked with an intensely likable, jovial guy named Lou. Lou was a volunteer firefighter and veteran dispatcher. Public safety had become his life and passion, as the plethora of window and bumper stickers that adorned his car openly advertised. He was self-effacing, quick to smile and all about helping others. There were no other career options. He was made for this, as he would gladly tell you.

One evening, Lou took a 9-1-1 call from a man who was recently divorced and had lost custody of his kids. He had also lost his long-time job. He had determined that he was going to shoot himself, so he called 9-1-1 to make his intentions “official.” He was certain that no one cared about him. He was alone and he had no reason to go on.

In those days, we didn’t have reliable technology for locating a cell phone caller beyond the tower location. Landmarks or even background noises were often the keys to finding callers who couldn’t otherwise tell us where they were calling from (one call taker in my center back in those days located an injured party who had no idea where they were by hearing a train in the background).

Lou happened to take the call that night, and he worked diligently to reassure the caller and to locate him – but he wasn’t getting much cooperation. When it started to become clear that finding him was going to be difficult, Lou began to make an empathetic connection with the caller. I was a new supervisor at the time, and I sat by, hoping to help where I could. I remember being deeply touched by the degree to which Lou was pouring himself into helping this man that he didn’t know.

Eventually, the caller disconnected. But, over the course of the evening, he continually called back, asking for Lou by name each time. They had developed a rapport, a sort of relationship that only 9-1-1 call takers can understand.

Other call takers began to take notice as Lou (now on a first name basis with the caller) continued to insist that the caller had much to live for, that this was just a bump in the road.

“I care about you, sir,” I remember Lou pleading, “Please tell me where you are so I can get you help! You don’t want to do this! Please give me a chance to help you!”

I also remember looking into Lou’s eyes and knowing that he was now personally tied to a successful outcome. This was no longer a “call by the numbers.” He meant every word and felt it, deeply.

After several more conversations — disconnects and calls back in — Lou was able to convince the caller to reveal his location – but there was a finality to his revelation that became immediately apparent.

“They’ll find me now, Lou,” the caller said, “after I do what I have to. I want you to be on the phone with me while I do it, Ok? I need someone who cares to be with me. I feel like you care, and I appreciate it more than you know. I just want to thank you for being here for me.”

I was sitting a couple of feet away now, taking in this extraordinary moment, my heart pouring out to Lou, powerless to impact the outcome. The degree to which Lou was investing every bit of himself into the call drew the attention of others in the room. Through Lou’s now personal stake in the outcome, we were all invested.

We watched and listened, afraid to breathe.

“Sir, please,” Lou pleaded, his eyes beginning to tear up. “Don’t . . . “

Lou’s horrified expression told us all what happened next.

I remember how silent the room became. The feeling of loss was palpable.

Lou, immediately awash in tears, turned to me and asked for a break. I walked him outside, bought him a soda and sat with him for a while, assuring him that he had done literally all that he could have. That he was truly heroic for all that he had done.

He looked up at me, tears streaming down his face, and asked for the rest of the night off, which I granted without hesitation.

Shortly thereafter, Lou submitted his resignation.

I only talked to him a couple of times over the years after that. I remember seeing his car, free of its trademark stickers. I also remember that it seemed as if Lou had become someone completely unlike the person I had known before. The quick smile was gone. He didn’t look me in the eye when we spoke.

He passed away a few years later from sudden cardiac arrest.

Human beings work in 9-1-1. Sometimes, it’s easy to forget that.

It’s worth remembering.

 

About Kris Inman:

Kris Inman is the Director of Program Development for The Healthy Dispatcher. A 29-year veteran of 9-1-1, Kris retired in July 2023 as Director of Springfield Greene County 9-1-1 in Springfield, MO. An awarded speaker and instructor, Kris has delivered standout educational sessions, keynotes, motivational talks and yoga instruction to dispatchers across the country. He is also a long-time college adjunct instructor, teaching courses in communication and public safety leadership. Kris holds a Master of Arts in Communication and a Bachelor of Science in Electronic Media from Missouri State University. He is also a registered yoga instructor.