I hear sirens. I’ve heard sirens all day. I thought I’d long become accustomed to them, growing up on this old curvy road with the ambulance station right across the hill, and then working in a store situated on a main thoroughfare. I hardly notice them anymore. But I did this time, because there were so many of them. And they were so close. And they kept on and on and on. Plus, Shug was gone on a 250 errand. Those seem to be becoming more frequent, as he finds more upgrades he wants to do to his weekend transportation. I sent him a quick text to make sure the sirens weren’t for him. He answered me mercifully quick that he was at his destination, and he had sure enough seen all the fire trucks headed down the highway.

For most people, that would be the end of it. They would perhaps utter a prayer for the unfortunate souls requiring the emergency response, but they would get back to their sunshine-y Saturday. But I paused a minute longer, as more sirens joined the cacophony. They were now approaching from all directions. As soon as they arrived onscene, the noise would shut off, only to be replaced with a distant-for-now siren. For a few minutes, there was peace, and then, one by one, the high wail of the ambulance shrieked and tore away.

Transporting emergency traffic, I thought. Must be bad. I wonder if Lifestar was busy.

See, after my short time in dispatch, that’s how my mind still works. Instead of my thoughts dwelling on the victim of the crash-as it surely must be with all those sirens-I wonder if they’re headed to University Tango, and if they were ejected, and where the LZ would be. I wonder if it was someone I know who took the call. I wonder if the caller was hysterical, or helpful with details. I wonder what they’re having for lunch today in the dispatch center. Because no matter what else happens in the county, you still have to eat.

There was a wreck just down the road from the shop the other day. I counted four ambulances, one transported to Knoxville lights and sirens for sure, because they were in front of me, slicing through traffic. They started out normal, but then the cargo must have crashed, because they turned it on at the light in front of Food City. In addition to all the ambulances, there was, of course, the highway patrol, the rescue squad, local police, and a fire truck. That’s a lot of people to keep up with. And that’s just one incident. Usually things are falling apart all over when you get something big and headache-inducing to deal with. That’s just Murphy’s Law.

Just like today. SVFD was kept busy all day, best I could tell. Bless their hearts. I should have baked them cookies or took them a pitcher of sweet tea or something instead of lying on my old quilt out in the yard wasting time by thinking about our sporadic grass and watching the bees work the redbud tree. I should have taken dispatch something, really, because this concludes National Telecommunicators Week. I saw a post on their Facebook page that accurately describes a dispatcher. It reads in part: “Once you have put on the headset and asked, ‘where is your emergency?’ you have become a member of The Hotel California. You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.” It never leaves you. You’re haunted by some calls, and can’t help but laugh at others. You make friends for life with some of your co-workers, if you’re lucky. I’m lucky.

So if you ever have the misfortune of having to dial those three little numbers, know that your information will be processed quickly, and accurately, into the ear of someone who cares about your welfare and wants you to keep drawing air. They may be guzzling coffee by the quart, but they are there for you, 24 hours a day, seven days a week.
Be safe out there. They got enough going on without you going out and doing something stupid. Your very worst day is just another day in the life for them. They’re there, tethered to their radio, in their little cubby with flashing lights and hundreds of buttons and four computer screens apiece, just waiting on the next call. Thank you, dispatch staff. You’ll always have a piece of my heart.