Bearing Witness

Humans yearn to remember, and to be remembered. Here is proof that I existed.

  • What I’ve Learned in Five Years as a 911 Operator

    Alex Richardson

    Today marks five years at this job. I was 18 years old when I started, and to say this work fundamentally changed my brain would be an understatement.

    My first lesson came quickly: you can’t save everyone. It was my first night taking calls when there was a mass shooting. There were multiple victims spread throughout an apartment complex, one of them outside my caller’s patio door, begging him for help. Shots were still ringing out, so I advised him to stay inside his apartment, as it was unsafe to render aid. This lesson has repeated itself many times since. I’ve told a mother not to enter a burning house to save her son, and I’ve listened to a caller describe watching his neighbor be electrocuted to death after stepping into a puddle of water with live wires.

    Not every call is entirely hopeless, and I think that’s what keeps me sane. The situation may be traumatic regardless, but I still have the power not to make it worse. Sometimes, at the end of a call, I take a moment to tell the caller they did a good job and remind them to take care of themselves. Other times, especially when children are involved, I help them remove themselves from a situation they shouldn’t have to be in. I’ve also learned the importance of remaining respectful. Even when I can’t change the outcome, I can still choose how I treat the person on the other end of the line.

    I’ve learned that you never really know what someone is going through. Some people are verbally abusive for seemingly no reason, but there have been plenty of times when I’ve remained calm and kind despite being insulted, only for the caller to eventually apologize and tell me what they’ve been dealing with. Most of the time, I don’t get an apology, and I may never know what was going on in that person’s life. Still, I hope my kindness made a difference, even if I never got to see it.

    I’ve also learned to appreciate the mundane, both inside and outside of work. At work, I enjoy the simple calls, whether that means directing someone to the animal shelter’s website to help them find their dog or answering a kid’s prank call. There’s something comforting about being reminded that not every problem is a tragedy and not every call ends with someone having the worst day of their life. Outside of work, I’ve come to appreciate the repetitiveness of everyday life for much the same reason. There’s comfort in knowing that, despite everything I hear and everything I carry home with me, the world keeps turning. My routines return. The ordinary things are still there. Eventually, I feel like myself again.

    Of course, not everything returns to the way it was. In some ways, I don’t think it ever will. I don’t carry the same sadness I did after the worst call of my career, but I do have a more negative view of the world than I did five years ago. One of the hardest things to accept is that not everything has meaning or a higher purpose. Sometimes, there is no greater lesson to be learned from something terrible. Sometimes people just suck.

    The first time I was sent home after a call it was because a father repeatedly shot his wife in front of their two young children before turning the gun on himself when police arrived. I heard every shot. That night, I drove for two hours, and the only time I felt any peace was when I accepted that there might be no meaning to what had happened. That the world can be a dark, awful place sometimes, and that there may be no explanation that makes it any less so. I still get nauseous when I think about that call.

    But I don’t think that means nothing has meaning.

    I’ve had calls that have reminded me why I do this job, too. I’ve written before about believing that certain calls find their way to certain people, and how trusting my gut has resulted in some pretty incredible saves. I get called a “shit magnet” at work because of how many bad calls I receive. Maybe it’s just bad luck, or maybe there’s no reason for it at all. But I choose to believe that, sometimes, I’m the right person to take a particular call. Maybe the things I’ve experienced have made me better equipped to help someone going through something similar. I hope I am, at least.

    Five years ago, I was 18 years old and had no idea what this job would ask of me, or how much of it I would carry with me. I’m still learning how to make sense of what I hear, what I can change, and what I have to accept. I don’t think there’s a final lesson to take away from this job, but I’m always learning, and that may be the most important lesson of all.

  • Not For Everyone

    Alex Richardson

    Sometimes at work I will have an observer sit with me for an hour or two so they can learn how 911 works. I take calls, explain how they get dispatched, how our computer programs work, and answer whatever questions they have. They all have different reasons, but the one I remember most was a woman considering applying for the job.

    I got a lot of normal calls with her—cold reports, reckless drivers, hang ups, the usual. Then we got a call from someone witnessing an assault. Those calls aren’t out of the ordinary, but every so often they become something bigger. In this case, our caller watched a woman be strangled to death on the hood of her car. She updated us the entire time, from the moment the suspect put his hands around her neck to the moment she fell unconscious and stopped breathing. When the call ended, the observer looked at me and said, “I’ve heard enough.”

    Then she stood up and walked out of the room.

    I never saw her again.

    It’s moments like those that put this job into perspective. Or when I tell someone what I do and they fall silent because they don’t know what to say. On the other hand, there are the people who ask, “What’s the worst call you’ve ever taken?” They don’t realize it’s actually a tie. I never know whether to choose the call where I listened to someone being sexually assaulted with a broken glass bottle or the one where a fourteen-year-old girl found her mother hanging in the garage. They don’t know I took both of those calls in the same shift.

    Once, at a party, I made a joke about a bad call. Someone asked what happened, and I asked if he was sure he wanted to know. He said yes. I checked with the rest of the group too. They all agreed.

    So I told them about the little girl who found her brother stabbed to death.

    The group went quiet. The person sitting next to me started tearing up and tried to hide it.

    I was still new then. That was when I learned it’s better to keep those stories to myself.

    It gets easier over time, but sometimes I wonder if I’ve lost part of my humanity. How many times can you listen to someone get shot before it stops feeling shocking? For me, I think it was three.

    Sometimes I forget calls I feel like I should remember. Most of the calls I’ve been subpoenaed for are ones I barely recall. I once sat in a courtroom while a recording from one of my domestic violence calls played. It was an open line that lasted nearly twenty minutes, the victim screaming and crying the entire time. People in the courtroom looked uncomfortable listening to it.

    They didn’t know that when I originally took the call, I used the opportunity to eat lunch at my desk because it was the first quiet moment I’d had all shift.

    I think about the woman who got up and left after that strangulation call. I don’t blame her.

    Somewhere between my first day and now, I learned how to listen to things most people never forget. I still haven’t decided whether that’s resilience, burnout, or or something in between. Maybe it’s just survival.

  • Valerie

    Alex Richardson

    Working in emergency services, we have what we so lovingly refer to as “frequent flyers.” For most of the population, calling 911 is a rare occurrence, something that happens only a few times throughout your life. Or, if you’re lucky, never.

    Then there are the few who call us all the time. Some even multiple times a day. At times, I get frustrated with them. Even so, they bring a sense of routine to a job defined by unpredictability and chaos. After some time, I find myself growing attached to them. When they don’t call for a while, I wonder if they’re okay or if something happened.

    Some are better than others. While the reasons they call rarely change, each person brings something different with them. They all have their own patterns and rhythms. Some call just to tell you about their day. Others scream and cuss until you can barely get a word in.

    My favorite was an elderly woman with schizophrenia. I’ll call her Valerie.

    Her calls always went the same way. She would announce herself, say her protection order was being violated, list off random numbers and letters, then ramble for a few minutes. I would wait. When she finished, I’d say, “Okay. I will have this documented.”

    She never wanted the police. She just wanted someone to listen.

    They were some of the easiest calls, and yet every time, without fail, she would spend a minute or two complimenting you. She’d ask for your operator number, then tell you to pass a message along to your supervisor: “Operator 122. You are an asset to 911. Your dedication is truly unmatched, and the city is lucky to have such a kind, compassionate young man,” etc.

    In a job where gratitude is rare, it mattered. Even on her worse days, like when she called to tell me they were shooting acid into her teeth, she still recognized me and the work I did at the end of the call.

    A lot of my coworkers groan about frequent flyers, but Valerie had a special place in all of our hearts. I don’t think there was a single person who didn’t enjoy getting her calls.

    Eventually, she passed away. We got the call from her apartment building’s maintenance man, who had entered her unit for a welfare check and found her deceased. The news traveled quickly. The sadness did too. 

    We pooled our money together and sent flowers anonymously to her funeral.

    Thank you for the memories, Valerie. We miss you.

  • The last message

    Alex Richardson

    The call came in as an active dispute. I heard yelling and the sounds of a physical struggle, but I didn’t yet understand what was happening. Then I heard a car door slam. The struggle stopped. After that, there was only her voice. She pleaded for her life, begging him to let her and her baby go. I realized I was listening to a kidnapping in real time.

    Officers were sent to the address where the call originated, but they found nothing and closed the call while I was still on the line. The car was already moving, and our location tools weren’t updating. I had to rely entirely on her, but she wasn’t responding to my texts.

    For about thirty minutes, I listened to her plead. Her baby cried in the background. I felt helpless. Tears began to form in my eyes.

    Then, she texted me back. She sent cross streets. I immediately called my supervisor over to have the call reopened and officers reassigned. The car was still moving, so we relied on landmarks, street signs, and anything she could see.

    I had asked her to keep the line open while we texted so I could hear what was happening. It didn’t last. About an hour in, the call dropped. My heart sank. I anxiously waited for another message.

    When it came, she said the vehicle was stationary. This was our chance.

    I asked her to describe everything she could see. Restaurant signs. A billboard. Other parked cars. A city bus.

    I asked for the bus number. That detail mattered. We contacted bus dispatch, who gave us an exact location. Officers began checking nearby parking lots. 

    Roughly an hour and a half after the call came in, officers finally made contact. She and her baby were safe.

    I stepped away from my desk but left the text thread open. When I came back, the last message I saw from her was simple.

    Thank you. 

  • A stranger I still think about

    Alex Richardson

    Talking someone down from suicide is one of the most personal calls you can get. It’s rare to know your callers on such a deep, vulnerable level, but when someone believes you may be the last person they ever speak to, they tend to tell you everything. Often, building rapport means being willing to be vulnerable yourself.

    One call I’ll never forget was from a fellow trans person. She was in crisis after realizing she was trans and knowing her family would not be accepting.

    The call initially came in to my trainee, who was struggling to build a connection with her. I felt a knot in my stomach and asked my trainee if she wanted to take a risk. I suggested asking the caller whether she’d be open to speaking with a coworker who might better understand her situation. She agreed.

    We flipped the switch on the headset splitter so the caller could hear me. I introduced myself and told her that I was a trans man.

    I told her about my journey. The confusion. The fear. I shared how, in the end, I was glad I’d persevered, that I got to live honestly. I spoke about the community I’d found, the relief of being gendered correctly for the first time, finding clothes that finally felt right, and the moment I looked in the mirror and recognized myself. I talked about my family’s journey toward acceptance, and how it hadn’t been simple or immediate.

    We stayed on the phone for an hour. By the end of it, it felt less like a crisis call and more like a conversation between friends.

    She thanked me and said she was still scared, but that she also felt something else. Excitement. Hope. That she might finally be able to live authentically. My trainee and I were both tearing up.

    I still think about her. I hope she stayed alive long enough to experience the things she was so excited for.

  • Healing one trauma with another

    Alex Richardson

    The first time it happened, it was a little girl who had found her brother stabbed to death.

    She called because no one else in the house spoke English. Her little voice was so panicked. She kept telling me there was a lot of blood, that he was unconscious, that he wasn’t breathing. When I asked what happened, the only detail she could give was that his face was unrecognizable.

    I didn’t know he was beyond help. I only knew what my screen told me to do next.

    I tried to get her to do CPR. I tried again. I tried to get another family member on the phone. I tried to slow her down. She was too scared. Her screams filled the line. Nothing I said was reaching her anymore. We were both helpless.

    After the call ended, I replayed it over and over. Not the screaming. Not the blood. The decision.

    I wished I had told her to go outside.

    It goes against policy. You’re supposed to keep the caller with the patient. You’re supposed to keep trying until they refuse. But she was a child. She had already seen more than she ever should have. I knew, even then, that following the rules wasn’t the same as helping her.

    That regret stayed with me longer than the call itself.

    Years later, it happened again.

    Another child. Another Spanish speaking household. This time she had found both of her siblings dead. Fentanyl.

    This time, I knew what I was dealing with. 

    I got her mom doing compressions on one sibling. I got her dad doing compressions on the other. Once I knew hands were moving and help was coming, I made a different choice.

    I told her to go outside.

    I told her to flag down the fire department. To watch for them. To tell me when she heard the sirens. I stayed with her while she waited. She was still scared. It was still horrible. None of that changed.

    But when the call ended, something inside me was quieter.

    It didn’t fix the first call. It didn’t make the second one less traumatic. But it healed something small and specific. The part of me that believed I had failed that little girl years ago. The part that wished I had told her to go outside.

    Sometimes healing doesn’t come from peace or time or closure. Sometimes it comes from being given another chance to do the thing you wish you had done before.

  • Sometimes it’s just strange

    Alex Richardson

    Not every call that sticks with you is traumatic or symbolic. Some stick with you because they are deeply, profoundly stupid.

    The past two days had been filled with high priority, stressful calls. The type that I have to remind myself to relax my shoulders after. Then I answered a call from a woman reporting that her friend had put two gerbils in his rectum.

    Yes, you read that correctly.

    He had purchased them from a pet store earlier that day. He put them inside his body without realizing he was allergic to them. He then began having a full anaphylactic reaction while they were still stuck inside him. Facial swelling. Throat closing. The whole nine yards.

    Despite the circumstances, this was still a medical emergency. I kept my voice nonjudgmental. I asked my questions. Help was sent.

    After that, it was out of my hands. And hopefully out of his rectum.

  • I don’t have another explanation

    Alex Richardson

    Before I became a 911 operator, I identified as an atheist. I grew up Christian, but lost my faith around the age of twelve. I moved through life believing there was no higher power, until I found myself struggling to explain the number of coincidences I experienced while working in dispatch.

    One of the first calls that made me question my belief was a 5 year old who had accidentally shot herself in the head while playing with a gun. When I went home that night, I felt desperate to make sense of what had happened and asked the universe to show me a sign that she was at peace in the afterlife.

    The next morning, I walked out to my car and saw a dead crow in my assigned parking spot. I remember stopping in place, struck by the timing and peculiarity. I looked up the meaning afterward.

    Dead crows are often said to represent a recently deceased loved one is at peace and protected.

    Another call that felt significant involved a man harassing women at a 7-Eleven. He had followed my caller all the way to her front door. I had a friend who lived near that same 7-Eleven and visited it frequently. When I first took the call, I felt an urge to text her and tell her to avoid going there, but I brushed it off as overthinking.

    About ten minutes later, the feeling returned. This time it was overwhelming, like a fire burning in my body. I couldn’t ignore it. I messaged her.

    She told me she was one foot out the door, about to walk to that 7-Eleven, when my text came through.

    I’ve received other calls like this, and I’ve learned not to ignore them. Once, a woman was being actively raped outside my friend’s apartment. My friend was about to leave for work, and I was able to warn her just in time. She exited the building through another door.

    I’ve started to feel that these calls come to me for a reason. And I don’t think it’s just me. I see it in my coworkers as well, and becoming a trainer has only solidified that belief.

    We all have our strengths. Some of us handle certain types of calls better than others, or have more knowledge in specific areas. Those calls seem to find the people most equipped to handle them. One of my trainees excelled at talking to callers in mental health crisis, and she received more of those calls than anyone I knew. Another was deeply passionate about animals and familiar with local resources and rescues, and she, too, seemed to receive those calls more than anyone else.

    I don’t have a single explanation that fits neatly into words. I only know that these moments happened often enough, and with enough weight, that I could no longer ignore them. What replaced it wasn’t certainty, but a deeper sense of connection. A feeling that all of this is a part of something bigger.

  • You still have to do the laundry 02/14/23

    Alex Richardson

    I wrote the following piece in the aftermath of what was, at the time, the most traumatic call of my career

    ____________________________

    One of the most grounding things after dealing with a traumatic event is the mundanity of the everyday routine that follows. It often feels like the world stops moving, that you cannot possibly ever move on from what happened, but the endless cycle of everyday life does not stop for anyone. There will still be laundry when you get home and dirty dishes in the sink. 

    It’s easy to get overwhelmed, but I’ve found that these tasks can become a source of comfort. Knowing that one day, you will return to how you were. You will fall back into the same routines and you will feel happy again. Your future self will look back on you and feel proud for persevering through it all. 

    Life is unforgiving and cruel. It’s necessary to allow yourself to feel negative emotions when you need to. However, no matter how bad it gets, it is important to still seek out the beauty in this world. Because like routine, it does not cease either. 

  • The first call I never forgot

    Alex Richardson

    I started as a 911 operator when I was 18 years old.

    I understood going into the job that I would be exposed to trauma. However, it was nothing like I had imagined.

    Before I had even graduated, I took an active shooting call while on one of my four hour observations. During academy, we were required to take calls for one hour at a time to ease into the job before starting OJT, when we would be taking calls for ten hours a day.

    During that single hour, there was a shooting at one of my city’s apartment complexes. One of the victims had been shot just outside my caller’s balcony. He was still alive and begging my caller to help him. I advised them not to. There was still an active shooter, and it was not safe to go outside while shots were continuing to be fired. He died.

    I learned quickly that this job would often place me in the position of listening, not saving.

    Within my second week of taking calls, I received one on our animal protection line. The man had blocked his number before calling. He told me he was in a hotel with a litter of puppies and said I needed to get a female animal protection officer on the line with him. If I didn’t, he said he would kill the puppies.

    I kept my voice flat. I knew the call was likely sexually motivated, and that my fear was part of it. I refused to give him that.

    I tried to explain multiple times that I could not transfer him directly to a female officer and that I would need to arrange for one to call him back. We went back and forth for several minutes before he gave up. He said it again. This time, it wasn’t a warning. He was going to kill the puppies.

    He placed his phone speaker next to them. I listened to their small whines and cries.

    Then the line disconnected.

    The wall I had built dropped immediately. I turned to my trainer, who had been in the job for five years. Her expression said everything. She asked if I was okay and told me it was one of the worst calls she had ever heard.

    I was understandably upset, but I knew I needed to finish processing the call. I informed my supervisor and continued with the rest of my shift. Nothing ever came of it. Because he had blocked his number and never provided the hotel address, we were unable to track him down.

    To this day, I still struggle most with the calls where there is nothing I can do but listen.