Slightly Off the Mark

We got a new radio system in our dispatch center, and the guy training us on it claimed we could use it at home, on a laptop.

This is a great idea in theory: It would save me gas, and clothes would be cheaper if all I had to buy was pajamas. Of course, video 911 is coming, and callers might not be comfortable with my Star Trek onesie.

Actually, callers might not like seeing me no matter what clothes I'm wearing.

"You got what stuck WHERE?"

This is my thirtieth year celebrating Public Safety Telecommunications Week, which is in April between the snow storms, brush fires, and tornadoes. Since the title's so long, I started calling it PSTW, which is kind of ironic because PSTW sounds a lot like PTSD. Everyone who's dispatched longer than seven years gets to know both. It's science.

Here's the strange thing: I'm burned out on this job. Once too often I've picked up the 911 line only to hear hysterical screaming. Once too often I was the last person someone ever talked to. Once too often the name of a victim or suspect ended up being someone I knew.

Yet it's still the best full time job I ever had.

I actually do wear a cape, but only at home when no one is watching. But yay, cookie! Better keep it away from the dog.

Maybe it's because we're actually doing something important. That's a weird thing to define when it comes to jobs, because the best paying ones often are the least important. When a family member is having a heart attack, you don't call your favorite sportsball player for an ambulance. For that matter, when your water pipe bursts you don't look up the number for Beyonce, or Reba McEntire. (Actually, Reba could probably help.)

But that's the way it goes, and at least I've never been stalked by a 911 groupie.

 

I know the artist!

 

 

If you've considered being a dispatcher, I'd encourage it. It's way more important than being a security guard at the Oscars. Also, you have to be bad at it to lose your job--the demand for dispatchers just continues to go up.

Still, it can be just a bit stressful. When I'm talking to new people, I like to give them a few tips they don't get in formal training:

No matter what the caller says when you pick up the line, never reply with "You gotta be kidding me."

Always know if you have a live mic. Always.

Try to avoid cursing in dispatch--see above about live mics.

Well ... at least try not to curse too much.

If you have to scream in the bathroom, turn the water on first.

 

 

Yes, you are a first responder. When 911 rings, you're the first to respond to whatever the problem is. All the others have the advantage of knowing that problem, because you find out.

Hold your temper if your 911 caller starts with, "This isn't actually an emergency ..." Deal with it if the business line rings and it is an emergency. So it goes.

If you have to bang your head against a wall, choose a different place each time, to avoid damage to the concrete.

And finally: If the melatonin gives you nightmares, try sleepytime tea. Sleep is precious.

On a related note, that idea of dispatching on a laptop from home? No. I already have dreams in which I come downstairs and find the dispatch center has been moved to my living room, and I'm the only dispatcher. Besides, I like my Star Trek onesie, and Star Wars pajama bottoms just wouldn't be the same.

 

 

Buy some books, just in case of an emergency:


·        Amazon:  https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO

·        Barnes & Noble:  https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"

·        Goodreads:  https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4898846.Mark_R_Hunter

·        Blog: https://markrhunter.blogspot.com/

·        Website: http://www.markrhunter.com/

·        Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/ozma914/

·        Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/MarkRHunter914

·        Linkedin: https://www.linkedin.com/in/markrhunter/

·        Twitter: https://twitter.com/MarkRHunter

·        Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/@MarkRHunter

·        Substack:  https://substack.com/@markrhunter

·        Tumblr:  https://www.tumblr.com/ozma914

·        Smashwords:  https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/ozma914

·        Audible: https://www.audible.com/search?searchAuthor=Mark+R.+Hunter&ref_pageloadid=4C1TS2KZGoOjloaJ&pf

 One stressful thing about being a dispatcher is that when the phone rings it could be anything. Many of us play Dispatch Bingo. A UFO report? A herd of cattle blocking the roadway? Lunch, interrupted? A couple arguing over who gets custody of their dog? That's a row--bingo!

For some dispatchers this is one of the perks of the job: the challenge and variety. For others, not so much.

Years ago the business line rang and, in a calm voice, a man gave me his name and home address, so we could notify his family. Then he gave me the location where we could find his body. Then he hung up.

Often, when a suicidal person reaches out, it's a cry for help. Not this time. When our units arrived they could only confirm my certainty: Immediately after hanging up the phone, he shot himself. I was the last person he ever spoke to.

It messed me up.

Word got around, and my boss called to check on me. I told him I would be okay, which was true in the long run. I don't know if I told him that in the short run I wasn't okay at all, but my wife was with me, and I hung in there.

I've served in three branches of the emergency services: EMS, Fire, and 911 Dispatch. If anyone mentions PTSD or critical incident stress, I immediately flash back to one particular call in each of those three areas. But a lot of time has passed since those incidents, and although they still dwell in the dark corners of my brain, they don't control my life.

Usually.

Earlier this year we received a report of a person threatening to kill themself with a gun. I didn't take that call, but the moment I heard the details my body chilled, I could barely breath, and my mind went numb. That suicide from so long ago crashed out of the cage I'd trapped it in and rampaged through my head.

It turns out the person in this case did not have a gun, and the whole thing ended peacefully. Still, it was a wake up call. A jangling alarm that took about five years off my life ... and after three decades at this job, I've already lost enough. It's one of the reasons why I've been pushing my writing career: Not only because I have a lot of stories to tell, but because I'd like to spend my time writing them instead of screaming into a pillow after work every morning.

(This is one time in this blog when I exaggerate: No, I don't scream into a pillow after work. I kiss my wife, hug the dog, and hit the bed, where I usually get a good eight hours of sleep in between the weird dreams.)

I'm not writing this to get sympathy for me. I just wanted to remind everyone that the person you think is strong and "normal" may be battling monsters inside. In fact, they may be the most cheerful people you know, always with a smile and a joke. But the effects of stress are real, and the challenge of maintaining our mental health is a stigma that still remains, even today.

Look after yourself. Look after your friends. And if someone says they're having a problem with their emotions or their mental state, take them seriously. Sometimes we make it look way easier than it is.

Now, I'm off to write some humor ... we all have our ways to cope.

http://markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"

 We're getting a new radio system in our dispatch center, and the guy training us on it claims we could use it at home, on a laptop.

This is a great idea in theory: It would save me gas, and clothes would be cheaper if all I had to buy was pajamas. Of course, video 911 is coming, and callers might not be comfortable with my Star Trek onesie.

Actually, callers might not like seeing me no matter what clothes I'm wearing.

"You got what stuck WHERE?"

This is my thirtieth year celebrating Public Safety Telecommunications Week, which is in April between the snow storms, brush fires, and tornadoes. Since the title's so long, I started calling it PSTW, which is kind of ironic because PSTW sounds a lot like PTSD. Everyone who's dispatched longer than seven years gets to know both. It's science.

Here's the strange thing: I'm burned out on this job. Once too often I've picked up the 911 line only to hear hysterical screaming. Once too often I was the last person someone ever talked to. Once too often the name of a victim or suspect ended up being someone I knew.

Yet it's still the best full time job I ever had.

I actually do wear a cape, but only at home when no one is watching. But yay, cookie! Better keep it away from the dog.

(To be fair, my part time radio DJ job was nothing but fun, even though I kind of sucked at it. But that job, in a problem similar to my writing gig, barely paid enough for the gas to get there.)

Maybe it's because we're actually doing something important. That's a weird thing to define when it comes to jobs, because the best paying ones often are the least important. When a family member is having a heart attack, you don't call your favorite sportsball player for an ambulance. For that matter, when your water pipe bursts you don't look up the number for Beyonce, or Reba McEntire. (Actually, Reba could probably help.)

But that's the way it goes, and at least I've never been stalked by a 911 groupie.

I know the artist!

If you've considered being a dispatcher, I'd encourage it. It's way more important than being a security guard at the Oscars. (Ahem.) Also, you have to be really bad at it to lose your job--the demand for dispatchers just continues to go up.

Still, it can be just a bit stressful. When I'm talking to new people, I like to give them a few tips they don't get in formal training:

No matter what the caller says when you pick up the line, never reply with "You gotta be kidding me."

Always know if you have a live mic. Always.

Try to avoid cursing in dispatch--see above about live mics.

Well ... at least try not to curse too much.

If you have to scream in the bathroom, turn the water on first.

Yes, you are a first responder. When 911 rings, you're the first to respond to whatever the problem is. All the others have the advantage of knowing that problem, because you find out.

Hold your temper if your 911 caller starts with, "This isn't actually an emergency ..." Deal with it if the business line rings and it is an emergency. So it goes.

If you have to bang your head against a wall, choose a different place each time, to avoid damage to the concrete.

And finally: If the melatonin gives you nightmares, try sleepytime tea. Sleep is precious.

On a related note, that idea of dispatching on a laptop from home? No. I already have dreams in which I come downstairs and find the dispatch center has been moved to my living room, and I'm the only dispatcher. Besides, I like my Star Trek onesie, and Star Wars pajama bottoms just wouldn't be the same.

 Hey, I almost forgot: December 13th marked my thirtieth anniversary working in Noble County Government!

It's complicated, because I spent the first few years working in the Noble County Jail, and thus can honestly say I spent time in jail. After that I moved to dispatch, which is now it's own department: Noble County Communications.

I was disappointed that there was no cake ... but then, I'm always disappointed when there's no cake.

Sometimes the job gets ... rough. I used to go home and scream into a pillow from time to time, but it upsets the dog. And I'll be the first to admit that I thought all along I'd be writing full time by now. But we have an important job, and I work with good people, and we have heat and air conditioning. Also my vacation days have reset, and there's something comforting about knowing if things get really stressful, I can take some time off to eat ... well, chocolate cake. Or brownies. With chocolate frosting.

Anyway, while I could have retired last year, I can only afford it if I supplement my retirement pay by selling, according to my estimation, a thousand books a week. Right now a good week is double digits.

But I'm working on it.

And, hey--dispatch gets a tree.

 I don't know if anyone who's not in the emergency services will fully appreciate this, but what the heck. I wrote some new lyrics to the Christmas song "Deck the Halls", and it's dedicated to all the emergency telecommunicators out there--including those who, like me, still call themselves 911 dispatchers.

I just hit my 29th anniversary on the job, so don't mess with me: I'm legally insane:

TIS THE 911 SEASON

Tis the season for the fighting,

Fa la la la la, la la la

Kicking, screaming and the biting

Fa la la la la, la la la

Barroom fights and family squabbles

Fa la la la la, la la la

Louder than a turkey gobbles

Fa la la la la, la la la

Frequent flier, 911

Fa la la la la, la la la

Claiming that his meds are gone

Fa la la la la, la la la

Overdose is never fun

Fa la la la la, la la la

Especially at half past one

Fa la la la la, la la la

Traffic stop, to be proactive

Fa la la la la, la la la

Sure enough a warrant active

Fa la la la la, la la la

It won't get that cop promoted

Fa la la la la, la la la

When they find out he has COVID

Fa la la la la, la la la

Working all night, on through Christmas

Fa la la la la, la la la

Sure do hope the family missed us

Fa la la la la, la la la

We won't join in with the choir

Fa la la la la, la la la

Unless they catch their tree on fire

Fa la la la la, la la la

Fa la la la la, la la la

Can't sleep because we're still wired

Fa la la la la, la la la

Family members give you some cheer

Fa la la la la, la la la

Save your stress until the New Year

Fa la la la la, la la laaaaaa........

Remember, every time you don't buy a book, the Grinch steals a tree.

Someone commented the other day that the coronavirus pandemic will turn out to be the worst worldwide disaster since World War 2. I'm not sure I agree with that--apparently this particular person was too young to have experienced the disco era.

Listen to "Disco Duck", then tell me Covid-19 is all that bad.

But it is bad, of course, and it's likely to hang on every bit as long as disco did. In fact, now that it's here the virus is likely to come around again on occasion, just as its cousin, the flu, does. It's the Uncle Eddie of disasters. It's the equivalent of me going through old boxes a few years ago, and stumbling across the "Thank God It's Friday" soundtrack. On vinyl.

Yes, in some corner of a storage unit disco still crouches, waiting to strike again.

Buy hey, I liked some disco songs, even as I despised the disco craze itself. Similarly, for an introvert like me there are some good things about being driven indoors by a pandemic.

"Stay home, read and watch TV, play some games--the life you save may be anyone's."

Oh. Okay, then.

Luckily my wife is as much of an introvert as I am. The other day I wrote 3,000 words on my new novel, and when I got tired watched "The Walking Dead" while she went to her computer and killed 3,000 Orcs and trolls. Who says modern entertainment doesn't prepare you for real life?

I can't work my full time job from home. I mean, I could, but it would be expensive to run 911 lines and emergency radio service into my living room. (By the way, coming downstairs to find our dispatch center has been moved to my living room is a common nightmare I already had--I didn't need the help.)

But we already have a home office for our part time job, writing. It's a working office, which is code for "cluttered". The irony is that over my last days off I never went in there, because I pulled a back muscle and redefined the concept of uncomfortable office chairs. The couch, an ice pack, and the laptop with Pandora's John Williams channel in the background, and I was set to write until the muscle relaxer kicked in. Then I had to stop, or I'd drool on the keyboard.

No, this is not what my desk looks like ... it's way too neat.

I can only imagine how badly this is going for extroverts.

We do have to go out from time to time, to buy food and to harvest leaves for toilet paper replacement. Don't use the three-leaf plants. Experience. But then came a new twist, when authorities went from saying masks don't help unless you're infected to, "Kidding! Go ahead and use them--couldn't hurt."

Which we all know isn't true.

Being in the police business, my first thought was, "How many reports of armed robberies in progress are we going to get? Especially since some people (um, me) planned to take advantage of it by dressing up as cowboys?

"Give me all the cash, or I remove this bandana!"

But I don't own a bandana, or a handkerchief, or ... well, I have a ski mask, but since there's a hole in it for the mouth that's not very useful. Finally, when I had to go out, I settled on wrapping toilet paper around my face. I was kidding about the leaves: I'm one of the few people in the world who had stocked up on TP before the virus came around. Why? So I don't run out, duh.

I figured my worst problem would be if it started raining. But no: My worst problem is that I didn't make it fifty feet from the house before someone mugged me.

For the toilet paper.

But at least they had a mask on.

I've been taking 911 calls for so long that they were originally 91 calls.

Well, it seems that way, anyway. It turns out National Public Safety Telecommunicators Week predates my full-time employment in the emergency services by ten years, and can we possibly shorten that name down a bit? By the time I finish saying National Public Safety Telecommunicators Week, the week is over. I'm going to call it ... NPSTW. I know somebody who got their Bachelor Degree at NPSTW, although they've since married. Go Bulldogs!

Anyway, I started with the Noble County EMS as a seventeen year old trainee in late 1979, and joined our volunteer fire department in 1980. But it wasn't until December, 1991, that I took an actual paying job in the area of emergency services, as a jail officer with the Noble County Sheriff Department.

Within a few years I got tired of getting sick all the time. Seriously: Those inmates breathed so many germs on me while getting booked in, I thought I was in a sequel to The Andromeda Strain. So I went into dispatch, trading physical ailments for mental ones.

Unknown to me, way back in 1981 Patricia Anderson, of the Contra Costa County Sheriff's Office in California, came up with this idea to give tribute to, um, NPST, or as I'm going to call them, dispatchers. Yes, I know "dispatchers" doesn't tell the whole story, but my typing fingers are tired.

Oh, who am I kidding? All of me is tired.

Isn't it something? I've been here for almost twenty-eight years, and dispatching for about twenty-five of those. I've been here so long that when I started we had only one computer, to get information such as license plate and driver's license returns, using DOS.

Get your grandparents to explain DOS to you.

My wife points out that taking information was difficult back then, because we had to received 911 calls by smoke signal, while carving words onto stone tablets. I'm fairly sure she was kidding.

I've been here so long I could take full retirement at the end of this year. Full retirement pay! Sadly, I haven't figured out how to make up the difference in income, but I'm hoping my book sales will pick up. The good news is we don't make all that much to begin with, so the loss of income wouldn't be so much of a shock ... but it would be tough learning to sleep through the night.

While I joke about it--mostly to keep from crying--things really were easier back then, when it comes to learning the job. Our computer systems do make it easier to help people these days, but astronauts don't train as much as our rookies do. Spaceship vehicle pursuits are faster, though. The point is, I'm not sure I could make it through training, if I started today.

We had one the one small computer screen when I started. Now I'm looking at seven flat screen monitors, not including the security and weather screens. Our report was written (in pen) on a single piece of paper about half the size of a standard sheet. Today we have a Computer Aided Dispatch (CAD), radio screen, phone screen, mapping screen, recorder screen, 911 texting screen, and a screen to keep track of everyone's duty status. We also have a screen to keep track of screens. Those are just the ones we use regularly.

Me, I'm pretty burned out at this point, and some of our calls can get rough. I have all the symptoms of PTSD; some of them include:

Experiencing a life-threatening event, like when the dispatch pop machine ran out of Mountain Dew;

Flashbacks and nightmares, such as reliving the night we ran out of Mountain Dew;

Avoidance, such as staying away from places that don't have ... well, you know.

Depression or irritability, which I just now realized might be related to consuming too much caffeine;

Chronic pain ... wow, that one hit me like a pulled back muscle.

You know, looking down that list you have to wonder, as I check off each and every box: avoidance, numbing, flashbacks, being on edge, overeating ... HEY! Who the HECK took my meatball sub out of the break room fridge! I'm HUNGRY!

Where was I? Oh, yeah. You have to wonder:

Why the heck am I still here?

Here's the thing. I've worked in retail; in factories; as a security guard and jail officer; as a radio DJ; I once made two bucks an hour growing worms for fishing lure. And for all the emotional turmoil, all the mental stress, all the physical ailments, all the days when I wanted to scream, and so desperately wanted to NOT go back into work the next shift ...

Dispatching is still the best full time job I've ever had.

Of course, I'm not a full time writer, yet. And for that I'd only have to deal with one computer screen.

Here in dispatch we got all sorts of goodies this year in honor of Public Safety Telecommunications Week, much of it in the form of food from various appreciative members of the public. I especially liked one of the first ones, a paper bag full of all sorts of neat snacks, many of them of my favorite type--chocolate. But I wasn't able to partake right away, because right after I got home we had to leave again, to see my mother in the hospital. So, I left it on the kitchen counter until we returned.

The dog ate it.

He left most of the list, so I could see what I was missing.

Most of the chocolate was gone. Dogs love chocolate for the same reason humans do: It's bad for you. But, I'm happy to report, Beowulf made it through the crisis with a smile on his snout and an ache in his stomach. Okay, I'm not so very happy.

It's hard to tell how much of the bag he swallowed, but he didn't get to the microwave popcorn, and apparently the can cooler was too chewy. The green stuff at the bottom left is from one of those Scentsy wax smelly things--but that's another blog.

He also didn't get the gum, which is maybe for the best. Imagine that moment of panic the first time he passed gas after a whole pack of gum moved through his system.

In any case, although I remain less than happy with him, at least Beowulf didn't make himself sick going places he wasn't supposed to go. And me, I've learned my lesson: First, never take your work home. Second, whenever you get chocolate--eat it. Right now.