Dispatch…Say WHAT?

Working in EMS brings you into contact with many different agencies, and with people of all walks of life. On a daily basis, we will work with up to 5 different agencies at the same time, from the Sheriff’s Department, City Police Department, 911 Dispatch, Fire and Rescue, and the various Emergency Departments at which ever hospital we end up at.

 Each of these agencies has their own protocol and rules that they must abide by as do we, and we sometimes clash in our dealings.  But we work together well for the most part, and most of the problems that arise are from personal differences or attitudes than anything else.  Rarely do agency protocols cause a conflict, as each department has their own role to play in an emergency.

 But, we do bitch and complain sometimes about each other, I know my attitude has sometimes caused conflict, but more often, I’ve found its my sense of humor that really fans the fire.  As I’ve stated more than once, I was born with an over-active Jackass gland, and it flares up at the most inopportune times. Either that or I just have a fetish for staring at the walls in the director’s office.

 Most often it is from my radio traffic, something about that little microphone in my hand just brings it out. 

 “EMS, EMS, respond to 145 3^rd Street, reference to a 45 year old with General Sickness. Time out 0235.”

 You stagger out of your bunk, grabbing blindly for your boots, pants and sundry clothing, hurry down the hall hoping to beat your partner to the bathroom to pee, and then rush off to the truck to call in service before they tone you out again. Being toned out a second time for the same call is automatically a trip to the director’s office if he finds out. And believe me, he will.

 “M2 Radio, show us 10-8, stand by for beginning mileage.”

 This over your portable radio as you fumble with a zipper, belt or what-ever.  Once, but I’ll never say what county it was, in the middle of trying to do three things at once, the radio took a dip in the porcelain throne, them things are tough ! And for the record, I did wash it with disinfectant before I swapped it for another one on the down low.

“Radio M2, say again beginning mileage.” In the back ground you can hear giggles, and a muffled voice, “…hope that’s rain I’m hearing in the background”!

 You rush out to the truck and flip on the ignition, read the mileage and call it in. Jump into the seat, start the truck as your partner hobbles out of the station door pulling on an article of clothing, then hops into the passenger seat.

You flip on the master switch for the lights, and roll out of the bay, chasing the cobwebs out of your eyes and brain as you try to remember where that street or road is. Your partner is flipping through the map book looking for it as well.

“Duke what friggin street she say that was again?”

 “M2 Radio, 10-9 (repeat) those numerics again my partner has brain damage this morning.”

 “145 3^rd Street, reference to male patient with General Sickness” comes the reply, then it is repeated again.

 Remembering the neighborhood, you head into town, using the siren only as necessary in the early morning, dodging the occasional stray dog or cat that scurries out of the way.

 As you enter the street, you scan for house numbers, which of course are not visible, if they even exist. Battered mail boxes hang at all angles from rotten post, burned out porch lights leave dark shadows upon the front of the house where one would expect to see the numbers.

 “Radio can you give me a description of the residence?” Something, anything to help me find the house.

 “Standby………(3 Eternities Later)…M2 they say they can see you !”

 This is too much, and without warning, attack of the smart-ass.

 “Well Radio, that don’t do me a lot of good if I can’t see THEM!”

 Your partner starts to giggle beside you, and over the radio you hear a quick, chopped off…”Oh no He ain’t !”

Yep, I have just started a little inter-agency warfare. The radio comes to life again with a different dispatchers voice, irate babble can be heard in the background, statements like, “dat smartass mo,fugga”.

 “M2 caller advised look for the flashing porch light. 8^th house on the right from the intersection.”

 After the call, you call dispatch to get your times and mileages, the second dispatcher answers the phone.

 “911, can I help you?”

 “Hey, this is Mike with M2, need my run number and mileage.”

“Hold on…” The hum of “on hold” then, “Who dis?”

 “Mike with M2, need my run number and mileage.”

 An irate voice explodes, “WHY YOU GOTS TO BE RUDE ON DE RADIO?”

 Rude? I didn’t see it as rude, but what ever, “How was that rude? You said they could see me, but it wasn’t doing me a bit of good, I asked for description not whether or not they saw me.”

 “DAT WAS JUST RUDE, DEY SAID DEY SAW YOU, WHY YOU CAN’T SEE DEM?”

 “Can I just have my run number and mileage please? I really don’t have time for this.”

 There is a long pause, then another voice comes over the line and gives me my times and mileage.

 As you sip your morning cup of coffee waiting to get off, the shift supervisor sticks their head out the door, “Duke, you’re wanted in the office.”

 Imagine that !

 I sometimes think I hold the record for number of times I’ve been complained on by dispatch, not an accomplishment I recommend for staying in the directors good graces. 

 On another occasion, we’d been dispatched to a call away and the hell gone down in the county, I’d called for first responders, and arriving on the road saw lights moving up and down the road checking house numbers. We pulled alongside a pickup with a firefighter tag on the front and a flashing light on the dash.

 A middle-aged man leans out the window, “did they say 129 Baldwin? Cause I don’t see that number anywhere. As we spoke another truck rolled up, the driver, a young black man, ran up to us, “That number doesn’t’ exist, I’ve checked every house on this road!”

 “M1 Radio, can you give a description of the residence?”

 “Standby M1, ……. According to the map book it’s a gray and white mobile home. Should be a large mailbox shaped like a fish at the driveway.”

 “There ain’t no mailbox like that on this road.” Stated one of the first responders, I know, I’ve been up and down this road twice.”

 “ M1 Radio, we cannot find any residence that matches that description, can you get the caller back on the phone.”

 The voice coming back on the radio was getting nastier and more sarcastic by the moment.

“M1 it’s gonna be the 2^nd mobile home on the left after you turn off US 84.”

“Radio Baldwin Road is off of US 319, south of Beachton.”

 The sarcasm level jumped up 10 points. She came over the radio again, with a snarl in her voice.

 “Radio M1, be advised that Baldwin Road is in WHIGHAM, not BEACHTON !!! You need…” the radio became muffled and we could hear a voice in the background, then it went dead.

 A male voice suddenly came over the radio.

 “Radio M1, be advised that the correct address is Baldwin Avenue in Whigham. We are dispatching another unit at this time.”

 I grabbed my cell phone and it began to ring even before I could punch in the numbers. I looked at the dial and it was the non-emergency number for 911 Dispatch.

 “Hello?”

 “Hey man, this is Dispatch, I know ya’ll are pissed, I got this under control ok? I’ll handle it.”

 “Nope, we’re coming to kill her !” my hand was nearly crushing my cell phone.

 “Look man, she’s new, she screwed up but I got it handled. Let it go. For me OK?”

 I explained to him it wasn’t the wrong directions she’d given, but rather the sarcasm she’d dished out over the radio as we were scrambling to find the house so we could render aid. After several minutes of conversation, I’d cooled off and we ended the call.  We headed back to the station after briefing our first responders and thanking them for their help.

 The only problem with this was an hour later, we were dispatched again, by the same dispatcher, with just as much sarcasm and smart-ass attitude to another address that also turned out to be false.  And again, we were requested by the 911 shift supervisor to be calm and let him handle it. Thankfully after several more calls like that, she was removed from our dispatching, but not before we’d all vowed to kill her on sight.

 However, she was not removed from dispatching for our sister agency in the next county over, and we use the same dispatch center. As well, I worked there too, so I got a double dose. 

 “EMS EMS, respond to 2493 Dollar Drive, reference to Chest pains.”

 We light up and roll, and the address is a fair jump from the station, so we scream down the highway, pulling on gloves and grabbing the map book out of the door pocket. As my partner maneuvered through traffic, I opened the book and began scanning the map. I noticed that the numbers she’d given didn’t correspond with the map, I picked up the radio.

 “M3 Radio, 10-9 the address” (Repeat the address)

 With a voice laden with sarcasm she gave it to us again.

 “(sigh) M3 the address AGAIN is 2493 Dollar Drive, off of Highway 53 East.”

 WRONG !!!!

 “M3 Radio, check your map, Dollar Drive is off Highway 79 South.”

 Silence for a moment, then she comes back with the sarcasm.

 “Radio M3, Check YOUR map, Dollar Drive, I spell DELTA, OSCAR, LIMA, LIMA, ALPHA, ROMEO, is off Highway 53 East, cross of Ryan Court Lane.”

 My partner explodes with rage, “That stupid bitch ! She’s talking about Dolly Drive, on the west side of town. I know because I live on Ryan Court and it sure as hell ain’t out here !” She grabs the microphone from my hand and calls dispatch.

 “M3 Radio, check your spelling, that’s got to be Dolly Drive.”

 Again, the 911 supervisor’s voice comes over the radio.

 “M3, you are correct on the address, Stand by for a 21.(phone call)”

 We turn around and roar back into town and hit the bypass as the truck cell phone begins to ring. I grabbed it before my partner could, “M3, Duke.”

 “Man, this is C…., Look dude, do I need to send out another truck?”

 “Nope, we got this, but if this patient suffers, we are killing her.”

 The conversation follows the usual line, only this time he assures us she will be dealt with. Thankfully, our patient was only having an attack of angina, and was stable, but I shudder to think had it been different.  Fortunately, our errant dispatcher didn’t dispatch the rest of my shift, and I am fairly sure she was gone in a day or two.

 Unfortunately, we are still stuck with a few of them who need to be beaten to death with a claw hammer.  And don’t get me wrong, dispatchers are some of my favorite people, for the most part, but some of them …Damn.

 When you get a good dispatcher, life is divine, but latch onto a bad one, and oh Hell, here we go.

 One in particular comes to mind, chock full of attitude, no sense of humor at all, and determined to set you straight and damn the consequences.  Perhaps the worst of her issues is the need to repeat everything a minimum of three times before un-keying the mike, thus denying you the ability to transmit any information to anyone, or call en-route.

 She dispatched us early one morning to a MVC in the south part of the county, and with God as my witness, she talked for 4 minutes straight before she un-keyed the mike.  Everything she said, she repeated it at least 3 times, and then to make sure, she repeated the whole process again. We were 6 miles from the station before we could even report that we were en-route.

 Later when we called in for times, she decided to take us to task for our delayed response time, telling us that we had taken over 6 minutes to respond, and that we were only allowed 3 max.  When I informed her if she would have shut up for a moment and un-keyed, we could have called in. She proceeded to spit and sputter, tell me I was “rude” and then refused to give me my times and milages and turned me over to another dispatcher, which I assure you, didn’t break my heart.

 As it happened, I was working the other county as soon as I got off duty from my main job, and a couple of hours later, I was there and got dispatched out.  The night before had been a long night, with lots of calls, and I was tired and cranky anyway. When the tones dropped, I wearily climbed into the ambulance and called in service.

 “M6 Radio, 10-8 BEGINNING MILEAGE 845”

 “RADIO M6, RADIO M6, BE ENROUTE TO 345 WELLS AVENUE, 345 WELLS AVENUE, REFERENCE TO A 84 YEAR OLD MALE WITH CHEST PAINS, YOU ARE RESPONDING TO 345 WELLS AVENUE , 84 YEAR OLD MALE WITH CHEST PAINS, CALLER STATES PATIENT IS ALERT BUT SWEATY, ALERT BUT SWEATY TIME OUT 1033 HOURS, 1033 HOURS, 84 YEAR OLD WITH CHEST PAINS, 345 WELLS AVENUE.”

 It was at that point I’d had enough, so I picked up the mike, and returned the favor.

 “M6 RADIO M6 RADIO, DISPATCH FIRST RESPONDERS TO 345 WELLS AVENUE, DISPATCH FIRST RESPONDERS TO 345 WELLS AVENUE, 345 WELLS AVENUE.”

 Dead silence for a space of several heartbeats, then another dispatcher’s voice came over the radio and acknowledged the transmission, again in the background I could hear muffled swearing and dire threats.

 The rest of the day, every time I got on the radio I repeated everything at least 3 if not 4 times if she was the one dispatching us. My partner at first laughed, but by 7 pm when that dispatcher went off duty, he was fighting to be the one to grab the mic.

 The next morning as I sat smoking and drinking a cup of coffee waiting on shift change, the door between the ambulance bay and the day room opened.

 “Duke, the director wants to see you…”