In near silence, Wabasha County dispatchers John Yorde and Steve Buol handle paperwork and take care of some small jobs.

That’s the way it is most of the time in the dispatch center at the Wabasha County Criminal Justice Center.

But not always. The veteran dispatchers know disasters can always happen — fires, accidents, shootings, heart attacks, beatings, roads washing out.

And when they happen, they and thousands of other dispatchers across the state are often the first ones to get the call. It’s up to them to get the information right, hand off the call to the right police officer, firefighter or EMT and get ready for the next call.

There’s always a next call.

The trick is to not take it personally, not get wrapped up in the chaos of the moment, not let the hysteria or anger of the caller get to you, they said.

On Dec. 19, they got the call all dispatchers dread — an officer had been shot. They knew something was happening during a domestic call in Lake City, Buol said. Then someone called.

“I think she told me you have an officer down,” he told Yorde, his usual office partner.

“I looked at John and said ‘I can’t believe this is happening, or something to that effect,’” he said.

They immediately scrambled everyone they could — all the other officers and a medical helicopter. They focused on their jobs, realizing all the while that they probably knew the officer. It took away a feeling of helplessness.

It was nearly half a day before the man who shot officer Shawn Schneider was found dead, apparently of a self-inflicted wound, inside a Lake City house. Schneider died several days later.

It was hard for them because they could only hear calls. “We were getting everything kind of third-hand,” Buol said.

Both dispatchers were honored for their work, jobs they do quietly but with pride. They know it’s not as easy and simple as they make it look, but that’s part of their pride.

“Just doing our job,” Buol said of the award.

By hearing alone

They said that work is done with the major limitation that they can use only one sense: hearing.

While officers at the scene can see or smell problems and have several minutes to prepare, dispatchers can use only their ears and have no time to prepare. They have to be able not only to hear what’s being said, but also pick up overtones, nuances of the person calling. It’s almost an instinct.

“You get a radio ear,” Yorde said. “It’s just something you either do or can’t do.”

And they have to be calm. That’s another thing you do or don’t have. Some people don’t get frazzled, can take abuse from an angry or distraught caller, while others can’t.

“The ones who are tense are the ones who probably won’t make it through training,” Buol said.

“You have to remember you didn’t put them in that situation,” Yorde said. “You’ve got to try to keep your cool.”

Panicking won’t change what happened, he said. The only thing they can do is help get the right emergency personnel there. If callers become obnoxious, you take it, you do your job.

Finding a good dispatcher is difficult, said Gary Mulleneaux, communications manager for dispatchers for all of Olmsted County.

“A lot of the best dispatchers didn’t come from any dispatch background,” he said. “We don’t have the luxury of a school system or courses in college.”

To find the newest dispatcher being trained at the law enforcement center in downtown Rochester, they looked at 160 applications. The top 32 were asked to take a two-hours skills test that measured how fast they can type, memory recall, comprehend what they read, multi-task, think fast and be accurate. The top ones were interviewed, and the top person is now being trained.

“You hope you get the right one,” he said. “We have some who don’t make it. … There is just no way to prepare for this” without actually doing it.

While all the skills are important, Mulleneaux said, he looks mostly for people who can deal with people. “I’m one of those people (for whom) attitude is just about everything,” he said.

If the dispatchers do their work right, no one will notice, he said.

“You talk about unsung heroes,” he said. “That is what dispatchers truly are.”

Routine calls quickly forgotten

Many routine calls you forget as soon as you hang up, Yorde said. He can hear about an accident, page an ambulance crew and hang up. “It just becomes second nature, you just do it,” he said.

Besides, “it could happen to me some day,” he said. “It could happen to anybody.’

But he also has to be emotionally ready that something won’t come out well, such as the Schneider shooting, he said.

During that event, the dispatchers went to debriefings, just like officers at the scene, Buol said. “It helped piece things together, to find out how everything transpired, what everyone else was doing at the scene,” he said.

Yorde said he became a dispatcher because he likes to help. He began with the Lake City Ambulance Service in 1979, was an EMT for 19 years and director for four years. He’s been a dispatcher for 11 years and has been Lake City emergency management director for 15 years.

“It’s a good fit down here (in dispatch),” he said. “And it helps the county out.”

Buol has been a dispatcher 28 years. Before that, he worked at a Wabasha grain mill but heard about the dispatcher opening. He liked a change of pace and steady work. When he tried it, he liked it and found he could do the job.

“Some just can’t multi-task, they don’t make it through training,” he said.

Changes over the years

When he began, the dispatch center had one computer and used mostly paper for calls. Dispatchers were also jailers and answered inquiries. Now they do dispatching only and rarely use paper.

But, Buol said, what they need to be hasn’t changed: calm, composed, quick thinking.

He said you also have to have empathy. While you can’t try to be the caller’s buddy, you have to focus on the people, try to help them, he said. Abuse “is part of the job,” he said.

He doesn’t share stories with his family. “What happens here stays here,” he said. “You learn to keep it in, block it out.” But there’s always that pride.

Yorde agreed. “This is a good job, it keeps you involved, it lets you help people.”

With that, they went back to work.

Yorde took a call from a man whose elderly mother fell and he didn’t think he could get her up by himself. He dispatched the Plainview ambulance and went back to entering warrants in the system by the light of the computer monitors.

Read the story here.

SPARTANBURG COUNTY, SC — Saving lives is what they do.

They’re not firefighters, police officers or paramedics; they’re the first first-responders.

At Spartanburg County’s 911 center, every 911 emergency is routed through one of the county’s dispatchers.

Dispatcher Chrissy Davis has talked down a suicidal man threatening to jump from a railway trestle. She’s taken calls for shootings, stabbings, fires and medical emergencies. She’s had a man go into cardiac arrest and die on the phone with her.

“I told him paramedics should be there shortly,” she said. “I could hear the silence, and the last thing I remember him telling me was ‘come in through the garage,’ and then I heard a thump of the phone hitting a floor.”

Dispatchers are not receptionists; they’re coordinators. The county’s dispatchers need to gather the information quickly and get the right people to the right place as fast as they can, Davis said.

Davis recently received an award, the County’s Telecommunicator of the Year, for her performance as a dispatcher.

For her, the 911 Center isn’t just a place that cuts her a check.

“This is a job that you have to come to knowing that every day you have someone’s life in your hands,” she said. “This is not a job you can come to and bring your problems from home.”

Is that stressful? Yes, she said, and the people who call in are often angry, frustrated or scared.

“When they talk to us, they’re in a tremendous amount of stress, possibly the most stressful or dangerous or scary situations of their lives,” she said.

She said officers will call later apologizing for their behavior on the phone, but she and her supervisor, Scott Francis, say that it’s key to separate the situation from the person. They’re not mad at the dispatcher; they’re upset with the situation.

“It’s kind of Spock,” Francis said. “You’ve got to be logical with them, not cold, but steady.”

Inside the 911 Center on the corner of Pine and Main streets in Spartanburg, the dim lighting and the quiet glow of the bank of six computers in front of each dispatcher masks the buzz of activity at each dispatcher’s desk.

At one time, a dispatcher mIGHT be on the line with a police officer, while also on the line with a crime victim, while also looking up vehicle information on a fleeing suspect, while also pinpointing the location of the 911 caller via GPS software. All the while, the dispatchers are asking questions: “What is your address?” “Your phone number?” “Tell me what happened.” “Was there a weapon involved?”

The county’s communications department, funded at nearly $5 million, handles nearly every kind of emergency situation. The 15 dispatchers per shift take calls from 39 fire departments, Spartanburg Emergency Medical Service, the sheriff’s office and police departments in the cities.

The office takes about 900 calls per day, Francis said.

What’s the most common call? Hang-ups.

“There are a lot of people pocket dialing these days,” Francis said.

Calls spike in the summer when kids aren’t in school, and they spike with the weather, too. The phones really ring during winter storms, Francis said.

People call in with any kind of emergency, and for non-emergencies too.

Some call asking for a phone number because they don’t know who else to call, Davis said.

There are the prank callers, too. Davis said she remembers a little girl calling in about a house on fire. The neighborhood’s fire department responded and found no fire, but they did find the little girl’s house.

“Her parents weren’t very happy,” Davis said.

Still, dispatchers have to take every situation as though it could be real, knowing that even the best response doesn’t always guarantee a good outcome.

Davis said she remembers the man dying on the phone with her and how the next call was to the coroner.

“But when someone performs CPR on a child and that child’s parents call you a couple of days later and say, ‘I don’t know who I was on the phone with, but thank you so much,’ that is worth every bad call you could take,” she said.

Read the story here.

“I’d always wanted to be a policeman,” Watson said.

The 75-year-old never went out on a call or pulled over anyone, but she did realize her dream, spending several years with the Monroe Police Department as the agency’s first dispatcher.

Now, she looks back at her time on the force with nostalgia and marvels at the difference between then and now following a visit to the Walton County 911 center and getting a glimpse of the modern dispatcher.

“I was amazed and overwhelmed at all the computers and monitors and all the high-tech equipment they use,” Watson said. “None of it is even comparable to what I did back in the early 70s. It is unbelievable the progress that has been made.

“The only thing I can say that hasn’t changed is that they still use the 10 codes like we did way back then.”

Watson became the city’s first dispatcher in 1972 and spent three years working the radio, where she quickly became indispensable.

“There had never been a radio dispatcher at the department at that time and the officers had to take turns working the telephones and radios and they all hated having to stay inside and sit at the desk,” Watson said. “All the officers were very happy when I started to work there and they could get on the road and do police work as they put it.”

Watson spent three years on the radios, one of many jobs in her polymath series of careers, before leaving to open her own restaurant, Polly’s Cafeteria, but she had fond memories of her time on the force and had the stories to go with the experience.

The police may have liked having her around, but she was less popular with the mayor at the time, who thought little of having a woman in the department.

“The mayor thought that was the silliest, stupidest thing he’d ever heard of,” Watson said.

But Watson persevered and sometimes ran into a little adventure or two on her own within the police department.

“The prisoner cells were inside the building there and the police forgot to lock the cells sometimes,” Watson said. “I was working at night around midnight and a prisoner walked in and asked for a cigarette. If I’d had one I’d have given him the whole carton, but I just told him I’d get him one if he’d sit down back in his cell. And he did.”

She also remembered the department’s great drug theft during her tenure, done under everyone’s noses.

“We had a marijuana plant out front so people would know what it looked like,” Watson said. “One day someone stole it but they left the planter it sat in. Somebody stole the pot out of the pot.”

Born in North Carolina, Virginia Dare Watson — named after the first colonist born at the Roanoke colony — began working young, delivering papers for The Evening Telegram in Rocky Mount, N.C., at the age of 10.

She married young, at the age of 14, and gave birth to six children — son, Thomas Bowden, and daughters, Kitty Yarborough, Cindy Johnson, Debbie Shaw, Tracey Wheeler and Vicki Fares.

She moved to Monroe in the 1960s to be closer to her mother and quickly became involved in the community, joining the American Legion Auxiliary and handing out poppies, working on the school traffic patrol to direct traffic, becoming one of the first woman bus drivers for Walton County Public Schools, even running for coroner once, where she came in third out of four candidates.

Even after leaving the police, Watson stayed busy, running her restaurant for a few years, earning her GED from the Athens Technical College, then, when moving to Florida to be with her sister, working on a cruise ship, “The Emerald Seas,” before becoming a police dispatcher again, in Medley, Fla.

Even as she spent 14 years on the force there, she also took pictures and wrote articles for the local newspaper, The Medley Gazette, joined the code enforcement board and then became historian and town photographer under the mayor, amongst many other parttime gigs.

“Don’t ask me how I juggled all this in and worked a full time job,” Watson said.

Watson remarried and in 2005 moved back to Monroe, where she is a member of Faith Baptist Church, the Monroe Art Guild and is thinking about learning to play the piano.

She most likes to focus on her grandchildren — Shayne Bowden, Shannon Butler, Kristi Keesee, Nicholas and Zachery Johnson, Eric Kent, Katelyn Farid, Wesley and Olivia Wheeler and Matt and Christian Boyd — as well as a few great-grandchildren.

But, having spent National Communications Week this month visiting the dispatch center, she’s amazed at the changes in the career she spent the most time in.

“The 911 center seems to do anything and everything for everyone,” Watson said. “They are awesome to do all that they do. They save lives and deliver babies over the phones. How many people can say that?”

Watson can say a lot herself, though, as even she can admit.

“I can tell you stories,” Watson said.

Read the story here.

During that time, Dunphy has seen many changes–when she started, the town didn’t have 911–and has been on the receiving end of many emergency calls. However, her time serving the town is coming to an end as she is retiring next month.

North Branford Patch: What do you enjoy about being a dispatcher?

Dunphy: When I first started, I was an EMT and in the fire department so working as a dispatcher was almost like an extension of that. It was nice to know that I was still saving lives when I was at work, that I was helping people, sometimes in their worst times. It always made me feel good and feel proud.

North Branford Patch: What does a day in the life of a dispatcher entail?

Dunphy: It’s a crazy way to live. You’re always on call, you work holidays and weekends, but my husband has been very understanding. Every day is different, which is the nice part of the job. We run plates for officers, check people’s history or if they’re wanted by other departments when they’re arrested; we handle calls for the fire department, 911 and emergency medical dispatch. We answer the phone and talk to people in the lobby. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg.

North Branford Patch: How technical is your job?

Dunphy: Every two years, I have to recertify on the NCIC computer so it has been continual education. I have eight computer screens in front of me and each has a different function.

North Branford Patch: What shifts do you work?

Dunphy: The busiest shift is 3 to 11, which I worked for many years, but I also worked midnights for almost 20 years because it worked with my family life. I’ve been on the day shift for the past couple years.

North Branford Patch: What calls stand out to you thinking back on your 29-year career?

Dunphy: I worked the night that the Northford Store burned down and I’ve answered quite a few medicals with people having heart attacks or not breathing and I’ve been able to talk people through getting them to breathe again. In all the years, though, I haven’t gotten to deliver a baby as an EMT or a dispatcher. There were a couple who called while they were in labor, but they’ve gotten to the hospital.

About 20 years ago, I was training a new dispatcher one night when a baby was kidnapped and there was a huge manhunt. One of our police dogs tracked him and was able to get the baby back two days later.

I was also working the night the police officer shot the lady on Route 80 and that was probably the most terrifying night in my career. The officer stopped a car and the guy ran into the woods. He was talking to me as he ran after the guy. When he came back to the street, she came at him with the car. I didn’t hear the car or the gunshot, but I heard over the radio that there were shots fired and that was terrifying because I didn’t know what had happened.

North Branford Patch: What is something you want people to know about being a dispatcher?

Dunphy: People should remember that there’s always a 911 operator here, 24 hours a day, to help them.

North Branford Patch: What do you plan to do with your retirement?

Dunphy: We love to travel so I plan on doing lots of that after I retire. I’m looking forward to spending more time with my grandchildren. I also plan on taking some college courses in business and computers to maybe start my own photography business. My husband will retire next July. We’ll stay in town until then, but maybe we’ll go to New Hampshire after that. I’m ready to relax.

North Branford Patch: What will you miss the most?

Dunphy: My friends here. One of the fellows has been here 25 years and another girl for over 20 so we’ve all been a family and I’ll miss all that. But I’ll come back and visit. I might even work here per diem after if they really need me. I’ll miss the craziness and people, but I’ll be enjoying some quiet time at home.

Read the story here.

The clock is ticking. In this business, seconds matter and there’s no time for small talk.

But that doesn’t keep Las Vegas Fire and Rescue dispatchers from assuming the caretaker role, if only for a few seconds.

“Try to relax and take a deep breath,” dispatcher Reina Luna-Fernandez tells a 32-year-old woman suffering from shortness of breath. “I know it’s hard.”

•••

At least nine people man the phones any given moment at the Fire Alarm Office on Casino Center Boulevard, where more than 325,000 emergency calls were handled last year.

The dimly lit room in Las Vegas Fire and Rescue’s headquarters, glowing from constantly updating computer screens, receives all fire and medical emergencies in an 8,000-square-mile area — about the size of Massachusetts.

Metro Police’s Communications Bureau, which answered more than a million calls to 9-1-1 last year, screens emergencies and forwards medical and fire calls to the Fire Alarm Office. The screenings help weed out unwarranted calls, speeding response times for real emergencies, said Tim Szymanski, spokesman for Las Vegas Fire and Rescue.

“You have a lot of people who call 9-1-1 for directions,” he said. “The traffic is backed up.”

As for the calls that actually reach the Fire Alarm Office, dispatchers live by a 45-15 goal — meaning 15 seconds to initiate dispatch to the scene and 45 seconds total on the call, said David Westbrooks, senior communications supervisor.

Within eight minutes, fire trucks or paramedics should be on the scene, Westbrooks said. A live map on dispatchers’ computer screens shows call locations and progress of responding units.

“These people are amazing,” Westbrook said Thursday, motioning at his staff. “They really do a great job. I’m so proud of them.”

Last week was National Public Safety Telecommunications Week, a designation even the dispatchers, who are technically called communications specialists, didn’t seem to acknowledge as calls lit up phone lines.

At the time, the tourist experiencing seizures, the unconscious man lying outside an apartment, the 12-year-old bit by a dog and the 85-year-old woman on blood thinners with a nosebleed needed more attention.

As Westbrooks explained, it’s not the dispatchers’ place to play devil’s advocate and question callers’ emergencies, 90 percent of which are medical-related.

“We can’t determine the seriousness of it,” he said. “We still have to give the same level of care.”

The bulk of medical emergencies come from the Las Vegas Strip and downtown, where a health scare dashes tourists’ plans for fun, Szymanski said. Heat exhaustion is a common malady in the summer, he said.

“A lot of people get so wound up in what they’re doing, they lose track of time and forget to take their medications,” he said.

The result? A visible camaraderie among emergency responders and hotel security staff, authorities said.

“It’s just a typical day in the office for us,” Szymanski said.

The busyness of the Fire Alarm Office attracts first responders from China, Australia and elsewhere around the world, who come to observe technique and technology, he said. For instance, advanced software installed after Sept. 11 alerts authorities if there are multiple similar calls that could signal an epidemic or biohazard.

“It’s a program that watches over the dispatchers to say, ‘Heads up,’” Szymanski said.

Technology advances also mean a shift in how people report emergencies. Most calls from casinos originate from landline phones, which provide exact addresses, but about 70 percent of suburban, residential calls come from cellphones, Westbrooks said.

Now, dispatchers rely on a system that detects the ping of a cellphone signal, narrowing the caller’s location to a block radius if he or she can’t provide an exact address, he said.

“It is really good, especially when you have guys out there four-wheeling on the mountain,” Westbrooks said.

•••

Whatever the call, communication specialist Desiree Goss slips into her dispatch voice — a soothing, melodic sound opposite her gregarious personality.

She admits the work-only voice is partially to help her remain calm while talking to frazzled callers or dispatching emergency units.

“It’s just my dispatch voice,” Goss said. “You turn it on and you just go.”

The frequency of calls spares dispatchers from dwelling too much on the rough ones, but it also lets questions linger. Did the child survive? Will authorities find the person responsible for elderly abuse?

“There’s absolutely no closure for us,” said Dennis De Vera, a communications specialist for eight years. “It’s nonstop. If you get back-to-back calls, it’s tough.”

Westbrooks said his most difficult call came in December. A frightened mother reported her young son with a lifelong illness had taken a turn for the worse, breathing intermittently.

“That was an agonizing call because I constantly had to listen to this lady pour her heart out and ask for help,” he said. “And I constantly had to keep telling her help was on the way.”

In that case, it was too late. The boy later died.

“I don’t want my units arriving on scene to a dead body,” said Westbrooks, whose definition of a successful call is transport to the hospital.

Some calls hit closer to home than others, though.

Communications specialist Darcy Dickens once answered a call about a family friend pinned under a car, an accident that killed the man.

“That’s probably the weirdest thing is when you take a call and you know them,” she said. “The whole time I’m watching this play out, knowing it’s them.”

Dickens credits her panic-free personality for guiding her through each call, whether it’s an understandably stressed family member or a polite elderly person who feels bad for even needing to dial 9-1-1.

“I learn something new every day, and I’ve been here 10 years,” she said. “It’s never dull.”

Read the story here.

But callers sometimes want her to.

“When’s the next aftershock going to be?” was one question she remembers from Aug. 23, the day of the magnitude-5.8 earthquake.

On that day, much of Stafford’s emergency communications center staff showed up voluntarily to work, even when they weren’t scheduled. They knew that the 38 lines would be busy.

And they were. In the two hours right after the quake, they received 469 calls. During that same time on an average Tuesday, they usually get 65.

Carol Adams, director of Stafford’s center, applauds her staff for their dedication that day—and every day.

This week was designated National Public Safety Telecommunicators Week. In Stafford, it wraps up with an open house 10 a.m. to 2 p.m. today in the dispatch center.

“It’s never the same thing twice,” Ober said earlier this week, while standing in front of eight computer screens, wearing a headset and also listening to the radio for law enforcement with what her boss calls a “third ear.”

“It’s so much more than I expected,” said Ober, 24. She has has worked in the center for almost two years.

She’s among the 32 people who ensure that 911 calls are answered, police, fire and rescue crews are dispatched and warrants are entered into the computer system.

Though not physically demanding, the work is mentally and emotionally exhausting. But Ober says she thrives on the chaos.

“It’s not a job most people can do,” Ober’s boss said.

Adams has been in the field for 30 years and will be one of very few nationwide who may retire from emergency telecommunications. Annual turnover in the 32-person center in Stafford is 28 percent, slightly above the national average.

That means the department is always hiring new staff to fill empty positions. The dispatch center could accommodate a much larger staff in the rear of the 114,000-square-foot Public Safety Building at Stafford Courthouse.

Adams said four to five dispatchers are hired each year, and they must complete eight months to a year of on-the-clock-training.

“We put a lot of time and commitment into them,” Adams said. No other education can prepare dispatchers for this job, she said.

REQUEST FOR FUNDING

Staffing in the emergency communications center hasn’t changed since 2006, while 53 positions have been added between the Sheriff’s Office and fire and rescue staffs.

Meanwhile, more calls are coming in, particularly wireless calls, which are up by 24.6 percent, Adams told the Board of Supervisors’ Public Safety Committee at a recent meeting.

Cellphones don’t have addresses attached, meaning dispatchers must somehow figure out where the call is coming from. Call time is 5 percent longer than those from landlines.

Warrant volume is up 41 percent—warrants and protective orders must be entered into the system shortly after they are filed. That lets deputies know immediately if the person they stopped is wanted and on what charge.

Combined, these increases all add more work to the already hectic 12-hour shifts.

The county averages 305,000 calls per year, one of the highest among similar-size localities, according to data presented by Adams.

But staffing allocation is the lowest among those same localities, she said.

“The folks that do this job will stretch themselves thin to answer calls,” Adams said.

Dispatcher salaries average $31,800 per year.

Adams presented a request to the committee to create four shift supervisors positions. The department lacks enough staff to provide around-the-clock supervision, putting the county in a noncompliance category for the National Fire Protection Association, she said.

Adams estimated this would require $200,000 in the fiscal 2012–13 budget.

“We’re still in the midst of our budget,” said Public Safety Committee Chairman Jack Cavalier. He suggested the supervisors try to earmark money for the department soon.

UNSEEN FIRST RESPONDERS

Training coordinator Chris Conley, 28, works with new employees for their first several weeks of the training academy.

But he also fills in as a dispatcher as needed, including one day earlier this week.

Conley, who lives in King George County with his wife and two daughters, originally envisioned being a dispatcher as a steppingstone to being a deputy.

And a surprising number of deputies do go that route, said Bill Kennedy, spokesman for the Sheriff’s Office.

But Conley decided to stay in the communications side of public safety, where he has been for 10 years.

“You adjust to the lifestyle,” Conley said. “You learn to eat cold food doing this job. It’s an acquired taste.”

Mid-conversation, he pauses to respond to a radio call, quickly switching between computer screens.

Another dispatcher had answered a call for a cardiac arrest. When crews arrived, the victim was declared DOA—dead on arrival.
A little “oh no” escapes from a dispatcher nearby.

Conley picks up talking where he left off, a skill that many have in the dispatch center. He’s still listening to the radio, entering information about a prior breaking and entering, looking up records on someone at a traffic stop.

Meanwhile, Ober searches for the cardiac arrest victim’s regular doctor, tracking down an out-of-state phone number.

The dispatchers are called the “unseen” first responders. Ober said she wouldn’t want to be one of the first people physically at a scene. “It would upset me more than hearing it on the phone,” said Ober, who used to work at a downtown Fredericksburg bar.

“You’re constantly doing something to help somebody and make their day easier,” she said.

And when a day is particularly tough on a dispatcher, he or she can take a break in a quiet room.

“In most cases, you don’t know the outcome” of a call, Adams said. “You have to be trained just to put that aside.”

Read the story here.

The people on the receiving end of those calls are dispatchers who serve as the first link in a long chain of first responders ready to aid the public.

They get an earful from that same public — calls from people reporting Palisades Center store clerks who gave improper change, a child who missed the bus and wanted an officer to take him to school, and a woman who couldn’t find parking in Nyack and wanted the police to locate a spot so she wouldn’t get another ticket.

Those are among the less serious calls Matthew Mann of Haverstraw, a dispatcher with the Rockland County Sheriff’s Communication Division, has answered over his 14 years with the division, better known as 44-Control.

“A lot of the public doesn’t know what’s going on (with 911),” Mann said. “A lady called. Everyone in her car was fine. She wanted an ambulance for the deer she hit.”

The dozen dispatchers and supervisors interviewed for this story all emphasized that no matter the nature of a call, each was taken seriously because what might not seem important to most people was clearly important to the person calling.

In Rockland last year, about 700,000 calls were made to 911, the county said. About 400,000 were deemed true emergency calls, while the remaining 300,000 involved complaints about power outages during storms, duplicate traffic accident reports and so forth.

In Westchester, more than 915,000 calls were made to 911, according to the county and to state police, which answer cellphone 911 calls.

About 733,000 calls were specifically made to 911. About 85,000 additional emergency calls were “administrative,” made directly to state police barracks, according to information provided by Lt. Hector Hernandez.

The calls included everything from house fires and bank robberies to medical emergencies and activated carbon monoxide detectors.

Each one was answered by a dispatcher who underwent training to quickly locate the address of the incident and determine the specific nature of the call. Most have the ability to begin administering aid over the phone to buy time as police, firefighters, paramedics and ambulance crews rush to the scene.

Knowing the nature of the call is key, said Keith Mahoney, a radio communication specialist for 44-Control. “We could send a police car, but it doesn’t do you any good if you need a paramedic and you’re bleeding to death,” Mahoney said.

Dispatchers said some of the toughest calls come from people who say they are attempting suicide.

Evan Humphrey of Monsey, a 44-Control officer for five years, remembers using triangulation to finally locate a suicidal woman after a two-hour search.

The arriving officers informed the dispatchers they were at the door.

“I heard them knocking,” Humphrey said, and he was relieved to have finally gotten her help.

What happened to that woman, or to any of the people dispatchers send aid to, mostly remains unknown to them, said 44-Control dispatcher Teri Hamilton, who is also president of the Rockland Dispatchers Association.

“We don’t get closure,” Hamilton said. “We take the call, the trauma, the emergency, but you get no closure.”

Association members will gather Saturday to honor the outstanding efforts of local dispatchers. They also are celebrating 911 Dispatcher Recognition Week, as declared by County Executive C. Scott Vanderhoef. “Most folks don’t realize how important 911 dispatchers are to the health and safety of everybody in Rockland,” Vanderhoef said. “I can’t thank you enough for what you do for us.”

As tough as some of the calls are, dispatchers have to keep their emotions at arm’s length, said Richard Cummings, a 17-year dispatch coordinator for the Clarkstown Police Department. “The biggest challenge I think is not to get emotionally involved,” Cummings said. “Some of the calls are really sad. You can’t get involved. You have to have that barrier.”

Despite the challenges, each dispatcher said that overall, they enjoyed the job, including Brian Duddy, a five-year dispatcher with Clarkstown. “It’s the type of job where things change,” he said. “You never know what’s going to happen that day. But mainly it’s the fact that you’re helping your fellow Rocklanders.”

Dispatchers also stressed the need for the public to provide information when they call 911, said Mike Volk, chief of communications for Westchester County’s Department of Emergency Services, known as 60-Control. “It’s important that callers listen to the dispatcher and answer and don’t just hang up,” Volk said.

Gina Acuna, a 15-year dispatcher with 60-Control, said the public can find providing even basic information difficult during an emergency because they are panicking.

But if callers can help the dispatchers, the dispatchers will provide all the help possible, she said. “The challenging part is trying to deal with frantic callers,” Acuna said. “They don’t understand we’re trying to help them. … They don’t understand that we are truly the first responders.”

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“It can be a zoo,” said Cate Loughride, dispatcher and training officer for the center that covers police calls for Park Ridge, Morton Grove, Niles and Des Plaines, as well as fire calls for Park Ridge and Des Plaines. “If it’s busy in the morning, it usually stays busy all day.”

Circumstances that trigger chaotic conditions include weather, special events, holiday weekends and children out of school. In February the center received 5,728 calls. The average call lasted 44 seconds.

Loughride, who has been a dispatcher for nine years, said customer service is a big part of the job. Dispatchers understand people calling 911 usually are not thinking as clearly as they would be in a more relaxed situation. That makes the reaction of the dispatcher critical, she said.

“We try to calm them down before the responders arrive,” Loughride explained. “Our response determines how that person is going to react to the officers.

“A lot of people think we’re part of their police department, one of their officers. We’re a separate operation.”

A big part of the process for dispatchers is asking questions. The emergency-call taker must determine the type of problem; where it is; what kind of response the issue requires; the severity of the situation; and the number of officers needed to respond.

“That’s why we ask the questions we ask,” Loughride said. “What some callers may not realize is that while they are answering questions, help is already on the way.”

Because the center takes calls from multiple municipalities, dispatchers must be sure of the exact location, as many towns have the same street names.

“It’s absolutely critical to verify the address,” Loughride said. “That’s why we ask twice, so that there’s no confusion. It’s just like in real estate: location, location, location.”

Medical calls require dispatchers to follow a specific protocol.

The answers to those questions allow paramedics to put together a more complete understanding of the situation when they arrive and gives doctors at the hospital an idea of what to expect and how to address it, Loughride said.

“But I but can understand why the person on the other end just wants the help to be there now instead of answering questions,” she said.

The ability to multi-task is invaluable, added Colleen Graham, operations manager at the center.

“You have the person on the phone, who may be hysterical, and then you’re communicating with the police officer while your partner is typing in more information,” she said. “You’re talking and sending information at the same time.”

Graham added: “But once you have this job, it’s in your blood.”

In addition to dispatching emergency-services personnel the center also is responsible for keeping records of the calls.

Attending community events is another part of the job.

The center participates in the National Night Out program to fight crime and drug use. This year’s event will be Aug. 7.

At the Park Ridge Fire Department’s open house the center sets up a bank of phones for children to practice 911 skills.

“The more we get the information out about what we do, the better the understanding the public has,” Loughride said. “These kinds of events put a face to that 911 operator so that if they ever need us, it’ll be easier for them.

“It’s a way to make things run smoother.”

Loughride said she became involved when she saw an opening posted for the position.

“There’s no specialized training,” she said. “You just kind of fall into it.”

Training is on-the-job for six months.

“We’re family up here,” Graham said of camaraderie among dispatchers. “We’re tethered with headsets in a circle. There are a lot of Type-A personalities here, and you have to get along.

“You spend holidays together. We never close.”

And that adrenaline rush they all share when chaos descends is all part of the job.

“When that kicks in, it’s ‘let’s go, let’s go!’ ” Loughride said with a smile.

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MARSHALLTOWN, IA — Anyone who has ever dialed 911 knows that speedy response is paramount in emergent situations.

Because of most people’s mindset when they call police, they aren’t likely to consider what is involved to ensure first responders arrive promptly when seconds can mean the difference between life and death.

It’s an emergency. They hang up the phone and hope first responders get to them in time.

“We don’t typically talk to people when they are having a good day,” said Teresa Lang, public safety communications supervisor at the Marshalltown Police Department.

Meanwhile, before their call has even ended, communications operators have already set the wheels of first response in motion.

They are the gate keepers.

To acknowledge the work of its 13 communications dispatchers, the MPD will take part on National Telecommunicator Appreciation Week, which starts Monday.

Lang said the week helps draw attention to the often hectic and stressful work dispatchers do. Few people have the skills to do their job.

“It takes a different kind of person,” said Jenny Clark, communications operator.

Clark said the hardest part of her job is not knowing the outcome of a call she handles.

Dispatchers must be able to multi-task well, Lang said. They must remain calm while getting information from people who are often agitated or scared and make sure police, fire or emergency medical technicians get to them as quickly as possible.

“Every time we answer the phone, you don’t know what you are getting into,” said Vicky Otto, communications operator.

Otto said the stress of the job can sometimes be overbearing.

Telecommunicators don’t just handle 911 calls. They also sound tornado sirens, keep track of the county’s 1,200 active arrest warrants and nearly 1,000 no contact orders, among other things.

To be qualified to be an emergency dispatcher one must first undergo between 15 and 16 weeks of training, including a week at the Iowa Law Enforcement Academy and a week-long class at the Department of Public Safety.

Lang said dispatchers must be able to make critical decisions quickly at stressful times without mistakes.

“They are making life and death decisions,” she said.

Being a dispatcher takes a lot of personal sacrifice, Lang said. Emergencies do not take vacations. Dispatchers must be willing to work lots of overtime, holidays and weekends.

There is no such thing as a typical work week, she said.

Despite the swarm of chaos that can sweep through the communications center, Lang said dispatchers are attracted to the job because it offers variety, challenge and the satisfaction of helping people. It not just a job, it’s a career.

“It’s very rewarding,” said Otto, who has worked in the center for 28 years.

Working in the center requires a real team effort, Lang said. It’s important to pay attention to what the other dispatcher is doing in case it relates, Otto added.

The MPD will bring in treats as a thank you to the dispatchers. And although telecommunicators do not encourage people to dial 911 for non-emergent situations, it is nice to hear appreciation from the community, Lang said.

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