Burau - Answering 911: life in the hot seat

ANSWERING

Answering

Life in the Hot Seat

CAROLINE BURAU

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2006 by the Minnesota Historical Society. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, write to Borealis Books, 345 Kellogg Blvd. W., St. Paul, MN 551021906.

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Manufactured in the United States of America

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The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standard for Information SciencesPermanence for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1984.

International Standard Book Number

ISBN 13: 978-0-87351-569-6

ISBN 10: 0-87351-569-2

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Burau, Caroline

Answering 911 : life in the hot seat / Caroline Burau.

p. cm.

ISBN-13: 978-0-87351-569-6 (cloth : alk. paper)

ISBN-10: 0-87351-569-2 (cloth : alk. paper)

Ebook ISBN: 978-0-87351-654-9

1. Burau, Caroline, 1973

2. Police dispatchersUnited StatesBiography.

3. Assistance in emergenciesUnited States.

4. TelephoneEmergency reporting systems.

I. Title.

II. Title: Answering nine-one-one.

HV7911.B85A3 2006

384.684dc22

2006009896

For M. & D., who made me,

And for Jim & M., who make me better

ANSWERING

ANSWERING

What Its Like

Maybe you and I have already spoken, but we didnt exchange names. You probably told me yours, but mine never came up. You may have yelled at me, or begged me to hurry, or passed out in my ear. You may have told me something really personal. I might remember it, or I might not. I may glance at your house as I drive to the store or to pick up my daughter, but I wont slow down. I dont necessarily want to know peoples secrets, I just do.

If I write about you sometime, its nothing to get worried about. Ive forgotten your name, or changed it, and Im just getting it all out. If you left something with me, maybe Im just trying to give it back. If I left something with you, I hope it was good. Maybe I was there when you had your worst day ever. Maybe it was my worst day too, until the next one.

One things for sure: If you saw me on the street, you would never know me. You couldnt thank me, if thats what you might want. You couldnt smack me in the face, either.

My family worried, when I left the newspaper, that I wasnt going to be a writer anymore. But the day after Dori Swanson died, I started writing about it. I had to tell someone about her, what she did to herself, and then what she did to me. I kept on writing because I wanted to do something to record all of the other Dori Swansons I was meeting in this new life of mine.

Maybe someday, Ill get it right. Ill explain what its like to be on the receiving end of a shitty, insane, life-changing call, and Ill do it justice. Ill figure out how to make you understand what its like to be staring at a crossword puzzle and trying to think of a six-letter word for run rapidly one minute, and the next, asking a twelve-year-old girl what kind of a gun her mother just used to blow her own head off. Someday Ill figure out how to make you feel it, and then maybe Ill win the Pulitzer Prize. Or maybe youll hate me for it.

Every day that I sit down at a console in the 911 center, I tell myself that today could be the day. If I dont, Ill forget and get lazy. Today could be the day that I take a call that will change me a little bit forever. It could be the day that a bell gets rung that I can never un-ring. Someone could die in my ear today and take a piece of me with him. Someone could tell me something unimaginable, and Ill have to imagine it.

Still, I can relax. Statistically, its probably not going to happen today. Whats likely today is that Ill watch a little TV and make a lot of small talk with the dispatcher at the console next to me. Whats also likely is that I will become intimately familiar with whatever word game or crossword puzzle has been downloaded to my computer by some other dispatcher, and that even though Ill play it on and off for the next seven to eight hours, Ill still suck at it by the end of the shift.

There will be plenty of 911 calls, but most of them wont be anywhere near as interesting as most people believe.

Youre a 911 operator? Wow! I bet youve got some stories. I get that at parties a lot.

Oh, yeah, I say. Then in the space where you would expect me to start telling one of those wildly interesting stories, I usually draw a blank and start sipping meaningfully on my Diet Coke.

The most interesting stories are also the saddest. And you only think you want to hear them until I tell them to you. Then you start sipping meaningfully on your Diet Coke and you dont know what to say.

They are the stories where mothers and fathers fail their children. They are the stories where friends and lovers do awful things to hurt each other because of drugs or alcohol, or worse, for no real reason at all. Or they are the fascinating ways that some people lose their grip on reality. Interesting? Yeah, but not amusing. And I dont always want to tell them to you at a party because I might try to make them amusing just because I think thats what you want to hear.

One night, surfing the Internet for books about 911 dispatching, I found a single book, meant to be funny, packed with wacky, real-life stories about 911. The lone review warned potential buyers that the book wasnt funny at all, just depressing.

But death and chaos arent the only events that make the 911 phones ring. Most of the calls are actually pretty routine. By routine, I mean that they are routine to us . Maybe not to you, though.

My husband slipped out of his wheelchair. Can somebody help me lift him?

Someone broke into my car.

My 16-year-old son is smoking pot.

My neighbors are shooting off fireworks again.

Somebody egged my house!

Those are the calls we get by the hundreds and thousands. Its hard to feel anything much for those people, not because they dont deserve it, but because there are so many. Its especially hard to listen to the ones who want to act like getting their cell phones stolen out of their cars is the BFD of the century. Listen, if you leave it on the seat in broad daylight with the doors unlocked, then get ready to kiss it goodbye. And dont expect me to cry a river over it either. Just give me your name, number and location so I can send out the cop, who will be equally apathetic, to take a report. And when the cop doesnt wail and gnash his or her teeth over your cell phone either, youll think were all a bunch of insensitive bastards. Think whatever you want, I guess. Just lock your door next time.

The problem is, if I cry over your cell phone, then I wont have anything left for the calls that need me. The night that Dori Swanson died, I cried. But I waited until the end of the shift.

911?

My mom just killed herself!

How did she kill herself?

She shot herself. Oh my God.

Wheres the gun?

Its in her hand.

Is she still alive?

I dont think so. Oh God! No. Shes dead.

How old are you?

Im twelve.