On Call, Part One

Note: Names used are not real

It's 10:38pm when the distinctive ringtone sings out. My heart seizes and I jump just a little. "Why do you still do that," I ask myself. There's no need to look at the name displayed, but I see it out of habit anyways. "Hello, this is Hope," I answer with a mixture of calm and dread. After an uneventful Saturday, the "call" part of being on-call has found me and I'm needed at  the emergency room. Thirty-one year old female, depressed, suicidal. I scribble notes and get out of the house as quickly as my three children will let me. On the five minute drive to the hospital I pass by the police department, and I wonder if the patient lives in town or not and if she'll need to be transported by them, or anyone, before the night's over. 

I pull into the ER parking lot and put on my ID badge. It's a simple photo ID encased in plastic, but putting it on is my uniform, and it transforms me from Hope, mother, wife, PR specialist to Hope, emergency services crisis worker. It's a meaningful shift for me, and I've never worked without that square of plastic dangling from a red lanyard I'm told will breakaway and not be used to strangle me in case of emergency.

It's a warm night, and I look up at the September moon shining brightly.  If I'm lucky I'll see it again as I leave the hospital and head to a bed that was calling me hours before the phone rang. If I'm less fortunate, it'll be chirping birds and sunlight that greet my weary eyes.

Three years into this job, the initial shiny newness has worn off. I'm no longer excited to get the call, grabbing up my workbag and "rolling out." Now, a good night is any when the phone does not ring and my next morning's report is "all quiet" (on the western front I can't help but mentally add). I'm not a shining example of professionalism in the moments before I see the patient. I'm ticked off that my evening or my sleep  (depending on the hour) has been interrupted and I question why I keep doing this. "This couldn't have waited until morning," I think. I don't feel guilt or shame about my thoughts because they're a way-station as I travel to empathy, support and positive regard.  Those thoughts and any related emotions disappear, every ounce of it, the minute I knock on the door and walk into the patient's room. "I'm Hope from mental health. They asked me to come talk to you." 

Not a few times my name has elicited a smile and acknowledgement that I have "the right name for the job." In that moment I always say a silent word of thanks to my deceased Aunt Claudine who insisted my parent's name me Hope. "God told me to name her Hope. You have to name her Hope" is what I heard growing up. Sitting on the small black stool, looking into the pained, tearful eyes of "Ana" I have never been so deeply grateful for this simple name. 

I click on my pen "So, what brings you here tonight?"

End of Part I. Click here for "On Call, Part II"