Adjustments

Training began in earnest on November 13th. I was scheduled for a few rotations of morning shifts, 0700 to 1500. Then I'd do a few rotations of the eves, 1500 to 2300, and then my last two rotations would be overnights, 2300 to 0700 the next morning. If all went according to schedule, I'd be signed off on December 16th.

The purpose of staggering them like this, Kara told me, is to help ease the transition to night shifts. For her, adjusting to the overnights back when she was new had been a struggle. Taking her advice, I began to push myself to stay up later and later after evening shifts, forcing my body to adjust to being awake all night and sleeping during the day. 

At first, it was hard. With everything closed and my roommate asleep, I spent the first two or three nights after getting off at 2300 (11 PM, to the uninitiated) creeping around the house as silently as I could, reading books and drinking coffee until the early hours of the morning, when I could fight the exhaustion no longer. Then I'd drift off into a fitful, restless sleep until the sunshine beckoned me out of bed again. 

Self-doubt crept back in. I was starting to wonder if I was fighting a losing battle, if maybe Reg hadn't known all along the infallible truth: that I wasn't cut out to be a dispatcher. But the others, Kara and the supervisor and Dean-- the sometimes-cranky but always supportive third full-timer-- never lost hope in me. So I made a game plan.

First, I attacked the issue of the bright daylight hours robbing me of any good sleep. I bought blackout curtains and a sleep mask, added a pair of expensive soundproof headphones to my Amazon wish list (promising myself I'd buy them with my first overtime check), and a few days' supply of melatonin. Then, I found the nearest 24/7 gym. By the time I staggered in after my evening shift, the gym would be nearly empty. I'd stay from around midnight until the first few early-birds began to straggle in, between 4:30 and 5:30 AM. 

The exercise helped me a lot, as I soon realized that I wasn't just adjusting well; I was thriving. Keeping active left me more focused, in higher spirits, and eating better. I probably shed a few pounds too, something few if any can claim came about as a result of a dispatch career.

On the treadmill, instead of listening to a book or gazing vacantly at the TVs with their endless silent entertainment, I set up a map of the town, or printed copies of local policies and procedures. Between reps on the machines, I'd flip through Quizlet sets of town cops and their badge numbers, and put in order the list of tasks necessary during a working fire call. 

Thanks to Gabe, I had a scanner already programmed with the police and fire radios. He'd also introduced me to an app that gave me access to many of these channels live on my phone. I focused on the different voices I heard, learning to recognize the ones I'd be communicating with most at work. The "radio-ear" I'd started developing at Reg, I now fine-tuned. In an emergency, there wasn't time to be constantly asking, "What did they just say?"

I was ready. One month, six work rotations, and I was ready. In the end, Gabe was right. All I'd needed was the right kind of support. When December 16th finally rolled around, I went in with full confidence that I could do it, that I'd been adequately trained for any situation that might arise. 

There was only one concern: overnights were slow, and if, for my last shift, the dispatch supervisor didn't see me handling any actual emergencies, he might decide he couldn't sign me off tonight. The last three overnights had seen a combined total of one 9-1-1 call, which turned out to be accidental, and a handful of traffic stops. 

But fate must have been on my side, if not on the side of the elderly woman who called 9-1-1 to request an ambulance for her husband. The supervisor, halfway through my processing of the call, actually said, "I could walk out right now and go home." 

That was it. On the morning of December 16th, I walked out with the stamp of approval of the dispatch supervisor, and two days off to enjoy before I started working the desk alone. 

The next night, Gabe and I toasted with a bottle of champagne I'd  been holding onto in hopes of this very occasion, and he gave me a "graduation" present. It was a custom-made Dispatch polo and a glittery gold travel mug that had my name emblazoned on one side, while the other proudly announced: 9-1-1 Dispatcher.

"I've been holding onto it since Regional," he told me, his smile so full of pride that I couldn't help grin back. "That's how sure I was that you'd be successful, if not there then somewhere else. Somewhere that supported you." 

"They surely do here," I admitted, hugging him a bit tighter. "And I couldn't be more grateful to them, or to you."