The Hardest Call: The Ripple That Changed Everything

Disclaimer

This post discusses suicide, trauma, and grief. Reader discretion is advised.
If you are struggling or feel unsafe with your thoughts, please reach out for help — you are not alone. In the U.S., you can call or text 988 to reach the Suicide and Crisis Lifeline 24/7.
This story is deeply personal and difficult to share, but part of my healing journey. My goal in writing it is to shed light on what many dispatchers silently carry and why peer support and compassion matter so deeply in our profession.

This is the hardest story I’ve ever written — and the hardest call I’ve ever taken.
It started like any other long day at the console: twelve hours on the radio, drained but ready to head home. I was walking out the door when I heard my partner’s voice — sharp, urgent, cutting through the usual laughter and chatter of shift change.

I stopped.
Turned around.
The room changed in an instant — light conversation fading into silence as her tone grew serious.

I don’t remember her exact words, but I remember asking if she needed me to take over. She muted her phone and said quietly, “Yes.”

I logged back into my system, picked up the receiver, and heard a woman pleading, “Think of your son.”
All I knew was that a man had a gun and was threatening to end his life.

“Are there any children there?” I asked.
“No,” she replied.

Then — a click.
The weapon misfired.

My heart dropped. This was serious.

As I gathered information, another click echoed through the phone. My stomach twisted. He wasn’t going to stop until he succeeded. My supervisor had already notified law enforcement — units were en route.

Then a third click.
And the woman on the line said softly to someone else, “Please don’t leave me.”

Three adults. One gun.
“What’s his name?” I asked.
“Josh!” she screamed.

My partner looked at me and said the words that froze me completely:
“It’s JOSH (last name)”

And in that moment, my world stopped.
Because my husband was at that house.
He had been there all day doing renovation work.

Then came the unmistakable sound — a gunshot.
Screaming.
The sound of a phone hitting the floor.

The center went silent.
My supervisor began relaying updates to responding officers, and I tried desperately to reach the woman again.

When the phone was picked up, I heard a calm voice — for a split second, I thought it was Josh.
Maybe he was okay. Maybe he had changed his mind. Maybe there was still hope.

But it was my husband.
His voice steady, almost unreal.
“Josh just killed himself. No one else is hurt.”

That moment shattered something inside me.

As soon as we were off that call my partner and I broke down. We cried openly. I screamed.
Then I stayed — because I couldn’t go home. My husband was now part of a crime scene, his jeep left behind while he went to the station for statements.

I walked down the street and sat quietly at a bar, just trying to breathe, just trying to make sense of what had happened.

None of us were offered help.
No peer support.
No time off.
Just a brief clergy-led debriefing in a hospital conference room.

We were told to “breathe.” and “exercise”.
I remember asking, “What are we supposed to do when we were already circling the drain?”
The response: “That’s a great question. I don’t know.”

Six weeks later, my husband left me — for the woman on the phone that night.

That was April 2024.
And I’m still trying to heal from the ripples that one night created — the trauma, the grief, the betrayal, and the silence that followed.

Josh had been trying to get help. He’d given up his guns voluntarily, sought therapy, and taken time off from work. He’d only had his firearms back for a few days.
He was our coworker, our friend, someone who had seen too much and carried too much alone.

And we — the dispatchers — were left behind to carry it too.

We’re the first to hear the screams, the gunshots, the silence that follows. But we’re often the last to be cared for.

I share this now because I believe we can do better.
Dispatchers need structured support, real peer programs, access to therapy without financial barriers, and the understanding that our pain counts too.

The ripple from that night will never fully fade, but maybe by sharing it, I can help create another kind of ripple — one that spreads awareness, compassion, and change.

If you’ve ever had a call that changed you — you’re not alone.
Please take care of yourself, reach out, and keep talking about it.
Because silence shouldn’t be the standard for healing in our line of work.

In Loving Memory of Joshua “Josh”
Born: April 2, 1987
Died: April 13, 2024

Josh was a Deputy Coroner, a loving father to one son, and a loyal friend to many.
He loved fishing, caring for and raising exotic fish, and could always make people laugh with his calm wit and big heart.
He dedicated his life to helping others — even in the darkest moments.

You are deeply missed, Josh.
Your kindness, humor, and friendship will never be forgotten.