No lights. No sirens. No visible signs of the trauma or triumphs that occurred within. Just a secured building with mirrored windows and a handful of antennas poking at the sky. You’d never know that inside were the voices that catch emergencies as they fall. The voices that answer first.
I grew up in Colorado and began my career in emergency services not far from the neighborhoods where I went to high school, caught countless Colorado sunsets, and worked my first job as a lifeguard at the indoor and outdoor pools. Years later, I found myself behind a headset in an emergency communication center — talking to frantic parents, crash survivors and people living through their darkest moments.
I was the one who said, “911, where’s your emergency?” and stayed on the line until officers, medics or firefighters arrived.
This year, National Public Safety Telecommunicators Week is April 13-19, and it comes at a time when we urgently need to refocus public attention on those voices. As a retired dispatcher, a mother and now an author, I’ve come to realize that our stories — those of 911 telecommunications — are still some of the least told in public safety.
Answering the Call (That No One Sees)
Unlike other first responders, 911 telecommunicators don’t get body cams or firehouse documentaries. There are no viral videos of what we do — because what we do happens behind the scenes, in dimly lit rooms, through headsets and screens.We answer the very first call for help.
When people ask what it’s like, I tell them it’s stepping into chaos while sitting perfectly still. It’s hearing a stranger’s last words. It’s walking someone through CPR on their child. It’s taking dozens of calls in a shift and remembering the one that clings to you as you lie in bed that night. It’s calm voices, fast fingers and never enough time.
I co-wrote Lives on the Line: Stories From America's First-First Responders with my sister — also a 911 telecommunicator — because we wanted to pull back the curtain. Behind those voices are real people: tired, tenacious, compassionate, funny and sometimes heartbroken. We’re your neighbors, classmates and loved ones. In my case, I was once the girl selling concessions at Coors Field — later, I was the one answering the phone when you called from a bar in the Tech Center at 2 a.m.
A Sample Story
When readers open Lives on the Line, they’re met with a gentle but firm warning: “You cannot unsee something. Similarly, you cannot unread this book — or erase the images it will create in your mind.”The stories my sister and I share are raw, real and rooted in imperfect memory. While some recollections resemble recorded calls or radio traffic, they are approximations — written to capture the emotion, urgency and humanity behind the headset. Names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of those involved.
This work is not intended to sensationalize trauma, but to honor the invisible labor of 911 telecommunicators. We include this caution for one simple reason: these moments still live in our minds, and they may linger in yours. Here’s an excerpt from one of those moments—when my team was involved in the pursuit of men later dubbed the “Scream Bandits.”
“Hey Allison, your lunch is calling!” I said with a smile, slipping my headset on.
Just then, a 911 call shattered the peaceful silence.
I answered. The male caller spoke quickly and urgently — with that unmistakable tone that makes any dispatcher sit up a little straighter. I knew immediately: This wasn’t a lost dog or a noise complaint. This was an emergency.
He didn’t waste time. “I heard gunshots — sounded like they came from behind the building!”
The location? A local recreation center. I knew the address by heart. I entered it into my CAD system and typed a two-word call narrative: shots fired.
My partner Talia, on dispatch, would see it pop up in her queue, but I didn’t wait. “Go to the rec center!” I shouted across the room, cupping my mic so my caller wouldn’t hear.
This was something my trainer had taught me — an old-school method of alerting the room to a hot call. Even in a room full of trained professionals, sitting feet apart, a verbal cue could be the fastest way to start a life-saving response.
Seconds later, I heard the familiar high-pitched alert tone. Dispatch had launched the call. Officers were en route.
Because the rec center was so close to the police station, I knew units would be on scene quickly.
My job now was to keep my caller calm and collect every detail I could.
Where were the shots coming from? Did he see the shooter? Were there injuries?
He didn’t have much more to offer. He’d heard the shots and screams. He believed the gunman was at the rear of the building. As a manager at the center, he was calm but clearly shaken. I instructed him to initiate a lockdown. He complied immediately.
Before ending the call, I gathered his contact information. I knew he’d be a key witness—and a critical piece of whatever came next…
This story continues in Lives on the Line, where I recount what unfolded after the shots were fired — and how this call left a lasting mark on my memory and my center for years to come.
The First–First Responders
Despite all that 911 telecommunicators do, we are still federally classified as “clerical workers.” That mislabeling is more than an oversight — it’s harmful. It affects funding, access to mental-health resources and retirement options. Most of all, it diminishes the role we play in saving lives.Movements like the 911 Saves Act aim to change that by reclassifying dispatchers as first responders. But until that recognition becomes law, weeks like NPSTW are vital for visibility.
So this week, when you see “thank you” posts for first responders, remember the ones who answered before anyone else arrived. The ones who couldn’t leave the scene because we were never physically there — but who carried it home just the same.
From Denver, With a Headset
I stepped away from the headset when I became a mom and moved into training others on life-saving public safety tools. But the job never left me. The voices, the sounds, the weight — they’re stitched into who I am. That’s why I still advocate, speak, and write about these experiences.I may live in Texas now, but Colorado raised me — and Colorado gave me my start. If this piece helps even one person think differently about who’s on the other end of a 911 call, then it’s done its job.
Lea Harms is a retired 911 telecommunication and the author of Lives on the Line: Stories from America’s First–First Responders. Learn more at leaharms.com.
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