I signed up for emergency medical technician (EMT) certification courses at the local ambulance company in early September eager to serve my community and do something exciting. Three months and many sleepless nights later, I emerged as a trained secondary EMT and began volunteering.

While on call, my fellow EMTs and I are responsible for taking vital signs, treating the patient, interacting with the patient, and collecting patient history. The work is often stressful, but can be very rewarding.

On one of my very first calls as an EMT I got first hand experience dealing with the issue of depression, which affects about 3 million teens in the United States.

The call

"It's an emotional disorder call…we're going to a boot camp about twenty minutes away," Rae replied from the cab.

My heart sank. There was never a 'right' way to handle an emotional disorder call. Within minutes, we were racing down the winding highway.

I peered through the dark for my stethoscope and patient chart pad and eventually found both on the stretcher. I sank into one of the cold teal seats, exhausted. Tonight I had to finish a biology project and a calculus assignment. I wondered what my English grade would be after our in-class essay.

One thing I did know for sure: I did not want to deal with an emotional disorder call tonight.

After a few minutes, more call information started pouring in. The patient was a sixteen-year-old African American male who had attempted to hang himself with bed sheets.

While I fidgeted with oxygen tubing, Rae explained that I would have to talk to the patient in the back while I was taking vitals. Later, crisis control would take over in the hospital. I stopped my fidgeting immediately, taken aback.

Sixteen years old.

I had turned sixteen a few months ago.

Making a connection

Finally, I caught a glimpse of him. You could tell that he was a quiet kid, not at all the type who would cause any trouble.

On Rae's suggestion, I started collecting patient history from school officials and administrators. I was on autopilot, mindlessly asking questions just to look like I was doing something.

But the entire time, I kept thinking, "How am I going to talk to a kid who wanted to kill himself?"

I wasn't just nervous; I was terrified. Nothing in my EMT training had prepared me for something like this.

He was already sitting in the ambulance stretcher when I finished making copies of his documents. I quickly scanned the area for anything sharp, or anything that he could use as a weapon. His patient chart was trembling in my left hand as I approached.

"Hi, my name is Esha. I'm an EMT. I'm just going to take your vital signs and maybe ask you a few questions on the way to the hospital, if that's okay with you," I finally said.

The school documents provided me with basic data and information. I just had to collect vitals and any information that might be helpful to the hospital. I warily began by taking his pulse and respiratory rate.

Trying to understand

The question came out so bluntly, I almost whacked myself for being so stupid. He hesitated at first, but then he explained how his mom was making him stay in boot camp for a few more years, how he really wanted to go back to 'normal school' with his friends, how his cousin had gotten him in this mess, how he was trapped in a corner with nowhere to go.

I was at a complete loss for words. He really felt trapped. I had never considered myself so sheltered. Suddenly, I felt guilty and ashamed for wondering about my English grade. I was disgusted by my own triviality.

On the way back to the station from the hospital, my mom called my cell phone. She was asking whether or not I planned to come home early to work on my biology project.

I told her I would stay on call tonight.