Life as a Paramedic: From Turning Wrenches to Answering 911

Working on cars wasn’t as exciting as I thought it would be.

Like a lot of people, I grew up knowing I’d eventually have to make a decision about what I wanted to do for a living. I was mechanically inclined—something I got honestly from my dad. He could fix anything. More importantly, he took the time to explain why things worked.

My dad taught automotive repair and electronics at the local vocational school, and during my junior and senior years of high school, I had the chance to attend his classes. Not because I had to—but because I wanted to. I liked working on cars. I liked understanding systems. After he died, automotive repair felt like the natural path forward.

So that’s what I did.

I made decent money working at Chevrolet dealerships. For a young kid just out of college, my hourly rate was solid. The problem wasn’t the work—it was how the work was paid.

Dealerships run on a flat-rate system. Every repair has an assigned number of hours. If a job pays five hours, you get paid five hours—whether it takes three or eight. When there’s plenty of work, you can make good money. When things slow down, you don’t.

And life doesn’t slow down just because the shop does.

When reality shows up wearing a kindergarten backpack

By then, my son was old enough to start kindergarten. The grade school in Miller was literally down the street from our house. You could almost see it from the front yard.

So when we got a letter saying my son would be bused to a different campus—twelve miles away—it didn’t make sense. We went to talk to the principal, assuming it was a mistake.

It wasn’t.

The explanation was confusing, rigid, and final. Kids in town were being bused out, kids from out of town were being bused in. No changes. Assignments were done.

What bothered us wasn’t inconvenience—it was time. Time on a bus. Distance from home. It just didn’t sit right.

That’s when we decided we needed to change school districts.

Renting in Mt. Vernon was expensive. Buying made more sense. Except… financing didn’t agree.

The loan officers had one major concern: my job.

Commission-based pay with no guaranteed hours doesn’t inspire confidence when you’re underwriting a mortgage. Technically, I had a guarantee—minimum wage at 40 hours—but that wasn’t even close to qualifying.

We were devastated. We weren’t trying to get rich. We just wanted stability for our kid. And we didn’t want to ask for help.

The moment EMS stopped being “extra”

At some point, I remembered I had my EMT-Basic license.

I didn’t really want to work in a hospital. I wanted to be on an ambulance. I called every service in the area. No full-time openings. PRN only. “We’ll call you.”

Weeks later, I got a call about an opening in Cedar County—operated by St. John’s EMS out of Springfield. I interviewed. I felt good about it.

Then… nothing.

They gave the job to someone already PRN. Lesson learned: these jobs don’t open often, and when they do, they go to someone already inside.

A couple weeks later, I got another call—this time from Sonny, the dispatch manager at St. John’s EMS.

He had a PRN dispatcher opening. EMT-B required. On-the-job training provided.

I had never dispatched. I didn’t even like talking on the phone. But I understood doors when I saw them.

I took the job.

Dispatch: the job nobody plans on—and nobody forgets

Dispatch was nothing like I expected.

We worked 12-hour shifts. During the day, three dispatchers handled roughly 30 ambulances across multiple counties—and two helicopters. We were also the primary 911 call center for parts of extremely rural Missouri where local centers didn’t exist yet.

It was complex. Fast. Relentless.

I picked up every shift I could—days, nights, weekends. One of the day dispatchers went out on maternity leave. I covered her shifts. Then she decided not to come back.

I applied for the full-time day position, assuming I wouldn’t get it. New people usually start on nights. Pay your dues.

They offered it to me anyway. That surprised me.

Night shift dispatchers, though—that’s a different breed.

They like the quiet. They like the lack of micromanagement. Some nights were painfully slow. Others were chaos. We played cards. Took turns napping. The phones and radios were loud enough to wake the dead—and usually did.

One of the senior dispatchers taught me a rule for working at a Catholic hospital:
If you ever get caught sleeping, say “amen” before opening your eyes.

Her name was Momma D. She was calm, steady, and unshakeable. The kind of person you want in the room when things are going sideways. Still one of the best dispatchers I’ve ever worked with.

Dispatch builds bonds. It’s a job few people understand unless they’ve done it. High stress. No closure. Constant responsibility. Often forgotten.

It taught me more about people—and myself—than I expected.

Back when EMS didn’t hand out jobs

Eventually, I signed up for paramedic class.

Back then, EMS wasn’t what it is now. You didn’t just go to community college and roll straight into a job. Ambulance positions were scarce. They didn’t pay well. And people didn’t leave them.

We used to joke that the only way a full-time spot opened up was if someone retired… or died.

Dispatch was how you got your foot in the door.

My department worked with my class schedule so I could work full-time while going to school full-time. I took the entrance exam, convinced I bombed it. I didn’t.

I got in.

The lead instructor was known nationally for prehospital cardiology and 12-lead interpretation. He was also known for being a hard ass. That reputation didn’t help my nerves.

I kept working dispatch while class started.

And just like that, the career change stopped being theoretical.

Why this matters

This chapter isn’t about bravery or destiny. It’s about responsibility, timing, and taking the long way in.

Sometimes the path into EMS doesn’t start in an ambulance. Sometimes it starts with a headset, a radio, and learning how to stay calm while everyone else is losing theirs.

Dispatch didn’t just get me into EMS.

It taught me how to belong in it.

Series note

This post is part of Life on the Box — real stories from 25 years in EMS, fire, dispatch, and the ER.
If dispatch was your entry point—or if you’ve ever been the voice on the other end of the radio—you already know how much weight that job carries.

Tell the story.