Climbing into the ambulance for the first time, I felt a knot in my stomach. I was nervous—worried I might see something gruesome or, worse, make a mistake that could hurt rather than help. I was training to be an EMT, so 24 hours of ambulance ride-alongs were necessary for me to graduate. My preceptors must have sensed it, because they immediately reassured me. They gave me a quick tour, showed me where everything was, and helped me get the hang of it. By the time we were ready for our first call, I felt a little more grounded.
That first day, though, surprised me—not because of chaos or adrenaline, but because of the quiet. Hours passed without a single dispatch, and the downtime felt almost unbearable. I had imagined an endless stream of emergencies, but instead, there were long stretches of waiting. It made me realize that in this job, the stillness is just as much a part of the job as the sirens.
My first call was for an unhoused woman, suffering from heat exhaustion. She didn’t act the nicest— she was crabby, and coughing all over the place. However, my preceptor put on the biggest smile and best “customer service” voice I’d ever heard and cared for her. It is important to give the same, high-quality treatment to patients, regardless of how they treat you. During my calls, I often felt a deep sadness thinking about my patients’ lives and what had brought them to this point—but I learned that it’s important to channel that empathy into providing the best care possible.
My most exciting call was for a woman described as “mentally altered” at a private residence. We arrived to find her tracking us with her eyes—alert but unable to speak. All she did was move her tongue in small, quick bursts. We treated it like a possible stroke and moved quickly. In the middle of the urgency, my preceptor showed me how to apply a 12-lead, something I’d never done before. I stayed calm, focused on the patient, and made sure to keep my voice steady so she could feel safe. In the end, it wasn’t a stroke. But I kept thinking about how lost she must have felt—an immigrant, clearly confused, unable to express herself. I just hoped I had advocated for her in some small way.
The biggest thing I took away from that day was how different real life is from the textbook. In class, you memorize the questions to ask patients; in the field, you learn how to weave them naturally into conversation. My preceptor was great at this, and I tried to absorb everything I could from watching him work. I also learned how much empathy matters. Patients come from all walks of life, and you’re not there to judge—you’re there to care for them. Some of my patients were unhoused or struggling with substance abuse. I’d seen those realities in my club at Berkeley, but caring for those patients in person made it sink in differently.
I discovered something else about myself: I work well under pressure. I am excited to learn and grow, and I genuinely care for others. My preceptor even told me that I had the “correct brain” to be a doctor. That gave me confidence that medicine really is the right path for me. At the same time, I also saw the kind of doctor I don’t want to become. Some providers carry an air of arrogance, and I never want to lose the humility that patients deserve. I also learned to be mindful about what I ask first responders. Never ask about a first responder’s most traumatic call, as it can trigger PTSD. Sometimes, silence is more respectful than curiosity.
If I’m being honest, one of the biggest surprises was how many calls weren’t true emergencies. Some felt more like being a glorified Uber to the hospital. Yes, we monitored vitals along the way, but in certain situations, I couldn’t help thinking I’d just ask my dad for a ride instead of calling 911.
By the end of the ride-along, I still felt like a beginner. There was so much I didn’t know, and my preceptor’s sarcastic humor didn’t always make that easier. But underneath it, he was a patient, skilled teacher. And despite the nerves, the waiting, and the surprises, I left with a clearer picture of what it means to care for people—not just as patients, but as human beings.