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Steve Legge
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Chantelle Blackburn
This "backstory" is a part of a collection of articles that describes some of the obstacles that Seven Days reporters faced while pursuing Vermont news, events and people in 2022.
Editors are a needy breed, always hungry for copy that's never filed early enough. So when one tells you to slow down, it's a good idea to listen.
In August, I learned that between the hours of 8 p.m. and 9 a.m., the newly revamped national suicide-prevention hotline was routing all Vermont calls to a single phone in the Northeast Kingdom. I couldn't shake the image of a call-taker holed up in a small office, all alone. It's a big responsibility, and I wanted to see it firsthand.
"I'm trying to negotiate access to spend a few hours there," I wrote to my editors in an email.
"Not a 'few hours,'" corrected contributing editor Candy Page. "You want the whole night."
The whole night? I had pulled my share of all-nighters, but I'm in bed with a book by 9:30 p.m. most evenings these days. Still, I trusted Page's instinct, so I agreed. After a whole lot of convincing, so did the nonprofit that runs the call center. On a rainy night in November, I drove to St. Johnsbury, ready for whatever awaited.
In truth, the night was decidedly underwhelming: no dramatic rescues, only a few intense conversations. But by witnessing the entire 13-hour shift, I began to understand what a hotline job is really like: how hours of boredom and idle time can so quickly give way to moments of intensity; how, no matter how late it is or how strong the pull of sleep, call-takers must be ready to listen and offer compassion when that phone rings. The life of another may depend on it.
Walking into my apartment the next morning, I wondered if I would have come to the same conclusions if I had left halfway through the night. Probably not. I made a mental note to send Page a thank-you for pushing me beyond my comfort zone.
After a good night's sleep.