On Christmas Day we get called to the Vanderveer Houses in the East Flatbush section of Brooklyn for a “kid staring into space.”

I press the downstairs buzzer to announce our arrival, but the lobby door is already open, the magnetized lock busted.

“Hey Bronson,” I say to my partner. “Get this – it’s in apartment 3-D.”

“Ha-ha,” he says, as the elevator doors shut and we’re engulfed by the stench of urine, typical of the worst of the city’s housing projects. We hold our breaths, step out on the 3rd floor, and head toward the only apartment door that’s ajar this early on a Christmas morning.

Two police officers are already there. Inside, we find a 7-year-old boy splayed out on the sofa. He’s awake, but won’t talk. He doesn’t respond when we shake him. He turns combative when Bronson tries to get him to stand.

“He woke up,” his mother says, “stumbled into the living room, and urinated on the floor.”

She looks concerned. “He never does that. When I yelled at him, he didn’t respond. When I changed his clothes, he still didn’t respond. It’s not normal.”

“Sounds like a petit-mal seizure,” I tell Bronson. A child will stare ahead blankly, in a sort of brown study, with none of the twitching or spastic shaking that accompanies a grand-mal seizure. His bladder will let go. And afterwards, he will have no recollection of any of it.

It’s scary for a parent, frightening to shake a kid and not have him respond.

I try to interact with the boy. No luck. He doesn’t obey my commands to raise a foot, move an arm. As we poke him and pinch him, his younger sister and a big yellow cat look on.

We ask the mother to gather her son’s coat and Medicaid health insurance benefit card, and I step into the elevator with the wobbly child and the two officers. I prop the kid up in the corner. He stares into space.

One of the officers tries to get his attention.

“Lookout,” the cop says, “there’s a roach on the wall.” There were a couple of bugs in the apartment, so this doesn’t surprise me. I make sure I’m not leaning against the elevator walls.

The officer reaches behind the boy and I feel a tremor rising in me. He opens his hand.

It’s a giant waterbug. I scream and try to claw my way past Bronson, who’s blocking the doorway with the stair-chair and the oxygen bag. I have no fear of mice, rats, or spiders. I’m not afraid of heights, open spaces, or deep water. I have no real phobias to speak of. But the way to drive me insane? Trap me in an enclosed space with a waterbug.

“Kill it!” I shout, blindly tearing at Bronson, who’s still in the way. “Kill it!”

The cops are smiling. They’re not going after the bug.

The cops are laughing. So is Bronson. I take another look.

It’s fake, plastic, a gag gift probably left over from Halloween. I’m still pressed up against Bronson, who’s trying to push his way into the elevator so we can get downstairs. I climb past him and burst into the hallway.

“I’m taking the stairs,” I say, breathless. I know it’s a fake bug. But the damage is done.

Bronson chuckles. “Suit yourself.”

The cops are trying to hold in their laughter.

“Real funny,” I say. “Merry Christmas to you, too.”

Bronson hits a button, the door shuts, and I hear the elevator rattle down to the lobby. I beat it there.

The doors open, and the boy blinks at me. “Why’s the lady shoutin’?” he asks Bronson.

Bronson takes his pulse and checks his pupils. His breathing rate appears adequate. He’s not slurring his words. As he shoves both hands into his pockets, I notice they move simultaneously, equally strong.

The cop shows the kid the bug. “She thought this bug was real.”

The kid looks at me like I’m pathetic. He shakes his head. “Girls.”

The cop agrees. “Sissies.”

Bronson grins and thumps his chest. “Me big strong Tarzan. She silly stupid Jane.”

Now they’re ganging up on me.

The kid walks with a skip in his step out to the ambulance, sits on the bench seat next to his mother, and swings his legs. In an instant, he’s normal again, no sign of the seizure he just had.

It’s cold. I turn up the heat and start my paperwork. The kid watches me. “What else you afraid of, lady?” he asks.

Ms. Klopsis is an emergency medical technician for the FDNY. This column details her observations and experiences on the job. Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of patients.