Our last call of the day is for an “elderly sick.”

“Darn,” I say. My partner, Bronson, and I both have plans to go looking for Father’s Day presents after work, and we don’t want to be delayed. Last calls that come in half an hour before the end of shift are always frustrating. The EMS gods must be out for revenge after a call last week, when I snapped at a woman for being a victim of domestic abuse.

“You snapped at her for having a victim mentality, not for being a victim,” Bronson clarifies.

“Still,” I say, “I lost my patience, and this is our punishment.”

We get to the one-family brick house in Marine Park to find three people in the living room: a woman in her 20s reading a magazine, a woman in her 80s knitting, and a man in his 90s sitting in an easy chair. He’s wearing a threadbare, yellowed undershirt and adult diapers. The odor of feces permeates.

The man is pale and doesn’t answer when I ask him his name or if he knows where he is. Upon inspection, I find that he’s soiled the easy chair beneath him. Nobody seems interested in cleaning him, including the home health aide, who appears from the kitchen.

“He pooped six times today. I cleaned him up before, but I ain’t doing this one.” She checks her watch. “My relief is late.”

Medicare home health aides are usually bad, but this one seems particularly atrocious.

“What’s his medical history?” I ask.

“Parkinson’s and dementia, I think.”

I pass a hand before the man’s eyes. He doesn’t even blink. “Is he normally like this?” “He was okay yesterday, talking and such.” Now he’s just staring into space. “So he’s been this way all day?” She checks her watch again impatiently. “Yup.” I look around the room at the other two women. “And you only thought to call 911 now?” They don’t answer. The young woman takes her magazine upstairs. The older woman keeps on knitting. I sigh in exasperation. “What’s his name?” I ask the home aide. “Bill Stevens.” “Mr. Stevens?” I ask, checking the conjunctiva of his lower eyelids. Normally rosy, his are pale. “How are you feeling?”

He doesn’t answer. His skin feels hot and papery. I take a pulse, weak and thready. And his blood pressure is low, 80/60. I lean his easy chair back and elevate his feet to bring more blood to his heart and brain. When I pinch the skin at the back of his hand, it stays tented.

“When was the last time he had something to drink?” I ask.

The home aide says, “This morning.”

I hook him up to an oxygen mask. He’s severely dehydrated from the diarrhea, possibly in hypovolemic shock from such low levels of fluid in his body, and should have been drinking an electrolyte solution every hour. Now, he needs IV fluids and a dose of strong antibiotics to kill whatever bug has gripped his digestive tract. I radio for paramedic backup, to get fluids into him en route to the hospital if that’s possible.

I look to the elderly woman, but she just keeps on knitting.

Bronson drapes a sheet over the stair-chair, and we lift Mr. Stevens onto it.

Suddenly, he comes to life. “Hey!” he shouts. “You take it easy there, sonny!”

I’m shocked at the outburst. Maybe elevating his feet raised his blood pressure.

“Mr. Stevens!” I shout. “Hi there!” I shine a light into his eyes to check his pupils. “Do you know where you are?”

He looks at me like I’m crazy. “Of course I know where I am. Don’t you think I know my own house? Jeez Louise!”

Inside the ambulance, we lay him flat and elevate his feet once again, and I retake his blood pressure. But it’s falling, 70/50.

“Mr. Stevens?” I say, slapping his cheeks. “Can you hear me?” We prod him, but he’s fallen back into his old, vacant daze. His skin grows paler. We have to move, no waiting for the paramedics. “Is anyone coming with us?” I shout over my shoulder at the open front door.

Inside, the elderly woman has not budged from her knitting, and the young woman shows no signs of coming downstairs. The home aide is now off-duty. “Enough of this s—,” she says, huffing down the sidewalk.

I slam the ambulance doors and tell Bronson to step on it.

En route, I monitor Mr. Steven’s vital signs and look into his eyes for signs of recognition. His blood pressure falls to 60/40, and his gaze grows more and more vacant. He’s not going to make it. I can tell – I’ve seen it before. He’ll linger unconscious for a few days. Then he’ll expire.

I hold his cold dehydrated hand tightly in mine and rub the skin. While he may still be conscious and able to understand me, I want him to hear one sentence.

“Happy Father’s Day,” I say.

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.