When the call comes in for an “OBCOMP,” obstetrics with complications, on Ralph Avenue in Brooklyn, I immediately think about my friend Rob, another EMT, who two days ago delivered his first baby on an air mattress in a dimly lit apartment in a housing project. It was the mother’s fourth, and she talked him through it. “Without her,” he said, “I probably would have panicked.”

In reality, an OB-COMP can be anything from prenatal high blood pressure to imminent delivery, so my partner Bronson and I grab everything: oxygen, infant resuscitator, obstetrics kit, and extra gloves.

The address is a Safe Haven for battered women, where we’re met by a matron who explains that the patient is eight months pregnant.

“Contractions?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “No.”

Inside, I’m happy to see the place is clean and bright. Shelters are often unkempt, but this one looks like it just got a grant, and that it’s being managed right.

“What’s her name?” I ask.

“Marcia,” the matron says. “Twenty years old.”

Marcia is sitting in a chair, looking pale and tired. Her uncombed hair pokes out of a polyester scarf.

“Hi, Marcia,” I say. “How are you feeling?”

She takes a deep breath. “Dizzy. Exhausted. Can’t hardly stand.”

Pregnant women often suffer from hypertension (pre-eclampsia), which may lead to seizures (eclampsia). But some, like Marcia, have hypotension, or low blood pressure, which can lead to dizziness and fainting. I take Marcia’s blood pressure. Ninety over 70 is low, but she says that’s normal for her. I give her some oxygen and help her onto the stretcher.

I ask about her pregnancy. It’s her fifth. She’s had one live birth, one miscarriage, and two abortions. She says she’s due in three weeks. Then she closes her eyes and inhales her oxygen.

We transport Marcia to the OB floor at SUNY Downstate. After countless trips to the ER with the gravely ill, it’s a joy to see a floor full of good cheer. The doctors are excited and even the nurses seem upbeat.

A bright-eyed young doctor rushes up to me. “Labor?” she asks.

“Hypotension,” I explain. “Twenty years old, eight months, no complications.”

“Put her in Room 6, we’re about to deliver,” she says, and disappears into Room 5.

I would give anything to be able to watch, and Bronson has to practically pull me out of the ward.

The day is uneventful, until the last call comes in – amazingly, it’s for another OB at the same Safe Haven. This happens sometimes, where an ambulance will have a run of similar calls. Once, Bronson tells me, there were two heart attacks right across the street from each other six minutes apart.

We return to Ralph Avenue and are met by the same matron, who grins. “You again!”

“You again!” I laugh. “Whaddaya got?”

“Seventeen years old, eight months pregnant. This time labor pains.”

Yipes. I grab the equipment and the stretcher.

Nicole is bright-eyed and full of smiles. Every time a contraction hits her, her dimples come out. She’s petite, with glossy straightened hair and glowing skin. Her blood pressure is normal, and her contractions are coming every four minutes.

“You’ve been pregnant before?” I ask.

She nods. “I have a little girl.”

I wonder how she’ll manage a second baby while living at the shelter.

I lay her on her left side, but Nicole prefers to lean back with her legs tucked under her.

“Water break yet?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “No.”

“Any bleeding?”

She nods. “Yes, but light.” She grins as another pain hits her.

I can’t help but smile back. “For a girl who’s in pain, you’re extremely happy.”

She grins again. Then breathes in sharply. “Zinging,” she says, and points along her lower abdomen. “They zing this way.”

“Different from your first pregnancy?”

She catches her breath and nods. “That one, they zinged from the back.”

We load Nicole into the ambulance and are on our way. As long as a childbirth is uncomplicated, I would love to deliver a baby. But what would I do if faced with a strangulated cord, a breech presentation, or a full-on hemorrhage? I’m trained to handle these complications, in theory. But theory is nothing without practice.

I’m happy to bring Nicole into the OB ward, into the hands of experienced doctors.

The nurses seem just happy to see me. “You again?”

“Me again,” I say. “And this is Nicole.”

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