Our first call of the day is for an “injury.” I check the computer screen mounted to the dashboard of the ambulance for more information. Apparently, an elderly woman fainted and hit her head on the sidewalk.

My partner Bronson is driving too slow.

“Step on it,” I say. The woman might have a subdural hematoma – bleeding inside her brain – which can result in a stroke or seizure. Bronson floors the pedal, but the ambulance still goes slow. He taps the pedal with his toe and knits his brow. “I don’t know what’s wrong with this thing.”

I can’t believe he’s my partner. “They ought to revoke your license,” I say.

He keeps driving in slow motion. For some reason, all the lights go red just as we’re about to pass through them. He takes each one, narrowly missing other cars on their morning commute.

When we get to the International House of Pancakes at the Georgetowne shopping mall on Ralph Avenue in Canarsie, a place that’s gone downhill, we see a white-haired woman lying on the floor with her head in a young man’s lap. He looks up, confused. He appears to have been a bystander who came to her assistance. The elderly woman’s eyes are closed.

Bronson parks at one of those concrete bumpers that prevent cars from driving into the shrubbery. Our front wheel goes over the bumper. Bronson pulls back, but our back wheel hits another bumper, which I don’t recall hitting when we pulled up. We’re pinned in.

Bronson looks pissed. “Oh hell,” he says, and shuts off the ignition.

“Next time, I’m driving,” I say, opening my door.

I go around to the side of the ambulance to get the oxygen and trauma bags. I unclip the keys from my duty belt, and drop them. I pick them up, and drop them again. Fumbling, I finally get the right key, but it doesn’t fit the lock. I try the key teeth up, teeth down. I peer into the lock to see if there’s blockage – sometimes neighborhood children like to break toothpicks off in the lock as a gag.

Bronson is shaking his head at me. “You’re pathetic,” he says, and uses his key to get the door open.

Inside, I grab the trauma bag, but the shoulder strap breaks as I sling it over my arm. “Can anything else go wrong?” I say.

“With you on board, yes,” Bronson says.

I reach for the clipboard with the paperwork, and all the ambulance call report sheets scatter to the floor. I curse them and move on to the oxygen. The regulator is off the tank. When I checked out the ambulance during roll-call, it was securely fastened and in the open position, the pressure in the tank at 2,000 psi – or pounds per square inch – which means full. I quickly reattach the regulator and check the gauge. Five hundred psi, which is only enough for 10 minutes. I look inside the spare oxygen bag. It’s empty: no tank at all.

I leap down from the ambulance and approach the patient. I tap her shoulder to get her to open her eyes. She doesn’t stir. I open her lids with my fingers. Her pupils are fixed and dilated. “They’re blown,” I say.

I check her head for the deformities or contusions which might suggest where the brain bleed might be, and find a huge bump in the back, with a large purple hematoma visible through her white hair. She’s limp in my hands. I pinch her eyebrow hard, to try to get a response from her. Nothing.

“She’s unconscious,” I say, and radio for paramedic backup. The signal won’t go through. All I hear is static. “Damn,” I say, and throw the radio down.

I pull out a cervical collar to apply to the woman’s neck, while Bronson straps an oxygen mask to her pale face. But the Velcro on the collar won’t work. And the adhesive tape isn’t sticking. I can’t secure her head to the backboard. I try to use roller tape, but it tangles in my fingers and is ruined.

When I look at the woman again, she’s not breathing. I put my ear to her mouth and nose. Nothing. “Respiratory arrest,” I say to Bronson.

But instead of getting the BVM to ventilate her, he just stands there.

“Get the BVM!”

He blinks. Then yawns.

“Bronson!” He blinks again.

I ask the bystander for assistance. But he, too, just stares. Then he gets up and walks away. I’m all alone with my patient. No backup. No oxygen. No partner.

It’s a nightmare come true.

I hear a loud noise, and a fire truck tears down Ralph Avenue. As it passes, a fireman slowly waves from the window. The truck turns the corner, but the loud noise continues.

I hit the alarm clock. 6 a.m. Time to go to work.

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.