We get called to a tiny second-floor apartment on Church Avenue in the predominantly Caribbean neighborhood of East Flatbush for an “unknown condition.” We knock, and open the door to find a man of about 65 sitting in a chair by the window. It’s a strangely balmy January day, and the breeze wafts the curtain in and out. The man, wearing pajama bottoms, which are sodden, is staring blankly down at the street, his slippers soaking in a puddle of urine.

“Seizure or stroke?” I ask Bronson, my partner.

He shrugs. “Let’s see,” he says, and is about to make contact when a young woman of about 25 comes in from the bathroom with a towel.

“Oh, hi,” she says. “Thank you for coming.”

“What happened?” I ask.

“He was fine,” she says. “Then he just went all rigid and wouldn’t respond to me.” She places the folded towel onto the wet floor and removes the man’s slippers.

“Did he shake at all?” I ask, already pumping the blood pressure cuff around his arm. “Twitch? Convulse?”

“No,” she says, “he just wouldn’t respond.” Then she whispers, “He’s very proud,” and gestures to the floor.

“What’s his name?” I ask.

“James Harrison.”

“Mr. Harrison?” I say, but he just stares out the window. His blood pressure is fine, and his pupils are equal and reactive to light. “Well he didn’t have a stroke,” I say. “His pressure’s fine. What’s his medical history? Does he take any medications?”

The woman’s hair, which is in short, fluffy dreadlocks, radiates like a sunburst from her head, but it’s not her hair that gives her a sunny glow – it’s her bright eyes and cheerful disposition. I bet she’s not from around here. She doesn’t fit in with the tired, workaday world passing by beneath the open window. Even her accent is different. Not Caribbean. Not Brooklyn. Something else. San Francisco?

She shrugs in answer to my question about the patient’s medical history. “Honestly, I don’t know. I’m only visiting my uncle. From Toronto.” She thinks a moment. “I guess any medications would be on his night table, though,” and she rushes away, returning a moment later with two bottles. One is for hypertension, and the other is a simple multivitamin.

“Do you know if he has a history of seizures?”

She looks alarmed. “Seizures? I don’t think so. Is that what he had?”

I explain that some seizures are quiet, no twitching, just a blank stare and a loss of bladder control. “Let’s get him to the hospital,” I say. “Can you find his ID and insurance cards?”

She does this while Bronson and I lift Mr. Harrison onto a stair-chair and roll him into the hall.

During the ambulance ride, the young woman tells me her name is Rebecca, and that she’s off from college and is visiting family. I nod politely, and share with her everything I know about seizures.

At SUNY Downstate, we turn Mr. Harrison over to the nursing staff. As I’m washing up, Rebecca comes towards me with that look that says, “We need to talk.”

I imagine she’s going to tell me how horrible our health care system is down here, how there should be a visiting nurse for all senior citizens living alone. And how perfect Canada’s is.

“I just wanted to tell you,” she begins, and I start gearing up on the outside while cringing on the inside. “Thank you,” she says, “for taking such good care of my uncle.”

I exhale in relief, stunned, and for the first time in many burnt-out months, I’m proud to be wearing the Fire Department patch. “I thought, being from Canada, you would think our system was barbaric,” I say.

She gives me a look that means business. “Oh no,” she says. “You should see Canadian state-run hospitals.” She shudders, then clasps my hand and flashes me that winning smile. “Thank you for doing such a fine job. I really mean it.”

I finish drying my hands and toss the used paper towel – no, positively slam dunk it into the trash can – as the young woman disappears behind the curtain with her uncle and the doctor.

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.