We get a call for a “possibly violent EDP.” Bronson starts the lights and sirens.

“Whoa, partner, it’s a low-priority job,” I say, shutting off the switches. I watch him clench his jaw muscles as he takes a sharp turn. “Fight with Rachel?”

His wife is pregnant. “She’s very emotional,” he says.

Emotions. Almost all EDP calls are for people who have gone off their psych medications. Even on regular medical calls, we have to deal with the high emotions of the patients and their family members. Like police officers, every EMT is an amateur psychologist.

We drive through Coney Island, make a series of turns down streets of identical-looking 1950s attached-brick houses, and pull up to the scene. Police cars are already there. We open the house door to find a well-dressed young woman on her knees, sobbing into her manicured hands. She’s got a diamond the size of Rhode Island on her finger, and a thick fur coat lies slumped on the sofa like it’s just been bagged on a hunt. A flashily dressed man is standing in the kitchen doorway. His gray suit is shiny, his gray shoes are alligator, and his gray shirt is unbuttoned to display a gold chain nestled in mounds of chest hair.

The woman screams at him, “How can you do this to me?” in a Russian accent that suggests she came here when she was a teenager.

The officers explain that she’s angry because her brother called 911 again. The last time was a few months ago, and she ended up spending a week at the Coney Island hospital psych ward. Apparently, she has a history of bipolar disorder.

“I don’t wanna go back there! Don’t make me go back there!” she shouts.

Her brother says she takes two different psych meds, but he doesn’t know the names; she keeps them hidden.

“I need to go to the bathroom!” she shouts.

We don’t want her locking herself in there, or hurting herself. So, as the female EMT, I get to do the honors. “If you need to use the bathroom, I’d be happy to assist you,” I say, stupidly. She thinks about it, and then changes her mind. I take a deep breath, and figure out how to approach this situation.

“What seems to be bothering you?” I ask. Best not to be too direct. Like a wild animal, she may feel cornered.

She sobs, “My brother! He’s making my life hell!”

I ask, “Do you want to hurt him?” She gives it some real consideration.

The brother shakes his head. “She doesn’t really mean it,” he says.

The next question is the one that counts. “Do you want to hurt yourself?” I ask.

She stops crying and looks me squarely in the eye. “Better if I were dead,” she says.

I nod to Bronson. We’re going to the psych ward. You can say you want to kill yourself till the cows come home, just don’t call 911. We take these threats seriously.

I manage to calm her down, and finally convince her to go to the hospital. If she refused, the police would facilitate things. I’m glad it doesn’t have to come to that. She tells me she has to get her bag and coat. I look at the thick mink draped over the couch. “You’re not bringing that to the hospital.”

She looks crestfallen, and then decides it’s better to leave it. “You’re right,” she says.

I say nothing about the diamond. While she’s getting a regular jacket, I check out the ID cards in her wallet and write down her name, age, and Social Security number. I look for insurance cards and see she’s on Medicaid. She also has a thick sheaf of food stamps. I can’t understand how a woman with money can be on government assistance. “Maybe it’s cubic zirconia,” I say aloud. Bronson makes a face at me, and then I remember that on every drugstore awning in every Russian neighborhood are the words: “We Accept Medicaid.” I sigh. “She’s got a fur and a diamond, yet qualifies for Medicaid?”

“They come here on refugee status,” Bronson explains.

I shake my head. “What a country.”

In the back of the ambulance, en route to the hospital, I take out my chart and ask her the names of her meds. She looks up at the ambulance’s ceiling lights. “Goobers,” she says, matter of factly. “Starburst, Twizzlers, and M&Ms.”

It takes me a moment to process the sudden nonsense. “Ma’am,” I say. “That’s candy.”

“It’s my Easter medicine,” she insists.

I decide I’ll let the hospital sort it out. Under “medications” I write down: unknown. But we still have the rest of the ride to get through, and I’m not going to ask about her psychiatric history, or her brother, or try to use any Psych 101 on her. I ask the only thing I can think of that promises the remotest chance of an interesting conversation.

I poise my pen, ready to write. “Are those M&Ms peanut, or regular?”

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