Bronson has his nose buried in his paramedic textbook when we’re called to back up medics on a “sick” — a 75-year-old woman who fainted but apparently is conscious again. I squint to make sense of the information on the KDT, the computer terminal mounted between our seats, but there’s nothing else.

Bronson slams his book shut and we drive to a small brick house on a tree-lined street in Marine Park. The leaves are falling and the front yards look idyllic in crimson and gold. Old jack-o-lanterns dot the yards, collapsing in on themselves, their grimaces frightful. We park. “It’s going to be a long winter,” I tell Bronson, sighing and getting out the equipment. He doesn’t answer.

We’re met on the porch by a man in his mid-70s. “My wife fainted on the toilet,” he says in a heavy Irish brogue. We’re not taken aback by this blunt description. We see and hear things most people would politely skirt around in normal conversation.

The house’s interior is decorated with artificial flowers and Celtic crosses. The patient, a frail woman in a terry cloth robe, is sitting on the couch. I ask her if she has any chest pains or a cardiac history. She says no, also in a heavy Irish accent. I say, “Okay, then lie back and put your feet on the sofa’s armrest.” This will bring blood to her heart. “What happened?” I ask, taking out my blood pressure cuff and sticking the stethoscope in my ears.

She explains, “Me and George are scheduled for colonoscopies tomorrow morning.”

“Any reason why?” Bronson asks.

She shrugs. “Routine. We’re taking the pills and that gallon jug of drink stuff.” She means the Bisacodyl tablets and the massive quantities of liquid prescribed to flush out the patient’s system. It means you’re married to the bathroom for the whole day before the procedure.

George speaks up: “We started to argue because there’s only one bathroom.”

Bronson shakes his head. “Never a good idea to schedule joint colonoscopies on the same day.”

George says, “That was what I said!” His wife ignores his comment.

Bronson says, “Maybe it was a vasovagal syncope.” This refers to the syndrome of fainting when a person tries too hard to relieve himself on the toilet. The heart rate falls below 60. The person sees stars and passes out. We see it often in the elderly.

George says, “A what?” He continues, “I said I needed to go first, but she insisted. Serves her right!”

“Now, now,” Bronson scolds. “Be nice.”

I remove the blood pressure cuff from the woman’s arm and pluck the stethoscope out of my ears. “Pressure’s good,” I say, and call off the medics.

George goes into the dining room, which is filled with Catholic-themed knick-knacks, and comes back with a bottle of Old Bushmills, a handful of shot glasses rimmed in gold, and a rubber Frankenstein mask on his face. He pours an amber splash into each of them, and says a muffled, “Cheers.”

“Uh, no thanks,” Bronson says, staring at the mask. Frankenstein appears crestfallen. “Thanks,” Bronson clarifies. “But no thanks.”

Frankenstein looks at the cuckoo clock on the mantelpiece, nestled between photographs of children and grandchildren. It’s 10 a.m. “Too early for ya?” his masked voice says. He nods knowingly, and pours the extra drinks back into the bottle, careful not to spill a drop. He tosses back his liquor and replaces the bottle on the shelf.

His wife says she doesn’t want to go to the hospital, so we call telemetry to secure the RMA, the refusal of medical assistance. She speaks to the doctor on the phone as we start packing up our equipment. All the while, Frankenstein is standing by the mantle, dusting the pictures of his grandchildren with a feather duster. Before we leave, he holds out a bowl of candy. “Trick or treat,” he says. “Leftover. From the kids.”

Bronson and I each hesitantly take a Tootsie Roll from the mix. “Thanks,” we say, unwrapping them and silently chewing. Frankenstein reaches out a hand to take the balled-up wrappers from us. Unsure of what politeness should prevail here, I say the only thing I can think of: “Take care tomorrow. Good luck with the colonoscopies.”

Back in the ambulance, Bronson picks caramel from between his teeth as our vehicle kicks up the fall leaves behind us. I elbow him to jolt him out of his silence, to nudge him toward recognizing how strange it was that we were offered whiskey and Tootsie Rolls from an Irish Frankenstein about to have a colonoscopy. He says nothing.

“Happy Halloween,” I say.

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.