Bronson and I are chatting up a storm on a hot, dry day. Bronson is a great conversationalist because he thinks he knows everything but really doesn’t know a thing, so anything he says can be argued in a variety of ways, which appeals to my creative streak, as well as to the devil’s advocate in me. I’m telling him why organic farming can never work on a worldwide scale, and he is getting madder and madder.

“Breathe,” I calmly remind him.

The radio comes alive with a Fire Department conditions lieutenant telling the dispatcher that our unit is closer to a job just given to another unit. The job is a Priority 4 — a critical stroke, or technically a CVA-C, which stands for “cerebro-vascular accident — critical.” This means that the EMTs are required to take the patient to a hospital equipped with a stroke center, so he can be treated with clot-busting thrombolytic drugs, which in many instances can clear the clot and save precious brain tissue from permanent damage. The stroke victim often recovers fully.

“Giddyup,” I say, and click my seatbelt.

Bronson puts on a Western voice, “Hi, ho Silver, away,” and off we go.

We get to the address in Kensington, go inside the apartment building, knock on the second-floor door, and are met by a woman who identifies herself as the home health aide. She leads us into the bedroom, where we see the patient, a woman of about 65 who unbelievably weighs only 80 pounds. She’s a skeleton draped with skin, her hair is thin and white, and she is naked from the waist down and crying. The aide explains that she has terminal breast cancer that has metastasized to her entire skeletal system.

Her entire body is in pain, and she has trouble moving. Her difficulty moving is why the EMS dispatcher incorrectly classified the job as a stroke. Perhaps the aide, whose native language is not English, was not clear to the 911 operator. Perhaps the 911 operator misunderstood. It doesn’t really matter. The woman tells us she used to undergo chemotherapy and radiation, but not anymore. She moans that she’s in terrible pain. “Are you taking morphine?” I ask. Palliative care, from a specially trained hospice nurse, is the norm during the terminal stage of cancer, not a home health aide.

“No,” she whimpers. “I wanted to … avoid that.” There are pictures on the wall of her when she was younger and healthier. Photos of her parasailing, running on the beach, mugging for the camera with a man in a loving embrace. On the dresser is a Styrofoam head with a wig, and on one of her insurance cards there’s a photo of her wearing the wig. She looked stronger then, not as gaunt.

I tell her how beautiful the pictures are. She tells me that the man in the photo is an old lover.

All of a sudden, a gorgeous, exotic Siamese cat walks into the room and jumps onto the woman’s bed. She groans deeply as the cat’s paw accidentally steps on her thigh. The home health aide gently shoos the cat off the bed. “No, don’t,” the woman says, as tears leak from her eyes. I tell the woman that the doctors at the hospital will give her IV painkillers, and that she will feel much better. She continues crying. “I don’t care about the pain,” she says. “I’m not afraid to die.”

Bronson starts to prepare the stair chair and figure out how he is going to lift such a fragile woman. Getting busy is his way of avoiding the sense of sadness in certain rooms we walk into.

“What is it, then?” I ask her.

Her voice hitches. “I’m afraid that, if I go to the hospital this time, I won’t come home.” She chokes back another sob. “And that I’ll never see my Noodles again.” She breaks into fresh sobs as the cat prowls around our medical bags, making the loud meowing noises particular to its breed. “He’s 9 years old,” she says. “I’ve had him since he was a kitten. He’s been with me through … everything.”

There are no words. Instead, I ask the woman where she keeps the cat food, take a bag off the pantry shelf, and as per her instructions knock on the neighbor’s door to tell her to look after the cat. The neighbor bites her lip and says, “Come here, Noodles,” and the cat slithers into her apartment.

We wrap the woman in a sheet and load her carefully into the ambulance. Bronson gives the 10-82 signal advising the dispatcher that we are now transporting. I know about terminal cancer not just from my professional work, but because my father passed away from it last year. He held on until he could see my son be born and hold him in his arms. He died the next day.

There are no words.

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.