We spent two sessions on suicide calls, but I prayed I wouldn’t get one until I felt comfortable on the line. Drummed over and over into the 30 trainees’ heads was that our role wasn’t to give advice. Rather, we were to act as empathetic sounding boards and encourage callers to figure out how to take action.

My idealism about the hot line’s value faded that first night, as in quick succession I heard from men who wanted to masturbate while I listened, repeats who told me again and again about their horrific childhoods, know-nothing shrinks and luckless lives, and three separate callers who railed about the low intellect of everyone living in Queens (my borough!). Sprinkled into the mix were people who turned abusive when I refused to tell them how to solve their problems.

I tried to remain sympathetic. If I, who had it together (an exciting career, great friends and family), found New York isolating, I could imagine how frightening it was for people so untethered they needed a hot line for company. That rationale didn’t help. After only 10 hours, I no longer cringed each time the phone rang, terrified it signified a problem I wasn’t equipped to handle. Instead I wondered what fresh torture this caller had up his unstable sleeve.

Then Sandy’s (not her real name) quavering voice nipped into my ear: “I want to kill myself.” I snapped to attention, remembering my training. Did she have an imminent plan to do herself in? Luckily, no. Sandy knew a man who’d attempted suicide via pills, threw them up and lived. She was afraid of botching a similar attempt. Since she was handicapped, she couldn’t even walk to her window to jump out.

Sandy’s life was certainly Help Line material. Her parents had disowned her 40 years before. She’d worked as a secretary until a bone-crushing fall put her out of commission. Years later she was working again and had a boyfriend who stuck with her even after a cab struck Sandy and put her back on the disabled list. They became engaged, and then, soap-opera-like, tragedy struck again. Sandy’s boyfriend was diagnosed with cancer and passed away last year. Now she was in constant pain, confined to a dark apartment, her only companion a nurse’s aide. “There’s nothing left,” she cried. “Give me a reason to live.”

Her plea drove home the wisdom of the “no advice” dictum. How could I summon the words to give someone else’s life meaning? The best I could do was to help Sandy fan the spark that had led her to reach out. I tossed life-affirming statements at her like paint on a canvas, hoping some would stick. I ended with “Sandy, I won’t whitewash your problems. You’ve had more than your share of sorrow. But surely there are some things that have given you pleasure.”

She thought hard and remembered an interest in books on spirituality. The downside followed immediately. Sandy’s limited eyesight made it difficult for her to read. She rasped, “My throat hurts from crying, but I’m afraid if I get off the phone I’ll want to kill myself again.”

I said, “I’m here as long as you need me.”

We spoke another two hours. She recalled long-ago incidents–most depressing, a few semi-joyful. There were some things she still enjoyed: peanuts, “Oprah,” the smell of autumn. I again broached the topic of spirituality. My supervisor, whom I’d long ago motioned to listen in on another phone, handed me a prayer book. I read, and Sandy listened. After “amen,” she said, “I think I’ll be all right for the night.”

Naturally, she couldn’t promise to feel better tomorrow. For all of us, life is one day, sometimes even one minute, at a time. She asked, “When are you on again?”

I said, “My schedule is irregular, but we’re all here for you, any time you want. Thanks so much for calling.”

As I hung up, I realized the call had meant as much to me as to Sandy, if not more. Despite having people in my life, lately I’d felt achingly lonely. I hadn’t called a hot line, but I’d manned one, and this night had been my best in a long time. Instead of having dinner at an over-priced restaurant or watching HBO, I’d connected with another troubled soul in New York City.