Rising to the pandemic challenge

IN a deserted city centre I climb a small set of steps next to a sign on the wall saying simply “Samaritans”.

For the next three hours or so I'll be answering phonecalls from people struggling to cope, not least with this unprecedented health crisis.

But I'm not alone. I'm part of a UK-wide team of 20,000 volunteers dedicated to helping make sure fewer people die by suicide.

And though our efforts pale into insigificance compared to the heroics of health workers in the frontline, we know what we do is vital and valued.

That was confirmed in the House of Commons last month when Health Secretary Matt Hancock confirmed we were exempt from the new lockdown measures.

He said it was “acceptable and right” that Samaritans volunteers should be allowed to continue to travel to branches to provide our unique service.

So, despite now having to toil from home on my day job, I had headed out to cycle through eerily quiet streets to sign on for duty.

Inside the branch, I see new signs advising of procedures to protect each other from the spread of Covid-19.

Previously, I'd have chatted in the Rest Room over a cuppa with those finishing the previous shift.

Now, though, social-distancing advice means I head to an adjoining room to wait for them to leave.

I'm joined there by my shift partner – two Samaritans are on duty at all times – and we make sure we chat from a distance of at least 2m.

There's even a screen between us as we sit there. It feels a bit like being on Blind Date.

When it's our turn to enter the duty room, our first task is to wipe down all surfaces, keypads and phones. And wash our hands for 20 seconds, of course.

Only then can we log in and make ourselves available to take a call.

There isn't long to wait. I let the phone ring three times, as is our custom, then pick it up and say: “Samaritans . . . can I help you?”

At the other end of the line is someone struggling to cope in a world turned on its head. They want to talk. They need someone to listen.

But I can't tell you anything about that caller, or any of those who followed. Confidentiality is a key part of what we do.

I say: “I'm John. Is there a name I can call you by?” This is simply to make the conversation seem more personal.

But I don't want to know their full name, where they're from, their phone number or any other unimportant personal details.

I ask: “Why have you called Samaritans today?” And then I listen. It can be for 10, 20, 30 minutes or more.

I'm seated at a desk with a phone, computer screen and keyboard in front of me.

Previously, my colleague would have sat across from me behind a glass screen installed for noise-reduction reasons.

Now, though, they are in the adjoining room as part of emergency hygiene measures.

And we always work in pairs, so that we can offer each other support during and after difficult or harrowing calls.

On my shift, I rely heavily on the extensive skills training I went through before I was allowed to be considered a “Full Sam”.

And next to my desk is a small poster showing an invaluable tool used by every Samaritan – the Listening Wheel.

This is a circle split into six slices, each of them naming an important response during a call. These are: reacting; open questions; summarising; reflecting; clarifying, and words of encouragement.

But right at the heart is a smaller circle with perhaps the most important response of all when someone is opening up about their problems: silence.

One word that is not there is “advice”. We don't tell anyone what to do.

We're not experts. Indeed, our volunteers come from an incredibly wide range of backgrounds. But through active listening, we try to help people in crisis find their own solutions.

As my call comes to an end, I'm thanked for being there. It's always lovely to hear that.

“Thanks for calling Samaritans today,” I reply, “and please remember we will be there for you when you need us, 24/7.”

Our Glasgow branch, launched 60 years ago, has always made great efforts to stay open round the clock every day of the year.

That level of service seemed in serious doubt recently as those in at-risk groups or with concerns for their health or their loved ones' health were invited to stay at home. But, incredibly, our rota looks to be full for weeks to come as our 180 volunteers rise to the challenge.

A frequent comment from colleagues is: “We're needed more than ever.”

That dreaded word “coronavirus” crops up as an issue of concern in many of the phonecalls and emails we answer.

It may be that someone has the bug, or fears they'll get it, or are just worn down by self-isolation or the relentless procession of doom and gloom on telly news bulletins.

Or they may be among that incredible army of health workers who are having to cope every day with horror, fear and exhaustion.

A fellow volunteer got a message this week from one of those NHS heroes – thanking us for continuing to do what we do.

Hospital staff, they said, were being pushed beyond their physical and emotional limits. Some needed someone to offload to. A friendly ear to just listen to what they're having to endure and battle through.

It's humbling to think we can offer any kind of help to these brave superstars.

But Samaritans are here for anyone who is finding things tough right now.

My three hours of listening seem to fly by. I then “debrief” by phone to our Shift Leader, an experienced Sam.

I talk through each call and I'm assured I can get back in touch later if anything is troubling me.

A 20-second handwash, a skoosh of sanitiser, then I let the two volunteers next door know we are leaving and they can come through to start their shift.

And off out into the barren streets I go, content that I've done at least a small bit to help us all get through this.