The call comes in to back up medics on a “cardiac.” The KDT indicates that the patient, a 46-year-old female, has no cardiac history but feels that her heart is beating fast.

“A panic attack,” Bronson says. He and I have been arguing about everything all day, but now I agree. “Probably nothing,” I say.

We arrive at a sad little frame house in Mill Basin. The door is answered by a frail, elderly woman who ushers us into a tidy living room, where we find her daughter sitting on the couch. She’s obese, unattractive, and is sweating and breathing rapidly. Her greasy, shoulder-length hair is shot through with gray.

“Ma’am,” Bronson says to her. “What’s going on?”

She’s agitated. “I’m nervous,” she says. “Anxious.”

I take her vitals: Her heart rate is about 130 beats a minute, her blood pressure elevated. She says her heart is “fluttering.”

“What happened?” I say, and she bursts into tears.

“Ma’am,” Bronson asks the mother, “Can you please get her a glass of ice water?”

The old woman goes into the kitchen, and Bronson turns back to the patient. “Now tell us what’s up,” he says.

The story comes out. She says she was instant-messaging a man on the Internet the previous evening. He promised to meet her at her house to take her for dinner. “To someplace in Sheepshead Bay,” she says. “He seemed so nice, I really thought he would stop by.”

I’m starting to sweat. I hate sorry stories of lonely women hooking up with men online. Either they don’t keep their word and send the ladies into a tailspin, or else they do meet them and then hurt them and rob them. I find it unbearably sad.

“Do you have his phone number?” Bronson asks.

“No,” she says. “I was IM-ing him for a few hours, though.” She seems truly surprised that he never showed, like a girl left waiting in her living room on prom night. In the kitchen, I hear the old woman twisting ice cube trays, then ice clinking into a glass.

“Anything could have happened,” I say, weakly. “Maybe he’ll contact you tonight.”

I reach for my paperwork, but can’t find my pen. I look over my shoulder and see it lying on the floor. I pass an open door, and peek into what I assume is the daughter’s bedroom: It’s pink and frilly, with posters of kittens on the walls, the bedroom of a 13-year-old. I pick up my pen and return to Bronson.

He asks the woman if she’s ever had a similar episode where her heart races. She says yes, whenever she gets really upset.

I take her pulse again. It’s down to 100.

Bronson gets on the radio and cancels the medics. Then he tells her: “Honestly, you’re better off without him. Anyone who’d stand you up is just not worth it.”

This woman is middle-age, but I can see by the expression on her face that her emotions are still in high school. She’s smitten, and wants the guy to call. I think: Maybe she was ostracized in high school. Maybe, if you don’t go through these painful hurdles, you get stuck there for the rest of your life.

“You know,” I say, “you’re lucky he didn’t come over. Men on the Internet can be predators.”

She doesn’t seem to fully grasp this concept. It’s like talking to a teenager. Her face is a circle of innocence.

The old lady returns with three glasses of ice water on a plastic tray. She tells us that her daughter is always trying to meet men on the Internet.

“They always promise to take her out, but they never show up,” she says, handing her daughter a tall cold glass. “And the end result is always the same.”

I don’t know what’s sadder, the daughter’s recurring predicament, or the mother’s pain at having to watch her daughter make such self-induced lovesick mistakes.

The daughter bursts into a fresh set of tears, her heart rate shoots back up to 130, and beads of sweat appear again on her forehead. Because of her elevated blood pressure, we take her to the hospital. But there’s no escape for her. The ER doc at Beth Israel is handsome and the woman stares at him, frozen, like a deer caught in headlights.

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.