Saturday, 15 December 2007

• Work

  I took the job because I was bored. I kept it because I needed the money. But the three women with whom I worked taught me more about myself than they taught me about office work. It doesn’t matter that I can scan documents, create spreadsheets, verify insurance information, and perform computer operations—if I “have not love, I am only a resounding gong or clanging cymbal.”

              I miss them. When someone tells me I cannot do something, I still imitate Debbie’s defiant, chin-jerking mannerism. And I often wish I were more like Karen, the nurse: quietly encouraging and observant. In moments of frustration, I sometimes catch myself quietly uttering the Spanish expletives that I picked up from Linda.

              “Do you ever wonder what they’re thinking?”

              “I try not to.”

              Linda and I stare through the thick appointment-office glass into the waiting room. Unruly children run rampant over the dingy furniture as their mothers wearily devour outdated magazines. Her question reinforces the wall that I have constructed between myself and the patients. If I do not identify with them, then I have no obligation to help them.

              I soon lose interest, and my eyes return to their unethical blogging-on-the-job; I gave up asking my boss for more work to do after the third week. I have learned to be content in the confinement of my own digital corner. It is only 10 a.m., with no hope for lunch until well after noon. But Linda lingers, staring over my computer screen, oblivious as a soccer mom. Well, come to think of it, she is a soccer mom. I guess that’s why she wants to rescue all the mothers and remind them that life can be safe again: She sees herself in so many of them.

              When I met her, I didn’t quite know what to think: she and Debbie, the bookkeeper, were always giving one another a hard time. They let me into their circle easily enough, but I didn’t truly see Linda’s heart until I moved from filing to helping her at the front desk. She spent hours on the phone and in person with patients, trying to get them the best possible care. She finagled with insurance companies, followed-up on prescriptions, and carefully articulated Doctor’s orders to our Spanish-speaking patrons.

              She was always coming in late because one of her daughters was sick or had forgotten her lunch money. At work, she worried and drank too much coffee, all the while spilling her maternal fears to me and Debbie. ‘Should Bree take dance? Danielle hates her math teacher. Where will Amanda go to college?’ She lived in the same draining madness of all the overworked moms that frequented our office.

              Except for the glimpse that Linda gave me, I had no grasp of this chaotic maternity, so I generally tried to ignore the waiting room, as if the patients only became human after roll call from the nurse. Karen could do that to you though: make you feel like you were important, no matter whether you were eight or eighty. Occasionally, I held little kids while she administered shots: she could make vaccinating seem like she was doing you a favor. I still felt like an agent of torture.

              Once, I let a baby’s hand slip from my hold while Karen was giving her a shot; the kid reached right down and plucked the needle out before all the vaccination had a chance to evacuate the cylinder into her system. I’ve never seen Karen so visibly upset. She told me not to let that happen again; she then went to her desk to figure out how long she had to wait before giving the baby the rest of her vaccination. She was more concerned about the patient than she was about my mistake. That was Karen: come in early, make strong coffee, ask how everyone is doing, and get down to work.

              Everyone liked Karen, even the doctor—which is saying something. The doctor liked me because I was sarcastic and afraid of him; everyone else pretty much stayed out of his way. He liked too much blue, affirmed by the fact that he had successfully converted a perfectly good office complex into Eeyore’s cloud nine: wallpaper, countertops, cabinets, carpet—all a drab, slate blue—nothing too cheery to excite the patients. We had plenty of that already.

              Linda and I began making bets on which of the regulars would call in that day. I had not previously realized the enormity of the common cold: people seem to think that they must be diagnosed of this ailment within twelve hours of exhibiting symptoms. Scheduled appointments, however, were infinitely less important; they could be postponed almost indefinitely, except for football physicals. Those all had to be done in the one-week time period before school started. Our office was apparently the only one in the tri-county area that offered this service.

              Fortunately, all I had to do was smile and make awkward conversation while I copied insurance information. Nine-fifty an hour for, as my mother calls it, “idiot work”. I often entertained the thought of replacing myself with a monkey, but it would probably understand Spanish better and then I would have no money for college. Desperate times and all that jazz.

  My favorite patients were the high school football players, who were generally accompanied by their mothers. These studs attempted to impress me by ignoring my existence, being as disrespectful as possible to the woman who brought them into this world, or both.

              Debbie was a coach’s wife, so she was much better at dealing with this display of bravado. It didn’t faze her in the least. She was fake-nice to everyone, but it wasn’t really fake because she just wanted to help you. Maybe she was just a tiny bit cynical that her job was in accounting, but she had to deal with difficult patients all day. Her dripping sweet phone-answering voice always fascinated me. Of my three co-workers, I admired Debbie most, mainly because she really didn’t care what the doctor thought. Most of her life, she had made her own way. She didn’t need anyone else to affirm her value. Like a walking “Chicken Soup for the Soul” book, Debbie constantly reminded me of my worth. I chuckled a bit but, over time, I realized how much she and Karen and Linda believed that I was worth something.

              All three of these women loved me. They listened, joked, gave advice, and just put up with me. In a workplace full of stress, deadlines, and nameless faces, the care that these women showed me affirmed my value as an individual. At the end of the day, I am not the voice on the other end of the line, I am not the face at the window, I am not the girl behind the desk. I am Sydney.

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