A Rambling Meditation on my Job

Well, today marks the end of my first week at my new job as a runner for Lexington Family Practice. I am exhausted physically, but I feel a contentment. Perhaps it is this small bit of security I have been given after months of feeling up in the air. Or, perhaps it is the feeling of being back in a medical office. Most people dread that visit to the doctor. I can't say that I enjoy being a patient either, but I do enjoy working in medical offices. Something about it refreshes my spirit.

I have been offered two jobs that would guarantee better pay than my current position. I would have my own desk and my own computer (something that I am not afforded at the Family Practice), but I couldn't accept them. When I think about the perks of these other office jobs, I wince a little and wonder if I've made the right choice. And after I consider everything, I think I have.

The promise of better pay and perks is always tempting. I think a great deal about money, a habit I picked up from my mother, as I think I mentioned in some earlier post. I have never worked at a job that paid well. Athens was not the sort of town that had really good jobs. You accepted anything that paid and you liked it because you didn't have a choice. There didn't seem to be much of a choice for me here in Columbia until just recently. Now, this relatively unskilled Office Space reject who has never made $10 an hour in her life is being offered jobs that have a starting wage of at least $12/hr.

I feel like an idiot for turning these offers down. But the truth is, I tire of those jobs so quickly. I can't help it. I don't have a head for business at all. I have been born with the soul of...well, I was going to say an artist, but that sounds so cliche and stupid. I have never been satisfied with office work, not unless there is something behind it. Something that makes it worth the mindless punching of the keyboard or calculator. Many of the places I've worked require a passion to grow a business that is not my own. The law office where I worked in Ohio occasionally provided a spiritual draw. There were people who were genuinely in need and, in rare moments, we were able to help them. More often than not, though, what we could do, the solace and sanctuary provided by the law, was not enough. Some of the most heartbreaking moments in my recent memory occurred at that office. I will never forget the look that a woman gave me as I sat in to witness the signing of her will. It was such a strange look and because I had no idea that she was dying, it disconcerted me - I didn't know what could prompt a look like that. A month later, when we received the news that she had died and we would be handling her estate, I realized what that look was. It was a look of acceptance, desperation, envy and perhaps pity. I remember how her husband fell apart in our hands. He called over and over to ask the same questions. We gave him the answers slowly each time and spoke to him like a child.

There was the case of the aging father who created a pitifully small trust fund to ensure the continued financial care of his mentally disabled son after his passing. He was not in bad health. We told him there was still time to put money into the fund, but he knew he would never make enough to create the kind of savings that would keep his son comfortable. One by one he blotted his other children and stepchildren out of his will in order to direct their inheritance into the trust. We adjusted and readjusted his will as he sat in the conference room, waiting. Each time we brought him a new copy, he would wring his hands and make one more change. His disabled son sat with him, smiling the entire time. The attorney and I joked with the son, trying to enjoy his laughter and hoping the father would find some joy in it, too. This son, the youngest of his siblings, was his father's namesake.

There was also the paperwork that I was forced to complete to ensure that our clients with DUI's could get their licenses back for "driving to and from work." This kind of paperwork served as a quick way to make a buck or two. It also served as a favor to our clients. Most DUI's, underage consumption charges and the like were thrown at us by our big dollar clientele or by so called friends of the attorney who liked to play the "scratch my back" game. Their idiot children kept cash in the till.

And then there were the eviction notices that we handed out like candy canes at Christmas.

There were so many days that I cried the entire way home. I cried and grew bitter, realizing that the law is the last place to look for justice. I think the attorney that I worked for realized the same thing a long time ago, but refused to admit it to himself. This denial took seemed to only add to his stress. The toll was obvious, not only in that he had suffered from a stress-related stroke, but in certain obsessive tendencies that he developed, and which seemed to grow worse with age.

One day, while he was in one of his good moods, he tried to thank me for something. He began to say "thank you," and couldn't stop. Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou He must have said it like that for ten seconds straight. It made my blood run cold. His head ticked slightly to the side each time he started the "thank you" over again. It was always hard not to take his bad moods personally, especially since I, too, was under duress from eight to five every day. But after that episode, I found it a little easier to simply pull the receiver away from my ear as he screamed at me from the other end of the line. It was easier, better, just to let him scream. Better to let him spew his garbage on me than to have to rush him to the emergency room for a second time. Better than his chilling Howard Hughes impressions.

There was a bird that frequently flew into the windows of that office that I wanted to write about while I was there. It was a little red cardinal. Sometimes it was accompanied by another bird which looked to be a cardinal, but since it had all of the feathers on its head, it was hard to tell. Most mornings beginning at about 8:30, our little winged friend would begin his routine. bam...Bam...BAM would sound from the conference room, his favorite place to come knocking. Everyone in the office was surprised that this poor bird lived day after day. He slammed himself into the windows as hard as he could and nothing that we did - not closing the blinds, not turning off the lights - ever stopped him. There was no direct light that hit that window, I don't think he saw his reflection in the glass. What drew him to this daily ritual no one could figure out. Sometimes, when he was tired of beating his brains out, he would sit on the sill and peck gently, a knock that always drew me in to see him. I felt his spiritual significance. This bird was a metaphor for something, but I couldn't write about him while I was there. I had no idea what he stood for. It wasn't until I had left that I realized that this bird was Bill, the attorney. He seemed like such a nice creature when he was quiet and thoughtful, but he was bent on killing himself and that was that.

I decided this time around that I'm tired of beating my head against the wall. I have accepted a job I think I can love. Of course there is bureaucracy in medicine, we have drug reps from all the major pharmaceutical companies in the office everyday. But we don't accept their clipboards and pens. We let them buy breakfast and lunch for the entire office and we take their samples if we feel like it.

I am nothing but a runner. I make little more than minimum wage. Today one of the staff brought her baby granddaughter into the office to show her off. The tiny girl had just come in for an examination and was diagnosed with an ear infection. We had expected her to be crying and screaming with pain, but she smiled at everyone.

I have nothing but the feeling that I participate (however minimally) in the maintenance of Life. It is wonderful.