My Love/Hate Relationship With Hospitals Began in 1986
My Four Weeks as a Junior Volunteer
As a teen, during the mid 1980’s, I had aspirations of becoming a pediatrician or an emergency room doctor. Shows like “M*A*S*H”, “ER” and even “General Hospital”, had me convinced this was the path for me. TV doctors were witty, brave, attractive, and smart. I wanted to be one, or at least, dress like one.
My mother’s wise friend suggested that I first try volunteering at our local hospital to experience a true medical setting. I thought it was a great idea.
I already knew that one of the requirements for this volunteer position was to wear a red and white striped uniform that distinguished us from the other hospital staff. The uniform was far from anything I had ever seen on TV. This was not cool looking in any way. It was a red and white apron that was worn like a smock. It was truly, truly ugly.
My unique uniform became my identifier. I was now an official junior volunteer at Bridgeport Hospital, a “candy striper”, with a cool name tag that I could keep and show off at school. I must admit that I never did get to show off the uniform or my plastic badge.
There was no orientation program. No handout. Not even a pep talk.
My first assignment was the pediatrics floor. My first stop was the natal section. Where I gently held a baby that was only a few weeks old. This baby would not stop crying. There was nothing I could do to soothe his cries as I tried to rock him to sleep. The nurse on duty saw how emotional I was becoming by the experience and took the baby from my arms. She gently placed the crying baby back inside of the crib. She turned around and explained that there was nothing I could do to soothe what he was feeling. He was born addicted and he was going through the painful process of withdrawal.
Crack had infested our port city and its victims were everywhere. I had often seen and felt the crunch of thousands of empty vials under my feet near my Uncle Eddie’s corner bodega. We had already lost one close family friend, but I had never imagined this type of horror for a baby.
The nurse on duty suggested that I try visiting a little boy named Freddie. He was down the hall and could use someone to play with. I could hear Freddie’s cries long before I ever made it to his room. I briefly hesitated and stood by the door looking in. Was this going to be a similar situation?
I walked into Freddie’s room and saw the 2 year old toddler sitting in only a diaper inside of an over-sized, metal crib with protective bars. He had messy, overgrown hair, a runny nose, and big, brown eyes. He stopped crying as soon as he saw me. He wanted me to pick him up, but I knew that was not possible. His two small arms and upper torso were covered in a cast. I did not know what had happened to him, but I knew he smelled pretty awful.
I changed his diaper and found him a few toys to play with. I tried my best to play with him through the opening in the bars, but it was quite difficult. I stayed and played with him for over an hour until he fell asleep. I quietly left his room and gathered my things to sign out. I was feeling hopeful that this new experience was going well. The nurse on duty thanked me for staying with Freddie and changing his diaper. She told me that he rarely had any visitors.
I was confused. He was barely two years old, why would he be left all alone. Where were his parents? grandparents?
She explained that he was in the protective care of the State of Connecticut and was not allowed family visits. I was young, but I was not naive and I understood what was left unspoken. His little body needed to completely heal from the trauma he had suffered. He was not going back home.
He looked so much like my own nephew Steven. They were around the same age. I wanted to cry, but I did my best to hold it all in. My heart was heavy and I rode the elevator lost in my thoughts. The baby and little Freddie had done nothing to deserve the cruelty that had been unleashed upon them. I wanted to fix it for them, but I couldn’t, nobody could.
My first night shift was over. As I walked towards my mom who was waiting for me in her old, Buick station wagon, I felt a deep sadness for what I had seen and heard during my three hour shift. I still had to go home and finish my homework, but the knot that had formed in my stomach had left me drained. I buckled in and she immediately asked me if I had enjoyed my time in pediatrics. Without disclosing much, I told her that I was quite certain that I no longer wanted to become a pediatrician.
I liked the idea of being in a hospital, but I was not prepared for the emotional toll it would have on me. I was not ready to give up the ugly apron just yet, so I tried working in a different department.
Later that week when I returned for my shift, I was assigned to patient transportation. Wheeling patients back and forth did not sound like fun. It sounded like a job that I surely would come to hate, but I figured it would be better than some of the other departments.
Most patients were usually sedated and remained quiet while they were being moved. On one particular night, we had to pick up a middle-aged man who was quite vocal about not wanting any additional testing done. The older staff worker who I was assigned to work with, did her best to calm him down. I noticed that he had a neon-colored, hospital band. I had never seen one like it before.
He was getting angrier and more agitated by the minute. He did not want us near him or his gurney. I made the mistake of reaching out to grab the rail and he spit on me. I was disgusted. The other worker called for help and the nurses came running into the room. The two of us left as the nurses attempted to calm the man down.
When we stepped into the elevator, the staff worker told me to not touch anything. She directed me to go straight to the bathroom and wash my hands very well. I could tell by the look on her face that she was quite upset with the situation. I really did not know why she was so upset, but I was told to come down to the patient transportation office.
The year was 1986 and HIV/AIDS cases were at an all time high. People did not know much about the virus or how it was transferred. There was so much false information and paranoia on the news that it was quite difficult to know the truth about how people could contract the virus.
I clearly recall the school water fountain and public park water fountains being closed down during this time. I remember certain family friends who were ill during this time and the fear they felt as they waited test results. It would take quite some time to finally convince the general public that many of their fears were unfounded. Unfortunately, the damage was done and many people suffered needlessly as a result.
This was only my second day volunteering and what the nice person in HR was trying to gently explain to me was clearly understood. So here I was in a teaching hospital and they had no protocols in place for this type of situation. Great. Just great. I think I sighed. I know I sighed. It was just the type of thing that would happen to me. I knew better. Naturally, I was grossed out by what the man had done, it was quite vile, but I most certainly knew this was not something to freak out about. My biggest fear in that entire scenario that was replaying in my head was my mother’s reaction if she found out. I knew my mother and if she found out about any of this, my volunteer days would come to an abrupt end.
I asked to go home early. I called my mom and waited downstairs for her to pick me up. If I had not feared her wrath, I probably would have walked home, but apparently their was news about some guy trying to lure young girls in his van. So I waited for what seemed like forever and was excited to see the burgundy Buick turn the corner. I jumped in.
Mom was waiting to hear all about my second day at the hospital. I did not even bother giving her a watered down version, she was a news junkie and she would freak out if I told her what had just happened. So I lied and made something up. I think I even added how excited I was about the upcoming week. It was all a lie. I went home and took the hottest shower I could.
The week after that I had to return some empty gurneys back to the emergency room floor. It was a one person job and I was bored so I volunteered. Somehow I hit the wrong button on the patient elevator and when the doors opened I was at the morgue. Of course.
As a kid who loved books, especially books on mystery, this should have been a great opportunity to explore. It was closed for the night and quite dark. I parked the gurneys and did not bother for the elevator to come back. I took the stairs all the way back up to seven.
I lasted a whole four weeks before turning in my red and white uniform. I was quite proud of myself for staying that long. Good riddance! I walked out the doors that day and into the Buick with no desire to ever work in a hospital again.
To this day I do wonder about that baby, and little Freddie. My nephew recently turned 40 and I thought about Freddie. What had become of the little boy with the big, brown eyes?
