How ironic that my 21st anniversary of working at UCLA is spent at home with a head cold from hell. I remember starting out nervous. I had volunteered at an old folks home as a teen, but this was a whole new level of care. Suddenly I was having to deal with people who were dying. People who were suffering. While my first few months were bumpy I loved it. I still do.
Two weeks into the job I was asked to take a little old lady to the X-Ray department. I helped her into the wheelchair and we stopped by the desk so the nurse could give me the medical records. I heard her say "Oh no" in a little raspy voice and leaned over the wheelchair from behind to see. Her frail hand was held out and she was messing with the pic line. There was blood around it and her skin was so thin you could see the needle underneath. I fainted dead away. The nurse, who was walking up behind me to give the chart, caught me and laid me down. I remember waking up on the floor and begging them not to tell. I thought my short career was over. Luckily they didn't, but I questioned whether this was a wise place to be working... what with the needle phobia and all.
I used to take my breaks and visit patients who were lonely. There was this one woman whose name escapes me that I grew fond of. She was dying of AIDs in a time where they were treated like outcasts. You had to enter their rooms with cover gowns, gloves and masks on. No one visited this lady. One day I walked by and she was crying. I came in and she said she just wanted someone to hold her hand. I put on the gloves and sat there as she wept. Then I cried. I spent a lot of time with her, just chit chatting. I remember the day I came in and her bed was made. I turned and the nurse, who had known we were talking, came up and placed her hand on my shoulder. I cried so hard.... Then the nurse reminded me that I helped her leave this earth less lonely. That she left with the memory of a friend. At the time it meant nothing. I knew she was dying. But in my ignorance I somehow hoped that my being there would change something. Anything. In the end it did. It changed me. This job became a career. I wasn't there to get a paycheck. I was there to help. I wanted to ease the pain.
I remember the night I was chatting with a friend. She worked on the Ob Gyn ward. She went to check on a patient while I hung out at the desk. Suddenly I heard a cry for help. To my left and down a long corridor was the O elevator. I looked over and saw a man running with a pregnant woman in a wheelchair. At first it didn't register. I told him to slow down, thinking it was an expectant father. Then I noticed the blue smock. Volunteer. Wide eyed volunteer. I ran towards the wheelchair saying 'Don't push' in Spanish to the lady. I got as far as 'No empu...' before looking down. Her panties were pushed down and a head was forming. I yelled DON'T PUSH and made a sprint towards the wheelchair, then did a dive as the woman slid her hips forward and the baby came out. I caught it right before it hit the floor. It was gooey and had green all over it. Luckily there was no blood. I would have passed out otherwise. I heard rumbling behind me and saw a team of doctors and nurses running down the hall from the delivery room. I held the baby while they clipped the umbilical cord. It was awesome. I visited the couple in their room afterwards and they wanted to name the baby after me. They were a sweet young Hispanic couple who spoke little English. This was their first child. They asked me for my name and when I said, "Odessa" they both had this "Oh shit" look on their face. We stood in silence for a moment, then I added "But my middle name is Teri. Like Teresa." They both grinned and nodded to the nurse. Somewhere there's a little girl who's almost named after me.
There are so many memories that have defined me. I know that there are people who hate their job and only go for the paycheck. Me? I go for what I can do. I go because 21 years later there's really no other job I'd rather be at. UCLA is my second home.
