“Patient Escorts transport conscious,
semi-conscious and/or unconscious patients to and from floors and
treatment areas in a campus hospital and/or clinic facility; and
perform other related duties as required. Incumbents typically
transport patients in gurneys and/or wheelchairs; pick up and deliver
routine and/or emergency reports, specimens, and patient care
equipment; may determine priorities of requests for service; and may
transport critically ill comatose or semi-comatose patients under the
direct supervision of medical or nursing staff personnel. Incumbents
are primarily involved in the transportation of patients.”
If you had told me that I would be
moving dead bodies for about ten dollars an hour I would I would have
asked you what ancient gods whose names have long since been
forgotten that I somehow upset. Before I talk about moving corpses
let's go back a little bit. To 1997. Discman still existed. DVD's
were a rumor. Grunge was still a thing. You still had to get photos
developed. It was a glorious time.
Working at the hospital was my very
first job. At that time I was a Unit Support Associate. That is a
fancy name for garbage man. Well, I also served patients food. Yeah.
Wrap your head around that for a second. I would clean rooms infected
with diseases, mop around crying family members feet, take out the
trash, make the beds, dust, and then when the food cart arrived serve
them food that smelled the same no matter what it was. How do you
make eggs, bacon, and toast smell exactly like steak and potatoes?
How, Sway?!
I lasted at this job a little over a
year. It was because of one particular floor. Okay. Full disclosure.
That floor was 85% of the reason I left. The other 15% was stress
related. Mind you, I was an 18 year old with no work experience
surrounded by sick and dying people working on a team of fuck ups. I
was good at my job but that doesn't matter when almost everyone else on your team is not. I was on call so while I was making almost $12 a hour at the
time and rolling in dough during training it eventually became me
going in maybe once a week. Plus my hair was falling out from stress.
A good day was not cleaning up vomit from a recovering cancer
patient or a family member that could not take seeing staples in their kids skull.
Who would have thought that almost ten
years later I would trade in vomit for my best day as an escort?
My last day in 1997 involved me being
called in when I was not needed. If you were called in for no reason
they had to automatically pay you four hours pay. I showed up and was
sent to my most hated floor. They were fully staffed and did not need
me so I headed back to the office. I was sent to another floor. Then
each side of the floors (meaning east and west). I get to the 8th floor which I'd never
worked on. They didn't need me. Then the 9th floor where I tried to
vacuum and almost lost a finger. They didn't need me either. Hell,
the patients were all able bodied and rich! I got sent to the 10th
and knew something was wrong. Oh, and when I say I went back to the
office in between all these it was about a ten minute wait going up
and down.
By the time I got to the 10th floor and
was not needed I was burned out. It'd been hours and all I had done
so far was vacuum for a moment and hurt my finger. This guy that was
in charge of telling everyone to learn the new systems passed by and
said “Nice badge.” He was being sarcastic. I'd been here over a
year and never got a badge. Why? Ask them! I just stared at him, went
to the elevator, got to the office, and quit.
“Hi, Dante” my replacement boss for
the week said.
“I'm leaving” I replied.
“Oh, you don't feel well? Leaving for
the day?” not boss asked.
“No, I'm quitting” I said.
“Oh, well. I hope—what?” she
said.
“I'm leaving” I said. And I did. If
you have never quit a job without notice then you have lived half a
life. I don't care if you have children, a great marriage, your own
home, business, and get your genitals manipulated by hands that are
not yours daily. None of that compares to getting the fuck out of a
job you hate immediately. I hopped on the bus and got the hell out of
that place. Each step I took towards the bus stop made me feel
lighter. My heart grew ten times in size and so did my dick.
I then went home, meaning my ex
girlfriends parents place which is a whole other story I won't get
into, and tried to figure out what the fuck I was gonna do now. Well,
long story short I ended up working at a pet store making less than
half of what I did at the hospital for three months before being
fired for saying I was bored too often. Truth is they hired people
for the summer and shit canned them before they got a raise at the
three month mark. All I got as a souvenir was a ruined knee and the
second instance of me taking a shit outside of my own home.
I have worked a lot of different jobs.
I have worked at two pet stores, the hospital twice, read scripts, a
mail room, been an assistant editor for a nationally syndicated show,
transcribed, and sold porn for seven years. No matter how bad a day I
have at my current job I have one thought that will pop into my head:
You're not moving dead bodies.
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