People will on occasion ask me why I volunteer. This is just one of many reasons.
I go over to the Clinic about once a week to volunteer. It is a far cry from going into an ambulatory setting and doing an assessment as a surveyor, but far more interesting in many ways.
I was sitting at the information desk today and a woman, maybe in her fifties, five foot give or take an inch or two, approached the desk. "Where is the Administration Office?" Her face was void of any emotion and her unwrinkled face was not hostile, I couldn't decide at first why she might want to go there. I was able to engage her in polite conversation while I could assess the situation a little more. The Administration office is hidden in a corner of the building and they don/t even want us to know where they are. This is a sign of the times, I guess. Kinda goes along with the minimalist approaches of our CEO. Before I could really think too much, she started her rant... "I have had 22 appointments at this clinic since the first of December and I want to tell you (I was dreading the next words) and I have NEVER BEEN TREATED MORE NICELY!! I immediately let out a sigh of relief. She went on to name the doctors, the clinical staff member's and in detail how they had helped her.
As I listened, she moved from the front of the desk to the side as to get closer to me. Her story then began to unravel. She was told a year ago that due to her cancer of the liver, she only had a year to live. She was standing in front of me with a smile and looking healthier than most of us. She let me know that she had met death and was dealing with it on her on terms. Her cancer has spread from her liver to her back, then to her bladder, and abdomen. She had been given chemotherapy which did not work, but she was getting ready to try it again. She would repeat every now and again that she had been sent to our clinic because she needed us.
Turns out she needed to share a little of her life with me. I was a willing listener. She had started driving an 18 wheeler truck when she was young. She had gone off the road after she got pregnant with her daughter, but shortly after delivery, had taken her back on the road with her. They had lived on the road until it was time for school. In those days, she told me, there were just a few women who were drivers. Early on she had a partner, but later did it all by herself. She explained that her daughter didn't have much to do with her now, she was an embarrassment to her, although she had put her through college. She had a real good job now. The pain in her eyes told me that she had spent many hours thinking but never crying. Although later she told me she had learned to cry as she was taking this journey.
In the old days it was so different to drive. For one thing, she explained, when the trucking company gave you your log, they gave you a bunch of pills, uppers. All I could think about was the New Jersey turnpike and the trucks with truckers wired and barrelling down the road. She went on to tell about the trips she took from coast to coast. She would take one thing from Pennsylvania to California, pick up another load and drive back. The short time it took to do that astounded me. The pressure for the drivers was intense. She said she started doing cattle because it paid a lot more. Dirty work getting those varmints into the truck. But she had tuition to pay and would do anything to keep her daughter from a life like hers. Today it is better and safer to be a trucker, with all the electronics, communications, phones....big brother is always watching and your trips are really carefully evaluated. It is much safer for all drivers. Even basic bodily needs are difficult. You just stop by the side of the road to pee or carry a container. Of course you might just let it fly. I really laughed at her description followed with a feigned whisper as she told me. Guns are not allowed in the cab of a truck but a flare gun is emergency equipment and is just as effective. And it is legal. To be safe one has to be a loner. It occurred to me that we never hear about tragedies that happen to truckers. I asked and she simply said, it is a different world. No one would care a lot. You do not see truckers at PTA meetings or the country club, although the money is great. Most people drive to help their families with the most money they can make, then get addicted to the open road.
Showers were few and far between. In the old days the showers were just a big room, like a locker room in high school. You would have to pay the owner to guard the door while you took a five minute wash. Food was not always available, especially during the middle of the night riding through the plains states. She told me how you can cook a roast by securing a pot to your motor. Takes so many miles to do a roast, and you put the potatoes and onions in before it is totally done. With pride, Sally told me that even when you smelled like a wet dog and went in to eat, the men would stumble over themselves offering you a seat. I sure came to the wrong conclusion about that... her take was that she was respected and in a way that "your world" would never understand. We count material things. Truckers do not.
Before she got sick, she bought a new rig. It was shiny black. The back had a double sized bed which can be put away and a shower and kitchen rises in its place. She loved it because when she talked her eyes just lit up. When she told me that the rig would make you hotter and wetter than any guy. Two security guys who were casually listening to this story almost lost it. They headed for the back hall.
She said she had paid dearly for the life she had chosen. She had lost two husbands. Her family had become strangers. There was no time to really develop friends. She came home last year and bought a home near her relatives for support while she died. Well, that was a story, she said. Their backs were turned. They pretty much were happy to take the money she had sent them from time to time, but now, well support wasn't there. Whatever the reasons, she had made adjustments. There was a young girl next door who had befriended her. Even more so since the girls abusive boy friend got Sally's treatment. He was being his abusive self and Sally just took things into her own hands. A good grab and twist of the balls with a push against the wall. She loved seeing the color recede from his face. He has not been seen since. She sometimes forget who the girl is, in her pain and medication fog, she said, but she has put her picture in her Bible. She has two friends God and the girl next door. When she opens the Bible to read, her friend is there smiling at her, just like God. She talked of God like he was a really good friend. She didn't preach.
She lived life her way. She begins chemotherapy again soon. This time it will be easier as they have given her pain medicine. She knows she is going to beat this and with the help of our Clinic she will succeed. The hug she gave me will last for weeks. I hope she feels the same. I hope I see her again, but my clinical mind says I won't see her much.
Now you know why I volunteer.
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