The Graveyard Shift
Every so often the local paper runs out of fresh ideas for “human interest” stories and assigns a cub reporter to write on some stale topic such as weight-lifting grandmas, or the ineffable joy received from pursuing a hobby so bizarre that only a smattering of aficianados, some of them obviously non compos mentis, actually partake in it.
I usually ignore such pablum, but today’s little refreshment was a story about folks who work the last shift of the day - the graveyard shift. Although the article was meant to be amusing, filled with cliches about police officers and bodega clerks peering into the inky, scary blackness night after night in order to earn their paycheck, the reporter could not disguise a certain amount of smug elitism in pondering why anyone compos mentis would stay up all night instead of sliding in between the flannel sheets with a teddy bear under one arm.
Yes, why would anyone choose to flip their normal day-night schedule upside down? Do you think it could have anything to do with this strange obsession some individuals have with earning a paycheck? Could it be that they have been “asked” by the boss to doff the pajamas, don the uniform and disavow doss for a nobler cause?
Reading the article brought back memories of my first experience working the night shift. After all, health care workers from janitors on up to the chiefs of cardiothoracic surgery have toiled away enough midnight hours that if laid end to end could span the Neolithic Period. After my sophomore year in college, during a grueling search for a summer job that would be commensurate with my skills and elegant manner, I lucked out and was hired by a large hospital as an orderly. What a fortunate break this was, since I was a pre-med student yearning to get a taste of what life in the chaos and glory of medicine would be. The only problem was that the position was for the 11-to-7 shift, which meant I would be sleeping away the prime fun-time hours of the summer. I didn’t hesitate though - I gladly took the job. Before one could say “geeky ice-cream vendor” I was patrolling the halls of a post-surgical ward in my white outfit, complete with white belt and shoes. I was the night orderly, there to help little old ladies hit the commode with at least 50 percent accuracy, there to take the complaints of the noisy and take the pulse of the quiet (just in case someone had decided to embark for the happy hunting ground).
No offense, but we were a strange crew, those of us who loved the hours when Dracula could be found sipping a carotid milkshake. I of course had no choice on which shift I could work, and tried to bribe the daytime orderly for a switch, but he was a professional [translation: this was his real job - cf. Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs: “Esteem” -Ed.], and wasn’t about to sacrifice years of conniving to get assigned daylight hours for a few wampum. The nurses, who actually chose to work that shift, seemed to enjoy padding down the dark halls like a drowsy cat, waking patients up in order to give them their sleeping pill. I didn’t share their enthusiasm and in-between taking vital signs and answering call lights I learned to sleep propped up against a metal desk. It wasn’t too hard once I figured out how to keep my head from snapping forward like a crash-test dummy hitting the wall.
Here I was - a wannabe doctor - in a real hospital, with real patients snoring in their Procrustean-style beds. I roamed the place with a cup of fossilized coffee, just waiting for the chance to jump and provide real service with a smile to all those huddled masses who yearned to be free from constipation and other weighty matters - yes, it was the orderly who was charged with the responsibility of eliminating all eliminations egressing from the patients. Lucky me - within the week I knew what the term “Code Brown” meant, si usted comprende.
Actually, the job was so full of routine and quiet times it quickly became boring. After a week I had yet to see even an intern make an appearance on the floor, not even to flirt with a nurse. Of course, the nurses I worked with were not exactly coquettes sending out pheromones of enticement. I found myself sinking into listlessness, and began to have second thoughts about turning down that career position Uncle Pete had dangled in front of me. Just when the floor became as quiet as a…well, you know, I met a patient my age who shocked the hell out of me and like a living nightmare, became the biggest challenge I would face that summer. What awaited me behind the closed door of room 214 was the first trial I would face in my quest to become a real doctor.
My new patient - my doppelganger - was admitted with a phencyclidine overdose.
Next: The Graveyard Shift: Part 2 - Angel Dust and Sharp Objects
