Burnt Beyond Recognition

 

 THE CLINIC


As mentioned prior, being a lovable maniac means working the silliest of jobs, and after graduating from University for Environmental Geography, I realised I would have to take one of these jobs. The reality that a degree of this and many similar kinds will not grant you an immediate job in your field is a harsh one.

I graduated with high marks and high hopes. I had to this point worked fast food, retail, and a series of outdoor environmental type jobs. I was working at a clothing store for Tall Women (being the shortest employee at 5'8) that I had been with for almost a decade. I assumed that I would be able to find something, but nothing was out there.

As the months past after I graduated, I knew I needed something that at least paid more that minimum wage if I was to survive in this new painful world of being an adult on my own.

My cousin worked as a nurse at a methadone clinic, and called me one day to tell me they were hiring support staff in Niagara Falls, and I should consider applying.

The pay was decent (at the time) and the job seemed simple. It was essentially a job as a receptionist with one added detail, to supervise urine samples left for testing.

I felt as though I would be fine with that portion, and applied right away. I was successful, and being the responsible and typical 21 year old decided to go out and get wasted to celebrate.

The problem of course, was getting my friends together to celebrate, and we ended up going out the night before my first day. It was only a three hour shift and I didn't think I would drink so much, I was wrong.

I showed up hung over for my first day working in addictions.

My first day was fairly easy, it was a Saturday and most patients were in to pick up their daily methadone drink and that's all.

There was no doctor, no one making appointments, and only a few people that had to leave a sample. The bathroom was next to my desk, and there was a camera over the toilet. That meant for men I watched them on a screen under my desk (to make sure it was their urine) and for women I went right on in with them.

I can't imagine how awkward it felt for them, having to take a piss in front of a complete stranger, but I know it was awkward as fuck the first few times I watched.

This isn't a story about the silly things I saw in the bathroom, at least not yet. This is the story of a client I will call Linda who came to the clinic. Linda was not someone who was considered "clean", as she still had illicit drugs show up in her urine samples on a weekly basis.

Linda was a short stubby woman with long mousy brown and usually greasy hair. She had about five teeth and never wore a bra. Linda spoke with a lisp and those white pasties that form on the side of ones mouth, mumbled, and complained about everyone, everything, everyday.

Because she was not "clean", it meant she had to come to the clinic every day to get her drink. She made sure to come in and see me each morning, to extract as much time out of me as she possibly could.

I loved her very much, she was a staple in my life for two years, and she meant well. She wasn't particularly mean, and like most people in her position, she didn't ask for the life she had, nor did she deserve it.

That being said, when you work in any area of social work where you interact with "needy" people, you tend to find humour where you can, as dark as it may seem. It was an emotionally difficult job, it was very busy and required a lot of multi tasking, and to top it off the patients had a lot of behaviours.

Linda had many stories to tell, and I have been given the gift of patience, so I sat through them all. The first interesting bit of information she told me, took place in the bathroom.

It took her about ten minutes to pee most times, and I honestly think she held it in so that she could chat my ear off. Linda was sitting on the toilet, and she looked at me with a serious face.

"There's something I don't tell many people" she said, "but I was in a terrible fire when I was younger."

"I'm sorry to hear that," I replied trying to be supportive and listen.

"It was so bad," she continued, "I was burnt beyond recognition."

She looked up at me waiting for my reaction, and trying to keep a straight face I simply nodded. It was pretty clear she had never been in a fire, especially one that would have rendered her unrecognisable.

"The only way they knew it was me" she added, "was from my dental records."

With that I told her I heard the phone, and left the bathroom to compose myself. Apparently, this was story she told frequently, and each and every time I heard it, I simply provided sympathy and tried desperately not to laugh.

Linda lived with many animals in a tiny apartment near the clinic, or at least she said she did. One afternoon she fell in a hole outside of her building, and broke both her legs. Poor Linda came through the doors one morning in a wheelchair, and told me the horrid story of how she fell.

A week passed, and each day she would tell me how painful it is to break both your legs. I eventually told her she needed to leave a sample, and that I would assist her in doing so due to her situation.

I tried to think of how to lift her, having no experience in that area at the time, but figured I would talk my way through it and get her on to the toilet. 

Linda said it was no problem, and wheeled up to the desk to check in. I prepared her sample bottle, and got up from my chair. At the same moment, Linda got up from hers.

She then walked around my desk and in to the bathroom. I looked over at my fellow worker, and her eyes began to well up with silly tears. Oh fuck, oh fuck is all I could think as I followed Linda in to the bathroom.

She sat on the toilet, and as I walked in looked at me and said, "I am in so much pain, you have no idea what it feels like to break both your legs" as she tapped her shins.

It took everything in me not to say "neither do you", and I simply held it in until she left. She did something similar with an apparent dislocated shoulder once as well, while telling me how she can't move it a certain way, while moving it that way to show me.

Linda had so many stories I could write a fantasy novel, but I always gave her time and listened. She deserved my attention. When I got accepted into a college program for Natural Resources Law Enforcement, I had to break the news to Linda that I would be moving and I would be quitting the clinic.

Linda had talked about Lindsay Ontario a lot, and this was where I was moving too, so part of her was excited for me. For my last few months of employment, everyday Linda came in; it was all she would talk about.

Did you know Lindsay has this, one time in Lindsay I did that, it just went on and on. She talked about the main street, and kept telling me to visit the drive thru dairy in town. I just smiled and thought, sure, I'll visit these places that don't exist and report back to you.

The last gem she laid on me, was to confide in me that she had indeed had two maternal mothers, and no father. The woman was a scientific wonder, and I miss her.

I left the clinic with a new perspective on life and people, I grew a little and learnt a lot. Closing that chapter in my life was difficult, but I wanted to follow a path to Environmental work, and this was my chance.

A few months later I found myself wandering through the streets of Lindsay, thinking about Linda and all her craziness. I turned down a side street without really noticing much of my surroundings as I was listening to music and deep in thought. I left my thoughts finally, and looked up to see where I was, and there it was.

A fucking drive thru dairy. In Lindsay Ontario. It existed, it was real, and made me wonder of all the tales Linda told me, how many of them were actually true?