Before I was a post-doc: the receptionist job

I’m starting to think that I suck lately – have been telling lots of crappy stories about me and feeling badly about myself. So let’s try a happy post, shall we?

I worked at a department store for 2 years near the end of high school. Mom loved working retail when she was young, as did Grandma. So I was following a proud tradition. Except I hated it – didn’t enjoy the people, felt the job of turning hangers the right direction and folding sweaters made time absolutely crawl. I had no use for my bosses, didn’t like going in early to take my turn at cleaning the bathrooms, wasn’t particular interested in the “fashion” contained in the rural stores. So I quit at age 18, the summer before I started undergrad.

Mom had told me countless times to “find something I liked about it.” Her "focus on the positive" approach had enabled me to endure 2 years, but that was all I could take.

“You won’t find anything better.” She told me on our drive home from the store after I quit. “There are problems with any job, and when you look for the bad stuff, you’ll always be unhappy.”

Eager to prove her wrong, and always irritated with criticism, I entered the house and headed straight for the classifieds. I found the perfect ad - small, subtle and with a thin border around it for emphasis. I answered it, and got an interview.

I entered a gracious building with antique furniture and cut glass doors enclosing a reception area. I talked with some lovely older ladies, and was awarded the position. I arrived for my first day of work, and took my seat at the reception desk for the evening shift.

I was to answer questions for our elderly residents, direct incoming phone calls to the appropriate recipient, make copies, put together retirement community brochures, take rent checks, sort mail – all sorts of fun things.

I missed 2 days of work over 2 years – I adored that job. The mindless tasks – copying, organizing, addressing envelopes – allowed my mind time to drift gently to daydreams. How someone’s grandson would come to visit – tall, dark and sexy – and realize that I had always been kind and helpful to his dear Nana. He'd come in to talk with me on his many visits, and we'd start to date. Small waves as he'd pass by my desk would ease into a whirlwind romance that would require all of my attention, allowing me to leave work and school behind. We’d fall deeply in love, and I could see my old co-workers when we returned to the retirement community, hand in hand, to visit dear Nana.

Though I never found a cute grandson, I did have time to do homework and reading between small tasks. In addition, they thought I was brilliant – fixing the computer, unjamming the copier, anticipating the need for extra brochures, always being sympathetic yet effective when dealing with phone calls – quite impressed my supervisors.

Yet my favorite interactions by far were with the residents. I’d close my books and put away notes and binders as dinner came to a close. People would shuffle from the doors directly across from my office. They’d enter to complain or rave about the food – Heaven help us all if we ran out of entrees on lobster or prime rib nights. Sometimes someone would lose something and I’d quickly dispatch maintenance to look around for it, page the head housekeeper to check the lost and found, and ask laundry to be careful with the linens from that apartment in case the missing item was tucked within sheets or tablecloths. I was seriously good at that job – handling most problems, knowing who to see about others, checking back to make sure everyone was happy with the resolution.

I also knew names – Sofia had trouble with her checkbook and we would work to balance it on Saturday mornings. Pauline would forget that her children called after church on Sunday, so they grew accustomed to having me scamper out of the office down to the game room to find her when they’d call me, looking for her. Julia had doctor appointments, and I’d leave post-its on the desk so that whoever was working could call to reminder her that the driver was ready to go. Paul would come in to talk about the war – unhappy with most events, but almost giddy when his son would come to take him to visit for a week. He’d return with countless stories of grandchildren, his old friends, the improvements his son had made on the house. I’d cry sometimes after talking to Paul, wishing I could find a way to bring him happiness like that every day.

I think what strikes me as I look back over those memories is that I loved being there – feeling important, helping people, providing someone to talk to for people who were a little lonely and eager to share their stories. The residents, though sometimes irritable and cranky, were mostly loving and warm, age having softened them so that they were mostly kind, stopping in to compliment my hair or a new dress. Though they didn’t need me every day, I always knew there was the possibility that I’d be necessary to someone – Bea could run out of her heart medication and need me to arrange for a special delivery; Elsa might get pictures from her nieces in the mail and want to show me; Margaret could forget that the shopping trip left at 10:30 on Saturday, and I’d have to call to remind her since she needed microwave popcorn.

I’m not always eager to go to work these days. I don’t feel overly important, though I’m much more educated than I was then. I sometimes feel like the ability to care – to really be fully engrossed in my job – is receding. I don’t want it to hurt so badly when a manuscript gets rejected. Or be so disappointed when a study doesn’t go well, or takes forever to design and get approved. So I ease back, loving my job and the people I work with, but not feeling like I’m making any sort of difference. There’s nobody to smile and look appreciative when I listen to their stories. No warm feeling that I made a difference – personal and direct – to someone who, for a moment, needed me.

Do I need more contact with patients? Am I just getting older? Should I have stayed a receptionist rather than leaving for a bench chemistry internship that would further my career? Am I headed in the wrong direction when I found something that was fulfilling already? What I’m certain of is that I have a great deal of respect for people who care for the older members of our society. Those who are kind, caring, and who become deeply involved in the lives of some incredible people with a wealth of knowledge and experience.

Oh, and if you work retail, you’re a stronger person than I. Being civil to people who are rude, straightening, competing for commission, working crappy hours on your feet, sometimes in heels. Cheers to you.

And cheers to us – whatever your job may be, and whatever I end up doing after I finish this post-doc in a couple years, may we be fulfilled, productive but with enough time to daydream, challenged to find time to make someone happy, and motivated to be present – both physically and mentally – because we find our life’s work to be somehow profound.