Going to the bathroom at work is probably the most uninterrupted break a hospital worker gets. You can’t be timed or expected to hurry up when Nature calls, and no one (usually) speaks to you while you are doing your business in there, so it’s a welcome break in the day.
Anyone who tells you they never use the handicap stall is lying. It’s the penthouse of the bathroom experience. It’s an apartment-size stall (well, a NY-sized apartment) with its own sink and endless supply of paper products. You don’t have to be THAT close to your neighbor and you even have a little room to swing your legs. Some even have separate little tables to put your things down on or an extra hook for your purse that is seldom broken off the way the other ones are.
Being the only one in a bathroom is a perfect opportunity to take up rent in your own small palatial stall for just a few moments where you can do your doings in peace and in comfort. I’ve come to appreciate my bathroom time and have even planned my morning events around walking into our newly cleaned facility, early enough in the morning that most of the seats are still up, having not been touched by hands other than a gloved one with cleaning products. The blue, sudsy cleaning products freshly line the bowl that has a way of saying ‘you’re the first’. It’s been a blessing. Each morning, I sip the remains of my coffee that went unfinished from my hour-long commute and a subliminal timer goes off in my head that it’s time. I greet the passerby and ‘good morning’ my colleagues as I gingerly pace myself down the hall to my spot. Chances are this may be the only time I will have a chance to ‘go’ for the rest of the day once the rest of the world wakes up, so I really savor it.
I enter my stall, hang my sweater on my favorite hook, pull down a sheet of seat liner, separating the middle rung from the two flaps in just the right way so the whole thing won’t sink in the bowl the moment I place it on… a move I have perfected… and if someone happens to come into the room when I am ready to go, I put on my own faucet to drown out the noise as a polite gesture for us both. I pull down my work pants, rolling them up as I pull them down as to disallow any fabric touching the ground and have a seat. It’s a routine I have come to enjoy. Even if it’s just a quick pee, it’s in my own estate and it’s the only time I tend to get for myself. And up until now, I’d never actually seen a real wheelchair in the bathroom before, so I’d never felt that I was usurping accommodations from someone who actually needed them.
And then it happened.
I came to work, prepared for a mad rush of a day and happy to see my clock allowed for just enough time to have my morning exhale. I took my last sip of coffee and locked my door. Making my way down the hall, I greet patients on their way to the clinic, nodding and smiling at colleagues who were just rushing in from traffic. I open the door that is usually just a bit cocked open and I see my spot. Seat up, freshly cleaned, ready for my morning constitutional. I ponder a moment why they call it that and then I am whisked back to memories of pledging allegiance to the flag and subsequent studies on the Constitution and I anticipate pondering more on the subject matter once taking the throne. I almost start to unbutton my fly when a younger woman in unseasonal Uggs and loud perfume whisks by me, almost knocking me down and flies into MY stall. Mind you, the other two are completely vacant, but she chooses MINE! The nerve! I stand there is small panic for a moment, angry that she would be so callous as to note my direction into thatstall and her able-body pushes me out of the way to take up her own residency inmy apartment. I let out a sigh of disgust, when I hear the same emotion echoed behind me. I peer around and look down to find a patient…IN A WHEELCHAIR. We make eye contact and I feel frozen in space. I am suddenly thankful it wasn’t me in my own little stall, preventing this poor person from using the facilities. I share a knowing eye exchange and we both proceed to make unpleasant faces and exasperated noises at “the nerve” of some people. I stand next to her in solidarity, silently vowing not to “go” until she can. We wait together, rolling our eyes at every sound from the perpetrator pulling up her pants to her decision to wash her hands in the stall instead of in the bathroom lobby, taking up even more precious seconds more from this poor person. The perpetrator even had the audacity to check her makeup and we shutter at the sound of her closing compact. She exits, relieved, newly blushed and cleaned and suddenly horrified as we both stand there, scrunch-faced and disapproving. She gives an apologetic and embarrassed smile as if to say ‘sorry’ and rushes out quickly; not before taking a final glance at her jeans in the mirrors. The woman in the wheelchair and I give a synchronized head shake at each other and go into our respective stalls.
I squeeze myself into the used small space, hovering just above it, doing an acrobatic move to not touch seat-to-seat and I manage to half-scale the wall to finish. I unenthusiastically flush and wash my hands in an unfamiliar sink. The soap dispenser meant for my sink is empty and I use the communal one between the two sinks where just a small puff of foam manages to escape. I go to grab some paper towels and its empty, so I reluctantly use the hand blower for all of two seconds before resigning to wipe my wet hands on my work pants. My new friend leaves her own stall and I hold the door open for her, smiling, saving the day for joining forces with her against all selfish bathroom perpetrators. I walk back to my small office, more likened to an orifice and plop down. “Whew”, I think; “Bullet dodged. Glad that wasn’t me”. What kind of social worker would I be to rob a bathroom break from someone who could only fit in a custom-made stall just for them? I bid adieu to my morning pastime and count down the few things left about this job that actually please me.
Sami Rudnick-Hoover, M.S.W.
Transplant Social Worker
Miami Transplant Institute
Jackson Memorial Hospital
University of Miami Miller School of Medicine
Highland Professional Bldg., #651
Telephone (305) 355-5288
Fax: (305) 355-5132
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