Summer 2013
Soon after graduating from Regis University, I had visions of a large office space, one that I was going to occupy at least five days per week. There’d be a wide oak wooden desk and a plush black chair for me to sit in, and a window tucked into a beige wall offering a view of Colorado’s snow-capped mountains.
I was going to do better than my beloved father, a master’s graduate from the exact same college twenty-eight years previous. Dad ended up working at the airport, eventually rising to the level of floor coordinator with Continental Airlines, a fate he certainly hadn’t envisioned for himself. We were both insistent that I was going to experience a much better set of professional circumstances, the two of us enjoying the spoils.
After interviewing for seven stressful months, I secured a position at a hospital facility, an institution focusing care on patients with pulmonary disorders, many of them considered esoteric. But instead of working in a corner office, I was forced to settle for an entry level position with the tuberculosis laboratory. And Dad? He became sick with multiple myeloma, a pernicious case of lymphatic cancer that quickly became terminal.
Each and every day I spent in the laboratory I was disbelieving, as I’d spent two years of my life and tens of thousands of dollars — most of it coming in the form of high interest loans — training to be a healthcare manager. And what did I have to show for it? A fifteen dollar per hour return on my ginormous investment? I’d placed a bet on myself and lost, unequivocally in my mind. New cracks split portions of my heart every time I stepped inside the laboratory.
The worst part of my time spent in the laboratory in 2013? Handling patient samples. Diseases can fester and grown in every part of the human body, discoloring, withering, and ruining. I’d handled all kinds of respiratory samples; thick and yellow phlegm, bloodied lavages extracted from lungs, and corrupted washings. There were also blood samples, ambient and frozen fecal samples, and urine samples; with some emitting orders that caused me to retch in the bathroom. Tissue samples were extracted from all parts of the body. I once processed a sample that had been extracted from the derriere of a sick patient, an oval shaped mass with indentations rolling about in a sterile container. As I stared at the butt chunk in horror, tingles ran up along the sides of my spine.
And I wasn’t very adept at performing my job requirements. My dad was in and out of hospitals as I tried to learn the ropes at the new job, thoughts of him suffering bleeding into my every thought, causing new information to leak out of my brain. And there was also the substandard training, a sloppy amalgamation of concepts, processes, and procedures, all of which seemed to be created on a whim.
Six months into my tenure is when my co-workers had run out of patience. I was called into the office, where I sat facing my supervisor, a squat, raven haired and subtly officious woman. She clicked her pen as she made ready to speak, a sign of her irritation. I braced myself for being fired.
“How do you think things are going?” she asked.
I sank into my chair, my heart threatening to explode from my chest. Of all of the questions in the world to ask, she had to ask that one. How do you think things are going?! It was a precursor to a hasty defenestration of my career. Images of my last minutes at the charter school flooded into my consciousness.
“Not as good as I’d like,” I said, sighing. I figured it was best to just accede to my employer’s perception of the objective truth. “I am having a few issues here.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard a few things.”
My head fell forward until the base of my chin touched my chest. “Oh.”
“It’s a mixed bag. Your co-workers tell me that you are a very hard worker. One said that you’re the hardest worker she has ever seen. So, you are definitely putting in the effort.”
So I’m just dumb then? I raised my head to speak. “I know I have. I want to do well here.”
“Do you think it might be the training?”
“I think my trainers have done the best that they could.”
The supervisor clicked her pen again and said, “I think a transfer is in order. There is spot open in the client services department. The manager there seems to think highly of you and has been asking for you.”
A move to client services was perceived as a demotion back then. But what choice did I have.
“Sure. I’ll move over there.
***
Seven years flew by, bringing about weight gain, back pain, a thinning hairline, and graying arm and leg hairs. I’ve also grown up professionally, becoming the lead client services representative for all of the eight laboratories operating within the hospital.
February, 2021
Covid-19 is still raging, precipitating a tidal wave of swab samples soaked in pink fluid washing over our little laboratory. The wave hits at the most inopportune time, as we’d just let go of a dozen Covid specific staff. Business development has estimated an influx of five to six thousand samples each and every day, and the laboratory is drowning beneath the weight of expectations, as we’d promised our clients results within a twenty-four hour time frame.
Our clients hold us to our assurance of a quick turnaround time. Every day I receive calls from irate customers disillusioned by broken promises. Every call from a Covid client is urgent, requiring that I stop doing everything in service to their whims. I do my best to serve the harried clients, advocating for them with frantic emails to laboratory managers and supervisors. But the turnaround times kept creeping upwards. Even with laboratory processors and technologists working overtime, we are unable to hold the line against the onslaught.
Desperate to alleviate the pressure being placed our our staff, the assistant laboratory director concocts an email containing a plea for willing volunteers. Employees answered the call, most of them salaried leaders and mangers. I am a leader too, although I earn my money on an hourly basis. I am recently vaccinated too, so I am not risking too much by going down to the Covid laboratory for a few hours every other day or so. Still, I was hesitant for assorted reasons. I did not want to risk infecting my mom with a breakthrough case.
There weren’t enough volunteers initially, prompting some arm twisting of hesitant employees from the Assistant Laboratory Director. She called me at my extension to issue a direct appeal, but I remained skeptical.
“I’m afraid of exposing myself to Covid-19,” I said.
Because my mother is living in the same house I am. She is nearly sixty-eight years old, a senior citizen struggling with an assortment of medical ailments. She hardly ventures outside anymore because of Covid-19. When necessity forces her to reluctantly leave the house for the grocery store, hospital, or mailbox, she makes sure that she is protected, donning two masks across her face and a pair of latex gloves covering her hands. She hadn’t been vaccinated yet. If she were to somehow catch the virus because of I was exposed, I would not be able to forgive myself.
“I understand your concerns,” said Sarah, the assistant laboratory director. “Of course, we cannot guarantee that you won’t become infected. But I would remind you that there are more than a dozen non-laboratory employees working in the Covid laboratory. Precautions have been taken, so there is a very miniscule chance of you contracting the virus.”
“I still don’t know,” I said through a sigh. I hated saying no to the boss, especially at a such a critical juncture in the operation of the organization. We were still recovering from having to furlough a significant percentage of our workforce due to drastically reduced revenue. After the furloughed workers returned, Covid-19 testing emerged as a significant contributor to my employer’s bottom line. But I had to stand my ground. “I’m just not very comfortable working down there right now.”
“That’s okay if you have concerns Eze. I respect you and I can definitely respect your point of view.”
“Yes, thank you. I am content to answer calls right now.”
September 2021
The Covid-19 laboratory is having trouble holding onto full-time staff members, as many have decided to join the great resignation movement of 2021. Management cannot hire new people at the pace of the resignations, leaving the laboratory perpetually short of essential sample processors. The remaining Covid laboratory staff are feeling overworked and underpaid, creating a dour environment for the people who work inside. Clients continue to overwhelm our laboratory with hundreds of thousands of Covid swab samples.
When the threat of impending disaster becoming increasingly tangible, laboratory managers arrive at a significant decision. In another letter sent to all hospital employees, Sarah, the assistant laboratory director, went into detail about a new policy that would give employees overtime pay if we decide to work in the Covid laboratory.
I’d just bought a new car late June of 2021, a Portofino gray 2022 all-wheel drive Hyundai Tucson. It cost me more than thirty-thousand dollars to purchase, split into seventy-two payments of more than three-hundred dollars over the course of six years. I’d been living within a budget before purchasing the vehicle, which I refer to as The Eze-mobile. And at my current salary as a lead laboratory client services support, a monthly car payment would cut into the money I’d regularly apportioned for recreational activities — eating at restaurants, buying books, and purchasing access to more streaming services. If I was able to catch some evening shifts in the laboratory, I could blunt the impact of the burdensome car payment. If I work six hours in the laboratory every week moving forward, I’d earn more than enough money to offset the additional cost of the Tucson.
The Covid laboratory is located on the second floor of my building, where processing and analysis of samples is being completed in two rooms situated next to the stairwell. There is a coatrack located next to the bathroom carrying gold metal hangers and white laboratory coats. I slip on one of the extra-large laboratory coats, replace my business casual shoes for tennis shoes, and pull my skull cap over the top of my head. I adjust my spectacles, refit my mask, and engage in some deep breathing exercises, preparing myself for war.
My heart pounds as the door slams behind me, the memories of my time in the tuberculosis laboratory flashing like strobe lights. I grab a pair of purple extra-large latex gloves, slipping them over my hands before taking a few moments to observe my surroundings.
Specimen processors are strategically positioned throughout the laboratory space, their heads buried in the work. I recognize the laboratory supervisor, Cece, a slightly rotund Kenyan woman who’d worked in the Tuberculosis laboratory with me in 2013, sitting at a computer station situated to my right.
“Hi Cece,” I said as I approach her desk. “I’m here to lend my services.”
Cece looked up at me and said, “Oh good, Eze! I’m so glad that you are here for the cause.” Her accent was thick.
“So, what do you need me to do? Is there some stuff I need to read before I start working?”
“Nope. You’re going to jump right in. We’re going to start you off on the Montana specimens.”
“The Montana specimens?”
“Yep!” She turned and pointed at a young woman sitting behind one of the processing spaces. “Gabriella will be able to show you what you need to do.”
As I approached Gabriela, she turned and said, “Hello Eze! It’s nice to finally see you in person, even if it is covered by a blue mask!”
Gabriella has worked as a representative in the laboratory’s billing department for years. She and I talk on the phone often, primarily to resolve issues affecting one of our clients. Her voice barely registers above a whisper over the phone, giving the impression that she is too young and docile. But her dulcet voice belies a fierce determination, ambition, and burning intelligence.
“It’s nice to see you too Gabriella. And for the first time!”
“Are you helping me today?”
“Yes, I think I am. Do you need me?”
“Yes, you can help me. You can sit in the chair next to me.”
“Okay.”
Gabriella shows me my one responsibility for the evening, extracting Covid-19 samples from biohazard bags and arranging them in alphabetical order in test tube racks. Although I was thoroughly protected by my (PPE) personal protective equipment, I am potentially handling the embodiments of what has become the interminable scourge. After nearly two years of doing whatever was in my power to avoid coming into contact with Covid-19, the prospect of an enhanced paycheck had brought me the closest I’d come to establishing contact with the disease, with the plastic tubes acting as the final stopgap against spillage.
Cece wasn’t sitting at her station the next day, and neither was Gabriella. Suddenly flummoxed, I sidled over to the area where Gabriella and I were stationed the previous day. There was a large blue container situated to my right, a strip of white tape with the day’s date affixed on top of the lid, waiting to be flipped opened. But I wasn’t going to flip open the lid without guidance because it was only my second day in the laboratory.
And then Lacy, an intensely focused immunology laboratory manager on loan, stepped into my peripheral field vision. Without offering a greeting she pointed directly at the blue container and said, “These samples were received from Wyoming today. Can you pull them out of the box, rack them, order, label, and get them sent over for analysis?”
I involuntary took a step backward, feeling cornered by Lacy. It was a familiar feeling, one that I’d experienced repeatedly when I was a sample processor in the Tuberculosis laboratory. I’d just been asked to perform a task that I was largely unprepared for. Of all of the tasks Lacy requested I do, I could only partially perform one.
“Sure,” I said. “I can start working with those.”
“Thank you.”
I removed the lid from atop the blue container, revealing hundreds of covid-19 samples wrapped in biohazard bags. As I removed the tubes from inside and fitted them in specimen racks, I continually looked toward the laboratory entrance, hoping that soft-spoken Gabriella would step through it. And after Gabriella did cross the threshold, put on her gloves and laboratory coat, and waved hello as she walked toward me, I let out a long exhale. I spent the next few hours with Gabriela, sorting and labeling samples, scanning requisitions into the software interface, and absorbing as much information as I was able. Hopefully, I thought, scanning, sorting, and labeling will be the extent of my responsibilities.
I touched a leaky sample the next evening.
The pink liquid media slid down the length of one of my gloves, causing me to hyperventilate. I reinserted the leaky sample into the biohazard bag and dropped it on top of the counter. Then I hastily removed both of my latex gloves and tossed them into the biohazard bag, denoted by the bright red coloring. I reported the breach to Cece.
“Did it touch your fingers?” asked Cece, her widening eyes registering alarm.
“No. No. It didn’t touch my skin,” I said. “Thank goodness for that.”
“You should wash your hands right away anyway.”
My heart was thrumming inside of my chest. “Yeah I’ll go and do that.”
Cece called my name as the warm water ran down my fingers, dissolving the considerable amount of soap suds and pruning my fingers. I turned to face Cece. “What’s up Cece.”
“Remember to always check the bags for any type of moisture before you open them.”
I’d been out of practice with observing laboratory safety protocols. Still, I’d been warned about the propensity for leaked samples when I started working in the Covid laboratory. Perhaps if I’d been given a document to read before I started handling samples, I would have remembered to adhere to the policy.
We ended up salvaging the leaky sample that evening.
There have been other sample samples in the ensuing nights. As I gain more experience in the Covid laboratory, processing leaky samples has become a routine aspect of working there. Gabriella and I make light of the danger intertwined with processing these samples, chortling while exclaiming “we got another one!”
Laughter has replaced abject fear and trepidation.
Present
I’m writing this essay as I begin my third month assisting with processing samples in the Covid laboratory. My confidence increases each time I complete a shift, as I become more knowledgeable with repetitive practice, and increase the speed at which I prepare those swabs for the technologists. The work can be redundant, intense, exhausting, and dangerous, but at least I can confidently attach a quantifiable number to my responsibilities. And I appreciate earning time and a half too.
Cece is unsure of how long she will need my help in the laboratory, but she has expressed gratitude for my help and hopes that I will continue to assist her department. I think I can do that, continue to help the world fight back against Covid-19. Because I’ve always had the desire to contribute to the betterment of the world. Perhaps working in the Covid laboratory provides me with the best opportunity to achieve this goal.
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