When we think of those who have been blessings in our life, there are some who served, unknowingly, as heroes.
My very first paid job was with the American National Red Cross. I was young and impressionable. It was my first time away from home and the farm that raised me. I later learned that more than 50 people of all ages had applied for the job.
Years down the road I would inquire how in the world I beat that many contenders for such a great job. “Because in every single thing you said in your interview, it was clear you knew how to work with compassion, and without expecting credit and high pay,” my boss later told me. I hadn’t even asked how much it would pay. I just knew I wanted that job and would have gone without pay if necessary.
I grew up working hard, simply because there were jobs needing to be done. There was no payment for the 4:30 a.m. wake-up call, no praise for it, either, and no bonus for good grades because those were expected. I had been cut from the right cloth for my first real, paid position.
My sister recently gifted me the book “The Women” by Kristin Hannah. It is a novel that pays tribute to the women who served in Vietnam. In those pages, I see the woman who I worked most closely with in my first job.
Elizabeth Taylor — “yes, I am the real Elizabeth Taylor,” she would say in a southern drawl — was a tall, thin, single lady who had served in Vietnam for nearly 10 years, simply unimaginable.
By the time I met her, she was in the horrible early stages of dementia, though she was only 61. A quiet part of my job as an assistant caseworker within a Naval hospital was to keep her busy while keeping an eye on her. I would give her case files to type, and many times it prompted her to share life stories with me.
It was interesting but nearly unbearable to take in the horror of what she shared. Her job had been to comfort the injured while sending wires to family stateside, keeping their loved ones informed of their medical status.
“I prayed for quick decisions to send the injured back to their home, and I prayed for quick endings to terrible suffering,” she said many times. Though she was not a nurse, she often was pressed into triage duty when all hands were needed.
Part of my unspoken job in her post-Vietnam years was to help Elizabeth safely reach retirement age so that she could continue to receive a small income.
I often drove her to and from work at the regional military hospital on Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, and helped her create a grocery list which I purchased many times for her.
In return, I learned about her life of service and hid my tears as I watched her spiral deeper into the haze of dementia. I fixed her hair and her bright red lipstick, making sure she appeared to the servicemen and women in our hospital workplace with dignity.
I will forever wonder if the trauma of 10 years in a combat triage medical unit added to her demise. It would seem we are not equipped to handle the assault of such unending horrors.
She was as amazed by my life stories of growing up working on a dairy farm. “How did you STAND it?” she would ask in true amazement. I just smiled as I thought of that peaceful farm for which I was so homesick.
When I count my blessings, I remain grateful for that first real job and life experience I absorbed while serving alongside “the real” Elizabeth Taylor.
