NOTES FROM A DIFFERENT TRENCH - V2/#1
by Linda Olmstead
It’s been nearly five years since I was diagnosed with breast cancer. As I approach that important anniversary (even though it really doesn’t mean one won’t have a recurrence), I look back at all the changes I have undergone.
Tracking backwards from now, I no longer supervise a Comm Center. Last September, I promoted to a Telecommunications Systems Analyst position within my department, and relocated from my beloved Central Coast to the Capitol of the State. Nobody – myself included – ever thought I’d leave “my” Comm Center. I’d been the senior supervisor there since June ’94.
July 2003 to July 2004 was That Year of Cancer. Gradually, I realized that everything prior to that was “BC.” I had been off work for 10 months, returning to half-time status in June ’04, and finally to full time duty in July. Honestly, I was terrified as I started work again; so much can happen in the Public Safety Communications environment in that amount of time! [Even in my department, she said, ruefully.] I had developed “chemo brain” – look it up – and was easily befuddled. Dispatching requires quick mental reflexes and the ability to process information take rapid action and REMEMBER things. Really arcane things.
And yet I’d spent months watching SpongeBob SquarePants and Reno 9-1-1 episodes to have something absolutely silly tickle my funny-bone. Surgery, chemotherapy and radiation treatment are not fun. I needed that laughter.
9-1-1 calls don’t stop just because you aren’t there to answer them. Dispatchers don’t stop needing supervisors to support them in performing their jobs, just because one is absent. Life went on, still needing attention, even when I knew I’d survived something that could have killed me and all I wanted to do was enjoy the fact that I HAD survived it.
My new, really short hair style looked “cute” – everybody said so. I hadn’t lost any weight so I certainly didn’t look gaunt. [chuckle] Yes, I tired easily. I also had nerve damage from the aggressive chemotherapy regimen, but neither of those symptoms was visible to others. But that “chemo brain” thing – that was rough. I didn’t like feeling senile every once in a while. Why did I come out on the floor, again? What had I planned to tell someone? And, ummm, who was it I had planned to talk to?
No more overtime. (Oh, yes, my oncologist had put me on overtime restriction for four months.) I couldn’t have worked it even if there hadn’t been that restriction. I got stupider, quicker.
Then I had a little bit more surgery to even things up slightly, so I wouldn’t have a physical reason to walk in circles as much any more. [grin] Even though the chemo brain effects slowly diminished, they did linger for nearly two years post treatment.
What also manifested itself was a startlingly emergent irritation at Small Stuff. People’s petty problems annoyed me. I had been much more tolerant, BC. Although I had to remain objective, always responding with an even tone and sympathetic ear to employees and the public alike, what I really wanted to do was shake some of those folks and shout in their faces: “Get a grip!. Grow UP! You’re healthy, you have a job, your “boo boo” is so minor I can’t believe you’re complaining about THAT!” I found that I spent more and more time in my office, preferring to work on paperwork tasks than get involved in anyone’s personal crisis. Whether I was reacting to something a supervisor should handle or picking up overflow calls (or staffing a console for a shift), I had to work harder at making Stupid Calls funny to me.
Not all that good for someone in the 9-1-1 biz, ya know?
Plus, when I was sick, I stayed home instead of coming to work “anyway.” And when my body told me it needed to rest, I rested it. My supervisor began to remark about my usage of sick leave every month. Yah, and I’ve had cancer – a rather serious bout of it, no less – you think everything should be normal, now??
(Actually, I responded to his comments with nods and a sincere announcement of “I should be using less as time goes by.” I’d been working on the assumption that *I* thought everything should be normal, too, so why wouldn’t he?)
New technology arrived. We made the transition to Wireless Enhanced 9-1-1. The entire project, which involved new phone console equipment, coordination with allied agencies and constant routing decisions based on cell site locations and jurisdiction-checking, occupied more and more of my interest, attention and time.
It was good. It was exacting work. Decisions about routing solutions didn’t involve “caring” about somebody’s feelings. Each wireless carrier’s cut-over was another, measurable task with discernable effects. I got kudos for my accomplishments. Anybody else in the department who had trouble with the telephone equipment reporting system and all the odd things indicated by the E9-1-1 display was referred to ME for assistance.
So, in January 2007, I asked the department 9-1-1 Coordinator if there were going to be any vacant positions “in her shop.” Why, yes – and you’re applying for it?
I finally made the transition in September, 2007. Between January and September, some departmental reorganization occurred and I’m not working in the 9-1-1 or Comm Center support sections. Surprisingly – to me - it doesn’t matter. I work with the aforementioned folks, to some extent, but my current job provides telecommunications support by arranging for, and maintaining contracts, installation, upgrades and other nifty stuff – for a much larger part of the department’s telephone and radio systems.
There’s far less public contact (just vendors, basically) but I’m still an integral part of the Public Safety Communications environment. Just a little bit further behind the scenes than I’d ever been before. Also, I do the work myself, instead of supervising others at it. With a regular, Monday through Friday, holidays and weekends off, day-time shift.
That has been the hardest adjustment for me. Other than mornings coming far too early for my night owl personality, I’m enjoying this position a great deal.
I’m still happy to be here, in a different sort of “trench,” and proud to serve.