My Mother, the Medical Records & Me

They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree; but when it comes to me and my mother, nothing could be farther from the truth.

I’ll be honest and say that I have never had a job that I truly liked. I don’t like getting up early. I don’t like working 5 days a week. I don’t like people telling what to do and when to do it. When I get home at the end of the workday, I like to pretend that my place of employment doesn’t exist.

On the opposite end of the spectrum is my mother. Now here is a woman who thrives on authority. At home, she defers to my father; at work, she treated management with a deference reserved for minor deities. In all her working years, my mother was never sidelined by illness, weather or family obligations. When she couldn’t find a baby sitter, she preferred to leave the four of us alone with a full refrigerator and admonitions not to open the door to strangers, than to miss a day of work. Rain or shine, snow or sleet, my mother was up at 6 a.m. and out of the door by 7:30.

My mother held several jobs during my childhood – sometimes, simultaneously. When I was about 7, she was the cleaning lady/bathroom attendant at a posh movie theatre in Manhattan. I have never seen anyone take so much pride in scrubbing human excrement off toilets. My mother’s bathrooms were spotless. The regulars came to know which days my mother worked and would only go to the movies on those days. My mother often received $50 bills in her tip jar. She was the best paid bathroom attendant on the East side.

As we were growing older, my mom decided that she wanted a more “respectable” job and went back to school. She obtained a certificate and became a nurse’s aide.

Although my mother liked the patients, for once, she clashed with her supervisors. They wanted her to spend 10 minutes or less getting the patients cleaned and dressed in the mornings. My mother dawdled – cleaning that last bit of crust from Mr. Smith’s eye or putting lotion on Ms. Jones’ ashy arms. Ultimately, she decided (with a heavy heart) to leave nursing behind and go back to school.

When my mother finished secretarial college almost 20 years ago, she was hired at a local hospital in the Medical Records department. She regaled us (fine, she bored us) with the details of endless days spent creating, sorting, filing and storing medical records. She dazzled her superiors with her knack for organization. She found records that had been declared missing years before. Soon, she had a line of doctors asking for her by name. She was the go-to person when representatives from the Health and Hospital Corporation showed up to audit files. My sisters and I discreetly rolled our eyes as the stories went on and on. She received a plaque for being employee of the year – we stifled yawns.

We were baffled that with 4 biological children, 1 adopted child and 7 grandchildren, my mother could lay so much stock in medical records. For crying out loud, how much difference could a person make locating and filing medical records?

In 2005, my mother retired from her beloved job at the hospital. She was so depressed, she took to her bed for months. She couldn’t mention medical records without getting teary-eyed. We continued to roll our eyes while we made her bowl after bowl of chicken soup.

About a year ago, I got into a fender bender and took my car to a shop in the neighborhood where my mother used to work. When I was in the waiting room, I met a lady who worked at the Department of Health and we got to talking. I soon found out that her job was to audit medical records.

As I was leaving, she told me that I reminded her of a wonderful woman she used to work with at a local hospital. She said that this woman was the best clerk she had ever had the good fortune to meet during her audits. This woman located records that no one else could; she responded to requests promptly and courteously; and the medical records she created were so well organized, that the information practically leapt out at you. But, alas, she had gone to the hospital a few months ago and was told that her friend had retired. Her presence was sorely missed, she said.

As she spoke, my jaw dropped.

“By any chance,” I asked when I could speak again, “did this woman work at the hospital down the street?”

“Why, yes!” She exclaimed, “however did you know?”

“And was her name Balby?” I asked and held my breath.

“Yes! Yes! Do you know her?” She asked.

“Yes, I do.” I said, smiling proudly. “The woman of whom you speak is my mother.”