Dad's acupuncture practice was really a family business. Mom did the accounting and later became the receptionist. My brothers cleaned the clinic, or "office" as we called it. When they left home, I assumed the janitor role and I cleaned just about every weekend throughout High School. I was paid $100 per month to do so. It took me a couple of hours each week to vacuum the waiting room and hallways, mop the exam room floors, clean the bathroom and all of the sinks, and dust. Like most teenagers, my weekends were often packed. Occasionally I'd arrive home from a Saturday school activity in the evening, then drive myself to the office to complete the cleaning by 10 o'clock at night. It taught me to plan ahead. If I was going to be gone an entire weekend I was expected to go over Thursday night before or Monday night after and get it done.
Having kids do the work saved my parents money because adult laborers would have demanded higher wages. Still, we didn't work for free, and we learned at a young age how to save, budget and make purchasing decisions.
One bit of trivia: Vernon, a classmate who made creepy advances towards me in during Mr. Svinth's 7th grade camping trip to Mount Lassen, worked in the Dental Lab that was attached to my Dad's Clinic. I would sometimes see him there on Saturdays. By the end of High School we were good friends!
My Brush with Death
Prior to the janitor job I sometimes worked at my dad's acupuncture clinic cleaning dirty needles so they could be re-used on other patients. This started when I was 11 years old. I got paid about $2 per hour, which was great because babysitting only paid $1 per hour.
I felt very grown up and competent wearing latex gloves and sitting on a real lab stool. I'd pick out the needles one at a time from the basin where they soaked in pink, sweet smelling antiseptic solution. The liquid and the needles felt cold through the gloves. Sometimes the tips of the needles would go through the gloves and prick me.
I would run an alcohol wipe up the needle to remove any blood or human tissue (Sometimes little hunks of human flesh would be attached.). If the wipe caught on the needle it was considered barbed and was to be thrown away. If the needle passed the wipe test I wove it through a strip of cotton gauze. This was hard to do at first, as my young hands were awkward, but eventually I got the hang of it. I could fit about 8 needles on one strip of gauze. These gauze strips were placed in plastic bags and then into a machine called an autoclave, which was supposed to sterilize the needles. I was taught how to start the autoclave myself, which involved the handling of dangerous, yellow-glowing chemicals.I felt very useful at the office, and enjoyed being around my Dad who often
spent long hours there. Mom would drop me off after school some days, and then I would ride home with Dad when he finished seeing patients.
Around 1980 Dad switched to disposable needles, which were new to the market. The single use needles were safer for Dad's patients, but the real reason he switched was because sterilizing needles was a hassle.
Analysis: What the #@%&#*&!!
Today I work for a healthcare system as an analyst and project manager. I receive training annually on Infection Control and Standard Precautions. Knowing what I do, there is NO WAY I would let a child handle dirty needles. Ever. Oh my gosh, that was risky!! Killer viruses lurk on the tips of dirty needles. In fact, as I am writing, I keep asking myself, "Are you kidding me?! You played with dirty needles as a child?" That is up there with just about anybody's worst childhood crap work story. The Lord must have been protecting me.
If someone working in a healthcare environment in 2017 gets a needle stick, they are required to report it immediately. There's a lot of paperwork involved and they have to undergo all these tests and take medications and whatnot. Needle sticks are a Big Deal!
I am sooo blessed to have survived the experience without contracting HIV, Hepatitis C or Hepatitis B. We lived in the San Francisco Bay Area of all places, where the AIDS epidemic first broke out during the same time period. Who knows what viruses I might be carrying around due to my pre-adolescent brush with clinical stupidity!
Looking back on the experience of cleaning needles , I have to ask myself, "What was Dad thinking?!!" Jeepers. Fetch. I'm laughing hysterically now, 'cause how else I gonna process this? Please laugh with me. In honor of the good old days of the 1980's.
My dad had a wonderful sense of humor and used to laugh, sometimes until tears ran down his cheeks, when telling stories of his own childhood working an Idaho potato farm. So, I publish this with deep affection for my father, who embraced the task of teaching his children life lessons, who loved his work as an auricular acupuncturist, and who touched thousands of people with his optimistic outlook on life. The more I read this, the more I am laughing, and I think Dad is laughing with me.
I don't believe for a minute Dad would have knowingly put his daughter at risk for contracting a killer blood borne pathogen. But how could he have not known? The answer is simple. Most clinicians didn't know the dangers of needle sticks. Or at least they didn't know how easy it was to get a needle stick.
Prior to taking up acupuncture, Dad had been a surgeon for years, so he knew about and had practiced infection control techniques such as hand-washing and sterile fields. However, the Center for Disease Control (CDC) didn't issue guidelines for preventing healthcare-acquired HIV and Hepatitis infections until around 1985. Needle sticks and other sharps injuries were common in healthcare professions owing to practices such as re-capping dirty needles, mishandling of surgical instruments and other stupidity.
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| cdc.gov/sharpssafety |
When Writing Gets Away From You
I had intended to entitle this post "When Work is Your Passion." I was planning on describing how my Dad was driven in his work. Whether it was his medical/ acupuncture practice or gardening, work for Dad was a labor of love. But then I started on the dirty needle thing, and felt compelled to get the entire story out. It does illustrate how much times have changed.
Writing can be both exhausting and therapeutic. The truth seems to push its way to the surface, where it sets us free.
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