The End of Innocence

The End of Innocence

After graduation, I landed my first job at a large clinic. I worked at a station with four doctors. All of them were the Dr. Welby type, compassionate and caring. My fellow employees made me feel like a close friend or sister. I adored my job and my patients.

 In the late ’60s, the women’s liberation movement and burning the bra at protests made headlines.  At our clinic, you could get fired for going braless, and a couple of women did. An Irish doctor with a hot temper was rumored to have kicked and punched an assistant. Doctors considered themselves gods in this era, and we didn’t question their judgment. Yes, we have “Come a long way, baby.”

After a week of employment, I noticed that I was being pulled aside by people in various departments and warned about the clinic administrator. In passing, the medical records supervisor mentioned, “Don’t go down the aisle in the medical chart room if he’s in the aisle.” My station coworkers warned me not to be alone with him in the lunch room.

 The man was a giant—6” 4”, 240 pounds. He resembled Frankenstein with a lantern jaw, coarse features, and thick Coke bottle glasses. He lumbered rather than walked when he patrolled the halls, eyes undressing every female he passed.

As time passed, I forgot the dire warnings. My habit was to come into the office 20 minutes early, prepare for the day, and then go to the break room for a diet Tab before clocking in.

One morning, as I headed downstairs, the dreaded administrator appeared out of thin air. My heart flip-flopped against my ribcage, all alone in a dark, deserted hall. I glanced around, but there was no escape, like a Stephen King horror movie. All the warnings jangled like a thousand Jays in my head. My stomach clenched. Just keep walking, be confident, you're okay, I whispered to myself.  As I passed, hungry fingers reached out for my chest. Adrenalin pumped, and I swear I levitated 2 feet horizontally, slamming into the drinking fountain. Stabbing pain radiated down my hip. I sprinted down the hall, took the stairs two at a time, and collapsed in the employee lounge, scared and trembling.

When I told my friends about the incident, they shared worse stories. Shaken to the core, I considered quitting my job.  In those days, there were no human services or sexual harassment options. It was basically “shut up and gut up.” The doctor I worked for was one of the founding fathers of the clinic and a wonderful boss. Still terrified, I confided in him. He confronted the Administrator and assured me I would have no further problems. I was safe because I had an influential male mentor.

The reality was that nothing happened, aside from a bruised hip. I’d survived unscathed. However, 45 years later, I can still recall the dark hall and the hulking man with chilling clarity, a memory that haunts my nightmares.