A Job in a Hospital Setting Teaches Me a Whole New Vocabulary

I bid goodbye to writing about Teddy bears and take on cancer research and forensic dentistry.

Early one Sunday morning, instead of sleeping lazily till the spirit moved me to arise from my bed, I headed over to the UCLA Medical Center wearing my best “I’m a public relations professional” outfit. Animal rights extremists had broken into the animal research laboratory, and my boss had called me the night before to ask if I could come in and help him manage the media onslaught we expected the next day.

My job as a writer for the medical center and for the alumni magazines for the graduate Schools of Nursing, Public Health, and Dentistry, had kicked me up several notches from my first job covering the world of hospital gift shops. I would always be grateful to my first boss, Carol, who took a chance on me fresh out of college to fill copy in her brand-new magazine. She had mentored me and challenged me, providing an ideal launching point for a career in magazine journalism. After a year and a half, I craved deeper, more demanding work in healthcare writing. I applied to various jobs, including for a local daily newspaper, and was beyond thrilled to have secured this plum job at one of the most prestigious health sciences centers in the nation.

I could never become a doctor myself, given my total lack of aptitude in science and math. But I could make my own contribution by writing about the world of medicine for the public.

No longer would I have to muffle my answer when anyone asked me what I wrote about. No more punching an ancient time clock and hearing one of the bosses barking profanities for everyone in the office to hear over a cancelled advertising contract. No more wading into the fumy room where Brian, our friendly colossus of a typesetter, miraculously set all but perfect type while squinting at his screen through the haze of smoke that coiled all day long from the ever-present cigarette half-dangling from his lips. No more privacy-compromised visits to the restroom, anticipating eagle-eyed proofreader Jeanne peering under the stall, looking at my shoes and asking, “That you, Judy?”

Now I proudly wore a badge that identified me as WRITER for UCLA’s Health Sciences Communications Department. Some journalists looked down their noses at those in public relations. Our job was to make people, places, products, events, and organizations look good, and to promote their causes and brands. Our job was also to mitigate the fallout from embarrassments or disasters. But I had always had a fascination with medicine. My paternal grandmother, whom I called Cece, became an M.D. in the late 1920s, when only a handful of women in the country were becoming physicians. A medical maverick, Cece also became a homeopath and acupuncturist, and I grew up on those needles and the minuscule, sweet homeopathic tablets. I could never become a doctor myself, given my total lack of aptitude in science and math. But I could make my own contribution by writing about the world of medicine for the public. If my mandate was to make UCLA doctors, nurses, social workers, psychologists, researchers, graduate students, administrators, deans, programs, and donors look good, I was on it.

It happened to be an especially exciting time when I joined the department. I interviewed the foremost researcher who had linked the BRCA gene to the development of breast cancer and wrote about his work. I wrote about a large-scale study on the causes and patterns of homelessness, already a growing problem nationally, conducted by graduate students at the School of Public Health. I wrote about a study showing the link between creativity and bi-polar disease, and helped promote a concert featuring works of such brilliant, bi-polar composers including Handel, Schumann, Berlioz and Mahler. These stories were all PR hits, capturing dozens of media pick-ups, which is what we lived for. When UCLA started its air ambulance program, I got my first (and so far, only) helicopter ride lifting up from the helipad for a quick spin around the neighborhood.

There is always a human face behind every healthcare story

A UCLA surgeon performed the hospital’s first liver transplant, and a UCLA researcher who had been one of the first to identity the AIDS virus catapulted to fame. Though I had no role in promoting those big stories, I was proud to be part of the media relations team that conveyed them to the public. The reporters for print, radio and television outlets grounded their own stories in the information we provided first.

Occasionally I did interviews on a patient floor. Walking by patient rooms and glimpsing the faces of the sick or infirm reminded me of the human faces behind the stories I was privileged to write.

My work atmosphere was always dynamic, though it could sometimes be harried and stressful, such as when celebrities were admitted as patients and reporters tried to sneak on to patient floors to squeeze information from someone. Or, such as when animal rights extremists broke into the animal research lab, destroying work that had a profound impact on human health and well-being. That Sunday morning after the break-in, my job was more as a gatekeeper for my boss than as an active media manager. I was just happy to be close to the action.

Some of the more prominent physicians and health sciences deans could be hungry for publicity. My boss, John, and Judi, the editor I worked with and reported to, had to tactfully manage these publicity expectations. We would often laugh about some of their demands and occasional prima donna acts.

I hardly needed any more exercise in a day than just walking from our office to my assigned interviews across the far-flung regions of the enormous medical center or through the campus to the health sciences schools. Each day, I had the sense of purposeful activity happening all around me in the bustling buildings. Occasionally I did interviews on a patient floor. Walking by patient rooms and glimpsing the faces of the sick or infirm reminded me of the human faces behind the stories I was privileged to write.

A very intense first day on the job

On my first day, I was full of energy and eager to please. Judi asked if I felt ready to go and interview a professor in the School of Dentistry who managed the maxillofacial clinic and surgeries. I had never even heard the word “maxillofacial,” and Judi explained that this work involved reconstructive surgery of the face, the oral cavity, head, neck, and jaw. Patients who benefitted from it might have had cancers of the head or neck, congenital abnormalities, or been in accidents.

“I should warn you, it could be a little intense,” Judi said. “Are you sure you’re ready? I can give you a different assignment.”

“I’m ready!” I chirped naively. Off I marched down the hall, trying to learn my way around the maze of hallways, girded with my notebook, pen, tape recorder, and raw inexperience. The surgeon ushered me into his office and dimmed the lights as he began a slide show of “before” and “after” photos of patients who had gone under the maxillofacial knife.

It probably would have helped to have been an aficionado of Stephen King novels or the movies made from them. But, repulsed even by the very idea of horror movies, these gruesome slides made me go all queasy and weak. I looked down at my notebook, scribbling what he told me, gripping my pen so tightly that my writing became cramped, tiny, and illegible.

The maxillofacial surgeon spoke of cases dispassionately but became animated when showing the “after” photos. “Now, look at this guy here,” he urged me to look at part of a face. “Never saw that truck coming. Lucky to be alive.”

I suppose it was a trial by fire, but I survived it. Several months later, I had no problem doing a story about forensic dentistry and how crime and accident victims could often be identified by their teeth.

Lucky to be alive, I scribbled in microscopic letters. I was going to blow this first assignment big time. And the ink on my ID badge was barely dry! “But look at the jaw reconstruction after only three surgeries,” he boasted in a jaunty tone. I nodded, glad my stomach was empty. I realized that healthcare professionals had to maintain some emotional distance to do their jobs, but I couldn’t imagine ever finding exposure to these sorts of catastrophically damaged human faces to be all in a day’s work. When the slide show was mercifully over, I thanked the doctor for his time, convinced I had not absorbed the most important things he had explained to me in my state of extreme distress.

I must have looked ashen-faced when I opened our office door and nearly fell inside because Judi took one look at me and apologized, “Oh no, I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have given you that assignment right off the bat.” I suppose it was a trial by fire, but I did survive it. Several months later, I had no problem doing a story about forensic dentistry and how crime and accident victims could often be identified by their teeth.

Open communication with my boss made this a great job

Judi was a wonderful editor and mentor, and fun to be around. She was only a few years older than I was but far more experienced. She had a ready smile and laughed easily; she was organized, talented and on top of everything. She prepped me on how to manage interviews when I was starting out, and with her editing critiques, my reporting and writing skills continued to grow.

John was also a great boss. A native of Chicago and with a decided Midwest accent, he was always clear about his expectations, which were always reasonable; provided good advice on my projects when I needed it; offered helpful and supportive feedback on my work; was remarkably even-tempered; and best of all, sat down with me for fifteen minutes once a week just to talk. After asking me about how my work was going, the agenda was wide open, and we might talk about anything from music or restaurants to how we rated the latest flavor of coffee that was brewed each morning in our office. Strong, fresh coffee was as vital to John as paper for the copy machine, or even our department secretary. Nothing good ever came of a morning with bad coffee! It didn’t matter that nothing urgent or earth-shattering ever came up in these meeting. What stayed with me was the brilliance of keeping that line of communication so open and accessible.

I started singing “New York, New York,” in my apartment and pictured myself back in the city as a grad student, a much savvier city dweller than the waif who fell for three-card Monty in Manhattan just a few years ago.

In fact, everyone in our office was collegial, friendly, and professional—so removed from the oddball atmosphere at my previous job! With such an incredible work environment, I suspected that this could be the best job I ever would get, and that I should try to keep it forever. Did I even mention that, as a state-funded operation, the pay and benefits were also primo?

And yet, despite having landed in professional clover, I had my head and heart set on earning a master’s degree in journalism. I discussed it with Judi, who had her master’s in journalism and encouraged me to go for it also. The training to report and write on rapid-fire deadlines would always serve me well, Judi said. And perhaps I could return to UCLA after the program, if things worked out. And so, while loving my job and wondering if I might be throwing away good money on a degree I really didn’t necessarily need for career advancement, I applied to the best programs in the country: Columbia and Northwestern.

I was a shoo-in for Columbia, at least in my own estimation. I took an editing and writing test that they administered to all applicants and hoped I did well. I started singing “New York, New York,” in my apartment and pictured myself back in the city as a grad student, a much savvier city dweller than the waif who fell for three-card Monty in Manhattan just a few years ago.

As winter turned to spring, I anxiously checked my mail each day. Any day, I expected to see that big fat acceptance envelope from Columbia. My thoughts were turning east.