My Dental Agony for Christmas

Transit agencies worldwide are now a game of chess.
Will the worker reign supreme over King Corporata?

Deke's Note: It's doubtful many of you know what makes me tick. Some, not all, of you have read my words before. You probably have an inkling of the writer who keeps luring you back to this blog. Here, I hope to give you a glimpse of the man behind the keyboard, the one who hopes to change transit in a positive and rewarding way.

The past few days, a recurring theme has played in my mouth: decades of tobacco use doing irreparable damage to tissue, bone, nerves and my equilibrium. Yesterday, I drove my bus in a haze of the worst pain (besides childbirth, which I have been told doubles this type) imaginable: dental infection. Arriving home, I was famished, hungry beyond belief. All I could chew was thankfully what awaited me: soft chicken, mashed potatoes and broccoli. On the left side of my mouth, only. After eating, I spent 40 minutes watching television before my body broadcast BEDTIME, loudly and with intensity.

My alarm was set for nine hours after collapsing. I awoke, took note of my pain level. Not good, about 7/10. Used the toilet and turned my attention to the infection lurking deep within my remaining upper back molar. Brushed. Flossed. Water-picked to find a stinky plethora of infection-based yuck run out of my biological assailant. Rinsed with prescription-strength mouthwash, swallowed my first 800mg tablet of Ibuprofen of the day. Yeah, this is what 50 years of smoking cigarettes did to my once-pristine mouth full of teeth: rampant decay and pain. (While finally in the past, this smoking of cigarettes, it haunts me still.) Thus self-treated, I retreated. To bed. For 12 hours, minus 10 minutes to mark off "sick" and make the bladder gladder. At my age, seven hours of rest is usually sufficient. This time, my body informed me it needed extra time to fight the infection raging within. Contrary to current transit "wisdom", I decided my health was more important than planting this suffering body in the seat. My next call was to the Station Agent, reluctantly marking off work. I'll likely do so again today, as the dentist will have little option other than pulling yet another tooth from my decimated ranks of munchers.

I did not want to risk taking time off this close to a holiday. Doing so involves paperwork, documented proof that I'm not just skating into a four-day Christmas weekend. I fully intended to complete my shifts prior to Christmas Eve. However, the pain and infection dictated that I not put myself, or the safety of my passengers, in danger. 

When operating a 20-ton bus, I need every ounce of energy and concentration to safely guide The Beast through the 10-hour shift I signed. Driving a bus becomes "automatic" after a few years. The finer points however, demand every ounce of energy and finesse this body can conjure. Dealing with everyday dangers becomes much more difficult when my body is fighting an infection and its resulting pain. (Sorry ladies, I confess dental work does not compare with pain endured during childbirth.) Common body aches are part of the job; anything on top of that involves an inner strength not easily found. Any mid-management dupe with my current malady would not think twice about calling in; a union bus operator has to consider several consequences when doing so. 

Our transit agency espouses a perplexing policy discouraging frontline workers from claiming accumulated sick leave. In order to safely transport hundreds of people each shift, I am expected to be studiously-attuned to the thousands of possible obstacles confronting me. It takes great concentration to see, plan for, and react to each dangerous circumstance. Most are predictable, which is a skill that is second-hat to most veterans. Newbies have yet to acquire those years of experience to not only see at a glance, but to predict in a split second what while likely happen while also knowing how to react appropriately. When an operator is in pain, the mind tends to focus on the personal rather than the professional. This intensifies the possibility of a costly mistake, one I'm not willing to gamble upon.

As my brother Henry reminds us, any such situation puts us in a "diminished capacity". My pain suggested operating a transit vehicle was not a good idea. However, I had no other alternative, except for pushing that "Operator Ill" button on my CAD (Computer-Aided Dispatch). 

"Just take some Tylenol and ride it out, " I told myself. The Station Agent informed me he had no available TDA's (Turn Down Assignments) available that point in my shift. As anyone who has operated a transit vehicle can recall, it came down to whether I had "the balls" to continue. Thinking of those waiting in a horrendous rainstorm for my bus, I committed to them. Even though they would not know my pain or even care; all they wanted to see was my bus rumbling to their rescue.

Rather than being rewarded for being attuned to our own health, we are collectively punished for missing work. Miss more than two sick days in 1,960 hours and you are robbed of that coveted "Master Operator Program" award, which should coincide with that much safe driving rather than ignoring your health. Thousands of us have died dedicated to such a ridiculous notion rewarding risk over self. Our loved ones think nothing of a certificate while mourning over our corpse.

How many transit worker survivors have uttered these words: "If only he/she had thought of his/her health instead of that damn job!"

Instead of recognizing our dedication to professionalism, we are subjected to discipline for preserving our own health, and therefore the safety of those who ride our vehicles. It's a horrific culture begging reversal. Corporata, however, prefers discipline over support. They think we're abusing the Sick Leave system. Any of us who have done the job realize our limitations, and therefore our basic mortality. We understand the vitality of self-care far outweighs Corporata's insistence that we gain that seat no matter what assails us. It's insane, insidious and insipid to expect a person to place their own health second to a career. Yet, here we languish.

2020 has seen too much death due to what too many dismiss as "the flu". We know better, as it has murdered many more than any flu bug since 1918. Most of us have known victims of COVID-19, or have relatives and friends who know those who have succumbed to this invisible mass murderer. We have gained the seat full of fear. Through any type of weather, 100-year firestorms, or the anger a populace has developed while having its "freedoms" curtailed. We have dealt with a year of questions, debates and arguments over whether a mask is effective. Throughout, your transit operator has been there. Without any sort of hazard pay, little or no assurance that our loved ones would be supported if our service to community results in suffering and death. No support, except for empty words which one might expect from, you guessed it, Corporata.

As promised, I am working on a series of posts dealing with how I believe transit should be managed, and by whom. It encompasses a wide range of subjects, but the focus is centered upon those who work so hard to ensure this vital public service is accomplished. The current system has proven itself a miserable failure. It's time for a major reversal if transit is to recover and prosper post-pandemic. Unfortunately, those entrusted with this service are deaf to radical change. Preferring their self-imposed status quo, they have successfully convinced the powers-who-be that transit management is best run by the very scoundrels who have ruined it. 

Stay tuned. It's a major task to write such an unprecedented series. Many have already discouraged my goal of becoming General Manager, given my lack of "credentials". Consider how those currently considered "qualified" have so dramatically failed us and our communities. How could such a radical change be any worse? I think my years behind the wheel have given me a perspective severely lacking in those currently running (ruining) it for all involved. I would turn the tree upside down, chop it into firewood for a later bonfire. I would replace it with a Circle of Commitment with those currently at the bottom of this dead tree moved to the center. So it should be, and so it would, under responsible and respectful leadership.

Grave circumstances demand drastic change. Even though I may not attain the lofty goal I seek, remember that my reaching for it is solely meant to lift YOU all to the lofty heights your efforts so mightily deserve.

Meanwhile, may you and yours enjoy a COVID-free and Merriest of Christmases our collective circumstances allow. I offer blessings of health and prosperity as we boot 2020 out of existence. May all your ups-and-downs be in bed. Peace and love to you all.

With that, I remain

Your Transit Blogger

#DEKE4GM

Deke N. Blue