Everything on her resume was exactly what we needed. She ran a mammogram center which had about the same volume as ours, she was registered in mammography and the list of her volunteer activities was long and impressive. After spending seven years as assistant director of human resources (back then we called it Personnel) at the hospital, I knew how to read resumes and spot the patterns. Hers was flawless and to top it off her middle name was Rose. That had to be a good omen. The only problem was she lived in Longview (about 4 hours north of town) and she wouldn’t be available for two months.
She explained during a telephone interview that she was getting married in April and would be moving to Houston to live with her new hubby. Two months seemed a long way off especially since I only had two techs on board, juggling the three machines and two centers. We needed someone now, but, for whatever reason, I agreed to meet her the next Saturday she came to town. More than 20 years later, am I ever glad I waited.
From the sound of her voice and the way she spoke, I fully expected to meet a young, petite blonde who fulfilled the stereotype of being just a wee bit of an airhead.
While Amy (far right in photo) did turn out to be small (weren’t we all back then?), she was the same age as me and had thick black hair. So much for my blond theory. The idea of airhead was also pretty much expelled, except she did talk a lot. She still does. Amy can talk about anything and everything, seldom coming up for air. I remember one time we had gone to an out of town conference and were sharing a hotel room. After a long day, we were snug in our separate beds around 9 PM, and I was ready to call it a day. We had talked all day, first during the three-hour plane ride, then throughout the registration and as we walked through the exhibit hall, and finally into the evening over dinner. We had a great visit, discussing everything from work to husbands to kids to dreams to The Rose.
I rolled over and turned out the lights. Amy kept talking, four hours later she was still talking. I woke up early the next morning and carefully slipped out of bed, trying to be quiet so as not to wake her. I had just cleared the end of the bed when suddenly she sat straight up and started talking picking up right at the point I had fallen asleep the night before.
When I hired her, Amy really didn’t want to be the technical supervisor; she’d done her stint at supervision. She didn’t want to help with the support group; she’d gotten too close to the patients in the one she ran in Longview. She didn’t want to be on any committees. She just wanted to be a tech, do the work, and go home to her new life. However, natural leaders always emerge and take charge. Once a boss, always bossy and Amy was that, in the nicest of ways.
Almost immediately, Amy took over the annual state inspections. Mammogram centers had just started being accredited and there were lots of questions that had not been answered about documentation. So every possible piece of paper that we thought could be needed, reviewed, signed or stamped was gathered and put in order to be ready for the inspector.
The first time I went through an inspection with Amy, we worked till 3 o’clock in the morning, reviewing and readying our paperwork.
Now I didn’t personally witness what happened that next day but it was verified by more than one person who was looking out the window while eating breakfast at Alfred’s, the restaurant located across the parking lot from our center. The tale also made the rounds among those at the State inspection office and was once labeled the most unbelievable inspection in the history of mammography.
Amy was running a little late that morning. The inspector had already arrived and was waiting in his car away from the Center door when the noise behind him made him check his rearview mirror. A huge blue van was coming at him. The van was turning a bit too sharply and appeared to be balancing on two wheels. He held his breath as the van careened, righted itself, and narrowly missed the bumper of his car.
Of course, Amy was driving the van.
She screeched to a stop, bumping the van’s front end against the curb. She swung the door open, jumped out, then opened the van’s back door and jumped back in, tossing two huge bags over her shoulder. Next, she turned and started pulling at something that was behind the driver’s seat. A few more tugs and an old black purse, almost as big as the bags, popped out at her, spewing items all over the sidewalk. She snatched them up, stuffed them back into the purse and then continued digging in it. A few moments passed when she smacked one hand against her forehead, having just realized the keys she was desperately searching for were dangling from her other hand. Only then did she start moving toward the Center.
The inspector, still recovering from the near collision, had watched her arrival and decided to give her a few minutes to open up. He opened his door and was starting to get out when he noticed she had come back outside.
She vanished around the side of the van. Then she walked back into the center juggling a big box and the three-ring binders we’d created the night/morning.
Two seconds later, she was back outside and again went around to the side of the van. When she came back into view this time she was balancing a full laundry basket against one hip and a full-to-overflowing bag of groceries on the other hip. (Our washer had been on the blink so she had carried the towels home to launder, and it was support group night, hence the goodies.)
On the third trip, she was loaded down with hanging clothes and two shoe boxes, another trip in and back out.
The fourth time she emerged from the side of the van, she was bent over, holding the old IBM typewriter we’d used for our prep against her stomach. She sort of struggled forward, shuffling a bit and nearly tripped on the curb. The inspector was making a move toward her, ready to help but she had propped open the front door of the center and was inside before he could reach her. He told folks later that at this point he was a bit mesmerized by this back and forth parade.
What happened next was straight out of an espisode of “I Love Lucy.” Amy retuned and walked directly to the back of the van. She opened the doors, reached in, and pulled out an ironing board.
At the very moment the board cleared the van, the legs sprang open with a loud pop. She stumbled backwards almost falling into the approaching inspector. When he said, “Can I help you?” she screamed, swung around, and hit the inspector with the board she still held in her hands.
It was going to be a long three days.
Amy was mortified and started talking. There was a function that day, she explained hurriedly, with the Cancer Fighters. She went on to tell him who the Cancer Fighters were, how they had started the second center, how we really needed the money and how she had to go to this function. She had brought a different outfit to wear that needed to be touched up. The function wasn’t until 4 PM but with the inspection, she wouldn’t have time to go home.
She rattled on and on still holding onto ironing board. Then she spied the inspector’s bleeding arm and started apologizing. He stood there, first staring at her and then at the blood running down to his wrist.
When he finally did go inside, she insisted on doctoring the scratches. She tried her best to make him feel better by bringing him snacks in between each set of paperwork.
For some reason, the inspector took a lot of smoke breaks that day. Pity, since he said he’d almost beat that habit.
The next day, he arrived at the main office and things went from bad to worse. In the middle of inspecting the second of two machines, the light field didn’t work right. Over the years, the light field was a minor but persistent problem on this machine which had been corrected time and again by the service guys. In fact, it had been worked on the week before and was in perfect alignment, but not this day. This kind of problem wouldn’t have meant a violation, but it would have been a ding on Amy’s perfect record.
I’ll never forget her barging into my office, her face flushed, those dark eyebrows knotted together as she threw her hands on my desk, leaned forward and in a voice a little too loud said: “Remember we talked about replacing Unit 2?”
I nodded.
“Well today’s the day we get rid of it!”
“Wait, Amy. What do you mean? We haven’t raised the money for a new one. We can’t just get rid of this one.”
“Oh yes we can!” she exclaimed, her eyes flashing. “I’ve already called Ron and he’s sending his guys over to move it out.”
“What?”
“It won’t pass. That stupid light field again. So I asked the inspector, ‘What would happen if it weren’t here?’ He said he couldn’t inspect what wasn’t there. So I unplugged it and it’s out of here...TODAY!”
I sighed. There was never any arguing with Amy once her mind was made up.
When the three days of inspection finally came to an end, we gathered in my office. Amy and I sat on one side of my desk, she in a chair pulled close to the corner and the inspector sat on the other side. He spread out paperwork, made faces and tapped a sheet here or there before starting the debriefing. We held our breath. He looked up and began a long drawn out explanation of what he inspected, what the parameters were, why they were important, but the only words we heard were: “You passed!”
Simultaneously, Amy and I burst out crying and started hugging each other. (As was our usual professional approach.)
He just shook his head.
Many years later, Amy heard that this inspector was terminally ill -- lung cancer. In her normal way, she reached out to him, sending a note, telling him we had added him to our prayer list. He responded, thanked her for her kind words and teased about her about that first unforgettable visit. Just like Amy herself … unforgettable.
Amy Rigsby continues to serve as The Rose Tech Director, supervising the work of the mobile units, working with our support groups, and helping create greater breast health awareness through health fairs and … yes, talks to groups large and small. This memory is one of 25 short stories written by Dorothy Gibbons, the Co-founder and CEO of The Rose, a nonprofit breast cancer organization. She and Dr. Dixie Melillo received the 501C3 documents for The Rose in 1986. A memory will be shared daily, culminating with number 25 on the day The Rose celebrates its 25th anniversary November 10.
© 2011 Dorothy Gibbons. All rights reserved.
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