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In May 1992, my life took a sudden and unexpected turn while
I was working on a temporary office job assignment for a chemical
manufacturing company in Westchester.
At age 37 I was physically fit and as healthy as anyone could
wish to be. I was studying yoga and taking swimming classes
at the Y. I could run a seven-minute mile.
By 1990 I was earning $17 per hour. The rent for my apartment
was low. My time was free for pursuing extended bicycle trips
that I planned, and as a temp I could take off whenever I
wanted.
Soon after the assignment began at the chemical manufacturing
company, I smelled chemicals. I sensed them passing through
my cubicle. When I asked questions no one else smelled them,
but I heard that many other workers had only lasted two weeks
before leaving.
When 5pm came on my 11th day, I didn't believe I knew how
to drive anymore; my hands were foreign to me. That evening
my head hurt in a most indescribable way. I would just hold
it and cry. My nose and throat were burning. My skin was flushed.
I called the office of the temp agency that night to say
that I would not be returning to this assignment. Little did
I know that my life as I knew it would never be the same.
Afterwards I was unable to tell anyone what I did or didn't
do during the hours I was there because I couldn't remember.
It took me years to recall that I was typing the names of
the chemicals that I believed would appear on the product
labels. I didn't think to walk out with a copy of what I was
typing on that day.
Three months passed before I realized I wasn't moving. I
was sleeping 15 hours a day; my waking life was a blur. My
partner would often find me sitting staring into the horizon,
not listening or finishing sentences. I had aches and pains
running through my entire body. When I actually made it to
the doctor's office, I'd often forget to even mention the
symptoms which brought me there.
It was about time I pulled myself together, I thought, and
then encouraged myself to start working again. Subsequently,
I was fired from my next three assignments for making all
kinds of errors. When my temporary work counselor was explaining
why these assignments were ending abruptly I was in total
disbelief. I had always prided myself on being fast, accurate
and having the ability to walk into a new office.
However, all these taken-for-granted facts of life became
part of my disability. They are elements of functioning that
I can't control or rely on. I was once fast, now I am slow.
I still dread being asked, "what's new?" or "where
are you working now?" Admittedly, I am getting much better
at turning this type of question around, so that I hardly
ever answer.
My diagnosis was Toxic Ecephalopathy and a Reactive Depression,
total disability. How strange it was to hear these words used
when referencing me.
Not only was I injured, but I became further victimized and
abused by a system that is like a massive machine, impossible
to penetrate, that was destroying what life I had left. I
have come to believe that anyone who files a Workers' Compensation
claim is immediately placed under house arrest, guilty of
malingering and trying to defraud the insurer. There may be
the day that the private investigator comes calling at your
door, searching for proof of your guilt. Your treating doctors
are seen as your accomplices. All your rights are denied.
I began to question myself. Are you sure your injury is real?
Was I really injured on the job? I would reread my doctors'
reports and ask them if they were certain they were referring
to me?
Eventually, near the end of eight years my second lawyer
approached me with a deal and suggested, argued, then shouted
that I accept a permanent partial disability at the rate of
$170 per week. The deal was never going to get any better.
I have to say that, for better or for worse, accepting this
deal was the only way to get a piece of my life back, my sanity.
It was the only way to end what virtually never ends - the
Workers' Compensation Game. The financial cost to me was close
to $12,000 in legal fees, so that I could receive $170 per
week as compensation for being permanently and totally disabled.
Even after five Psychiatric Independent Medical Examinations,
it was never recognized that I was in a stable, long term,
same-sex-partnered relationship, which had now lasted 22 years.
It wasn't noticed that the income that I lost after becoming
injured impacted our lives, and that our equal contributory
relationship suffered a major financial blow.
Women are real people. When a woman loses her income, her
sustenance for life, it is a real experience. Women, whether
single, married, gay/lesbian, with or without children contribute
to the world. A woman's on-the-job, disabling injury has a
real impact on her own life, the lives of those she shares
hers with, and the society all of us live in. Its loss is
really felt.
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