Robert Hawley, my Uncle Bob, was more a force of nature than a mere person. They really don't make them like him anymore.
Even for being part of the Greatest Generation, Uncle Bob was something of a standout.
If I had to choose one adjective, I'd pick impish. Relatively small in stature, as I recall, but he crackled with energy and humor. But also a suave gentleman. In my mind a charming blend of Maurice Chevalier and Jackie Gleason.
I'd heard the story of how he'd started out as a messenger boy at The Harris Trust Bank and retired a vice-president. (NOTE TO FAMILY: Apologies in advance for inaccuracies. This is all to the best of my notoriously unreliable recollection. Consider this more of an impressionistic portrait.) He also served honorably in the U.S. Navy during World War Two. Because of this he didn't meet his eldest son until he was at least a year old (see note above). My brother also recently told me that Bob had been haunted by tinnitus since being made to stand on deck while the warship he was serving on fired its big guns.
Yet he played a beautiful trumpet, of the Great American Songbook style.
Visiting Aunt Kate and Uncle Bob was always an enjoyable window on a gracious lifestyle. They were of the era of the cocktail hour before dinner. An evening at their home might end with cousin Rick playing piano, Uncle Bob breaking out his trumpet, and perhaps a sing-along of Broadway musicals.
But this does not adequately convey his goofiness and joi de vivre. Bob lived to entertain. A sterling example of this was when my husband and I visited Kate and Bob in the beautiful home they retired to in Walnut Creek, California. Tom and I had embarked on an epic driving journey across the American West to San Francisco, and had arranged to stay overnight with them on our way to San Jose and Yosemite. They lovingly fed and housed us, Bob bemoaning the whole time the fact that we were only staying one night. He was such a host that the next morning he actually got up and washed our windshield.
We spent our enjoyable evening together watching a movie. I believe it was a circa 1960's era telling of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, complete with unspeakably cheesy special effects. As the credits were rolling at the end of the movie, Bob turned to Kate and deadpanned (in that inimitable Bob Hawley way) "That was a real stinker, Kate." A phrase that has lived on in Tom and my lexicon.
I do not ever remember him saying a truly unkind or, dare I say it, discouraged word. I say truly unkind, because I do remember him asking my mother if the dip she'd prepared (it was either hummus or baba ganouj; the 70's, man!) was plaster of paris. Kate and Bob retained their love and charm even after suffering the unimaginable pain of losing one of their beloved daughters. He also accepted his widowed mother-in-law as a part of their household, though he did goose her once mistaking her for his wife while she was bending over the tub giving one of the children a bath. An oft-repeated story.
Then there were his pet sayings. Among my favorites: "I haven't had so much fun since the pig ate my kid brother!", or, its cousin, "I haven't had so much fun since I got my toe stuck in some barbed wire!"
I also clearly remember my sainted Aunt Kate's vaguely exasperated sigh, "Oh, Robert!" This may appear when Bob was coming home from the store with an impossibly large watermelon to please his house guest, or trying to smuggle oranges through a roadblock during the Med Fly scare because house guests deserved home grown California fruit.
The best, though, was in a quiet moment, when family was gathered and all was well, Bob would look around and sigh "How sweet it is!"
How sweet the world.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Amazing Grace
Despite feeling like I was pretty much phoning it in this Lent, Holy Week was The Way of the Cross.
It started Wednesday. We had a client at the shelter who reminded me what I love and hate about the job. This was a woman with potential. She was smart. She was educated. Her children were grown. Her future was an open book.
But she had destroyed her last career with her drinking. And she had come to us directly from a mental health agency.
But I liked this woman. She was the first client who arrived during my shift and I was as nervous as a hostess. I helped her get settled. I happened to be working when her boyfriend was arrested. It was intense. She was one of those people who'd been abused her entire life and she'd never pressed charges before. When I told her that her boyfriend had been picked-up, she grabbed hold of me and sobbed. I sat with her, and between sobs she said how she didn't deserve it. He had treated her worse than an animal and she didn't deserve it. The empowerment was palpable.
I knew the cards were stacked against her. No income, no resources. But she tried. She applied for housing, jobs, and any benefit she might possibly be eligible for. When another woman, very pregnant with two small children, came to the shelter she took her under her wing.
Fast forward a couple of weeks. The Wednesday of Holy Week is Tenebrae, a service of darkness during which the candles in the church are ceremoniously extinguished. I arrived at work to discover that the pregnant woman with the children had left because the other woman had stolen money from her. What? I had spent quality time with this woman and I didn't want to believe it was true.
The next day was Maunday Thursday. The day of betrayal. For me a spiritual day of grocery shopping and arranging to get the furnace fixed.
Good Friday. The crucifixion. Why do we call it good? I started my workday by accidentally setting-off the security alarm at our agency's outreach building. Then I slipped while trying to help someone move a heavy television and it dropped on my fingers. On my bowling hand, natch. Then I headed to the shelter.
My fave client had stayed in her room all day. That just wasn't like her. She'd been very depressed since Wednesday which didn't bode well. We had good rapport so I went in to talk to her. I just had to know.
We talked. And talked. And she cried. She talked about the pain of growing up bi-racial in the 60's. The pain of being an adopted child who was abused by the mother who had chosen her. The pain of being told by her husband (the abusive husband who had preceded the violent boyfriend) that anything she had ever accomplished in school and work was just because she was the token person of color. She simply oozed pain and worthlessness. But she knew she was smart. She knew she had to show her children, even though they were grown, what a strong woman is and how she should be treated.
She admitted that she had been drinking the day before. Denied stealing money or drinking that day.
Sitting with her had been a moving experience, but the warning bells were chiming in my head on my drive home.
The next day, Saturday, she had moved to the couch and was watching movies. She didn't feel well. She had avoided contact with the night staff. While she was watching movies I searched her room. I found the empty bottle of vodka in her closet.
I calmly went downstairs and sat with her in the living room. I pointed out that, yes, drinking an entire bottle of vodka would make one feel pretty sick. She was going to have to leave. She did not deny anything or argue. She understood. Since things were slow and she was being reasonable I said she could stay until morning when her son would be able to give her a ride. I gave her a list of shelter numbers and suggested she look into a halfway house program.
I also told her I still thought she was one hell of a person with great potential. And invited her to call me at work any time.
After I got home that night I threw myself into Easter preparations, not sure my heart was really in it.
Easter is such a magical time of joy and redemption, and it did not disappoint this year. As I sat in church I felt peace. I was sad about this woman, but not hurt. I recognized that she hadn't betrayed me, she had betrayed herself. And I had been able to respond with love and a measure of mercy. I had always treated her as a human being worthy of respect and maybe, just maybe, she would look back and remember that and realize that she wasn't worthless. I could look at her brokenness and failure and love her.
I sometimes wonder if God regrets that whole vow to never destroy the human race. We can be pretty mean and stupid creatures. But we are loved.
This is the gift I can bring. I don't have the power to fix a broken life, but I can look for the person inside the problem. And I can care. I envision what I do as being like the parable of the sower: some seeds will fall on fallow ground, some among the rocks, but some will sprout and take root when we least expect it. I may never see the result, but I will keep tossing out the seeds.
We can be God's grace in the world. Amazing.
It started Wednesday. We had a client at the shelter who reminded me what I love and hate about the job. This was a woman with potential. She was smart. She was educated. Her children were grown. Her future was an open book.
But she had destroyed her last career with her drinking. And she had come to us directly from a mental health agency.
But I liked this woman. She was the first client who arrived during my shift and I was as nervous as a hostess. I helped her get settled. I happened to be working when her boyfriend was arrested. It was intense. She was one of those people who'd been abused her entire life and she'd never pressed charges before. When I told her that her boyfriend had been picked-up, she grabbed hold of me and sobbed. I sat with her, and between sobs she said how she didn't deserve it. He had treated her worse than an animal and she didn't deserve it. The empowerment was palpable.
I knew the cards were stacked against her. No income, no resources. But she tried. She applied for housing, jobs, and any benefit she might possibly be eligible for. When another woman, very pregnant with two small children, came to the shelter she took her under her wing.
Fast forward a couple of weeks. The Wednesday of Holy Week is Tenebrae, a service of darkness during which the candles in the church are ceremoniously extinguished. I arrived at work to discover that the pregnant woman with the children had left because the other woman had stolen money from her. What? I had spent quality time with this woman and I didn't want to believe it was true.
The next day was Maunday Thursday. The day of betrayal. For me a spiritual day of grocery shopping and arranging to get the furnace fixed.
Good Friday. The crucifixion. Why do we call it good? I started my workday by accidentally setting-off the security alarm at our agency's outreach building. Then I slipped while trying to help someone move a heavy television and it dropped on my fingers. On my bowling hand, natch. Then I headed to the shelter.
My fave client had stayed in her room all day. That just wasn't like her. She'd been very depressed since Wednesday which didn't bode well. We had good rapport so I went in to talk to her. I just had to know.
We talked. And talked. And she cried. She talked about the pain of growing up bi-racial in the 60's. The pain of being an adopted child who was abused by the mother who had chosen her. The pain of being told by her husband (the abusive husband who had preceded the violent boyfriend) that anything she had ever accomplished in school and work was just because she was the token person of color. She simply oozed pain and worthlessness. But she knew she was smart. She knew she had to show her children, even though they were grown, what a strong woman is and how she should be treated.
She admitted that she had been drinking the day before. Denied stealing money or drinking that day.
Sitting with her had been a moving experience, but the warning bells were chiming in my head on my drive home.
The next day, Saturday, she had moved to the couch and was watching movies. She didn't feel well. She had avoided contact with the night staff. While she was watching movies I searched her room. I found the empty bottle of vodka in her closet.
I calmly went downstairs and sat with her in the living room. I pointed out that, yes, drinking an entire bottle of vodka would make one feel pretty sick. She was going to have to leave. She did not deny anything or argue. She understood. Since things were slow and she was being reasonable I said she could stay until morning when her son would be able to give her a ride. I gave her a list of shelter numbers and suggested she look into a halfway house program.
I also told her I still thought she was one hell of a person with great potential. And invited her to call me at work any time.
After I got home that night I threw myself into Easter preparations, not sure my heart was really in it.
Easter is such a magical time of joy and redemption, and it did not disappoint this year. As I sat in church I felt peace. I was sad about this woman, but not hurt. I recognized that she hadn't betrayed me, she had betrayed herself. And I had been able to respond with love and a measure of mercy. I had always treated her as a human being worthy of respect and maybe, just maybe, she would look back and remember that and realize that she wasn't worthless. I could look at her brokenness and failure and love her.
I sometimes wonder if God regrets that whole vow to never destroy the human race. We can be pretty mean and stupid creatures. But we are loved.
This is the gift I can bring. I don't have the power to fix a broken life, but I can look for the person inside the problem. And I can care. I envision what I do as being like the parable of the sower: some seeds will fall on fallow ground, some among the rocks, but some will sprout and take root when we least expect it. I may never see the result, but I will keep tossing out the seeds.
We can be God's grace in the world. Amazing.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
The Poor Will Always Be With Us
Hey, folks, it's been awhile. How ya doin'?
I blame my silence on the fact that I feel like my life has undergone one of its periodic seismic shifts. I'm working. And not at a hang-my-head-why-am-I-doing-this-job-when-I-have-a-college-degree sort of way. No. I'm a domestic violence shelter advocate and aftercare coordinator. Part-time, but intellectually and emotionally satisfying without being overwhelming.
It makes for an awkward conversation, though. If asked, I may say that I'm doing social work and try to keep it vague. Otherwise I'm afraid of how I'll be perceived. I'm neither saintly, nor particularly brave, nor anti-male. And, no, I can't tell you where the shelter is.
As you, my dear friends and up-to-date readers, know, the decision to return to this work was an emotionally fraught one. It's working out, though. I'm happy to report that I no longer have a horrible knot in my stomach when I report for my shift. I think I'm gonna like it here.
Just two days ago I was rooting around the office looking for something when I happened to open a file drawer of old files. I mean really old files. Some of the name tags were in my handwriting. I grabbed a few files and read my notes signed with my maiden name. It was a vaguely surreal time-travel moment. The memories came flooding back.
SIDE NOTE - I am retiring the "Gimme Shelter" blog. I don't feel comfortable sharing any stories, even old ones, when I'm back in the field.
What struck me, reading my own progress notes from a lifetime ago, was how confident and professional I sounded. Like I really knew what I was talking about, and I was just a young pup.
But to be really successful in this type of field you have to be able to maintain a delicate balance: care, but not too much.
This will be my struggle.
One day in my intro to psych class in college we talked about the correlation between various forms of mental illness and poverty. It's a chicken and egg thing, really. From my vantage point, it appears mental difficulty pushes people into poverty (slow to learn or otherwise unreliable = unemployable), and then the stress of poverty feeds the illness (while restricting access to help) in a vicious, vicious cycle.
It's painful to watch. The people who come through the shelter tend to be those with less resources and options. Especially difficult are the people who dance at the edge. Slow, but not fully developmentally disabled. Maladapted to society, but not full-out mentally ill. Not bad enough to qualify for the money and services that are out there, but not really functional, either. The safety net has some gaping holes.
Especially difficult is the plight of the women without children. Imagine that you haven't been working because: a) you were not allowed to, b)you were a homemaker, or c) you haven't been able to because of the anxiety and depression caused by a (usually) lifetime of abuse. Now imagine you need to escape from the one person who financially supported you, and you only have 30 days to re-establish yourself. There is no money to help you secure housing. None. We eliminated welfare benefits (except for Medicaid and food stamps) for single, able-bodied individuals. Public housing is limited and wait-listed. If you happen to suffer with mental health issues, the disability process is difficult and can take a year to complete, easily.
I think I may end up with the anxiety disorder.
I've read about a problem that sometimes happens to aid workers doing famine relief. They feel so guilty for having food when others don't that they stop eating. Ultimately, of course, you need to eat in order to feed other people.
It's hard to look poverty and impending poverty straight in the face. I've always known violence and misery and poverty (and, yes, they are intertwined) were out there, but it is so much worse to hear the individual stories. And to know that there are fewer options and resources out there for these people now.
The poor will always be with us. There is never 100% employment, and when times are tough and jobs are tight it's the under-educated, not as bright, trauma-ridden people who suffer the most. I've yet to meet someone who chose to be poor because the lifestyle was so awesome.
Remember that. Especially when you vote. Or pay taxes. Feel grateful that you even have enough income to pay those taxes.
OK. Off the soapbox now.
And how are you?
I blame my silence on the fact that I feel like my life has undergone one of its periodic seismic shifts. I'm working. And not at a hang-my-head-why-am-I-doing-this-job-when-I-have-a-college-degree sort of way. No. I'm a domestic violence shelter advocate and aftercare coordinator. Part-time, but intellectually and emotionally satisfying without being overwhelming.
It makes for an awkward conversation, though. If asked, I may say that I'm doing social work and try to keep it vague. Otherwise I'm afraid of how I'll be perceived. I'm neither saintly, nor particularly brave, nor anti-male. And, no, I can't tell you where the shelter is.
As you, my dear friends and up-to-date readers, know, the decision to return to this work was an emotionally fraught one. It's working out, though. I'm happy to report that I no longer have a horrible knot in my stomach when I report for my shift. I think I'm gonna like it here.
Just two days ago I was rooting around the office looking for something when I happened to open a file drawer of old files. I mean really old files. Some of the name tags were in my handwriting. I grabbed a few files and read my notes signed with my maiden name. It was a vaguely surreal time-travel moment. The memories came flooding back.
SIDE NOTE - I am retiring the "Gimme Shelter" blog. I don't feel comfortable sharing any stories, even old ones, when I'm back in the field.
What struck me, reading my own progress notes from a lifetime ago, was how confident and professional I sounded. Like I really knew what I was talking about, and I was just a young pup.
But to be really successful in this type of field you have to be able to maintain a delicate balance: care, but not too much.
This will be my struggle.
One day in my intro to psych class in college we talked about the correlation between various forms of mental illness and poverty. It's a chicken and egg thing, really. From my vantage point, it appears mental difficulty pushes people into poverty (slow to learn or otherwise unreliable = unemployable), and then the stress of poverty feeds the illness (while restricting access to help) in a vicious, vicious cycle.
It's painful to watch. The people who come through the shelter tend to be those with less resources and options. Especially difficult are the people who dance at the edge. Slow, but not fully developmentally disabled. Maladapted to society, but not full-out mentally ill. Not bad enough to qualify for the money and services that are out there, but not really functional, either. The safety net has some gaping holes.
Especially difficult is the plight of the women without children. Imagine that you haven't been working because: a) you were not allowed to, b)you were a homemaker, or c) you haven't been able to because of the anxiety and depression caused by a (usually) lifetime of abuse. Now imagine you need to escape from the one person who financially supported you, and you only have 30 days to re-establish yourself. There is no money to help you secure housing. None. We eliminated welfare benefits (except for Medicaid and food stamps) for single, able-bodied individuals. Public housing is limited and wait-listed. If you happen to suffer with mental health issues, the disability process is difficult and can take a year to complete, easily.
I think I may end up with the anxiety disorder.
I've read about a problem that sometimes happens to aid workers doing famine relief. They feel so guilty for having food when others don't that they stop eating. Ultimately, of course, you need to eat in order to feed other people.
It's hard to look poverty and impending poverty straight in the face. I've always known violence and misery and poverty (and, yes, they are intertwined) were out there, but it is so much worse to hear the individual stories. And to know that there are fewer options and resources out there for these people now.
The poor will always be with us. There is never 100% employment, and when times are tough and jobs are tight it's the under-educated, not as bright, trauma-ridden people who suffer the most. I've yet to meet someone who chose to be poor because the lifestyle was so awesome.
Remember that. Especially when you vote. Or pay taxes. Feel grateful that you even have enough income to pay those taxes.
OK. Off the soapbox now.
And how are you?
Thursday, January 26, 2012
An Open Letter to the Medical Community
TMI ALERT: This post is not for the modest nor the faint of heart, and addresses a very uncomfortable subject. Yes, I mean colonoscopies.
NOTE: This is written from the point of view of someone who just walked someone through the process, but the idea is that I'm supposed to schedule one next. So basically I got to see what I can look forward to. Although I did already undergo the little cousin of said procedure, the sigmoidoscopy, so I already had an inkling. There, see? TMI already.
For the uninitiated, we're talking about a process here. Twenty-four hours plus of fasting followed by industrial-strength colonics and capped off with a procedure that involves sticking a scope up an area that is usually reserved for more intimate partners.
OK. I can get past the modesty issue pretty much because I did have two babies. I have had to let it all hang out. I would think women have an advantage there.
But people, we're talking almost 3 solid days of misery here. I found myself constantly asking myself, "Really?" This is the best modern medicine has come up with to protect us from this dread disease? This is not minimal, I would say it is almost a maximally invasive procedure. Hey, while you're at it, how 'bout you cut open my head and make sure I don't have a brain tumor?
Can we come up with a better way to do this? Is that really asking so much?
What did surprise me was that my reaction to the whole thing was anger. Especially once we got to the hospital. I was already peeved on my better-half's behalf that his procedure wasn't scheduled until 5pm. That automatically guaranteed that he would have to fast about 40 hours, and would get to spend much of procedure day anticipating the experience.
We checked-in at the hospital an hour early, as instructed, and the poor guy gets all (un)suited and IV'd up, and then we discovered that there were 3 unfortunate souls in line ahead of us, and things were running late.
Wow. I did not take that well.
This was when I fundamentally realized that I was not a nice person. I discovered that I have an impatient and mean-spirited streak, and I was desperate to channel my inner Emily Gilmore and make that staff PAY for what they were doing to my husband. I was annoyed that they were so nonchalant, that this all gets treated as a minor inconvenience.
It's all done by snark, and I hate to brag, but I think I'm pretty good at putting out a "we-are-not-amused" vibe. I did not attempt to hide my displeasure at finding out that we were going to be a few hours longer than anticipated. I even told the nurse that although I had lost a very dear friend to colon cancer, this was making that look not so bad. My poor husband suggested that I didn't need to wait with him. I was vocal enough in my protests that when they finally took the guy away who was ahead of us, he promised he'd try to hurry!
(Oh yeah. Another thing to enjoy about the experience was the near total lack of privacy. Everyone was prepped and lined up in their beds waiting to be wheeled away, separated only by a fabric curtain that wasn't closed very often. Everyone is pretty much on display and nothing is secret. I should have just stopped the nurse when she was giving me the discharge instructions BECAUSE I'D ALREADY HEARD IT THE OTHER 3 TIMES SHE'D EXPLAINED IT TO OTHER PEOPLE.)
I was enraged. Why?
A big part of it, of course, was the fact that this was prolonging a loved one's agony, and the timing was terrible. The recovery from the anesthetic was a little difficult, and even the nurses had to agree that the fact that the poor guy hadn't had any sort of food for what at that point was about 44 hours, and not even liquids for 9 of that, was probably a contributing factor.
But I realized my anger was even bigger than that. I was angry at the whole process. What one of my friends called a "lousy rite of passage."
It certainly illustrates that for all of its intellectual elegance, medicine is really a rather nasty, brutish thing. We attack illness with poison and knives. Bodies exist to be poked, prodded, and manipulated. Many times it is to cure us, which is great, but often it's just routine maintenance. Then it is mostly annoying and intrusive, and only increases in frequency as we move along the road of life. Yes, kids, this is what you have to look forward to.
And perhaps that is what I was raging against most of all. This reminder of mortality, and the fact that our bodies break down and turn against us as we age. And the medical indignities only increase as we attempt to keep our jalopies running smoothly.
So I'm supposed to schedule my colonoscopy next. I may be able to beg off for a few years since technically I'm on the young side, but it has already been recommended and prescribed.
So you medical providers and researchers that be: Could you please expend some energy on making this process less uncomfortable and humiliating? If not for me, do it for your staff. They are going to have to take care of me, and I cannot be held responsible for what I will say or do under the influence of narcotics. Especially if I have been convinced of the necessity of avoiding caffeine prior to the procedure. If I have a withdrawal headache on top of everything I've outlined above, all bets are off. The bitch will be back, baby.
And how are you?
NOTE: This is written from the point of view of someone who just walked someone through the process, but the idea is that I'm supposed to schedule one next. So basically I got to see what I can look forward to. Although I did already undergo the little cousin of said procedure, the sigmoidoscopy, so I already had an inkling. There, see? TMI already.
For the uninitiated, we're talking about a process here. Twenty-four hours plus of fasting followed by industrial-strength colonics and capped off with a procedure that involves sticking a scope up an area that is usually reserved for more intimate partners.
OK. I can get past the modesty issue pretty much because I did have two babies. I have had to let it all hang out. I would think women have an advantage there.
But people, we're talking almost 3 solid days of misery here. I found myself constantly asking myself, "Really?" This is the best modern medicine has come up with to protect us from this dread disease? This is not minimal, I would say it is almost a maximally invasive procedure. Hey, while you're at it, how 'bout you cut open my head and make sure I don't have a brain tumor?
Can we come up with a better way to do this? Is that really asking so much?
What did surprise me was that my reaction to the whole thing was anger. Especially once we got to the hospital. I was already peeved on my better-half's behalf that his procedure wasn't scheduled until 5pm. That automatically guaranteed that he would have to fast about 40 hours, and would get to spend much of procedure day anticipating the experience.
We checked-in at the hospital an hour early, as instructed, and the poor guy gets all (un)suited and IV'd up, and then we discovered that there were 3 unfortunate souls in line ahead of us, and things were running late.
Wow. I did not take that well.
This was when I fundamentally realized that I was not a nice person. I discovered that I have an impatient and mean-spirited streak, and I was desperate to channel my inner Emily Gilmore and make that staff PAY for what they were doing to my husband. I was annoyed that they were so nonchalant, that this all gets treated as a minor inconvenience.
It's all done by snark, and I hate to brag, but I think I'm pretty good at putting out a "we-are-not-amused" vibe. I did not attempt to hide my displeasure at finding out that we were going to be a few hours longer than anticipated. I even told the nurse that although I had lost a very dear friend to colon cancer, this was making that look not so bad. My poor husband suggested that I didn't need to wait with him. I was vocal enough in my protests that when they finally took the guy away who was ahead of us, he promised he'd try to hurry!
(Oh yeah. Another thing to enjoy about the experience was the near total lack of privacy. Everyone was prepped and lined up in their beds waiting to be wheeled away, separated only by a fabric curtain that wasn't closed very often. Everyone is pretty much on display and nothing is secret. I should have just stopped the nurse when she was giving me the discharge instructions BECAUSE I'D ALREADY HEARD IT THE OTHER 3 TIMES SHE'D EXPLAINED IT TO OTHER PEOPLE.)
I was enraged. Why?
A big part of it, of course, was the fact that this was prolonging a loved one's agony, and the timing was terrible. The recovery from the anesthetic was a little difficult, and even the nurses had to agree that the fact that the poor guy hadn't had any sort of food for what at that point was about 44 hours, and not even liquids for 9 of that, was probably a contributing factor.
But I realized my anger was even bigger than that. I was angry at the whole process. What one of my friends called a "lousy rite of passage."
It certainly illustrates that for all of its intellectual elegance, medicine is really a rather nasty, brutish thing. We attack illness with poison and knives. Bodies exist to be poked, prodded, and manipulated. Many times it is to cure us, which is great, but often it's just routine maintenance. Then it is mostly annoying and intrusive, and only increases in frequency as we move along the road of life. Yes, kids, this is what you have to look forward to.
And perhaps that is what I was raging against most of all. This reminder of mortality, and the fact that our bodies break down and turn against us as we age. And the medical indignities only increase as we attempt to keep our jalopies running smoothly.
So I'm supposed to schedule my colonoscopy next. I may be able to beg off for a few years since technically I'm on the young side, but it has already been recommended and prescribed.
So you medical providers and researchers that be: Could you please expend some energy on making this process less uncomfortable and humiliating? If not for me, do it for your staff. They are going to have to take care of me, and I cannot be held responsible for what I will say or do under the influence of narcotics. Especially if I have been convinced of the necessity of avoiding caffeine prior to the procedure. If I have a withdrawal headache on top of everything I've outlined above, all bets are off. The bitch will be back, baby.
And how are you?
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Two Roads Diverged in a Yellow Woods...
Happy 2012, everybody! A new year brings new possibilities, and, as if on cue, this new year is bringing changes to my life.
Have I mentioned before how much I hate change and transitions? I'm a creature of habit. It's even worse when big decisions need to be made.
So what's going on? Nothing all that exciting, really. Brandon is transitioning to pre-school which leaves my life less focused on childcare. In the interest of personal fulfillment (and a paycheck!) I've decided to take another leap into the world of actual, outside-my-house, employment. Somewhat anxiety-provoking change #1.
Anxiety #2: I seemed to have found a job.
A brief digression here. Employment and I have a somewhat stormy history. My relationship with work has some eerie similarities with unstable interpersonal relationships. I end up with jobs that start-off so good, but the ending is generally bad. I don't think I've ever gone through the stereotypical job hunt involving want ads, resumes, and personal interviews. That would take having an actual career path. Instead I'll take the job that'll have me.
My first job out of college? Working at a domestic violence shelter where I had been a student intern. It was...an experience. The young woman hired to replace me when I left after 3 years lasted longer than I did, but also developed stress-related health problems. It was not a well-run program and it eventually imploded.
My next career move was becoming a legal assistant at a law office. This job was offered to me because somebody knew I was at a loose end having left the shelter. In fact, I was so unaware that there was a job offer in the works that I showed up at the office with my hair in cornrows, wearing a tie-dyed dress and moccasins. It was a small firm with a staff prone to psychodrama. I lasted about 10 years. It all ended with a nasty business "divorce" between the firm's partners, and I realized that I am not cut-out to work in an office.
I tried returning to my food service roots. I like to joke that I was a food service major at Oberlin College because I worked a lot of dining hall jobs to stay in school. I've washed my share of dishes. I know my way around a Hobart. I enjoyed my stint as a dietary aide in a nursing home. There is a certain satisfaction in breaking a sweat and getting dirty. I loved my interaction with the residents. I didn't love the new management when our department was outsourced, and I didn't do a good job keeping my opinions to myself. That ended THAT job. I learned that I'm not good at being treated like an expendable obstacle to company profitability. I'm also not that good at physical labor, really. I over-think things. I'm not speedy and efficient.
Then there has been the childcare thing which I got into when a mom called me because she knew I was at a loose end after the law job ended. In truth, this is a skill I didn't even know I had. But the kid seemed to like me, although she eventually moved away. But then a friend of mine had a baby and needed someone to care for him. After the nursing home episode another friend of mine had a baby. I've always felt this was karmic payback for the fact that I had been a working mother and depended on a neighborhood woman to care for my daughters. They have been great gigs, and I was fortunate to only care for children I really cared about. But my daughters are largely grown now, and I'm ready to interact with adults. Babies and toddlers are sweet, but they're tyrants. It's a good thing they grow up.
I swore to myself that when I re-entered the job market I'd put some thought into it, evaluate my strengths and interests and launch a career that would be a good fit.
Instead I've fallen into another job. I've come full circle. I'm poised to work at a domestic violence shelter.
It came about through connections from my first job. It started with an innocent inquiry, and before I knew it I was signing a W-4 and undergoing training. It's a different program and I need to learn their policies and procedures.
I know starting new jobs is scary. But I'm not certain that I've always felt this knot in the pit of my stomach. I don't think that the thought of the job should make me feel like crying. It wasn't until I had actually committed to the training that I had an explosion of anxiety. I don't know if I can do it anymore.
The first go-around was a soul-searing experience. I was young, idealistic, and working for someone who felt that things like training and boundaries were largely unnecessary. I'm sure I was given way more responsibility than I was really ready for.
So when I feel panic now, I don't think it's from where I am today. The 25 year old who walked away from the job to save her mental health is still inside my head somewhere, screaming.
But this, I tell myself, will be different. It's a new agency with better policies and procedures. I'm 20 years older and wiser. I'm only working very part-time. It's a job I know.
But that might be the problem. It's a job I know. I know full well what a bad day can be like. I know that 98% of the time it is fairly routine. But that 2% can be a doozy. This time, however, I can be confident that I won't be made to handle it alone.
But I'm also wondering if I'm ready to let the misery of the world back into my life. It's one thing to be aware of and care about issues like poverty, homelessness, mental illness, and violence, it's quite another thing to stare them straight in the eyes. Am I strong enough?
I guess I won't know until I try. I'm hoping that spending more time at the shelter will set my mind at ease. Or let me know this isn't the right direction for me.
Two paths diverged in a yellow woods. Sorry, Mr. Frost. It isn't the road not taken that concerns me. It's the one I've already traveled.
Have I mentioned before how much I hate change and transitions? I'm a creature of habit. It's even worse when big decisions need to be made.
So what's going on? Nothing all that exciting, really. Brandon is transitioning to pre-school which leaves my life less focused on childcare. In the interest of personal fulfillment (and a paycheck!) I've decided to take another leap into the world of actual, outside-my-house, employment. Somewhat anxiety-provoking change #1.
Anxiety #2: I seemed to have found a job.
A brief digression here. Employment and I have a somewhat stormy history. My relationship with work has some eerie similarities with unstable interpersonal relationships. I end up with jobs that start-off so good, but the ending is generally bad. I don't think I've ever gone through the stereotypical job hunt involving want ads, resumes, and personal interviews. That would take having an actual career path. Instead I'll take the job that'll have me.
My first job out of college? Working at a domestic violence shelter where I had been a student intern. It was...an experience. The young woman hired to replace me when I left after 3 years lasted longer than I did, but also developed stress-related health problems. It was not a well-run program and it eventually imploded.
My next career move was becoming a legal assistant at a law office. This job was offered to me because somebody knew I was at a loose end having left the shelter. In fact, I was so unaware that there was a job offer in the works that I showed up at the office with my hair in cornrows, wearing a tie-dyed dress and moccasins. It was a small firm with a staff prone to psychodrama. I lasted about 10 years. It all ended with a nasty business "divorce" between the firm's partners, and I realized that I am not cut-out to work in an office.
I tried returning to my food service roots. I like to joke that I was a food service major at Oberlin College because I worked a lot of dining hall jobs to stay in school. I've washed my share of dishes. I know my way around a Hobart. I enjoyed my stint as a dietary aide in a nursing home. There is a certain satisfaction in breaking a sweat and getting dirty. I loved my interaction with the residents. I didn't love the new management when our department was outsourced, and I didn't do a good job keeping my opinions to myself. That ended THAT job. I learned that I'm not good at being treated like an expendable obstacle to company profitability. I'm also not that good at physical labor, really. I over-think things. I'm not speedy and efficient.
Then there has been the childcare thing which I got into when a mom called me because she knew I was at a loose end after the law job ended. In truth, this is a skill I didn't even know I had. But the kid seemed to like me, although she eventually moved away. But then a friend of mine had a baby and needed someone to care for him. After the nursing home episode another friend of mine had a baby. I've always felt this was karmic payback for the fact that I had been a working mother and depended on a neighborhood woman to care for my daughters. They have been great gigs, and I was fortunate to only care for children I really cared about. But my daughters are largely grown now, and I'm ready to interact with adults. Babies and toddlers are sweet, but they're tyrants. It's a good thing they grow up.
I swore to myself that when I re-entered the job market I'd put some thought into it, evaluate my strengths and interests and launch a career that would be a good fit.
Instead I've fallen into another job. I've come full circle. I'm poised to work at a domestic violence shelter.
It came about through connections from my first job. It started with an innocent inquiry, and before I knew it I was signing a W-4 and undergoing training. It's a different program and I need to learn their policies and procedures.
I know starting new jobs is scary. But I'm not certain that I've always felt this knot in the pit of my stomach. I don't think that the thought of the job should make me feel like crying. It wasn't until I had actually committed to the training that I had an explosion of anxiety. I don't know if I can do it anymore.
The first go-around was a soul-searing experience. I was young, idealistic, and working for someone who felt that things like training and boundaries were largely unnecessary. I'm sure I was given way more responsibility than I was really ready for.
So when I feel panic now, I don't think it's from where I am today. The 25 year old who walked away from the job to save her mental health is still inside my head somewhere, screaming.
But this, I tell myself, will be different. It's a new agency with better policies and procedures. I'm 20 years older and wiser. I'm only working very part-time. It's a job I know.
But that might be the problem. It's a job I know. I know full well what a bad day can be like. I know that 98% of the time it is fairly routine. But that 2% can be a doozy. This time, however, I can be confident that I won't be made to handle it alone.
But I'm also wondering if I'm ready to let the misery of the world back into my life. It's one thing to be aware of and care about issues like poverty, homelessness, mental illness, and violence, it's quite another thing to stare them straight in the eyes. Am I strong enough?
I guess I won't know until I try. I'm hoping that spending more time at the shelter will set my mind at ease. Or let me know this isn't the right direction for me.
Two paths diverged in a yellow woods. Sorry, Mr. Frost. It isn't the road not taken that concerns me. It's the one I've already traveled.
Monday, December 26, 2011
Haul Out the Holly...
"...Put up the tree before my spirit falls again..."
Never before do I remember a Christmas song speaking to my condition so perfectly. Friends, it was a miserable Advent.
During the first week, right after Thanksgiving, two families in town lost their eldest daughters, lovely young women, both, within days of each other, both passings unexpected and tragic. The families involved were well-known around town. The entire community mourned.
The sorrow had a personal edge to me because one set of parents had been our neighbors back before we had kids. Their daughter was only about a year older than Amelia. I can remember their joy at being new parents, and it was right around the time that I was introduced to their baby that I discovered that I was going to be a parent myself.
It definitely cast a pall.
Then, on a more personal front, a close family member started losing his battle with mental illness. Actually, to use the word "losing" would seem to imply that he is fighting it. Actually, he's being overwhelmed by it. And part of it, of course, is a complete lack of insight into the fact that he might have a problem. It's vexing, concerning, and heart-breaking, and there is really nothing anyone can do about it.
I tried to liken this constant low-level anxiety and sorrow as going through Advent while wearing a heavy backpack or having a stone in your shoe. The analogy didn't work, however, because a backpack can be set down and a stone removed. This situation doesn't have such an ending, and the situation could get worse before it gets better.
What can a person do but let go and let God. And worry. And pray. A lot.
My answer was what I called Christmas Therapy. I would set-aside time to immerse myself in what makes me happy during the season. It is a time for light and love and I gave myself permission to create a little joy.
I'm not a big fan of shopping. Just ask my daughters. (Unless it's for food. I can go a little nuts at a farmer's market!) I'm not a recreational shopper unless it's at a thrift store, and even then I lose interest if there isn't anything I feel I need. But then I discovered shopping for others.
I love our town's Helping Hands program that anonymously matches low-income families with people willing to buy presents. Now there is shopping I can get into! How can I feel bad spending money and participating in the mass retail-hysteria when I may be providing the only Christmas presents these kids may be getting? I love the challenge of maximizing the bang for my buck - finding stuff that is useful AND fun. Even if the family only asks for clothes or coats for the little ones, there has to be at least one book or toy included. This year Miriam and I shopped for a teen-aged and a tween-aged girl. Miriam was AWESOME at finding fashionable, affordable stuff at stores I would never have considered. And we've also made it a tradition to include a stocking that includes nice soaps, shampoos, toothbrushes and toothpaste, lotions...stuff that can't be bought with foodstamps and are usually a lower-level financial priority.
One afternoon I closed the curtains against the December rain, turned on the Christmas lights, lit a few candles, put on some quality seasonal music, and wrapped the presents for the family. I prayed as I worked that the gifts would bring joy. In my mind I heard delighted squeals from the girls as they discovered their treasures, and I felt their grandmother's relief that they were able to have presents. And in the very unlikely event that they were NOT appreciative, I would never find out, which relieves a lot of the pressure of gift giving. It was a nice moment.
There were other, more minor, setbacks threatening to destroy my Christmas spirits. The horrible head cold/sinus infection I had over the Thanksgiving holiday didn't help. Nor did the unexpected demise of my upright freezer on the same day I had returned from Costco with Christmas supplies. That was a bad moment.
But I worked to focus on the joy. The joy of having both my daughters home. Indulging my love of baking, even to excess. (Five kinds of cookies baked, four more doughs in the refrigerator!) Reveling in the glow of the Christmas tree. Setting my creative forces free designing my cards and newsletter. (I now have a keen sympathy for clergy folks who have to write sermons on the same themes year after year - it ain't easy coming up with fresh approaches!)
The beauty of joy, of course, is that it begets more joy. Social science research has shown that people are more likely to be altruistic after a positive event such as being given a cookie. Happy people are more likely to do nice things, which spreads the happiness to others.
So I guess my Christmas message to all of you is to find that metaphorical cookie, and share it with others. I read a great newspaper article about people who were anonymously paying off Christmas lay-aways for families. But no action is too small. I find it gratifying to treat retail workers this time of year as people who deserve patience and gratitude, and I was rewarded with genuine wishes for a good rest of my day. And there were days I needed that!
Luckily, I live in a liturgical calendar in which Christmas is a season and not a singular event. So I can still say "Oh yes I need a little Christmas, right this very minute...I need a little Christmas now!"
Never before do I remember a Christmas song speaking to my condition so perfectly. Friends, it was a miserable Advent.
During the first week, right after Thanksgiving, two families in town lost their eldest daughters, lovely young women, both, within days of each other, both passings unexpected and tragic. The families involved were well-known around town. The entire community mourned.
The sorrow had a personal edge to me because one set of parents had been our neighbors back before we had kids. Their daughter was only about a year older than Amelia. I can remember their joy at being new parents, and it was right around the time that I was introduced to their baby that I discovered that I was going to be a parent myself.
It definitely cast a pall.
Then, on a more personal front, a close family member started losing his battle with mental illness. Actually, to use the word "losing" would seem to imply that he is fighting it. Actually, he's being overwhelmed by it. And part of it, of course, is a complete lack of insight into the fact that he might have a problem. It's vexing, concerning, and heart-breaking, and there is really nothing anyone can do about it.
I tried to liken this constant low-level anxiety and sorrow as going through Advent while wearing a heavy backpack or having a stone in your shoe. The analogy didn't work, however, because a backpack can be set down and a stone removed. This situation doesn't have such an ending, and the situation could get worse before it gets better.
What can a person do but let go and let God. And worry. And pray. A lot.
My answer was what I called Christmas Therapy. I would set-aside time to immerse myself in what makes me happy during the season. It is a time for light and love and I gave myself permission to create a little joy.
I'm not a big fan of shopping. Just ask my daughters. (Unless it's for food. I can go a little nuts at a farmer's market!) I'm not a recreational shopper unless it's at a thrift store, and even then I lose interest if there isn't anything I feel I need. But then I discovered shopping for others.
I love our town's Helping Hands program that anonymously matches low-income families with people willing to buy presents. Now there is shopping I can get into! How can I feel bad spending money and participating in the mass retail-hysteria when I may be providing the only Christmas presents these kids may be getting? I love the challenge of maximizing the bang for my buck - finding stuff that is useful AND fun. Even if the family only asks for clothes or coats for the little ones, there has to be at least one book or toy included. This year Miriam and I shopped for a teen-aged and a tween-aged girl. Miriam was AWESOME at finding fashionable, affordable stuff at stores I would never have considered. And we've also made it a tradition to include a stocking that includes nice soaps, shampoos, toothbrushes and toothpaste, lotions...stuff that can't be bought with foodstamps and are usually a lower-level financial priority.
One afternoon I closed the curtains against the December rain, turned on the Christmas lights, lit a few candles, put on some quality seasonal music, and wrapped the presents for the family. I prayed as I worked that the gifts would bring joy. In my mind I heard delighted squeals from the girls as they discovered their treasures, and I felt their grandmother's relief that they were able to have presents. And in the very unlikely event that they were NOT appreciative, I would never find out, which relieves a lot of the pressure of gift giving. It was a nice moment.
There were other, more minor, setbacks threatening to destroy my Christmas spirits. The horrible head cold/sinus infection I had over the Thanksgiving holiday didn't help. Nor did the unexpected demise of my upright freezer on the same day I had returned from Costco with Christmas supplies. That was a bad moment.
But I worked to focus on the joy. The joy of having both my daughters home. Indulging my love of baking, even to excess. (Five kinds of cookies baked, four more doughs in the refrigerator!) Reveling in the glow of the Christmas tree. Setting my creative forces free designing my cards and newsletter. (I now have a keen sympathy for clergy folks who have to write sermons on the same themes year after year - it ain't easy coming up with fresh approaches!)
The beauty of joy, of course, is that it begets more joy. Social science research has shown that people are more likely to be altruistic after a positive event such as being given a cookie. Happy people are more likely to do nice things, which spreads the happiness to others.
So I guess my Christmas message to all of you is to find that metaphorical cookie, and share it with others. I read a great newspaper article about people who were anonymously paying off Christmas lay-aways for families. But no action is too small. I find it gratifying to treat retail workers this time of year as people who deserve patience and gratitude, and I was rewarded with genuine wishes for a good rest of my day. And there were days I needed that!
Luckily, I live in a liturgical calendar in which Christmas is a season and not a singular event. So I can still say "Oh yes I need a little Christmas, right this very minute...I need a little Christmas now!"
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
No Man is an Island...He's a Peninsula
I stole that from The Jefferson Airplane, "A Small Package of Value Will Come to You, Shortly," track 2 on After Bathing at Baxter's.
This is a sequel to "I am a Rock." (Hint: Reading it will make the following make a lot more sense!) I'm here to attest that there are such things as happy endings.
I wrote "Rock" because I was obsessing over that fact that a friend had owned up to keeping distance between us. And now, as they say, for the rest of the story.
What happened next was that we e-mailed. And we talked. And we e-mailed some more. She told me how she honestly felt and I did some much-needed soul searching. We both did some apologizing, and I can truly say that I understand why she felt the need to pull away and have no problem with that.
And it felt like old times, in a way, because we are so comfortable with each other. We can still laugh and chatter. Our friendship is not broken. It's better.
I'm not a rock. I'm not an island!
This is a sequel to "I am a Rock." (Hint: Reading it will make the following make a lot more sense!) I'm here to attest that there are such things as happy endings.
I wrote "Rock" because I was obsessing over that fact that a friend had owned up to keeping distance between us. And now, as they say, for the rest of the story.
What happened next was that we e-mailed. And we talked. And we e-mailed some more. She told me how she honestly felt and I did some much-needed soul searching. We both did some apologizing, and I can truly say that I understand why she felt the need to pull away and have no problem with that.
And it felt like old times, in a way, because we are so comfortable with each other. We can still laugh and chatter. Our friendship is not broken. It's better.
I'm not a rock. I'm not an island!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)