Old

I love my job.
I hate my job.
According to Luke 2:36-37 "very old" is 84.  Working at a community hospital... in an aging community... 84 starts to look really young.  I worked on the inpatient rehab unit today.  It was a long day and it definitely did not go as it should.  I finished the day feeling worn out, tired, angry, annoyed and so thankful that I have tomorrow off. 
Currently I am watching the Olympics. 
The best of the best:
running fast,
falling precisely into the water,
guiding a half-ton animal over various jumps,
slamming a ball into the sand...
As I quickly run to the bathroom during a commercial I flash back to another toilet transfer today.  Grabbing the bar firmly anchored in the wall with both hands, using all his strength, he barely managed to pull his butt off the seat. Standing in my bathroom I mimic his gait to my couch. I walked 10 feet. It took 3 minutes. Ten days ago he was driving 30 minutes everyday to his job and he considered himself "semi-retired." Today it took 4 tries just to stand up.
How long before my muscles fail me?  How long before lifting my arms over my head more than once completely wears me out?  How long before walking from my bathroom to my couch will become the most intimidating voyage? More importantly... how do I bring hope to those who are there now?  What can I say?  Congrats on actually standing long enough to take a shower?  How do I encourage without sounding trite?  This is the love-hate relationship I have with my job.  A chance to inspire someone to push through their current illness and live again. The challenge of convincing those who have already given up to just keep trying.
I hate my job.
I love my job.

Close Call

I sat at the end of the table with three pre-teens staring at me.  Their father, my brother, had just left the house for the Emergency Room 30 minutes away because he was vomiting blood.  Overwhelmed, I was 8 again rushing to find my parents because Daniel was having an asthma attack or had a concussion.  I was deeply afraid and desperately wanted to fall into a fetal position and weep. But there were 6 eyes full of fear looking at me... 4 of them full of tears.  The 11 year old made an inappropriate joke as his best attempt to help the situation and reality slapped me... I was the adult.  I simply looked at the 9 year old and said, "Come here." He curled into the fetal position on my lap and then I told my first lie/prayer. "Everything's gonna to be alright."  I said that statement having no idea if it was going to be even slightly ok let alone "alright".  As I said the words I knew that there was a possibility that I was completely lying to these kids.  So I turned to Jesus and I said it again... with a boldness that only a child of God can dare. "Everything's gonna be alright."  The undertone saying, "The onus is on You, Jesus, that everything's going to be alright." At this point I knew I was playing with fire, stating with faith what I wanted, needed to be true, trusting the only One who could actually make it true, looking into the eyes of children telling them it was true. I watched their fear retreat as the weight on my soul increased. What if God's will wasn't "alright"? I pushed them into their routines: dishes, showers, brush teeth, Phineas and Ferb, sleep... and then I waited. Daniel came home ok... high on pain killers and apologizing for driving erratically (no he was not driving... just thought he was) with a 6 inch gash in his esophagus.  The journey to "alright" has only just begun and no matter what happens my brother's kids eyes from that night will always haunt me.

Death of a Dream

There are a million things you can do with Occupational Therapy, a million places you can work.  When I graduated, I was certain inpatient rehabilitation (IPR) was the place for me.  It is the bread and butter of OT.  You have the opportunity to spend 90-120 minutes a day to shape and train someone to take on life again,

to impart skills for living with a disability,

to give someone confidence to return to their home,

to take a shower,

to write,

to cook again,

to overcome their fear of falling.  

Pure inspiration. Then I spent two weeks working at my hospital's IPR.  Frustration, incompetence, annoyance and anger pressed all the life right out of my dream. How could I possibly think this is my dream job when I couldn't wake up from the nightmare for two weeks?  There were several contextual issues I could blame:

the person orienting me was not very good,

the patients were not my ideal,

I was PMSing.

But as much as I would like to blame the setting, the patients and my co-workers, I can't.  It's deeper. My two week struggle opened the "not good enough" wound.  And like kryptonite it sapped my strength and will to be an OT. It is astonishing to me that at my age I can slide right from "I'm not sure that I have the skills to do this well." straight to a self-worth, core identity statement proclaiming judgement on my soul. Even as I write this I think how stupid it is, but still I go there. While I may not have the skills to move forward in my career in IPR, I do have the skills to address the negative statements that bubble to the surface from that place that still desperately needs Jesus.  

Well that's encouraging for my soul, but my career path has halted at a gaping chasm. The view of the other side obliterated by the fog of my uncertainty.

Death of an Influencer

I cried a lot today.  I laughed a lot today.  I was quiet a lot today.  Last Saturday David Mange's physical body was defeated by a brain tumor. Last Saturday my world became a little more harsh and a touch colder. Why would this man's death affect me?  How can I even describe who this man was to me?  At work I said, "I used to work with him." Which is true but not the full picture.  "I knew him when I was a student at Michigan State."  Again true but not necessarily note worthy. I never had long conversations with him.  I never met regularly with him. Instead I had a couple of unplanned (by me) conversations... fourteen years ago.  But I sat under his teaching.  I followed his leading. He taught me about being white in America.  He taught me to reach beyond myself, to cross cultures. He taught me to sing black gospel songs. He influenced me at a foundational level.  Now he's gone.  But as a friend so wisely said at his memorial service today... his influence will continue through us.

Simple question

Most of my patients come and go in 2-3 days... and honestly they are in so much pain those couple days that actual conversation is limited...  but occasionally someone stays for a whole week and I have a chance for a real conversation with a patient. It was that time in the morning when it is just me, the rehab aide and a patient.  No pressure.  No patients rolling in.  No one with Alzheimer's asking to use the phone.  No patient with cognitive disability asking to have the candy cane pen.  Basically no distractions. A lull. This patient had one question, "How much schooling did you have to do this job?"  Usually, I go with the simple answer, "Two years."  But this day I just kept going, "Two years, a master's program, after four years of undergrad... and I took a 10 year break between the two."  Of course that invited, "What did you do before this?"  I found myself telling her.  I don't tell many people anymore... and as I talked I could hear the aide commenting, "That's so cool, Kara.  I never knew."  My patient summed up my life so far very quickly... "You should write a book. I bet you have so much to say with such an interesting life.  You are never going to find someone to marry.  Who could possible match you after the life you have led?"  No lie... she said it just like that with hardly any pause between the sentences.  I laughed really hard.  It was just the way she said it... so sincere, so quirky and like every good joke almost too much truth.  My response came quickly, surprising me.  "I am pretty blessed to be 34 and had two careers that fit me so well."  That truly is amazing! Then another patient rolled in and our quiet, quirky, enlightening interlude was over.  As I watched her struggle to take off her socks I was in shock.  In a week I would forget this woman's name and yet her simple question gave me a bit of insight into my life that I had been missing.  I have often felt blessed in my second career... but it has been many years since I have felt anything remotely close to blessing from my first career.

Worst. Week. Ever.

It's been a long time since I have had a straight up bad week.  I mean there have been the PMS weeks and finals weeks and mad-at-the-world weeks... but this was a really bad week.  The kind country and blues songs are made of.  I thought maybe I was just grumpy... but then I exploded at the dog and started uncontrollably crying.  It was a legitimate explosion... dog has been puking for 4 days and has now transitioned into diarrhea and she jumped up and pulled down cheese that was half way back on the counter.  I screamed "NO" in the way the kid on The Christmas Story yells "FUDGE".  I completely scared the dog... and as I ran 25 feet to the kitchen I boiled over.  I actually said, "Seriously!!!  You have been sick for four days!!! AND now you want cheese!  Seriously!!!"  By the time I had gotten to "days" tears were streaming down my face and by the time I was back to the couch (cheese safely away from dog) I was in gut-wrenching-uncontrollable sobbing.  No lie. I started work on a Tuesday this week after a four day weekend.. so that seems like a good start right?  But Tuesday and Wednesday at work both OT rehab aides called off.  just like secretarys run the world... so rehab aids run the hospital... for two days I was lost while the dog I was watching was puking at home.  Then Thursday I took some sort of stupid pill... I couldn't put two words together that made sense... and I cried for the first time about the dog.  Then Friday... computers down and I killed a 97 year old lady.  I have rehashed it several times with different people... I treated her like all my other patients... she needed to use the toilet... we tried to stand up... that was all... and 15 minutes later she was having a heart attack.  I have literally done this hundreds of times with hundreds of patients... and this one has a heart attack. good news... puking diarrhea dog is playing fetch... huge step on the road to recovery.  Officially I am rambling and I have considered deleting this post eight times. But as this is the worst week ever... then having the worst post ever... just fits the theme.  Duck is better than rabbit... always.

Worth

At least once a week a patient verbalizes a belief about their worth.  It is usually, "I am not worth anything... anymore"  This makes me incredibly angry!!!  Angry at America who sees age as a weakness.  Angry at health care workers who give the impression that a patient is merely a cog in the machine of hospital.  Angry at myself for not knowing how to respond.  Angry at decay and death, which I don't believe is what God originally intended for this world.  Angry that a patient's body is giving out on them.  Angry... and sad... that a person expressing their felt worthlessness to a perfect stranger probably means that they have fought all their life against feeling worthless. Looking for worth in their body has failed.  Looking for worth in their career has retired.  Looking for worth in their relationships has died. Looking for worth in their money has been paid out in hospital bills.  Looking for worth in their ability and energy has laid down and said, "I am too tired to get up right now."   There I am, 84 and laying in a hospital bed... gorgeous white hair just like my grandma... will I have a sense of worth?  Will I feel the need to tell the first kind person I see that I am worthless?  If 50 year younger me walks into the room what would I say to my older self?