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.