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.