A Rambling Meditation on my Job

Well, today marks the end of my first week at my new job as a runner for Lexington Family Practice. I am exhausted physically, but I feel a contentment. Perhaps it is this small bit of security I have been given after months of feeling up in the air. Or, perhaps it is the feeling of being back in a medical office. Most people dread that visit to the doctor. I can't say that I enjoy being a patient either, but I do enjoy working in medical offices. Something about it refreshes my spirit.

I have been offered two jobs that would guarantee better pay than my current position. I would have my own desk and my own computer (something that I am not afforded at the Family Practice), but I couldn't accept them. When I think about the perks of these other office jobs, I wince a little and wonder if I've made the right choice. And after I consider everything, I think I have.

The promise of better pay and perks is always tempting. I think a great deal about money, a habit I picked up from my mother, as I think I mentioned in some earlier post. I have never worked at a job that paid well. Athens was not the sort of town that had really good jobs. You accepted anything that paid and you liked it because you didn't have a choice. There didn't seem to be much of a choice for me here in Columbia until just recently. Now, this relatively unskilled Office Space reject who has never made $10 an hour in her life is being offered jobs that have a starting wage of at least $12/hr.

I feel like an idiot for turning these offers down. But the truth is, I tire of those jobs so quickly. I can't help it. I don't have a head for business at all. I have been born with the soul of...well, I was going to say an artist, but that sounds so cliche and stupid. I have never been satisfied with office work, not unless there is something behind it. Something that makes it worth the mindless punching of the keyboard or calculator. Many of the places I've worked require a passion to grow a business that is not my own. The law office where I worked in Ohio occasionally provided a spiritual draw. There were people who were genuinely in need and, in rare moments, we were able to help them. More often than not, though, what we could do, the solace and sanctuary provided by the law, was not enough. Some of the most heartbreaking moments in my recent memory occurred at that office. I will never forget the look that a woman gave me as I sat in to witness the signing of her will. It was such a strange look and because I had no idea that she was dying, it disconcerted me - I didn't know what could prompt a look like that. A month later, when we received the news that she had died and we would be handling her estate, I realized what that look was. It was a look of acceptance, desperation, envy and perhaps pity. I remember how her husband fell apart in our hands. He called over and over to ask the same questions. We gave him the answers slowly each time and spoke to him like a child.

There was the case of the aging father who created a pitifully small trust fund to ensure the continued financial care of his mentally disabled son after his passing. He was not in bad health. We told him there was still time to put money into the fund, but he knew he would never make enough to create the kind of savings that would keep his son comfortable. One by one he blotted his other children and stepchildren out of his will in order to direct their inheritance into the trust. We adjusted and readjusted his will as he sat in the conference room, waiting. Each time we brought him a new copy, he would wring his hands and make one more change. His disabled son sat with him, smiling the entire time. The attorney and I joked with the son, trying to enjoy his laughter and hoping the father would find some joy in it, too. This son, the youngest of his siblings, was his father's namesake.

There was also the paperwork that I was forced to complete to ensure that our clients with DUI's could get their licenses back for "driving to and from work." This kind of paperwork served as a quick way to make a buck or two. It also served as a favor to our clients. Most DUI's, underage consumption charges and the like were thrown at us by our big dollar clientele or by so called friends of the attorney who liked to play the "scratch my back" game. Their idiot children kept cash in the till.

And then there were the eviction notices that we handed out like candy canes at Christmas.

There were so many days that I cried the entire way home. I cried and grew bitter, realizing that the law is the last place to look for justice. I think the attorney that I worked for realized the same thing a long time ago, but refused to admit it to himself. This denial took seemed to only add to his stress. The toll was obvious, not only in that he had suffered from a stress-related stroke, but in certain obsessive tendencies that he developed, and which seemed to grow worse with age.

One day, while he was in one of his good moods, he tried to thank me for something. He began to say "thank you," and couldn't stop. Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou He must have said it like that for ten seconds straight. It made my blood run cold. His head ticked slightly to the side each time he started the "thank you" over again. It was always hard not to take his bad moods personally, especially since I, too, was under duress from eight to five every day. But after that episode, I found it a little easier to simply pull the receiver away from my ear as he screamed at me from the other end of the line. It was easier, better, just to let him scream. Better to let him spew his garbage on me than to have to rush him to the emergency room for a second time. Better than his chilling Howard Hughes impressions.

There was a bird that frequently flew into the windows of that office that I wanted to write about while I was there. It was a little red cardinal. Sometimes it was accompanied by another bird which looked to be a cardinal, but since it had all of the feathers on its head, it was hard to tell. Most mornings beginning at about 8:30, our little winged friend would begin his routine. bam...Bam...BAM would sound from the conference room, his favorite place to come knocking. Everyone in the office was surprised that this poor bird lived day after day. He slammed himself into the windows as hard as he could and nothing that we did - not closing the blinds, not turning off the lights - ever stopped him. There was no direct light that hit that window, I don't think he saw his reflection in the glass. What drew him to this daily ritual no one could figure out. Sometimes, when he was tired of beating his brains out, he would sit on the sill and peck gently, a knock that always drew me in to see him. I felt his spiritual significance. This bird was a metaphor for something, but I couldn't write about him while I was there. I had no idea what he stood for. It wasn't until I had left that I realized that this bird was Bill, the attorney. He seemed like such a nice creature when he was quiet and thoughtful, but he was bent on killing himself and that was that.

I decided this time around that I'm tired of beating my head against the wall. I have accepted a job I think I can love. Of course there is bureaucracy in medicine, we have drug reps from all the major pharmaceutical companies in the office everyday. But we don't accept their clipboards and pens. We let them buy breakfast and lunch for the entire office and we take their samples if we feel like it.

I am nothing but a runner. I make little more than minimum wage. Today one of the staff brought her baby granddaughter into the office to show her off. The tiny girl had just come in for an examination and was diagnosed with an ear infection. We had expected her to be crying and screaming with pain, but she smiled at everyone.

I have nothing but the feeling that I participate (however minimally) in the maintenance of Life. It is wonderful.

One of those days

Well, I had what I thought was a fabulous post on what it means to be an American descendant of an Irish ancestor. It was about how my family sold out, gave up their Catholicism, the Gaelic language, even sold their tartan and became Anglicans to please the English colonizers, to preserve some personal or real property that is no longer in our family's possession (we don't even know what it was they were trying to protect), and how all of this knowledge shaped my year of study abroad in Belfast, NI. BUT, there was some stupid glitch in my computer and the post, which was impossibly long, was wiped out. Not even the automatic "save" feature saved it.

I spent hours working on that post. It was beautiful. It was going to be the first in a series of posts centering on my study abroad trip to Northern Ireland, both as a belated tribute to St. Patrick's day and as a tribute to the dear friends I made in Belfast. I hope to see you all soon in Charleston!

I was going to try to rewrite it, but today is one of those days. I am laying here in bed, typing all of this when I promised Elisha I would be resting. I am trying to fight off a nasty cold by tomorrow, the first day of my new job (Yay!!). I don't have enough energy for a do-over post and yet, I worked so long today that to post nothing would be to accept utter defeat.

So, here goes, I'm going to post every thing I know about starfish (first thing that came to mind):

- starfish digest their prey outside of their body by dropping their stomachs out of their mouths and enveloping their prey. Stomach acids then dissolve prey and the stomach is pulled back into the body.

-starfish can regenerate lost limbs

-starfish have no natural predators. (I'm pretty sure, anyway)

-there are 1,800 different species of starfish.

-starfish are echinoderms, not fish.

- starfish have tiny eyes at the end of each of "arm", the eye allows them to see movement and distinguish between light and dark

- starfish are never found in fresh water.

-starfish use their suction cup-like tube feet to pry open the shells of clams and oysters, its main prey.


Okay, so I looked some of those up on a website for elementary school kids. That's all for now.


I suppose I'll just have to start my Belfast blog series tomorrow. Right now, I am in desperate need of a shower, and some sleep.

Loss and Real Loss

Well, I haven't written anything lately. I have had a few things in mind to write, but to be perfectly honest. I was just too depressed.

You see, Friday, February 26th, my temp job ended. It wasn't the best job, but it paid the bills and wasn't a complete drudgery. It was an office job at a title insurance corporation. I couldn't have worked there long term because I have too many ideals. Even if they had offered (and I had accepted) a permanent position, I would have been plotting my escape from the place. I cannot work for a corporation or organization whose main purpose is to make money. I do like to make money, but I prefer that the paycheck is an added bonus to an already rewarding occupation. And, for me anyway, an occupation is only truly rewarding when it's chief end is to do good in some capacity. One could say that a title insurance company does do good in some capacity. My response to this would be: Yes, but... Yes, title insurance does protect the bank and sometimes the buyer of a new home against law suits if the title search performed on a piece of property is faulty, but this is not a performance of good for goodness' sake, it is merely symbiosis. You must pay for the protection you receive. They make money, and you are insured against losing money in a lawsuit. Each party's goals are met. It is the relationship of a clown fish and an anemone.

I don't want to be a clown fish. I feel like enough of a clown. I need something better to do.

Regardless, however, of my dissatisfaction with the position I was upset when I found out that I was losing it. Since Elisha is back in school, I have been the primary provider and since job hunting in Columbia has turned out to feel a little more like snipe hunting, the little bit of security I felt in that temporary position made up for most of its flaws. It wasn't so much the loss of the job as the loss of both the solid routine and ease of knowing that we could pay our bills that devastated me. I have always been very uneasy about money. I grew up poor, not destitute, just poor. I lived in a community of poor people and for the most part, no one really noticed or cared how little we actually had. There were a few who did care, of course. There were also a few who really cared. And then, there was my mother, a woman who had grown up in real poverty, in no-running-water-or-electricity-eating-jiffy-pop-popcorn-for-a week-straight-because-there-was-no money-for-food poverty.

My mother is a loan officer in a bank. She is well-liked and everyone whom I have met who has worked with her has praised her astuteness as a banker. Once, she was promoted to the position of branch manager, but the position took up time that she was used to spending with her kids in the evenings and so she demoted herself. She hasn't really looked for career advancement since that time. She is only lower middle class, but she has come a very long way. She never forgets this. Not for one moment. Money, her lack of it, her possible return to destitution, is always at the forefront of her mind. Her fear rubbed off on me. I am terrified to be uncertain about money. I am a person who simultaneously hates the mindless pursuit of money and is terrified of being really poor.

So, I lost my job. I was sad to lose the routine that made life in Columbia seem normal, I was freaked out about money. And, because it was Friday, Elisha was in Washington, D.C. for his weekly seminar at the Folger Shakespeare Library. I was alone.

I laid in bed for nearly an hour that afternoon whining and crying to myself. I tried to call Elisha so that I could whine to him, but he was in class and didn't pick up. As I was fiddling with my phone I pressed a button (what button I couldn't tell you, I'm really not tech savvy in the least) and my phone asked me this question: End All?

And people say God doesn't have a sense of humor.