PONTIFICATIONS
the title says it all . . .
Pontifications
Sometimes I want to smack them, other times I just sit back and sigh. Or laugh.
If you choose as your life's work any of the psychology based social service careers, one of the first truths you are taught is that the success rate is very low. It seldom matters how much effort you put into your job, the facts are as follows:
35% of the people will not accept your evaluation. Something along the lines of if they don't see it/experience it, it doesn't exist.
20% will accept your evaluation but do nothing about it. They are frightened by either the diagnosis or the treatment, or both.
40% will accept your evaluation, make an honest attempt to implement changes, but stop before they achieve success.
And a mere 5% will accept your evaluation, jump into the work, and stick with it until the optimum conclusion.
I've always accepted these statistics as fact. Until recently. Three months ago I started working in a friend's family therapy practice. Every Saturday, for 3-4 hours, I test, evaluate, and try to help families whose children have developmental issues. Based upon a mere three months experience, I've but together my own statistics:
20% of the people will not accept what you have to say. I've sat across a desk from parents who told me straight to my face, "we don't see this at home. What else do you have?"
15% will accept your evaluation, but expect you to fix their child for them. They absolutely will not raise a finger when it comes to home assignments. "Isn't that what we pay you to do?" is a common remark out of their mouths.
55% will accept your evaluation, work hard in the beginning to implement changes, but stop when the work becomes too overwhelming or stressful for them.
10% will accept your evaluation, give you a heartfelt hug, thank you for your hard work, and never follow through on any of your recommendations. They are frightened and/or overwhelmed by the diagnosis, or just plane lazy; incapable of putting their child's best interests ahead of their own.
You will notice my statistics do not include a percentage showing success. I've yet to see it, but hope to one day soon.
At the end of my Saturday assignments, as I'm sitting at the computer entering information into a client's file, I will on occasion wonder to myself why I even bother. Why invest so much time and energy (both physical and emotional) into something that has a slim at best chance of success?
I do it because I know that a little something is better than nothing.
I do it because I believe if you have knowledge that can help another human being, you are required to share that knowledge.
I do it because these children did not ask to be born with these issues, or have them foisted upon them due to family or cultural circumstances. They are innocent victims.
I do it because I don't know how not to do it. And I am proud of that fact.
HURRY UP, 2009!
Skating towards a brand new year . . .
Today is Wednesday, December 31, 2008. New Year's Eve. Never in my life have I so anxiously awaited the coming of a new year.
For me, in the common vernacular, the majority of days from Thanksgiving 2007 up to this date sucked.
I can count on two hands the number of positive, edifying people and situations I experienced over the past 14 months.
The rest have been my personal variation of Hell.
Most of the negative I, sadly, am able to trace back to poor personal choices; very few were the direct result of happenstance.
Life lessons to be recognized, life lessons to be learned.
I'm not a person who puts much credence in either good luck or bad luck; I simply acknowledge that things happen. And yet, without hesitation, I will state that I believe they happen for a reason.
I'm not suggesting there is a great metaphysical purpose behind every action; I'm merely saying my personal belief is as follows: very little is random. Every choice we make, both the good and the bad, impacts on our daily lives. Cause and effect, if you will.
I will also state that, in a sub-atomic sized minority of cases, I believe random acts can take place; the "when bad things happen to good people" scenario.
So here I sit, typing these words and counting down the hours until 2009 appears.
And yet I ask myself the following question: if I believe that very little is random, if I believe that every choice we make impacts our lives, then why am I so anxiously looking ahead to a new year, the common representation of a fresh start? Why am I not beginning from this moment on to put all the negative people and situations behind me?
Because I am human. Because I need the classic symbol of a new beginning. Because for all my intellectualizing, I still want to believe in symbols and miracles.
Weather and maturity.
I grew up in the Midwest portion of the United States, specifically, Winnetka, Illinois.
Winnetka is located on the shores of Lake Michigan, and therefore winters in Winnetka can be brutal. Temperatures falling into the teens and single digits are common. Blizzards routinely drop 6 or more inches of snow at one time. At your peril, you forget to acknowledge the notorious wind chill factor. Wind chill factor is when you take into account how hard the wind is blowing and subtract it from the still-air temperature. What you end up with is a 20 degree day that feels like -30 degrees.
And yet, from early childhood to this very day, I admit to loving Winter. In fact, it is my favorite season. The brutal nature of the wind, snow, and cold doesn't annoy me.
Over the years, how I combated frigid weather has evolved from . . . well, let me explain:
The Early Years
My parents had me battling the elements in multiple layers of clothing.
Now, we're not talking about the Patagonia version of layering. No, I'm afraid I stepped outside my home on any given day looking rather like a long lost cousin of the Michelin Man. Or the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.
Before I was allowed to play in the snow, I had to put on long underwear, tights, knee socks, yet another pair of socks, pants, shirt, sweater, snow pants, snow jacket with hood, gloves, waterproof mittens, hat to go under my hood, and a long scarf to wrap around my neck and face. How I ever managed to run and play in the snow is still a mystery to me.
The Stupid Years
My middle school years were spent in Winnetka, but my high school years were spent in Massachutes.
Location made no difference as to how I handled winter weather; stupidity reigned supreme. When my hormones kicked in, any common sense I possessed flew out the window. Suddenly, looking cute was more important than preventing pneumonia or frost bite. It was not unusual for me to go out in just a fitted coat or jacket, gloves, and boots. On a very cold day, I would wrap a scarf around my neck and pull it up to cover my mouth and nose. Ear muffs, possibly, but it would depend upon what I had planned for the day. If I needed pretty hair, there was no way I would put those muffs on my head. And a hat--perish the thought.
My friends and I would have sworn on a stack of bibles that we were not cold.
We were liars . . . or delusional, at best.
A Glimmer Of Hope
Back in the Midwest for college.
I did my undergraduate work at Northwestern University, once again living along the shores of Lake Michigan. And yet again, facing brutal winter weather conditions.
As temperatures dipped into negative numbers due to 30 mile an hour winds, I trudged to classes in jackets, boots, pants, and a scarf. Hats, not often. Cute was still the operative word. On the rare occasion a fleeting thought of, "jeez, perhaps I should dress more warmly" would pass through my brain. Did wisdom and appropriate action follow? Nope. Rare and fleeting are the operative words.
No Denying the Truth Yet Still Working The Old Habits
Graduate school at Northwestern and the University of Chicago. Both campuses supposed fertile breeding grounds for intellectual development and common sense . . . . well, perhaps for all things educational, certainly not for all things personal.
I still fought blizzards and sub zero temperatures dressed in outer garments very similar to what I wore as an undergraduate. The only difference was I could no longer deny the truth. I was freezing.
With Age Comes Wisdom
I cannot pinpoint the exact time or place, or day or age, but there was a moment when I said to myself, "I am freezing to death," and I acted appropriately on that thought.
As I type these words, I happily admit I've come full circle. I am back to dressing in layers, but any resemblance to the Michelin Man or Mr. Stay Puft is nonexistent.
Lunch with Stanley
I had lunch with Stanley today, and it was the highlight of my, if I do say so myself, rather wonderful day. That tells you something, doesn't it?
I have known Stanley his entire life.
You know how you embed in your mind an image of a person, and for better or for worse, that is the image you carry with you throughout time? Well, my image of Stanley is of a little boy about five years old, walking over to the house in only his underwear and snow boots (yes, it was winter), carrying a tall, orange cup with lid and straw attached (hereto after referred to as Stanley's sippy cup), ringing the doorbell and asking for apple juice.
And yet, to listen to him today, discussing freshman year at college, his frat, his friends, and his clothing choices, well, it was illuminating. Stanley grew up to be the person I always hoped he would be--kindhearted, compassionate, thoughtful, humorous, with a just now coming to fruition work ethic in place. Stanley will make a wonderful life for himself. And that makes my heart sing.
Stanley and I had lunch at Barnaby's, one of the small handful of places on the NorthShore that serves decent food cooked to order at reasonable prices. I like the cozy atmosphere; just right for families and groups of friends. And I love the fact that it is almost self service: you walk up to the counter and place your order. You pay for your food, then you're given a ticket to collect your food when your number is called. Quick. Easy. Stress free.
Stanley and I talked at the table for over two hours, and I must say the time flew by--when I got back into the car and looked at the clock, I almost had a heart attack. It read 3:36pm. We met at 12:30.
Now, I'm sure you've done the math and realized that 12:30 to 3:30 is three hours, not two. Indeed it is. The clock in the car was off by an hour, which I only discovered when I rushed back home to get ready to go out once again. Sheesh.
I have known Stanley his entire life.
You know how you embed in your mind an image of a person, and for better or for worse, that is the image you carry with you throughout time? Well, my image of Stanley is of a little boy about five years old, walking over to the house in only his underwear and snow boots (yes, it was winter), carrying a tall, orange cup with lid and straw attached (hereto after referred to as Stanley's sippy cup), ringing the doorbell and asking for apple juice.
And yet, to listen to him today, discussing freshman year at college, his frat, his friends, and his clothing choices, well, it was illuminating. Stanley grew up to be the person I always hoped he would be--kindhearted, compassionate, thoughtful, humorous, with a just now coming to fruition work ethic in place. Stanley will make a wonderful life for himself. And that makes my heart sing.
Stanley and I had lunch at Barnaby's, one of the small handful of places on the NorthShore that serves decent food cooked to order at reasonable prices. I like the cozy atmosphere; just right for families and groups of friends. And I love the fact that it is almost self service: you walk up to the counter and place your order. You pay for your food, then you're given a ticket to collect your food when your number is called. Quick. Easy. Stress free.
Stanley and I talked at the table for over two hours, and I must say the time flew by--when I got back into the car and looked at the clock, I almost had a heart attack. It read 3:36pm. We met at 12:30.
Now, I'm sure you've done the math and realized that 12:30 to 3:30 is three hours, not two. Indeed it is. The clock in the car was off by an hour, which I only discovered when I rushed back home to get ready to go out once again. Sheesh.
Thanksgiving 2008.
This year I did not go back East to spend Thanksgiving with my brother and his family. And neither did they come here.
This year I spent Thanksgiving with local friends instead of family. It was an unusual approach to what is for me the ultimate family holiday, but given my present set of circumstances, I am eternally thankful, and grateful, for my friends.
As many of you know, this past February I went to the emergency room because I wasn't able to catch my breath in the frigid outside air. I spent two days in the hospital having every test under the sun performed on me, the end result being there is absolutely nothing wrong with my lungs; I apparently inhaled a blast of cold air that caused me to not be able to catch my breath.
While in the hospital the doctors discovered I have very low levels of the "good cholesterol", which is even more dangerous than having high levels of "bad cholesterol". I spoke with a dietitian during my stay who gave me an appropriate diet to follow, and I was prescribed medication to work in conjunction with the diet. And of course, I was told to work harder at maintaining a healthy weight. Sometimes I forget to eat a meal, and well, you can guess what happens next.
I came home from the hospital exhausted and feeling lousy. I tried to call my brother, but he did not return my calls. After two weeks of calling him and his wife, I finally got my brother on the phone.
Long story short, in the third quarter of 2007 my sister-in-law forged my name on a power of attorney (she had been my accountant for many years), and liquidated, then lost, 80% of my net worth. My brother discovered what she did right after I left him the first message about being in the hospial; he told her about my hospitalization and she confessed everything. We are now in litigation over the matter, which breaks my heart, but it has to be.
My nieces and nephews know what happened, but the majority of them are, naturally, siding with their parents in this matter. They no longer speak to me because I am taking their parents to court. I hope in time that will change.
Over the past nine months my health has been on a roller coaster.
I had a difficult time adjusting to medications, so I've gone through at at least a dozen different kinds. If a medication has a side effect, I develop it.
But the worst is that I was given the wrong dosages, and had my kidneys affected because of the medical mistakes.
As I mentioned earlier, I felt awful much of the time. I would call the prescribing physician's office with my symptoms, and I was not taken seriously. I was told it was either the result of not getting enough rest, or anxiety. Or lack or exercise. I never once got to the doctor; his nurse fielded all the calls and told me she spoke with the doctor about the matter.
Lack of rest I could believe, as I have had insomnia off and on for many years.
Lack of exercise, ok, I could accept that reason.
But anxiety? I am not an anxious person.
Finally, after a slew of calls and a visit to see the doctor which resulted in a thorough blood test, it was discovered I had a life threatening level of potassium which in turn affected my kidney function. I am now seeing a nephrologist, who put me on something akin to "kidney rehab", which means I have to eliminate all sodium, watch my protein intake, and stay away from all dairy until my kidneys completely heal, which, Thank God, they will.
And yet, through all the family and health dramas, through all the pain, I have been uplifted and maintained by my friendships. A day never went by that someone didn't call me to see how I was doing, or to offer help or advice. I never felt so alone, yet paradoxically, at the same time, I never felt so loved.
Losing one's family is heartbreaking. It is a pain unlike any other. And having your health jeopardized is frightening. But through all the drama, I learned a very valuable lesson.
I learned I am not what I possess, but what I know. And what I know is this: I am much loved.
This year I spent Thanksgiving with local friends instead of family. It was an unusual approach to what is for me the ultimate family holiday, but given my present set of circumstances, I am eternally thankful, and grateful, for my friends.
As many of you know, this past February I went to the emergency room because I wasn't able to catch my breath in the frigid outside air. I spent two days in the hospital having every test under the sun performed on me, the end result being there is absolutely nothing wrong with my lungs; I apparently inhaled a blast of cold air that caused me to not be able to catch my breath.
While in the hospital the doctors discovered I have very low levels of the "good cholesterol", which is even more dangerous than having high levels of "bad cholesterol". I spoke with a dietitian during my stay who gave me an appropriate diet to follow, and I was prescribed medication to work in conjunction with the diet. And of course, I was told to work harder at maintaining a healthy weight. Sometimes I forget to eat a meal, and well, you can guess what happens next.
I came home from the hospital exhausted and feeling lousy. I tried to call my brother, but he did not return my calls. After two weeks of calling him and his wife, I finally got my brother on the phone.
Long story short, in the third quarter of 2007 my sister-in-law forged my name on a power of attorney (she had been my accountant for many years), and liquidated, then lost, 80% of my net worth. My brother discovered what she did right after I left him the first message about being in the hospial; he told her about my hospitalization and she confessed everything. We are now in litigation over the matter, which breaks my heart, but it has to be.
My nieces and nephews know what happened, but the majority of them are, naturally, siding with their parents in this matter. They no longer speak to me because I am taking their parents to court. I hope in time that will change.
Over the past nine months my health has been on a roller coaster.
I had a difficult time adjusting to medications, so I've gone through at at least a dozen different kinds. If a medication has a side effect, I develop it.
But the worst is that I was given the wrong dosages, and had my kidneys affected because of the medical mistakes.
As I mentioned earlier, I felt awful much of the time. I would call the prescribing physician's office with my symptoms, and I was not taken seriously. I was told it was either the result of not getting enough rest, or anxiety. Or lack or exercise. I never once got to the doctor; his nurse fielded all the calls and told me she spoke with the doctor about the matter.
Lack of rest I could believe, as I have had insomnia off and on for many years.
Lack of exercise, ok, I could accept that reason.
But anxiety? I am not an anxious person.
Finally, after a slew of calls and a visit to see the doctor which resulted in a thorough blood test, it was discovered I had a life threatening level of potassium which in turn affected my kidney function. I am now seeing a nephrologist, who put me on something akin to "kidney rehab", which means I have to eliminate all sodium, watch my protein intake, and stay away from all dairy until my kidneys completely heal, which, Thank God, they will.
And yet, through all the family and health dramas, through all the pain, I have been uplifted and maintained by my friendships. A day never went by that someone didn't call me to see how I was doing, or to offer help or advice. I never felt so alone, yet paradoxically, at the same time, I never felt so loved.
Losing one's family is heartbreaking. It is a pain unlike any other. And having your health jeopardized is frightening. But through all the drama, I learned a very valuable lesson.
I learned I am not what I possess, but what I know. And what I know is this: I am much loved.
A Gift Worth More Than It's Weight In Gold.
On Friday, March 31, M. turned three years old. And on that special day M. had lunch with one of his favorite people, the person he calls "nice boy Bror".
M. and I picked-up Bror at his home, and together the three of us drove to Champs, one of M.'s favorite restaurants. As we made our way to Champs, M. and Bror chatted on a bit . . . but mostly they listened to the story of "Nemo". M. brought with him his talking "Nemo" book, and felt compelled to share every single page of the book with Bror.
"Listen to this", he would say to Bror as he pushed a colored button. A voice would read the words corresponding to the open page, and a "beep" would sound when it was time to move on to the next page.
Over and over and over again Bror heard the story of Nemo. And never once did he look or act bored.
When we reached Champs, Bror helped M. out of his car seat and walked hand in hand with him into the restaurant. After we were seated, Bror realized the host did not leave a children's menu for M. Bror got up, walked over to the hostess station, and brought back the children's menu. As well as a few crayons for M.
Now, let me tell you, Bror has a steel-like grip in his fingers from playing competitive tennis. And sometimes he forgets just how strong he is.
Bror picked up a crayon to color along with M., and "snap", he broke the crayon into two pieces.
He picked up a second crayon and once again, "snap", another broken crayon.
M. got upset, and what did Bror do? He told M. it was going to be O.K., and walked back to the hostess station where he gathered up a handful of crayons. He came back to the table with his cache of crayons, sat down, and once again started chatting and coloring with M., as if nothing unusual had happened.
Bror did all this without my having to say a word.
We ordered our food, and the three of us had a wonderful time eating and chatting and laughing together.
When the meal was over, we walked back to the car and Bror took charge of getting M. into his car seat.
When we arrived at Bror's house, he asked if I could pull up to the garage and to please wait one minute. I thought this was a bit strange, but I went along with his wishes. Down the driveway and up to the garage we drove. Bror hopped out of the car and headed towards the garage. He punched in the security code, the door opened, and he walked inside. In a matter of seconds he emerged with the biggest smile on his face. And in his arms he held a gift for M.
I could tell by the size and shape of the gift exactly what was inside. And I could not believe my eyes. Bror walked over to M.'s side of the car, opened the door, and said to M., "Happy Birthday, M. This is for you". M. took the gift and seemed not to know what to do next. He just kept staring and smiling at Bror. Finally, Bror opened the gift and said, "M., this is one of my old tennis racquets, and this is it's case, and this is a tennis ball. I wanted you to have these things, because I know you like tennis".
M. just beamed.
I almost cried.
Bror won many tournaments with that racquet. I know it held many special memories for him. And yet, he gave it to M., a little three year old boy who will not be able to understand for many years the depth of meaning that gift contained.
But I understood. And I was never so proud of Bror as I was at that moment.
I have known Bror his entire life, and he never ceases to touch my heart. People talk about teenagers today, and how rude and arrogant they are to everyone around them.
In rebuttal, I offer Bror.