I generally pride myself on being somewhat of a gardener. There is nothing better than digging in the dirt, feeling the warm sun on your back, and at the end of the day sitting on your porch with a refreshing beverage admiring the work you’ve done. I also don’t mind the occasional sore muscles the next day from reconstituting the soil and mulching. In a lot of ways, playing in the garden is my version of going to church. I feel whole.
When I was younger I remember the dreaded yearly visits to Western Gardens with my mom and Ginny. Mom planted formal gardens complete with alternating orange and yellow marigolds along the boarder. Ginny was more free flowing and tried her hand at veggies, herbs, and wildflowers. As a result of the two influences, I like a natural garden and I completely 100% without a doubt ban all marigolds. They always depressed me; kind of like 4:00 in the afternoon. I don’t know why I have an aversion to the 4:00 – 5:00 witching hour, but I always have.
I spent a ton of time trimming wild honeysuckle mounds and weeding my parent’s garden after break-ups. You could generally tell if I had hit a rough patch in my love life because the yard was immaculate. After one particularly ugly break-up in 2000 I weeded their lawn. Yes, their lawn. By hand. I’m not talking about just the dandelions. I’m talking the crabgrass, morning glory, violets, henbit, sorrel, and the dreaded spurge. My poor mom has been trying to get grass to grow in my weeded spots ever since.
When I bought my first house my first summer was tormented with boyfriend issues. As a result I grew fantastic zucchini, eggplant, broccoli, sage, thyme, basil, and tomatoes. I bought tons of good top soil and spent hours upon hours with my shovel tilling the garden. I had so much produce I finally had to invite random family friends to stop by and harvest their own. I bought my first lawn mower – which proved to be entertainment for all the men on my street to watch me attempt to maneuver it up the steep hill. I had never operated one of these things before given my brother’s penchant for the task. My neighbors would seriously come outside with a beer to watch. After that humiliation I practiced with my weed eater over at my parent’s house. As a result, my parent’s garage needed to be repainted because I had whacked all of the paint off.
Moving to Indy I had to downgrade my garden adventures to a small patch along our sidewalk and pots. That year we made a container Victorian twilight garden. It was magical. Think of tons of pots on a deck with highly contrasted and variegated foliage of texture and color – most of the colors being pale yellows, pinks, purples, and whites. As twilight would approach, the blossoms and contrasts seemed to float and glow. Add a little candlelight and wine or a homebrew for a perfect way to wind down from a hard day.
We haven’t had the opportunity to plant our pots again until this year. Selling our place in Indy then moving in and out of Boston mid-summer kind of put a damper on that. But this year? We’re ready to go! Or are we?
I didn’t exactly grasp how being 7 months pregnant would impact that whole gardening thing. After all, those pioneer women were still planting crops and trekking down the Oregon Trail in their third trimester! Being an ex-athlete I have a great ability in tuning out whatever might be aching until after the event was over. Come to think of it, maybe it’s not such a “great ability.” I typically overestimate my capabilities and pay the price later. I don’t notice that I’m limping, grabbing my ribcage, or stretching awkwardly to compensate for my 2008 back surgery until I’m almost done with the project. The rest of my evening is spent laying on ice with some sort of painkiller on board, barely moving while J either says, "I told you so," or "Why can't you just take care of yourself like normal people? I'd like my wife to be around when we're 70."
I’m trying to learn how to ask for help. What’s difficult is then realizing the timeline is out of my control. I realize I cannot reconstitute the topsoil, move the bags of potting soil, crawl around on my knees weeding, or lift the pots once their filled with flowers. It sucks. I try to sit on the porch calmly and fight the urge to pick up a rake or trowel on a daily basis. In order to calm my inner grasshopper I think I’ll go try and prep the nursery for painting instead. Really?!? Because moving furniture into the center of the room and crawling around with painters tape is easier?!? Ok, scratch that idea. What about doing the floors? You know, vacuum, swiffer, mop the suckers? Oh yeah! Because the vacuum is so light and easy to maneuver up and down the stairs. Ok, so I'll scrub the bathtub. Have you tried leaning over a basketball to scrub the bathtub recently? Add in a kicking squirming basketball. It doesn't work very well.
Today I had a whole conversation with J about limits and what constitutes being “active” during your last trimester. Sad to admit it, but I think I figured it out. We went to have lunch outside the hospital at the park which involves traveling down a hill. For one, my balance sucks. I almost fell a couple times. This is a new development. Then after lunch (the small lunch due to the compressed stomach) I had to get back up the hill…with limited lung capacity. It was a small hill. I sounded like I had advanced COPD by the time I literally heaved myself up it.
My dream for Memorial Day weekend was to conquer raking the yard of all maple whirligigs, getting the topsoil and grass seed in, planting more pots and flower beds, ordering mulch to be delivered, cleaning the house top to bottom, AND priming the nursery. I’m beginning to think I’m a little overambitious. Maybe I'll settle for doing a load of laundry...that is, if I can carry the basket to the basement without falling ass over teakettle.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Friday, May 21, 2010
The Two Extremes - A Preview
I always knew that we would fall into one of two parenting camps: the over-protective’s or the shake-it-offs. Given our pediatric medical backgrounds I could see us wrapping the kid in bubble wrap, helmets, various athletic pads, and using Styrofoam to seal off any gaps we might have missed. “Ok, honey, have fun getting the mail! Remember Stranger Danger!” I could also envision the opposite with us glancing at the kid scraped up and bones broken after attempting a new trick on the homemade skateboard ramp, “You’re fine! You have an airway, you are breathing, and you definitely have circulation! I mean look at all that blood! Just grab a paper towel and add pressure to that gaping wound to stop the bleeding.” I always worried we would swing like a pendulum between the extremes without any rhyme or reason.
Edgar gave us a little preview of our lives as parents. However, handling crisis and the art of preparation call for two different approaches. In the heat of the moment of a crisis, I completely over-react – see the entry about his frienemy. J handles things with logic and calm while I’m hysterical. It’s good to have a balance. Then we take the Boy Scout method of Be Prepared. J’s style is to completely over-plan and safeguard against the worst possible scenario. The planning effort can sometimes be completely overwhelming and gets us stuck with no movement what-so-ever. Whereas I figure you can only plan for so much and then just deal with it. If you want something done, ask me. If you want something done well, ask my husband.
Let’s skip to our crib shopping experience, shall we? After reading something in a baby book about how you need to get your crib ordered by week 20 of pregnancy, I now had black and white proof that we needed to stop pretending we’re ostriches with our heads in the sand. By week 21 we began to browse baby stores. It was over-whelming to say the least. Do you get a convertible lifetime crib that turns into a full sized bed for little Jimmy to go off to college with or do you do the standard crib? Will the lifetime crib stand up to Jimmy’s gumming and teething? Well, that depends upon the wood. If it’s pine, then forget it. Do you need dove tail joints on your kid’s dresser? Really?
Our first visit ended badly as J was on a verbal rant about how much crap do you really need for a baby? Really? Specific baby nail clippers? And don’t get him started on baby monitors! “We don’t need no stinkin’ monitor! We grew up just fine in the 1970’s without them!” he exclaimed. (Yes, however we also had higher rates of SIDS and my own mother’s sanity would have been preserved knowing my colicky self was just fine wailing away in my crib while she went outside to take a 5 minute mental health break.) I told him that he didn’t need to get a monitor, but I would be getting one thank you very much. (His tune has changed once he realized he could set up internet nanny cams on our wireless home network. Tech nerd porn at it’s finest!)
On the second visit to the baby store, we literally closed them out after 3 hours of browsing, taking brochures on the crib manufacturers, and asking about the manufacturers recall rates in the past 5 years. We were not your typical pregnant couple. Other couples looked at the cribs and remarked, “Gee, that one is pretty. Should we order it?” And then there was us. While I’m reading the consumer reviews about quality, customer service, and which brand had the largest recall in 2007 for lead paint from China, J’s shaking the crib all over the place to see how sturdy it is. We had three different sales reps come up and ask, “Can I help you?” Nah, we’ve got it. I think they were more worried about us abusing the floor models than customer service. Like I said, we closed them out. Music was turned off and they had to unlock the doors to let us out.
On the third visit, weeks later with my panic increasing about timeframes, we were determined to narrow our selections down. Again, it took us two or more hours to settle on 3 different possibilities and finally place an order for a rocker/glider. In my mind, this was a must-have. After all, it will be my tired butt that is playing dairy farm in the middle of the night. It better be damn comfortable, durable, and stylish in addition to all that quality stuff J prioritizes. Again, music was off and lights were also in the process of being turned off when we finalized the sale. At least we provided someone a nice commission check.
Our fourth visit occurred last weekend. We went directly after work on Friday. The same sales girl was there who sold us our rocker and she remembered us.
“Have you made a decision?”
“Well, we’ve narrowed it down to these three.”
“Are there any questions I can help answer?”
“Nope, we’re just debating.”
Fast forward through the next 2.5 hours where J is continually knocking on the two floor models to check on the wood density, crawling underneath to check on the mattress support, and opening drawers repeatedly on the dressers. I pretty much just sat in the floor model rocker watching him asking how I could be helpful. Our perky sales girl stopped by 3 more times before we decided we were ready. By the time I brought her over, J was interested in potentially ordering a crib from one company and the dresser from another as long as the wood finishes matched. This of course, prompted more debating about styles of furniture and philosophical references to how style trends come and go as she walked away. And then the music turned off…again. We made a quick decision – which would have been my original choice by the way, 2.5 hours ago. And then we had to decide upon the mattress. Really? Natural organically certified bamboo or the fancy spring/foam flip mattress? I chose the easy to clean in the middle of the night plastic covered one. J lovingly caressed the bamboo green mattress and conceded.
Edgar gave us a little preview of our lives as parents. However, handling crisis and the art of preparation call for two different approaches. In the heat of the moment of a crisis, I completely over-react – see the entry about his frienemy. J handles things with logic and calm while I’m hysterical. It’s good to have a balance. Then we take the Boy Scout method of Be Prepared. J’s style is to completely over-plan and safeguard against the worst possible scenario. The planning effort can sometimes be completely overwhelming and gets us stuck with no movement what-so-ever. Whereas I figure you can only plan for so much and then just deal with it. If you want something done, ask me. If you want something done well, ask my husband.
Let’s skip to our crib shopping experience, shall we? After reading something in a baby book about how you need to get your crib ordered by week 20 of pregnancy, I now had black and white proof that we needed to stop pretending we’re ostriches with our heads in the sand. By week 21 we began to browse baby stores. It was over-whelming to say the least. Do you get a convertible lifetime crib that turns into a full sized bed for little Jimmy to go off to college with or do you do the standard crib? Will the lifetime crib stand up to Jimmy’s gumming and teething? Well, that depends upon the wood. If it’s pine, then forget it. Do you need dove tail joints on your kid’s dresser? Really?
Our first visit ended badly as J was on a verbal rant about how much crap do you really need for a baby? Really? Specific baby nail clippers? And don’t get him started on baby monitors! “We don’t need no stinkin’ monitor! We grew up just fine in the 1970’s without them!” he exclaimed. (Yes, however we also had higher rates of SIDS and my own mother’s sanity would have been preserved knowing my colicky self was just fine wailing away in my crib while she went outside to take a 5 minute mental health break.) I told him that he didn’t need to get a monitor, but I would be getting one thank you very much. (His tune has changed once he realized he could set up internet nanny cams on our wireless home network. Tech nerd porn at it’s finest!)
On the second visit to the baby store, we literally closed them out after 3 hours of browsing, taking brochures on the crib manufacturers, and asking about the manufacturers recall rates in the past 5 years. We were not your typical pregnant couple. Other couples looked at the cribs and remarked, “Gee, that one is pretty. Should we order it?” And then there was us. While I’m reading the consumer reviews about quality, customer service, and which brand had the largest recall in 2007 for lead paint from China, J’s shaking the crib all over the place to see how sturdy it is. We had three different sales reps come up and ask, “Can I help you?” Nah, we’ve got it. I think they were more worried about us abusing the floor models than customer service. Like I said, we closed them out. Music was turned off and they had to unlock the doors to let us out.
On the third visit, weeks later with my panic increasing about timeframes, we were determined to narrow our selections down. Again, it took us two or more hours to settle on 3 different possibilities and finally place an order for a rocker/glider. In my mind, this was a must-have. After all, it will be my tired butt that is playing dairy farm in the middle of the night. It better be damn comfortable, durable, and stylish in addition to all that quality stuff J prioritizes. Again, music was off and lights were also in the process of being turned off when we finalized the sale. At least we provided someone a nice commission check.
Our fourth visit occurred last weekend. We went directly after work on Friday. The same sales girl was there who sold us our rocker and she remembered us.
“Have you made a decision?”
“Well, we’ve narrowed it down to these three.”
“Are there any questions I can help answer?”
“Nope, we’re just debating.”
Fast forward through the next 2.5 hours where J is continually knocking on the two floor models to check on the wood density, crawling underneath to check on the mattress support, and opening drawers repeatedly on the dressers. I pretty much just sat in the floor model rocker watching him asking how I could be helpful. Our perky sales girl stopped by 3 more times before we decided we were ready. By the time I brought her over, J was interested in potentially ordering a crib from one company and the dresser from another as long as the wood finishes matched. This of course, prompted more debating about styles of furniture and philosophical references to how style trends come and go as she walked away. And then the music turned off…again. We made a quick decision – which would have been my original choice by the way, 2.5 hours ago. And then we had to decide upon the mattress. Really? Natural organically certified bamboo or the fancy spring/foam flip mattress? I chose the easy to clean in the middle of the night plastic covered one. J lovingly caressed the bamboo green mattress and conceded.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Prodgeny Returns
One of my dearest friends has a floor to ceiling framed reproduction of Rembrandt’s Return of the Prodigal Son in his office. Seriously it takes up a full wall. It’s ironic that he selected this painting considering all of the strife that later ensued in his relationship with his son.
When I stopped writing last year it was because I needed a moment of pause…or months of pause to be precise. The blog has been an outlet for me to process my experiences, thoughts, and beliefs. Most of these have been primarily shaped by my upbringing which is why my family makes many guest appearances along the way. The story I tell is mine. It’s my perception and what I chose to accept into my own mythological life story. It’s biased, one sided, and in that sense very self-centered.
It’s almost been a year since I traveled home to extend an olive branch to my father; my own version of the return of the prodigal son. But instead of following the parable in the Bible, my father did not slaughter the calf and celebrate my return. Instead he said I had a “poisoned pen,” told me he didn’t like me, I wasn’t a friend, and wished me the best of luck with my life. I was then compared to my brother and how he treats my father, thus adding to the distance and triangulation. Agreeing to his terms of playing the part of daughter where he would interact with me at Sunday dinners on a superficial level, we operated like this the rest of the painful 5 day visit. I had been emotionally disowned and abandoned by my father. In many ways I had created what I most feared. For the next 7 months we did not speak. Not on my birthday, not on Thanksgiving, and not on Christmas.
It was just too much for me to handle. I had hit what Seth Grogan calls The Dip. “Quit the wrong stuff, Stick with the right stuff, Have the guts to do one or the other.” I needed time to figure this stuff out.
And then things shifted big time for me. Not like I had enough on my plate by starting a new job and getting settled in a new town, we also decided to try for a baby. We succeeded.
10 weeks into the pregnancy we decided to return home, although with great trepidation. It was at that time we planned to announce the happy addition to our families. I tried to remain open and play out the moment of revelation with my parents. Would I get a cool congratulations? Another “best of luck?” I tried my best to keep my expectations low out of self-protection. I couldn’t have predicted what happened. My father jumped off of the couch with tears in his eyes to congratulate us, warm hugs, and, “Thank you. This seriously is the best gift you’ve ever given us.” They then commented that over breakfast that very morning they discussed how old my eggs were. If I'm lucky, I may even get a visit from my father when the baby comes in August. This would be a first ever since I married and moved out of state.
Since then things have improved. We send photos of my growing belly and ultrasound shots of the baby via email and Dad will actually talk with me on the phone when I call. It’s a nice change. I suppose we’re both testing the waters. In many ways its akin to dipping your toes in the ocean waves after living through a tsunami.
When I stopped writing last year it was because I needed a moment of pause…or months of pause to be precise. The blog has been an outlet for me to process my experiences, thoughts, and beliefs. Most of these have been primarily shaped by my upbringing which is why my family makes many guest appearances along the way. The story I tell is mine. It’s my perception and what I chose to accept into my own mythological life story. It’s biased, one sided, and in that sense very self-centered.
It’s almost been a year since I traveled home to extend an olive branch to my father; my own version of the return of the prodigal son. But instead of following the parable in the Bible, my father did not slaughter the calf and celebrate my return. Instead he said I had a “poisoned pen,” told me he didn’t like me, I wasn’t a friend, and wished me the best of luck with my life. I was then compared to my brother and how he treats my father, thus adding to the distance and triangulation. Agreeing to his terms of playing the part of daughter where he would interact with me at Sunday dinners on a superficial level, we operated like this the rest of the painful 5 day visit. I had been emotionally disowned and abandoned by my father. In many ways I had created what I most feared. For the next 7 months we did not speak. Not on my birthday, not on Thanksgiving, and not on Christmas.
It was just too much for me to handle. I had hit what Seth Grogan calls The Dip. “Quit the wrong stuff, Stick with the right stuff, Have the guts to do one or the other.” I needed time to figure this stuff out.
And then things shifted big time for me. Not like I had enough on my plate by starting a new job and getting settled in a new town, we also decided to try for a baby. We succeeded.
10 weeks into the pregnancy we decided to return home, although with great trepidation. It was at that time we planned to announce the happy addition to our families. I tried to remain open and play out the moment of revelation with my parents. Would I get a cool congratulations? Another “best of luck?” I tried my best to keep my expectations low out of self-protection. I couldn’t have predicted what happened. My father jumped off of the couch with tears in his eyes to congratulate us, warm hugs, and, “Thank you. This seriously is the best gift you’ve ever given us.” They then commented that over breakfast that very morning they discussed how old my eggs were. If I'm lucky, I may even get a visit from my father when the baby comes in August. This would be a first ever since I married and moved out of state.
Since then things have improved. We send photos of my growing belly and ultrasound shots of the baby via email and Dad will actually talk with me on the phone when I call. It’s a nice change. I suppose we’re both testing the waters. In many ways its akin to dipping your toes in the ocean waves after living through a tsunami.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Mom in Milwaukee
Thank God Mom came out to Milwaukee. It was the first visit I've had in over a year where I wasn't on massive amounts of pain pills pre and post back surgery. Needless-to-say, hanging out with Mom is a lot more fun when you are lucid.
We had a mission: find an age appropriate professional wardrobe. Remember I'm now in a job where the professed dress code policy is "business casual," but everyone wears suits or at least blazers on Fridays. The last time I really had to play dress-up for a job was years ago. I mean, perhaps a decade ago. When I first became a therapist, I was fortunate to have my parents support to purchase a suit. At age 22 I needed that adult costume while people sat on my couch and poured their hearts out to me all the while I'm thinking, "Man, this person needs a therapist...oh my God, I AM the therapist!!!." The costume gave me a bit of confidence to really believe in myself.
When I got into medical social work, I realized the emergency department was NOT the place for suits. Somehow "dry clean only" doesn't really work with body fluids from sick kids. All of a sudden my J Crew chinos were considered upscale. There were several shifts when I went to work in one outfit and came home in scrubs after an unfortunate patient encounter. I was also a bit of a rebel by wearing open toe shoes and skirts. In hind sight, while I may have looked fabulous running to medical codes, it was pretty stupid to be in a trauma room with my little piggies vulnerable. Thank God I never got a needle puncture or something like that falling from the suture tray.
As I ventured into administration I kept my wardrobe of chinos and flouncy skirts. Now I just looked hip. Anthropologie was my go-to for fun dress up clothes that were age appropriate. Besides, everyone at the hospital knew me. It wasn't like I had to prove myself or fit into an unknown culture. I could pull off Anthropologie in my late 20's. There are still some pieces I can pull off in my 30's, but it certainly doesn't fit my current professional culture.
So like I said, Mom's visit had a purpose and a true mission. She is the one who I trust going into the dressing room with me and being 100% honest. I think the hardest part of looking for professional clothes is to not look old ladyish or too dowdy. I can't believe it, but we started at Talbots. This was the store just mere years ago I would pass mumbling something about conservative ladies with white hair and ugly scarves as "accessories." The sales lady, who may have just passed legal drinking age was about as dumb and as engaging as a floor mop. "I brung you more pants to try." Brung? Yeah, perhaps she would have been better off at Forever 21 not Talbots. It seriously took my Mom to go outside the dressing room to break up the conversation about church service and inform them we were here to spend money for a new wardrobe. They sent a more senior sales person in to assist.
As we were putting things on hold, another shopper stopped me and asked if I was starting a new job. I told her I had and needed to fit into the culture. Turns out she also worked in hospital administration. She left us with some great parting words of advice, "Always dress better than is expected." She also inquired if I had a teenager because they could be handy in helping select things that were age appropriate. I had to stop for a moment. Oh my God, I guess I AM old enough to have a teenager and yet I don't even have a baby yet! Good Lord that was a shocker.
After guzzling some cider at Alterra we ventured into Ann Taylor. Holy Batman, the 80's are back! Slouchy ankle boots? Skinny belts cinching over sized cardigan sweaters? I have a mantra: if you've already lived through the trend, you are too old to repeat it. There were a couple of tops that literally looked cross between what Laura Ingalls wore on Little House on the Prairie and a blouse I wore in the 2nd grade for class photos. While I found some good staples like blazers on sale I passed on the neon jelly bracelets. Just kidding. There weren't any jelly bracelets, but maybe they will debut with the holiday dresses! Just the fashion accessory you need for your office Christmas party!!
After 3.5 hours of power shopping we were starving so lunch at some ubiquitous American restaurant chain seemed quite reasonable. We went back for some of the clothes at Talbots. I have to tell you, spending money is exhausting. It's emotionally draining. I was pretty catatonic by the time we got home.
Having Mom around for a week was a lot of fun. We got to play tourist in our own town by going to a Fish Fry, seeing a play downtown, moseying around the old German section of town, and going on a distillery tour. There were several things we couldn't fit in, but there is always next time.
And yes, for the record, I actually bought a scarf but completely drew the line at broaches. Hey, I still have my standards.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Explicating Illusions
I have to keep reminding myself that I'm only on my third week of exploring this new role. Most of the time it feels as though I've been in the system for at least three months. The learning curve is large, but not in the way I thought it would be. Thank God I have my org development skills to really observe and diagnose what is going on in the institution.
Organizational culture is a funny thing. It is defined by the behaviors and customs that are normal for that group. It also may not exactly match what is written down in policy and procedures. I have become a sponge and cryptographer. Things are not always what they appear to be. For example, although the dress policy states that it is "business casual" most of the successful leaders wear suits or at least a blazer on "casual Friday." Although chinos may be acceptable, they are the bare minimum for professional standards. I had one person complain to me that someone had the audacity to wear corduroy pants.
Another example of cultural norms is that everyone leaves their doors open. Shutting an office door is a huge no-no. It sends the message that you are unavailable and not a team player. So privacy is compromised and what should be confidential conversations are usually held in public, but in a whisper. That alone doesn't exactly build trust. In fact, in my opinion it pretty much destroys it. Seeing that this is the norm, it is also not a surprise to know that direct feedback is rare. A team mate could be flailing in his or her performance, but no one wants to be rude and tell them why. Instead I get the feeling that it is perceived to be the kinder and gentler approach to just let them drown and fail in silence. I find this to be a bit appalling. So as I have taken the helm, I rather violated my own code of "observation only for three months." I actually gave feedback to both the person who was drowning in oblivion and the hierarchy about my conversation. I'd like to think that by taking that risk I showed I was a pretty trustworthy person. Well, either that or I just shot myself in the foot politically.
The term, "silos," was first introduced to me when I worked at another hospital years ago. It was a buzz word in most management book best sellers at the time. It's a catchy term for really saying, "you guys aren't playing nicely in the sandbox together, " or, "you have no idea who is in the sandbox with you." Comparing what I knew then to what I know now, there never was a silo problem in that particular hospital. All of the departments worked well together, but it gave a burning platform for change and the new leader to look very important. I can honestly say I now know what a silo problem actually looks like: team members who have no idea why they are in the same department and do not know how to access each other's talents. I'm working on that.
Then there is the generational gap fun. Gen X'ers (1960 - 1977ish) are now a large part of the workforce who are still reporting or colleagues with the Baby Boomers (1945-1959). Baby Boomers are all about company loyalty, getting that gold watch at retirement, and putting in long hours. Gen X'ers are more about home/work balance. Their attitude is, "why should you care if I'm here from 9-5 or 7-3 as long as my work is getting done and my objectives are getting met?" Baby Boomers see putting in more than the expected hours as a badge of honor. They truly expect a warm body to be available consistently during prescribed work hours regardless of the output. It's a bit of a nightmare to manage and negotiate expectations when the culture appears to be all open-door, but is really managed in whispers.
There is a long way to go with this organization, but I'm energized by the challenges. Let's hope they are willing to take a breath of fresh air.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
So Far...
Here's what I know after my first day of work:
1) I share my office with the person who used to hold my position and I now supervise. Uncomfortable? No! What would give you that idea?
2) Virtual New Employee Orientation is a lot quicker than going in person. You can just fast forward through the slides demonstrating what sexual harassment is and why it's bad. I used to teach this class so I think I've got the scoop.
3) My boss is awesome.
4) I'm exhausted.
5) My office needs some serious decorating.
6) This whole carpool thing with J is barely squeaking by. I waited an hour for him to finish that whole pesky thing we call "patient care."
7) High heels are overrated.
8) Did I mention I'm exhausted? With blisters from those stupid high heels.
9) Badge photos always look terrible.
10) Even though I'm not clinical, I still got a pager within 10 minutes of me walking through the door. And here I thought I was free from that PTSD beeper sounds.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Rebirth
Three years ago this month I started a new job in a new city with an old sinking feeling.
I knew the job wasn't a good fit for me and yet I was enamored by the flattery of pursuit and nice salary. I tried to convince myself that it would be a "learning opportunity" even before I set foot into the building. I would expand my skill set. I could influence change. These are the lies I told myself as I sat in the 1970's wood paneled executive boardroom complete with office furniture that were hand-me-downs from the public school system. Every morning I would attempt to psych myself up for another day of cheer leading the disenfranchised staff, policing those who were skimming by, and deciphering the mixed messages from a messed up dual reporting system of divas who fed off of drama.
Looking back, there were two bright spots to my role: the CEO (whom I never really got to interact with but highly respected) and the office staff (who were jovial and made me feel welcomed). It was the longest 7 months of my life. When I accidentally quit during a meeting with the divas by blurting out, "I can't do this anymore," it felt as though the weight of the world lifted off of my chest. This unhappy journey was never going to have a happy ending. Intuitively I knew it from day one and yet I never fully listened.
I did gain something from this chapter of my life. It proved to be an amazing learning opportunity, but in a way I didn't expect. It confirmed I belonged in healthcare. That is where my heart resides. I confirmed my identity that I was an unconventional social worker. I confirmed my skill set as a leader of systems change. These were all things I already knew in my soul, but sometimes a little reassurance isn't so bad. I also learned the valuable lesson of happiness - don't settle for anything less.
I've been wrestling the demons of my past and old scripts that were shaped by this one work nightmare. The intensity of self-examination has increased this past week as I gear up to start another new position. However, I do have something now I didn't have before: clarity.
Once I quit, I renewed. I renewed a vision for myself based on my preferences, my style, and my ideals. I knew I wanted to be an organizational development consultant in healthcare. There is something about walking into a hospital for me that energizes me. I love the culture. I love the challenges. I love the humanity. I also love solving systems problems, working with teams, coaching leaders, navigating complex political systems, and focusing on the patient.
Last year I was one of two finalists for what appeared to be my dream job. It was at a prestigious healthcare institution under the OD department. However, my job would have been focused mostly on training. I didn't mind training. I was good at curriculum development, but what I dread is the monotony and boredom of doing the same thing over and over again. This is what this job would have been. It consisted of overhauling new employee orientation and implementing it...then repeat over and over again. I convinced myself it was a step in the right direction. It was a foot in the door. I could prove myself and then show them what my true skill set was. Again, I was telling the same lies to myself to see what I wanted to see and not what truly existed. I knew I wouldn't be happy there with the role they were filling. They wanted a trainer, not an organizational consultant. I didn't get the job and was very angry for a long time. I displaced my anger, my disappointment, and my perception of failure. It was yet another opportunity for me to really look at what the Universe was telling me.
I began to refine my professional vision and looked for opportunities to advance my dream. Call it synchronicity, karma, or just plain luck, but I found a graduate school program that seemed to speak to my soul. Within days of the deadline for application for admission, I sent off my information and was accepted.
I remember first meeting my classmates and professors. When asked what I wanted to do with this degree I was confident in my response: I knew I wanted to be a healthcare organizational development consultant. There was no one like me in the small class of 12. Some were already Senior VP's of international businesses. Others worked in foreign fields of bioengineering or retail. Every textbook was like drinking from a well after eating sand. Every project I did for my second masters was focused on my dream. My intention was set and I thank God my professors and team mates accepted my unconventional approach.
After graduating, my husband and I moved to a city where we knew no one. There were no ties, leads, or networks for support. I was intimidated by this at first given that somewhere around 80% of all jobs are landed through networking, not blind resume submissions. Weeks into settling into our new city, we were invited to a Sunday brunch for J's department. There I had a connecting conversation with one of J's colleagues. Like me, he was unconventional in his chosen profession and shared a passion for change. As the dialogue progressed we both became quite animated. The conversation ended with a request for my CV. I emailed it off without a second thought. As the weeks progressed, I actually embraced the idea of being the domestic spouse for the first time in my life. It was literally one day after J and I had this conversation about our new relationship roles did my phone start ringing off the hook. Ironic that once I let go of my intensity, my intention manifested.
I believe that once you set your intention, the Universe will conspire to make it happen. Tomorrow is the manifestation of this case-in-point. Tomorrow I step back into the world of a 40+ hour work week. I have the leadership component, the healthcare component, the systems perspective component, and mentoring component. I am officially a healthcare organizational development program manager.
I knew the job wasn't a good fit for me and yet I was enamored by the flattery of pursuit and nice salary. I tried to convince myself that it would be a "learning opportunity" even before I set foot into the building. I would expand my skill set. I could influence change. These are the lies I told myself as I sat in the 1970's wood paneled executive boardroom complete with office furniture that were hand-me-downs from the public school system. Every morning I would attempt to psych myself up for another day of cheer leading the disenfranchised staff, policing those who were skimming by, and deciphering the mixed messages from a messed up dual reporting system of divas who fed off of drama.
Looking back, there were two bright spots to my role: the CEO (whom I never really got to interact with but highly respected) and the office staff (who were jovial and made me feel welcomed). It was the longest 7 months of my life. When I accidentally quit during a meeting with the divas by blurting out, "I can't do this anymore," it felt as though the weight of the world lifted off of my chest. This unhappy journey was never going to have a happy ending. Intuitively I knew it from day one and yet I never fully listened.
I did gain something from this chapter of my life. It proved to be an amazing learning opportunity, but in a way I didn't expect. It confirmed I belonged in healthcare. That is where my heart resides. I confirmed my identity that I was an unconventional social worker. I confirmed my skill set as a leader of systems change. These were all things I already knew in my soul, but sometimes a little reassurance isn't so bad. I also learned the valuable lesson of happiness - don't settle for anything less.
I've been wrestling the demons of my past and old scripts that were shaped by this one work nightmare. The intensity of self-examination has increased this past week as I gear up to start another new position. However, I do have something now I didn't have before: clarity.
Once I quit, I renewed. I renewed a vision for myself based on my preferences, my style, and my ideals. I knew I wanted to be an organizational development consultant in healthcare. There is something about walking into a hospital for me that energizes me. I love the culture. I love the challenges. I love the humanity. I also love solving systems problems, working with teams, coaching leaders, navigating complex political systems, and focusing on the patient.
Last year I was one of two finalists for what appeared to be my dream job. It was at a prestigious healthcare institution under the OD department. However, my job would have been focused mostly on training. I didn't mind training. I was good at curriculum development, but what I dread is the monotony and boredom of doing the same thing over and over again. This is what this job would have been. It consisted of overhauling new employee orientation and implementing it...then repeat over and over again. I convinced myself it was a step in the right direction. It was a foot in the door. I could prove myself and then show them what my true skill set was. Again, I was telling the same lies to myself to see what I wanted to see and not what truly existed. I knew I wouldn't be happy there with the role they were filling. They wanted a trainer, not an organizational consultant. I didn't get the job and was very angry for a long time. I displaced my anger, my disappointment, and my perception of failure. It was yet another opportunity for me to really look at what the Universe was telling me.
I began to refine my professional vision and looked for opportunities to advance my dream. Call it synchronicity, karma, or just plain luck, but I found a graduate school program that seemed to speak to my soul. Within days of the deadline for application for admission, I sent off my information and was accepted.
I remember first meeting my classmates and professors. When asked what I wanted to do with this degree I was confident in my response: I knew I wanted to be a healthcare organizational development consultant. There was no one like me in the small class of 12. Some were already Senior VP's of international businesses. Others worked in foreign fields of bioengineering or retail. Every textbook was like drinking from a well after eating sand. Every project I did for my second masters was focused on my dream. My intention was set and I thank God my professors and team mates accepted my unconventional approach.
After graduating, my husband and I moved to a city where we knew no one. There were no ties, leads, or networks for support. I was intimidated by this at first given that somewhere around 80% of all jobs are landed through networking, not blind resume submissions. Weeks into settling into our new city, we were invited to a Sunday brunch for J's department. There I had a connecting conversation with one of J's colleagues. Like me, he was unconventional in his chosen profession and shared a passion for change. As the dialogue progressed we both became quite animated. The conversation ended with a request for my CV. I emailed it off without a second thought. As the weeks progressed, I actually embraced the idea of being the domestic spouse for the first time in my life. It was literally one day after J and I had this conversation about our new relationship roles did my phone start ringing off the hook. Ironic that once I let go of my intensity, my intention manifested.
I believe that once you set your intention, the Universe will conspire to make it happen. Tomorrow is the manifestation of this case-in-point. Tomorrow I step back into the world of a 40+ hour work week. I have the leadership component, the healthcare component, the systems perspective component, and mentoring component. I am officially a healthcare organizational development program manager.
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