Lately my attitude stinks, especially about my job.
"What???" you say. "But you love your job, Rebecca!"
And to that I say, yes. Normally I do; but in every job a little dissatisfaction must sometimes come along to muck up the works. Kinks in the process, if you will.
Years ago I took a job as an Activity Director at an Assisted Living Facility (ALF for short). My excitement uncontrollable, I sat down at the computer and made out my first month's activities the day I got my job offer. Hired as Activity Director, one of my other duties involved managing the bus driver and all transportation scheduling, including transportation to doctor appointments as well as trips "just for fun." My first week there the driver called in sick. I got pulled from my job to drive 4 seniors to doctor appointments all over Greenville county. Four people, doesn't sound so bad, huh? Well, it doesn't until you consider that the appointment times are spread out, so you can't make Mrs. Smith hop on the bus at 8:00 when her appointment is at 10:00, and you can't get two people to 9:00 appointments at the same time when their appointments are 20 miles apart. Then there's the matter of going back to get Mrs. Smith who isn't ready to go, then getting her dropped off while the doctor's office of the guy you dropped off at 8:00 has started calling you every 15 minutes since 9:00 that he's ready to go...So you see, it was a bait and switch situation. I thought I got an opportunity to do what I loved, and ended up with a job I hated. In the two years I worked there, I probably was the bus driver at least 1/2 of the time. At times I accepted it. If they wanted to pay me a AD salary for driving a bus, what's it to me? But then corporate came in and wanted to know why no one was doing activities. They were not pleased when I answered that I had not yet figured out how to be in two places at once; but if they could figure that out for me I'd be glad to oblige their whims.
I quit that job.
Fast forward to now. About a month ago I witnessed a sub driver for our site driving erratically and reported him. My punishment for trying to do the right thing? I got the dubious assignment of being the van driver and director. Now while this van driving job is much easier than the ALF one, it's not what I signed up for. I'm supposed to be part time--but with my 4 hours at the center, 4 hours driving and a couple of hours doing work from home every day, I'm exceeding a 40 hour work week. I don't talk about it much, but my poor body can only handle so much before I am physically burned out.
With that physical burn out comes a whole load of other unpleasant baggage. Frustration, my word of the day lately, keeps my adrenaline unhealthily high. Then there's the anger that this who situation might not have happened the way it did if management had not dawdled months ago when they knew a change was imminent. I too often find myself feeling like an overpaid van driver, janitor, key holder and coffee barista. In a nut shell, I feel like nothing I'm doing makes a hell of a lot of difference in the world.
Sometimes though, it takes waking up to a surprising text on my phone to ground me again and remind me why what I do is important.
Sunday morning a family member sent me a message that said, "I regret to inform you that Mary Kay died this morning at 4:30 a.m."
What can I say about Mary Kay? She came to us back in the spring, quiet and a little insecure at first, it took a little while for the group to warm up to her. Some teased her about her name, asked her if she had a pink Cadillac parked outside--alluding to the makeup goddess. Mary Kay took the jokes in stride, understanding the humor in them. I regret to say I don't know much about her early life. She came to us at 63, intellectually disabled, but eager to find a sense of community. Slowly, each member in our group established their own kinds of relationships with her. Some were her silent meal partners, some sat around the table and listen to her stories about the Sioux City community center where she played BINGO and Uno before she move here with her cousin. We learned all about her dog Buddy, who died years ago, but who remained close to her heart. She impressed us with her knowledge of music; we often play old tunes during the day, and without even looking at the TV screen, she'd say, "That's Dean Martin" Or that's "Bing Crosby." Music, movies and great stories of the adventures of others fascinated her.
On December 13 we took her with the group to The Biltmore House for Christmas. I held her hand and helped her tour as much of the house as she could, but even then she struggled to breathe. A sinking feeling started to grow in my gut that day, that she could be very sick.
The next week we had another Christmas outing to the Hyatt in Downtown Greenville to view the pretty trees and have lunch. Our driver, Eric, took Mary Kay by the hand and walked around the big building with her slowly, giving her time to rest when she grew weary. She enjoyed the attention he gave her, enjoyed her lunch although she ate very little, and enjoyed the company of her friends, most of all.
The very next day she showed up at our SA Chrsitmas party with her $5.00 gift in hand--proudly ready to give it away. We played the Left-Right game, and I don't even remember what gift she ended up getting, but I'm sure she was satisfied with it--her biggest concern? Was the person who got HER gift that she brought, happy with theirs.
After the party I drove her home--for the first time ever, I had to drive up into her driveway as close to the door as possible. She used to walk the big hill up that driveway with a little skip in her step, but the skip was gone that day. I walked her to the front of the house, slowly, laboriously. When we got to the steps, she sat on the first one, her Christmas goodies scattered all around her. I rang the doorbell to let her cousin Lynne know that she needed help getting inside.
That day, that image of her sitting on the bottom step, two jackets on, her visor a little askew, Christmas bags and her big purse scattered around her is my last mental image of Mary Kay.
Waking up to that message Sunday morning bummed me out. The frustration already weighing me down felt even heavier. I sent messages our members, telling them the news. One of them said back to me, "I think we did our best to make her life a little better."
That one simple phrase snapped me back into the reality on which I need to focus. Yes, a lot of days get complicated. Yes, I hate feeling like an overpaid van driver, or janitor. I hate that I can't seem to appeal to the masses, even though the masses of which I speak are from several different generations. My oldest member is 100. My youngest was 64--Mary Kay. I never find the task of making everyone happy all the time, doable.
However, I believe that together, I and our members at Senior Action gave Mary Kay a wonderful last Christmas here on Earth. We included her--she made many of the ornaments that went on our tree. She got to do new things--Like visit Biltmore and the Hyatt. On one of her last days at Senior Action we had a sing along group, a children's choir and Santa and his helpers drop by. She participated in all the singing and dancing and merry-making of the season. We had no idea at the time, but the seemingly ordinary things we were doing, were exponentially improving her quality of life. On her last day with us she ate a plate full of sweets, drank soda and played fun Christmas games. She was able to give of herself, and able to accept the kindness of others. I figure if nothing I did in the month of December mattered to anyone else, it mattered to her, and that makes it all worth it for me.
Mary Kay, a lady who probably lived far longer than her family expected, said goodbye to her parents, her dog, Buddy, her old friends in Iowa and came here to live with her cousin. Senior Action became her anchoring place. There she found friends who showed her patience and understanding, who made her laugh, who challenged her to learn new things, and who most of all accepted her for who she was. We could all stand to learn from the way she lived.
She showed kindness to everyone always. She made a point to remember names, to find out personal things about each member and to frequently ask, "How's your puppy doing?" or with me particularly, "How are your grand babies and Charlie doing?" She talked about her friends back in Iowa, to whom she still faithfully wrote letters. She spoke of her Cousin Lynne and of other family members with great fondness. She was proud to do her part every day, whether that meant bringing in plastic bags or helping hand out the milk or fruit before lunch. There were days in the recent weeks when I'd ask, "Mary Kay, do you feel bad?" Her color ashen, she seemed less like her spunky self, but she would always answer, "No, I don't feel bad. I feel fine." I never heard her complain.
Still, that day I dropped her off in the cold December afternoon, I never imagined that would be the last time I would speak to her.
"Merry Christmas Mary Kay!" I told her. "Get some rest so you will feel better. I'll see you next year," I joked. She said Merry Christmas to me, then I watched as her cousin helped her inside.
Now there are two ways you could look at this situation. You could say I waste a lot of my time on people who might not be long for this world anyway--that maybe my efforts would be better spent supporting the young and struggling. But I tell you this, the elder who has struggled all her life needs a place in the world where she matters too. She needs friendship and fun and a sense of belonging just like anyone else. That last day that Mary Kay spent at Senior Action was just as important as some four-year old's first day at preschool. Sure, one was an end and the other a beginning--but both made a difference like ripples through time and spirit and the flow of life in general.
This is why I do what I do--not for money or accolades or even to be understood by people who can never grasp the simple need of a senior, a person with a disability, to find a sense of love and belonging in the world. If I can help create that place for just a handful of people, I know I will have made a difference in the world--if only one simple life at a time.
Here's to Mary Kay--to living an uncomplicated life where loss is accepted, where every person is a potential new friend, and where love and family matter more than anything else in the world. May we all learn to live with the values she cultivated throughout her life.
