In the middle of February, my mother was diagnosed with Stage 4 lung cancer, and she died on the last day of March. When she was diagnosed, I made the decision to drop out of my EMT program, knowing I would miss more than the two days allowed. I was, in fact, out of town for four out of six weeks during this time period, and maintaining my presence in the class, even for auditing, would have been impossible.
I don't regret the decision, and in fact know that it was the only reasonable decision to make, but it is a loss nonetheless. I thought of my class, my instructor, and my classmates frequently. I was also grateful for the education I'd already gotten in the class, as abbreviated as it was. I understood more about my mother's condition, felt more comfortable and confident discussing various issues with medical personnel, and in general was not fearful asking questions and receiving answers. It is awful watching a loved one die, no matter what the circumstances, but for me, even with just the limited medical background I had, I felt more prepared, less panicked, by the deterioration of my mother's health. And because I was less panicked, I was much better able to be a comfort to my mother, to be of some use to her as well as to the nursing staff we had hired to care for her at home.
Since I've been back in Michigan (my mother died at her home in Massachusetts), I have been in contact with several of my EMT classmates on Facebook. They are taking their exams, their practicals and written, and finishing up their clinicals. I am seething with jealousy. I am so very proud of them, but wish I were one of them.
Everything happens for a reason. My family and I are relocating to the West Coast in less than two months, where I will begin a new journey. Perhaps that will be the subject for a whole new blog.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Oh, the Pressure
Today we learned how to take blood pressure readings. What does it say about me that I found it incredibly fun? Clearly, I need to get out more. But I can't begin to count the number of times I've had my blood pressure taken, and all those times I never understood the numbers, the equipment, the results. I now own a stethoscope and a cuff and a sphygmomanometer. In purple. And I know how to use them. Well, okay, I need a lot more practice. After all, I'm not sure a patient on the verge of cardiac arrest is going to appreciate how long it takes me to line up the cuff over the brachial pulse, inflate, reposition my ear pieces, deflate slowly, inflate again just to be sure I heard the pulse, deflate again even more slowly so as to get the diastolic number correct, etc.
But lab today was fun. There were four of us sitting around, taking turns with one another's pulses, radial and brachial and systolic and diastolic, pulsated and auscultated, and laughing because I was convinced my partner was one of the undead, and then, poor guy, I left the cuff fully inflated around his arm as I asked someone else a question, so he calmly reached over and released the air for himself. I still chuckle just thinking about it, but maybe it's one of those circumstances where you had to be there.
And that's the point: I am so glad I am there. It's intense. There is a ton of information being thrown at you, there's constant assessing going on, constant preparing for the next quiz, next exam, but also preparing for the real world of emergency medical services. And you're in a room with 31 other people, people who were complete strangers two weeks ago. Two weeks! I've only seen these people four times in my life, but they are familiar to me now, I know things about them I never thought I'd know about anyone in such a short period of time. It's not like joining the military or even like being a kid at summer camp, where every waking moment is shared with your cohorts so you bond in no time. But we are all in that room, sharing a common purpose, which is to pass our tests, both written and practicals, and learn all the skills we need to know in order to be effective emergency medical personnel. None of us could do it in a vacuum. Yeah, there are some jerks in the class who think they're the best of the best already, who came in with a cocky attitude and act like the world owes them something. There are people like that everywhere. The majority of the other students, however, are supportive and encouraging and really want to be good at what they do. They want to offer help and accept help. They want to have fun and learn everything.
Yup, learning and having fun. I'm not sure it gets much better than that.
But lab today was fun. There were four of us sitting around, taking turns with one another's pulses, radial and brachial and systolic and diastolic, pulsated and auscultated, and laughing because I was convinced my partner was one of the undead, and then, poor guy, I left the cuff fully inflated around his arm as I asked someone else a question, so he calmly reached over and released the air for himself. I still chuckle just thinking about it, but maybe it's one of those circumstances where you had to be there.
And that's the point: I am so glad I am there. It's intense. There is a ton of information being thrown at you, there's constant assessing going on, constant preparing for the next quiz, next exam, but also preparing for the real world of emergency medical services. And you're in a room with 31 other people, people who were complete strangers two weeks ago. Two weeks! I've only seen these people four times in my life, but they are familiar to me now, I know things about them I never thought I'd know about anyone in such a short period of time. It's not like joining the military or even like being a kid at summer camp, where every waking moment is shared with your cohorts so you bond in no time. But we are all in that room, sharing a common purpose, which is to pass our tests, both written and practicals, and learn all the skills we need to know in order to be effective emergency medical personnel. None of us could do it in a vacuum. Yeah, there are some jerks in the class who think they're the best of the best already, who came in with a cocky attitude and act like the world owes them something. There are people like that everywhere. The majority of the other students, however, are supportive and encouraging and really want to be good at what they do. They want to offer help and accept help. They want to have fun and learn everything.
Yup, learning and having fun. I'm not sure it gets much better than that.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Chair lifts and quizzes and line-ups, oh my!
I may have been right-on when I worried about demoralization and humiliation. I guess I'm not done with the "what was I thinking?" train of thought.
Thursday, I was exhausted. And that was at the beginning of class. Our instructor gives us 10 minutes of break time for every hour of lecture time, which is fabulous. It's also incredibly smart on her part. It keeps mid-class interruptions to a minimum (such as people getting up to go to the bathroom) and allows the room full of young men (and a few women) to move around and expend some of their energy. And it allows old, tired people like me to try to wake up and re-focus.
It was still a great lecture. It was about taking care of yourself as an EMT. It was about the physical and emotional demands that are placed on you. It's a stressful profession, on your body and on your mind. Our instructor talked about how hard it is to lose patients who are infants or kids, and about how hard it is to deal with a victim who might have things in common with you because it's almost impossible not to put yourself in the victim's place. She talked about how important it is not to put yourself at risk, but also how hard it is not to, sometimes. Being in this profession can take a toll on personal relationships because who else can really understand what you're going through, other than another EMT? It's intense, all the way around.
I don't know what I will do the first time I see a dead body. I don't know what it will be like to see someone who's bleeding profusely, who's hysterical, who's just lost a limb. I hope I'll be able to stay calm and be helpful, and if I'm going to freak out, do it away from the patient. But I don't know. Sometimes I flinch just seeing something on TV, although I've tried to control that in the past few months.
But there's a chance I won't even get to that point. We had our first day of "lifts" on Thursday, and I am not nearly as strong as I thought I was. I have pretty good endurance, but actual strength, enough to lift a real person, I don't know. I stumbled a couple of times, and my self-confidence plummeted. I almost dropped someone. I wasn't prepared for how heavy people are, and how important technique is. I never ask for help when I'm carrying big bags of dog food out to the car, and it's only recently that my boys have gotten too heavy for me to carry them upstairs while they're sleeping, so I didn't think I'd have so much trouble sharing the weight of a human being with someone else. (Don't worry--it's not like I thought this job would be centered around people asking me to carry bags of pet food to their car.)
Why did I stop going to the gym?
On Thursday, I was doing it all wrong. I was lifting with my arms and back, not with my legs. When I tried to lift with my legs, I lost my balance. I was also so self-conscious about my own weight that I didn't allow myself to be the "victim" in any of the carrying scenarios, because I didn't want the guys who'd be lifting me to feel how heavy I am.
This is not for the faint-of-heart. This is not for people who are worried about other people's impressions of them. I do not know what I am doing. But I don't want to quit. I can't tell you how much I don't want to quit. And it's not because of pride, at least not entirely. It's because I am still loving it. I have met some great people. I am crazy about the instructor. I am crazy about this field. It is exciting and fascinating and unlike anything I have ever done before.
On Thursday, when I was struggling, and feeling bad, the other students and the instructors were great. They did not make me feel bad. My main instructor was supportive and helpful. The instructor who was the person showing my group how to use chair lifts to get patients down the stairs was downright saintly. It was our last rotation, and I was terrified. We were on an actual flight of stairs, there was a real person in the chair, and when it was my turn to try to get the person down, I said to the instructor, "I don't want to do this. I am really afraid I will drop him." The instructor smiled and said, "No, you won't. I won't let you. I'll be with you all the way."
I'm 5'5", a good 20 pounds overweight, and in my mid-40s. How could this gentleman be so confident? How could he know he wouldn't let me f--- this up?
He knew. He helped me, he showed me what to do, and he wouldn't let me get out of it just because I was scared. He was gentle and kind. Could I have done it without his help? Not in a million years. But he said to me, "Out in the field, you can always ask for help. Don't ever be afraid to ask for help."
I want to do this. Professionally, I've never wanted anything more. I have a college degree, I have a master's degree. I have far more education and life experience than any other student in the class. But I am behind. My education and life experience, at least as far as the physical aspect of this job is concerned, are meaningless. I am at a disadvantage. I can live with that. Sometimes I feel guilty that I may have taken the spot in this program that someone more qualified might have had, someone who has a much better chance of being an excellent EMT, so I am committed to doing the best I can.
Time to do some squats.
Thursday, I was exhausted. And that was at the beginning of class. Our instructor gives us 10 minutes of break time for every hour of lecture time, which is fabulous. It's also incredibly smart on her part. It keeps mid-class interruptions to a minimum (such as people getting up to go to the bathroom) and allows the room full of young men (and a few women) to move around and expend some of their energy. And it allows old, tired people like me to try to wake up and re-focus.
It was still a great lecture. It was about taking care of yourself as an EMT. It was about the physical and emotional demands that are placed on you. It's a stressful profession, on your body and on your mind. Our instructor talked about how hard it is to lose patients who are infants or kids, and about how hard it is to deal with a victim who might have things in common with you because it's almost impossible not to put yourself in the victim's place. She talked about how important it is not to put yourself at risk, but also how hard it is not to, sometimes. Being in this profession can take a toll on personal relationships because who else can really understand what you're going through, other than another EMT? It's intense, all the way around.
I don't know what I will do the first time I see a dead body. I don't know what it will be like to see someone who's bleeding profusely, who's hysterical, who's just lost a limb. I hope I'll be able to stay calm and be helpful, and if I'm going to freak out, do it away from the patient. But I don't know. Sometimes I flinch just seeing something on TV, although I've tried to control that in the past few months.
But there's a chance I won't even get to that point. We had our first day of "lifts" on Thursday, and I am not nearly as strong as I thought I was. I have pretty good endurance, but actual strength, enough to lift a real person, I don't know. I stumbled a couple of times, and my self-confidence plummeted. I almost dropped someone. I wasn't prepared for how heavy people are, and how important technique is. I never ask for help when I'm carrying big bags of dog food out to the car, and it's only recently that my boys have gotten too heavy for me to carry them upstairs while they're sleeping, so I didn't think I'd have so much trouble sharing the weight of a human being with someone else. (Don't worry--it's not like I thought this job would be centered around people asking me to carry bags of pet food to their car.)
Why did I stop going to the gym?
On Thursday, I was doing it all wrong. I was lifting with my arms and back, not with my legs. When I tried to lift with my legs, I lost my balance. I was also so self-conscious about my own weight that I didn't allow myself to be the "victim" in any of the carrying scenarios, because I didn't want the guys who'd be lifting me to feel how heavy I am.
This is not for the faint-of-heart. This is not for people who are worried about other people's impressions of them. I do not know what I am doing. But I don't want to quit. I can't tell you how much I don't want to quit. And it's not because of pride, at least not entirely. It's because I am still loving it. I have met some great people. I am crazy about the instructor. I am crazy about this field. It is exciting and fascinating and unlike anything I have ever done before.
On Thursday, when I was struggling, and feeling bad, the other students and the instructors were great. They did not make me feel bad. My main instructor was supportive and helpful. The instructor who was the person showing my group how to use chair lifts to get patients down the stairs was downright saintly. It was our last rotation, and I was terrified. We were on an actual flight of stairs, there was a real person in the chair, and when it was my turn to try to get the person down, I said to the instructor, "I don't want to do this. I am really afraid I will drop him." The instructor smiled and said, "No, you won't. I won't let you. I'll be with you all the way."
I'm 5'5", a good 20 pounds overweight, and in my mid-40s. How could this gentleman be so confident? How could he know he wouldn't let me f--- this up?
He knew. He helped me, he showed me what to do, and he wouldn't let me get out of it just because I was scared. He was gentle and kind. Could I have done it without his help? Not in a million years. But he said to me, "Out in the field, you can always ask for help. Don't ever be afraid to ask for help."
I want to do this. Professionally, I've never wanted anything more. I have a college degree, I have a master's degree. I have far more education and life experience than any other student in the class. But I am behind. My education and life experience, at least as far as the physical aspect of this job is concerned, are meaningless. I am at a disadvantage. I can live with that. Sometimes I feel guilty that I may have taken the spot in this program that someone more qualified might have had, someone who has a much better chance of being an excellent EMT, so I am committed to doing the best I can.
Time to do some squats.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Whole New World
What an amazing day. I am exhausted and energized and excited and euphoric. I woke up nervous and unsure, grumpy and defensive. When I went to the campus bookstore yesterday to purchase goggles and a uniform sweatshirt, I stood in line behind 2 EMS students who were young and knowledgeable, having obviously been through the basic program already. They seemed confident and sure of themselves, and appeared to be buddies in the program. They were also young enough that I could easily have been their mother. I also determined that their combined body weight would probably come in somewhere around my single weight. I suddenly felt all my enthusiasm and motivation pour out of me. What was I doing? What was I thinking? What in God's name made me think I could do this, would enjoy it, would find it anything but humiliating and demoralizing?
So I woke up out of sorts, not sure what I was getting into, and telling myself I could just do my work, keep my head down, get what I could from the program, and move on. It didn't help that I couldn't figure out where to park, or even how to get into the building once I did park--the campus is labyrinthine, and basically hell for someone like me who has absolutely no sense of direction.
But on my way in, I ended up walking in with a young woman who was also on her way to the class. She knew exactly where she (and therefore I) was supposed to go, and we went together. I had another moment of panic when we walked into the classroom at 8:50 for a 9:00 class and the room was already filled with students. Before I could stop myself, I gasped to her, "Oh my God, are we late?" (Being late is an even more serious rule violation than messing up the uniform.) But she replied, "No, we're not late."
We found seats toward the back, though I'd told myself I'd want to sit near the front in order to help my focus, and not have to worry about seeing the board or the screen. We were soon joined by a young woman who could only be described as perky; her hair was pulled back in a long red ponytail, her round face was adorably freckled, and she was not completely in uniform. She sat right down, introduced herself, and we began to chat. (I know you will think I am making it up when I say it turns out that she is a cheerleading coach.)
Then it started. The information, the rules, the guidelines. I looked around surreptitiously and noticed several people not in full uniform. We were told there'd be a "line-up" every day, starting today, during which our uniforms would be looked over. Interestingly, it never happened, but we've been told it will for sure on Thursday. I imagine there were quite a few relieved students in that room. And I didn't care that other students "got away with" not having their uniforms when I made sure I had mine because it was well worth it for me not to spend the whole day dreading the moment of the line-up.
Our instructor is a woman, which is not what I expected but which is comforting and inspiring. (There are 32 students in the class, and 6 of us are female.) She is also my age or a little older, but she's been in the business for a couple of decades at least, and I am by far the oldest student. Well, there's one man who might be my age, or it could just be that he hasn't aged well and looks older than he is.
We have assigned seats: a little disappointing because the two women and I were enjoying sitting near one another. I ended up sitting at the end of a row, which is nice, and closer to the front, which is also nice, but next to a man who didn't read the rule about avoiding too much cologne. I thought about starting a conversation with him because his last name is a name we came very close to calling our first son, but thought I might not want to start harping on the fact that I'm old enough to have kids, at least not this early in the semester.
There will be quizzes every day (classes are twice a week) and homework assigned every day, as well. Fridays are free lab days which means anyone can come in and practice lab skills. We're also allowed to bring equipment home, including mannequins, in order to practice, as long as they get brought back the following Monday. (I'm thinking that could have proved amusing over the Halloween weekend.)
I'm nervous about the quizzes and the exams, the practicals and the clinicals. What I think I may be most nervous about are the things over which I have no control--such as arriving late one day because one of the boys is sick, or having to miss a day of class because I am sick or because my husband has to be out of town and something requires that I be home. I don't want to miss anything, and I don't want to be late; I don't want any "blue slips" or "green slips."
But I loved my first day. I enjoyed the other students with whom I got to interact, I was fascinated by the anecdotes the instructor offered, I liked being challenged by bagging and giving compressions to a plastic dummy (which I need help with--had it been a real patient, he'd be long dead by now, thanks to me). I loved the morbid jokes that go flying around, that are not just tolerated but embraced by the experienced staff who explained that it's a great way to handle the stress of working with death and injuries day in and day out.
I can't wait until Thursday.
So I woke up out of sorts, not sure what I was getting into, and telling myself I could just do my work, keep my head down, get what I could from the program, and move on. It didn't help that I couldn't figure out where to park, or even how to get into the building once I did park--the campus is labyrinthine, and basically hell for someone like me who has absolutely no sense of direction.
But on my way in, I ended up walking in with a young woman who was also on her way to the class. She knew exactly where she (and therefore I) was supposed to go, and we went together. I had another moment of panic when we walked into the classroom at 8:50 for a 9:00 class and the room was already filled with students. Before I could stop myself, I gasped to her, "Oh my God, are we late?" (Being late is an even more serious rule violation than messing up the uniform.) But she replied, "No, we're not late."
We found seats toward the back, though I'd told myself I'd want to sit near the front in order to help my focus, and not have to worry about seeing the board or the screen. We were soon joined by a young woman who could only be described as perky; her hair was pulled back in a long red ponytail, her round face was adorably freckled, and she was not completely in uniform. She sat right down, introduced herself, and we began to chat. (I know you will think I am making it up when I say it turns out that she is a cheerleading coach.)
Then it started. The information, the rules, the guidelines. I looked around surreptitiously and noticed several people not in full uniform. We were told there'd be a "line-up" every day, starting today, during which our uniforms would be looked over. Interestingly, it never happened, but we've been told it will for sure on Thursday. I imagine there were quite a few relieved students in that room. And I didn't care that other students "got away with" not having their uniforms when I made sure I had mine because it was well worth it for me not to spend the whole day dreading the moment of the line-up.
Our instructor is a woman, which is not what I expected but which is comforting and inspiring. (There are 32 students in the class, and 6 of us are female.) She is also my age or a little older, but she's been in the business for a couple of decades at least, and I am by far the oldest student. Well, there's one man who might be my age, or it could just be that he hasn't aged well and looks older than he is.
We have assigned seats: a little disappointing because the two women and I were enjoying sitting near one another. I ended up sitting at the end of a row, which is nice, and closer to the front, which is also nice, but next to a man who didn't read the rule about avoiding too much cologne. I thought about starting a conversation with him because his last name is a name we came very close to calling our first son, but thought I might not want to start harping on the fact that I'm old enough to have kids, at least not this early in the semester.
There will be quizzes every day (classes are twice a week) and homework assigned every day, as well. Fridays are free lab days which means anyone can come in and practice lab skills. We're also allowed to bring equipment home, including mannequins, in order to practice, as long as they get brought back the following Monday. (I'm thinking that could have proved amusing over the Halloween weekend.)
I'm nervous about the quizzes and the exams, the practicals and the clinicals. What I think I may be most nervous about are the things over which I have no control--such as arriving late one day because one of the boys is sick, or having to miss a day of class because I am sick or because my husband has to be out of town and something requires that I be home. I don't want to miss anything, and I don't want to be late; I don't want any "blue slips" or "green slips."
But I loved my first day. I enjoyed the other students with whom I got to interact, I was fascinated by the anecdotes the instructor offered, I liked being challenged by bagging and giving compressions to a plastic dummy (which I need help with--had it been a real patient, he'd be long dead by now, thanks to me). I loved the morbid jokes that go flying around, that are not just tolerated but embraced by the experienced staff who explained that it's a great way to handle the stress of working with death and injuries day in and day out.
I can't wait until Thursday.
Friday, January 8, 2010
In For a Penny...
Today is Friday. On Tuesday, four days from now, I will don the world's least flattering outfit and head to my first class for EMT training. There are ways in which I have had a gestation period with the whole experience: last month I attended a generic orientation for the community college, and used my trip out to the campus as an excuse to pick up the uniform shirts we have to be wearing on Day One. I paid for my classes a day or two later. I had my physical for the program a few days ago, which included the first in a series of Hepatitis B vaccines as well as a drug screening. Yesterday my husband picked up my required books for me while I went to an army-navy store to purchase the rest of the uniform (navy blue pants, cargo-style; black belt; smooth-toed boots). Actually, the boots have to be sent from a near-by store because they didn't have my size, so today I will get the boots, as well as pick up the health form that will have the results of my drug screen.
But each day it gets a little more real. I flipped through a couple of the books yesterday, one of which is the workbook that needs to be filled out for clinical runs, the other of which is the book that explains vehicle extrication. They involve rules--rules like you must address everyone as Mr. or Ms., that you can't argue about whether or not your attire is acceptable, don't wear jewelry or perfume, the cargo uniform pants are actually not acceptable for the clinical runs (you must wear navy plain-front pants instead), if it's cold outside you can wear the school-approved EMS outerwear shirt, your socks must be black.
I used to be a pseudo-boho. The woman who would turn out to be my best friend in college (and with whom I am still extremely close) admitted that the first time she saw me she thought I was a drug dealer. I love tie-dye anything. I love dream catchers. But these rules don't faze me. There are ways in which public service, such as police work, being a member of a fire department, being an EMT, is much like the military. There just isn't room for mistakes or inconsistency, there isn't time to ponder or debate when timing is everything. I suppose it's like many things in life: you have to learn the rules of grammar, or art, or music, before you can play with them or introduce any kind of finesse. I know there is an art to being a great--well, a great anything. But the rules have to come first.
That's something I could not have swallowed, let alone embraced, years ago. I was anti-establishment all the way. I questioned everything. Maybe I've gotten more conservative as I've gotten older, or maybe I just understand the world differently. Maybe, I hope, I actually understand the world more fully. I would not send my own children to a school where they had to wear a uniform, because I don't believe that that's what childhood or education is about. Uniforms are to make the teachers' and administrators' lives simpler; I do not believe they teach the children a damn thing. And that means that particular place of education is putting convenience before the needs of the children.
But childhood is supposed to be a time of questioning, of trying to make sense of the world while at the same time discovering oneself. If a child comes to school dressed inappropriately, that is a teachable moment. It takes time--someone will have to have a conversation with that child about why his or her choice of attire is inappropriate, and there will be a give-and-take. But that teaches the child so many things in that one interaction: that he or she is worth engaging in conversation, that his or her viewpoint matters, that he or she is being heard. And then he or she must listen, respect an other's viewpoint, and take the time to digest the reasons for not being allowed to dress that way, even if he or she doesn't agree.
But I am not getting trained as an EMT so I can have conversations with my superiors about how having to wear navy blue is not allowing me to express my individuality. I am getting trained as an EMT because I want to learn how to help people in an emergency. The best way to train people to do that is to make rules that must be followed, and spend precious time on things that matter. If what I wear matters to me, I should pick a different option. After all, as I said to the young woman from whom I am buying a pair of the world's ugliest boots for $100, I clearly am not going into this profession for the fashion.
Well, this topic was a digression. Because even more than the rules that at one time would have seemed arbitrary and ridiculous, I was struck by the scope of an EMT's experience, even just an EMT Basic. The two words that come to mind most frequently when I think about this particular journey are excited and terrified. I might get to hold a little girl's hand all the way to the hospital to reassure her and help her feel less frightened; I might see someone bleed to death. I might get to assist in childbirth; I might have to support a woman who's just been told her husband is dead. I might have to help fold back the hood of a car in order to get someone out of the driver's seat. I might have to hear that I did something wrong or something stupid. I might spend a 12-hour shift sitting in the seat of an ambulance reading a book or watching the rain fall.
And it all starts Tuesday.
But each day it gets a little more real. I flipped through a couple of the books yesterday, one of which is the workbook that needs to be filled out for clinical runs, the other of which is the book that explains vehicle extrication. They involve rules--rules like you must address everyone as Mr. or Ms., that you can't argue about whether or not your attire is acceptable, don't wear jewelry or perfume, the cargo uniform pants are actually not acceptable for the clinical runs (you must wear navy plain-front pants instead), if it's cold outside you can wear the school-approved EMS outerwear shirt, your socks must be black.
I used to be a pseudo-boho. The woman who would turn out to be my best friend in college (and with whom I am still extremely close) admitted that the first time she saw me she thought I was a drug dealer. I love tie-dye anything. I love dream catchers. But these rules don't faze me. There are ways in which public service, such as police work, being a member of a fire department, being an EMT, is much like the military. There just isn't room for mistakes or inconsistency, there isn't time to ponder or debate when timing is everything. I suppose it's like many things in life: you have to learn the rules of grammar, or art, or music, before you can play with them or introduce any kind of finesse. I know there is an art to being a great--well, a great anything. But the rules have to come first.
That's something I could not have swallowed, let alone embraced, years ago. I was anti-establishment all the way. I questioned everything. Maybe I've gotten more conservative as I've gotten older, or maybe I just understand the world differently. Maybe, I hope, I actually understand the world more fully. I would not send my own children to a school where they had to wear a uniform, because I don't believe that that's what childhood or education is about. Uniforms are to make the teachers' and administrators' lives simpler; I do not believe they teach the children a damn thing. And that means that particular place of education is putting convenience before the needs of the children.
But childhood is supposed to be a time of questioning, of trying to make sense of the world while at the same time discovering oneself. If a child comes to school dressed inappropriately, that is a teachable moment. It takes time--someone will have to have a conversation with that child about why his or her choice of attire is inappropriate, and there will be a give-and-take. But that teaches the child so many things in that one interaction: that he or she is worth engaging in conversation, that his or her viewpoint matters, that he or she is being heard. And then he or she must listen, respect an other's viewpoint, and take the time to digest the reasons for not being allowed to dress that way, even if he or she doesn't agree.
But I am not getting trained as an EMT so I can have conversations with my superiors about how having to wear navy blue is not allowing me to express my individuality. I am getting trained as an EMT because I want to learn how to help people in an emergency. The best way to train people to do that is to make rules that must be followed, and spend precious time on things that matter. If what I wear matters to me, I should pick a different option. After all, as I said to the young woman from whom I am buying a pair of the world's ugliest boots for $100, I clearly am not going into this profession for the fashion.
Well, this topic was a digression. Because even more than the rules that at one time would have seemed arbitrary and ridiculous, I was struck by the scope of an EMT's experience, even just an EMT Basic. The two words that come to mind most frequently when I think about this particular journey are excited and terrified. I might get to hold a little girl's hand all the way to the hospital to reassure her and help her feel less frightened; I might see someone bleed to death. I might get to assist in childbirth; I might have to support a woman who's just been told her husband is dead. I might have to help fold back the hood of a car in order to get someone out of the driver's seat. I might have to hear that I did something wrong or something stupid. I might spend a 12-hour shift sitting in the seat of an ambulance reading a book or watching the rain fall.
And it all starts Tuesday.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Facebook Rage
I enjoy Facebook as much as the next person. Okay, maybe not quite as much as the next person, but it amuses me and has allowed me to get or stay in touch with people I enjoy being in touch with. I probably should have left it at that--I probably should have kept my list of "friends" to distant people, not people I used to work with. For a long time, I "ignored" requests from coworkers, back when I was employed: the boundaries between personal and professional are already too murky where I used to work, and were made worse by the fact that my husband works there, and my kids go to school there.
But when I lost my job, I granted friend requests, figuring it might be a source of support, or could even serve as very casual networking. Big mistake.
I have "hidden" several people, people I enjoy, even people I am related to, because of the Facebook Drivel Syndrome: the people who write about what they had for dinner, how quickly they mowed the lawn, whether or not they're tired. These comments don't create Facebook Rage in me, they just make me cringe--and hit the "hide" button, so I can go back to imagining that these people aren't as pathetic in real life as they clearly make themselves out to be in cyberspace.
No, Facebook Rage is, for me, a relatively recent phenomenon. It's what comes over me when people I once thought of as tolerant, sensitive, intelligent human beings show their utter lack of compassion and understanding, instead choosing to use Facebook as a way to express their flippancy or, worse, their heretofore hidden prejudices.
The first time a "friend" did this was when she posted on her wall for all to see that she was "disappointed in the city of Detroit." Okay, never mind that this is a pretty narcissistic ploy--someone was going to write in, "Oh no! What happened?" and sure enough, someone did. (Someone else even wrote in, "Are you okay?!" Of course she's okay, you idiot, she's logged on to Facebook.) So she provided the details, explaining that the city police hadn't even come to the crime scene, and that she now has to drive back down to Detroit from the suburb she lives in in order to fill out a report.
Frustrating and maddening? Absolutely. Did she deserve sympathy? Without a doubt. Was it okay for her to blame the entire city of Detroit for this one incident? Not on your life.
So I pointed out to her that perhaps taking to task an entire city for the actions of a small number of people was somewhat akin to what many republican politicians she so despises do when they try to generalize about an entire group of people based on very little truth.
Oops. She didn't like that. She retorted that she thought she had the right to express disappointment with the police officers who refused even to come to the crime scene.
Yup, she has that right. But that's not what she posted. Her exact words were, "I am so disappointed in the city of Detroit."
I am not a native Detroiter. I am not even a native to the Midwest. But when someone who is a native Michigander throws out a very public statement that, at the very least, is overgeneralizing, and, at the very worst, could be seen as racist, I get pissed. This city is in big trouble. And my heart breaks for the people who have spent their lives here, or who came here looking for a better life than the one they used to have, and have ended up jobless, homeless, and being blamed for some thoughtless person's disappointment that her car was broken into. My guess is, those police officers who didn't come to the scene of the crime probably had more important things going on. Just a hunch.
I should have "hidden" this person then and there. I did, at least, let the matter drop. Yay me.
But yesterday, in response to a story in CNN's Money, this same person posted that her job was in the top 10 of "stressful jobs that pay badly." Huh. Never mind that she must be considering her job to be "fund raiser," which is a stretch, given that her actual position does not involve cold-calling people and asking them for money. In fact, her job, which is at a private school, involves dealing with people who have already pledged money. Okay, I need to get over that. Her job also allows her to get a major break on her kids' tuition at the school.
But what I can't get over is her utter insensitivity to the people who might see her wall who don't, in fact, have jobs at all. I wanted so desperately to write in response, "Try to imagine the stress of not having a job."
And there is my conclusion: regular use of Facebook brings out the worst in people. I don't want to see people without their social clothes on. I don't want to know these people in all their uncensored glory. Their foibles are too much for me: please leave me in ignorance. And then I will have the luxury, and grace, not to write back in my fury and my self-righteousness, which have absolutely increased in response to the loss of my job.
Being unemployed when you don't want to be sucks.
But when I lost my job, I granted friend requests, figuring it might be a source of support, or could even serve as very casual networking. Big mistake.
I have "hidden" several people, people I enjoy, even people I am related to, because of the Facebook Drivel Syndrome: the people who write about what they had for dinner, how quickly they mowed the lawn, whether or not they're tired. These comments don't create Facebook Rage in me, they just make me cringe--and hit the "hide" button, so I can go back to imagining that these people aren't as pathetic in real life as they clearly make themselves out to be in cyberspace.
No, Facebook Rage is, for me, a relatively recent phenomenon. It's what comes over me when people I once thought of as tolerant, sensitive, intelligent human beings show their utter lack of compassion and understanding, instead choosing to use Facebook as a way to express their flippancy or, worse, their heretofore hidden prejudices.
The first time a "friend" did this was when she posted on her wall for all to see that she was "disappointed in the city of Detroit." Okay, never mind that this is a pretty narcissistic ploy--someone was going to write in, "Oh no! What happened?" and sure enough, someone did. (Someone else even wrote in, "Are you okay?!" Of course she's okay, you idiot, she's logged on to Facebook.) So she provided the details, explaining that the city police hadn't even come to the crime scene, and that she now has to drive back down to Detroit from the suburb she lives in in order to fill out a report.
Frustrating and maddening? Absolutely. Did she deserve sympathy? Without a doubt. Was it okay for her to blame the entire city of Detroit for this one incident? Not on your life.
So I pointed out to her that perhaps taking to task an entire city for the actions of a small number of people was somewhat akin to what many republican politicians she so despises do when they try to generalize about an entire group of people based on very little truth.
Oops. She didn't like that. She retorted that she thought she had the right to express disappointment with the police officers who refused even to come to the crime scene.
Yup, she has that right. But that's not what she posted. Her exact words were, "I am so disappointed in the city of Detroit."
I am not a native Detroiter. I am not even a native to the Midwest. But when someone who is a native Michigander throws out a very public statement that, at the very least, is overgeneralizing, and, at the very worst, could be seen as racist, I get pissed. This city is in big trouble. And my heart breaks for the people who have spent their lives here, or who came here looking for a better life than the one they used to have, and have ended up jobless, homeless, and being blamed for some thoughtless person's disappointment that her car was broken into. My guess is, those police officers who didn't come to the scene of the crime probably had more important things going on. Just a hunch.
I should have "hidden" this person then and there. I did, at least, let the matter drop. Yay me.
But yesterday, in response to a story in CNN's Money, this same person posted that her job was in the top 10 of "stressful jobs that pay badly." Huh. Never mind that she must be considering her job to be "fund raiser," which is a stretch, given that her actual position does not involve cold-calling people and asking them for money. In fact, her job, which is at a private school, involves dealing with people who have already pledged money. Okay, I need to get over that. Her job also allows her to get a major break on her kids' tuition at the school.
But what I can't get over is her utter insensitivity to the people who might see her wall who don't, in fact, have jobs at all. I wanted so desperately to write in response, "Try to imagine the stress of not having a job."
And there is my conclusion: regular use of Facebook brings out the worst in people. I don't want to see people without their social clothes on. I don't want to know these people in all their uncensored glory. Their foibles are too much for me: please leave me in ignorance. And then I will have the luxury, and grace, not to write back in my fury and my self-righteousness, which have absolutely increased in response to the loss of my job.
Being unemployed when you don't want to be sucks.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
The Insanity Defense
I haven't told anyone I know, except my husband and children, that I am thinking seriously about becoming an EMT. Anyone else I know will think I am insane. That's not the only reason I haven't mentioned it to anyone else--I'm not that fazed by being thought insane. What I don't want is for people to know about it and then for me not to follow through.
That's what happened when I started library school. I told everyone who would listen, and I was excited about it, and then let it drop. Now when people see me, they ask if I've graduated yet. It's icky. I dropped it because I realized I didn't feel particularly enthusiastic about the job options that would be available to me once I got my degree, but also because I was not at all enthusiastic about the people I was working with, both students and professors (and administrators, for that matter).
When I enrolled in library school, I was at a place in my life where I felt like I needed to be away from people, where I could be more autonomous, where I could choose, to some extent, my levels of interactions with others, both coworkers and customers. What I didn't recognize until later was just how influenced I was by the situation I was in at the time. I loved my job and my students, and I loved the time in the classroom. What I couldn't stomach was when I had to be with my colleagues.
So I was looking for ways to get out, and library school seemed like a very safe alternative. Books, information, working with people (maybe even kids), educating. It felt comfortable because it was a life I understood. I spend hours in libraries, I'd be lost without them. They are havens, sanctuaries. They are safe. And safe is comfortable. Safe is also necessary when parts of your life don't feel safe, and at the time, my work life didn't feel safe to me at all.
But I am safe now. I no longer second-guess every word out of my mouth, I no longer feel bad about what I know and don't know, and about who my children are and who my husband is. So that's baggage that doesn't have to factor in to what I think about doing with the rest of my life.
And that means maybe I no longer have to "play it safe" when it comes to changing careers. I don't have to be in a school for the rest of my life. I don't have to work solely with children. My next job doesn't have to be almost entirely cerebral. It could have some visceral thrown in there, too.
Which leads me to my follow-up on my last post in which I described being convinced that all other people interested in being an EMT would essentially be Baywatch babes. I am thrilled to announce I was wrong. So wrong.
Not that it was a room full of misfits. (As opposed to classes in library school, at least the library school I was attending--I have been trained not to be judgmental and even my mind was boggled by how many social misfits could all be in one graduate program at once.) There seemed to be just the requisite number of misfits--no more, no less.
And no one, I am happy to say, looked like they would be handed a modeling contract any time in the next week or two. (Except for maybe the instructor's colleague, who bore a disturbing resemblance to Brad Pitt...)
So it was a room full of average people. Yay. I love average. It is completely underrated.
And it was a fascinating hour, it really was. I loved it. I loved the confidence with which the instructor talked about our finding employment as soon as we completed our certification. I loved his straightforwardness and his total lack of badass attitude. He wasn't there to try to weed us out, he was there to encourage us and give us valuable information at the same time. At one point he even said, "This is a job that requires you to be a people person. If you are not a people person"--shouldn't this be the place where he says, "Then this is not the job for you"? But instead he continued, "Then you will need to work on that."
That very evening, back at home, when I was trying to slice some bread for dinner, I cut my finger. Deeply. It bled and bled and bled. It was still bleeding more than an hour later. So we went to an urgent care center, where I got my first stitch. Then yesterday, when I had to have some blood work done in order to be a volunteer in the hospital parenting program, I watched the nurse stick the needle into my arm. I have never watched it before.
Not only that, but it turns out that the nurse, Linda, used to be an ER tech, so I learned all about what she did, what she does now (having had serious back issues and then a massive heart attack, even though she's not yet 55), and what she plans to do in her future (occupational health is not for her--she misses the rush of the ER). So Linda and I gabbed for a good 20 minutes, at which point she encouraged me to let her know if she could help me in any way with my new career path, and she gave me her contact information. The best time I've ever had having blood drawn...
So am I insane? Sure, maybe. And maybe rushing to the site of gunfire or a car crash isn't for me--I don't know yet. But I think doors are opening, possibilities are appearing, and that has to be good.
That's what happened when I started library school. I told everyone who would listen, and I was excited about it, and then let it drop. Now when people see me, they ask if I've graduated yet. It's icky. I dropped it because I realized I didn't feel particularly enthusiastic about the job options that would be available to me once I got my degree, but also because I was not at all enthusiastic about the people I was working with, both students and professors (and administrators, for that matter).
When I enrolled in library school, I was at a place in my life where I felt like I needed to be away from people, where I could be more autonomous, where I could choose, to some extent, my levels of interactions with others, both coworkers and customers. What I didn't recognize until later was just how influenced I was by the situation I was in at the time. I loved my job and my students, and I loved the time in the classroom. What I couldn't stomach was when I had to be with my colleagues.
So I was looking for ways to get out, and library school seemed like a very safe alternative. Books, information, working with people (maybe even kids), educating. It felt comfortable because it was a life I understood. I spend hours in libraries, I'd be lost without them. They are havens, sanctuaries. They are safe. And safe is comfortable. Safe is also necessary when parts of your life don't feel safe, and at the time, my work life didn't feel safe to me at all.
But I am safe now. I no longer second-guess every word out of my mouth, I no longer feel bad about what I know and don't know, and about who my children are and who my husband is. So that's baggage that doesn't have to factor in to what I think about doing with the rest of my life.
And that means maybe I no longer have to "play it safe" when it comes to changing careers. I don't have to be in a school for the rest of my life. I don't have to work solely with children. My next job doesn't have to be almost entirely cerebral. It could have some visceral thrown in there, too.
Which leads me to my follow-up on my last post in which I described being convinced that all other people interested in being an EMT would essentially be Baywatch babes. I am thrilled to announce I was wrong. So wrong.
Not that it was a room full of misfits. (As opposed to classes in library school, at least the library school I was attending--I have been trained not to be judgmental and even my mind was boggled by how many social misfits could all be in one graduate program at once.) There seemed to be just the requisite number of misfits--no more, no less.
And no one, I am happy to say, looked like they would be handed a modeling contract any time in the next week or two. (Except for maybe the instructor's colleague, who bore a disturbing resemblance to Brad Pitt...)
So it was a room full of average people. Yay. I love average. It is completely underrated.
And it was a fascinating hour, it really was. I loved it. I loved the confidence with which the instructor talked about our finding employment as soon as we completed our certification. I loved his straightforwardness and his total lack of badass attitude. He wasn't there to try to weed us out, he was there to encourage us and give us valuable information at the same time. At one point he even said, "This is a job that requires you to be a people person. If you are not a people person"--shouldn't this be the place where he says, "Then this is not the job for you"? But instead he continued, "Then you will need to work on that."
That very evening, back at home, when I was trying to slice some bread for dinner, I cut my finger. Deeply. It bled and bled and bled. It was still bleeding more than an hour later. So we went to an urgent care center, where I got my first stitch. Then yesterday, when I had to have some blood work done in order to be a volunteer in the hospital parenting program, I watched the nurse stick the needle into my arm. I have never watched it before.
Not only that, but it turns out that the nurse, Linda, used to be an ER tech, so I learned all about what she did, what she does now (having had serious back issues and then a massive heart attack, even though she's not yet 55), and what she plans to do in her future (occupational health is not for her--she misses the rush of the ER). So Linda and I gabbed for a good 20 minutes, at which point she encouraged me to let her know if she could help me in any way with my new career path, and she gave me her contact information. The best time I've ever had having blood drawn...
So am I insane? Sure, maybe. And maybe rushing to the site of gunfire or a car crash isn't for me--I don't know yet. But I think doors are opening, possibilities are appearing, and that has to be good.
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