You are probably just reading this because you aren't allowed to leave your house and have exhausted every other entertainment option you can think of. That's ok.
A captive audience is still an audience, and neither of us have anything better to do.
It's the perfect time for a new batch of random thoughts. Satisfaction guaranteed or your money back.
Why is it that I start to get restless after a day at home, but my cat hasn't left the house in like 16 years and she is doing just fine?
So is it the Corona Virus, the coronavirus, Covid-19, SARS-CoV-2, or something with the word "China" in the name? If just naming the virus is this hard, no wonder we don't have a vaccine yet.
Instead of getting a stimulus check from the government, can I request that they send me an equivalent amount worth of toilet paper?
Lots of people are watching a new documentary about a guy with a mullet haircut and his own pet tigers. In 5 years, he will probably be our president.
Why didn't I think to buy a gigantic, tricked-out house that I couldn't afford right before the banks were ordered not to foreclose on people?
At what point does flying actually become safer than staying home, because there are fewer people on the plane than living in your house? Plus, you can swipe some toilet paper from the lavoratory.
Do police officers now have to sanitize their hands before putting people in handcuffs?
If you don't have the virus, is it insensitive to play R.EM.'s song with the lyrics "It's the end of the world as we know but I feel fine"?
Why did toilet paper become the thing people decided to lose their minds stocking up on? Why not, say, oranges?
Why are police, medics, and firefighters all referred to as first responders when one of them got to the scene third?
One thing I know: when we all emerge from this thing, there are going to be a whole lot of people who need haircuts.
Another thing: tickets for whatever the first live sporting event is on the other side of this are going to go for like a thousand dollars. Or maybe that amount worth of toilet paper.
I feel really bad for people who live alone and have birthdays while under quarantine. If you know anyone to whom that applies, drop them off some toilet paper.
Here's to all those who are, or have a loved one, fighting against this thing. Stay safe, keep fighting, and don't give up hope for a day when you have something better to do than read this blog.
Tuesday, March 31, 2020
Sunday, March 1, 2020
It Wasn't Supposed to Be This Way
Today was supposed to be my day.
My triumph. My victory. My proclamation of overcoming MS, my social anxiety, and a long-fought intractable battle over a personal goal.
It certainly wasn't supposed to be like this.
I was going to run the Atlanta Half Marathon. After ten races over 7 years, I was finally going to hit the 1:45 mark I've been working towards since I started running. I was going to feel triumphant, having scored a victory over both multiple sclerosis and Father Time. Locally, this is the biggest race of the year, and I imagined running through the streets of my new city, absorbing the support of the crowd and feeling the affirmation that I belonged here. Moving is hard, and this was to my first heartfelt connection I was to forge with my new home.
I was looking forward to basking in a lazy afternoon satisfied in my accomplishment, reflecting on what it took to get here.
I broke my knee three years ago, and it was inexplicably slow to recover. My orthopedist gave up on me, and my physical therapist told me that I'd never walk again without a limp. He thought my knee was mostly healed but my nerve connections just didn't work anymore, what with the MS trying to destroy them. I refused to believe him, because I just couldn't. And eventually, he turned out to be wrong.
Today, I was going to not only prove that, I was going to be faster than ever.
And the thing is, I was actually going to do it. I had run up to 11 miles and was already hitting the times I needed a month before the race. By race day, today, I was going to be trained and ready to own the course. I was going to blow my goal away, having overcome MS and a debilitating injury to do it.
But that today didn't happen. I got this today instead.
A month ago my ankle turned in a bad direction and I fell to the ground. I completely tore my ligament off the bone, and I've been in a walking boot ever since. I was able to ditch my crutches fairly quickly, but the doctor told me I would take three months to heal.
I'm going to miss a whole lot of races until then, but none bigger than today. The race is all over the papers, and the local streets are mostly shut down. I was supposed to be out there as part of Atlanta's annual weekend running festival, not inside on a computer.
Life while injured is hard. I've been mostly stuck inside, unable to do much except get overly worked up about the latest political news. It's been rainy and gloomy all winter. February is the worst month of the calendar, with little excitement and lots of cold, and this year it even had an extra day.
I went to church this morning, because I had some free time that opened from the race I couldn't run. In an act of defiance, I left my house without my walking boot, a day before I was scheduled to be done with it. I drove to church and then hobbled from the parking lot to the auditorium. If I couldn't run the race I wanted, I could at least limp toward God.
It was a good service--one that spoke of counting our blessings even in seasons of loss, and making sacrifices to help others, rather than the empty gestures that come more easily. As we took communion near the end, I remembered that Jesus was once physically broken just like me, and modeled how to do it. Eventually, he got back up again, and he overcame.
I will too.
I fell, but I will get back up. My ankle, my knee, and my fiberglass body will all hold up for another shot somewhere down the line. MS will let me will run another race, and if I got to my desired pace once, I can get there again. It will feel ever better having overcome one more thing to do it. I will feel settled and at home someday, somewhere.
My day will come. I just have to believe that it will.
I wish it were today. Instead, I settled for a slow but successful walk back my car after church had ended, one day ahead of my recovery schedule. I smiled a little smile at the small victory. It was all that was in store for me today, but a victory nonetheless.
And I noticed the sun had finally come out.
My triumph. My victory. My proclamation of overcoming MS, my social anxiety, and a long-fought intractable battle over a personal goal.
It certainly wasn't supposed to be like this.
I was going to run the Atlanta Half Marathon. After ten races over 7 years, I was finally going to hit the 1:45 mark I've been working towards since I started running. I was going to feel triumphant, having scored a victory over both multiple sclerosis and Father Time. Locally, this is the biggest race of the year, and I imagined running through the streets of my new city, absorbing the support of the crowd and feeling the affirmation that I belonged here. Moving is hard, and this was to my first heartfelt connection I was to forge with my new home.
I was looking forward to basking in a lazy afternoon satisfied in my accomplishment, reflecting on what it took to get here.
I broke my knee three years ago, and it was inexplicably slow to recover. My orthopedist gave up on me, and my physical therapist told me that I'd never walk again without a limp. He thought my knee was mostly healed but my nerve connections just didn't work anymore, what with the MS trying to destroy them. I refused to believe him, because I just couldn't. And eventually, he turned out to be wrong.
Today, I was going to not only prove that, I was going to be faster than ever.
And the thing is, I was actually going to do it. I had run up to 11 miles and was already hitting the times I needed a month before the race. By race day, today, I was going to be trained and ready to own the course. I was going to blow my goal away, having overcome MS and a debilitating injury to do it.
But that today didn't happen. I got this today instead.
A month ago my ankle turned in a bad direction and I fell to the ground. I completely tore my ligament off the bone, and I've been in a walking boot ever since. I was able to ditch my crutches fairly quickly, but the doctor told me I would take three months to heal.
I'm going to miss a whole lot of races until then, but none bigger than today. The race is all over the papers, and the local streets are mostly shut down. I was supposed to be out there as part of Atlanta's annual weekend running festival, not inside on a computer.
Life while injured is hard. I've been mostly stuck inside, unable to do much except get overly worked up about the latest political news. It's been rainy and gloomy all winter. February is the worst month of the calendar, with little excitement and lots of cold, and this year it even had an extra day.
I went to church this morning, because I had some free time that opened from the race I couldn't run. In an act of defiance, I left my house without my walking boot, a day before I was scheduled to be done with it. I drove to church and then hobbled from the parking lot to the auditorium. If I couldn't run the race I wanted, I could at least limp toward God.
It was a good service--one that spoke of counting our blessings even in seasons of loss, and making sacrifices to help others, rather than the empty gestures that come more easily. As we took communion near the end, I remembered that Jesus was once physically broken just like me, and modeled how to do it. Eventually, he got back up again, and he overcame.
I will too.
I fell, but I will get back up. My ankle, my knee, and my fiberglass body will all hold up for another shot somewhere down the line. MS will let me will run another race, and if I got to my desired pace once, I can get there again. It will feel ever better having overcome one more thing to do it. I will feel settled and at home someday, somewhere.
My day will come. I just have to believe that it will.
I wish it were today. Instead, I settled for a slow but successful walk back my car after church had ended, one day ahead of my recovery schedule. I smiled a little smile at the small victory. It was all that was in store for me today, but a victory nonetheless.
And I noticed the sun had finally come out.
Monday, January 6, 2020
Life With MS
"I don't have kids," my co-worker said. "My boyfriend told me I should just go on disability. I probably could. I just don't think I'm ready to do it."
"I totally get it," I said. "You gotta do something to feel like you're making a difference. That doesn't mean you can't do that while on disability, but a job can be a big part of that."
I don't have the exact symptoms my co-worker, who also has MS, was describing, but I admired her resolve.
Even on days when I'd rather not get out of bed, part of me fears life sitting around watching daytime tv and eating cereal would get old. Especially since I can't have milk.
She went on to tell me about not being able to run, or even feel her legs for days at a time. I suddenly felt guilty that my numbness was limited to my left foot. We soon became like two old war veterans complaining about the weird things multiple sclerosis was doing to us. It was oddly fascinating to hear what she was going through, and not just because she had it worse than me.
Although that probably helped.
It started when I had to explain to my co-workers that I couldn't have birthday cake, or anything else with high sugar, because it would make my legs twitch, a rare feature I lucked out with. Then she asked what medication I was taking, and we shared the universal MS-bonding ritual of talking about how much we hate our respective medication prescriptions.
There are about 15 different MS drugs approved to treat MS, and from what I can tell everyone hates whichever one they happen to take. People with MS tend to seek out some secret less dreadful medication like the Spanish explorers sought out the Lost City of Gold, with about the same success (but minus all the homicides).
One of the newer ones is effective, but it takes half a day, and a trip to the hospital to administer. And it leads to brain tumors in a disturbing number of folks. A slightly older one causes stomach issues, and may cause cancer, and still others cause vital organs to shut down. Older ones have fewer side effects, but--forgive me for nitpicking--don't actually work.
I consider myself lucky in that my medication really hurts to administer but otherwise seems to work, and has not yet killed me. On balance, that's a win.
My coworker has had a rougher run. She had the disease for years and no one could figure out her issue. Even after a diagnosis, she hasn't found an effective treatment routine. One of the worst things about having multiple sclerosis is that no one else really knows what it is.
I don't blame them. I still don't know either.
When my doctor told me I might have it, one of the first things I did was look up the difference between MS, cerebral palsy, and cystic fibrosis, because I had them all conflated into one disease in my mind--one where the patient can't walk without assistance and looks really thin.
But now that I'm three years in, and mostly just look thin, people tend to assume that I'm not really affected.
"Do you have any symptoms?" people ask me sometimes. I get annoyed with that question, when it is phrased as though I can answer it in a sentence or two. You might as well ask me if there are any ways in which I feel different from a zebra.
I posted an article to Facebook this week about what MS feels like, and I immediately worried that it would look like I was whining. I'm thankful for the life I get to have. Sometimes I just want some explain MS once, and not have you ask me why I'm not eating chocolate the next time I see you, why I can't eat outside on a hot day, walk a straight line down the hallway, or might be slow to return a message.
Or maybe why this wasn't my best blog post. In case you're wondering, I blame my medication.
"I totally get it," I said. "You gotta do something to feel like you're making a difference. That doesn't mean you can't do that while on disability, but a job can be a big part of that."
I don't have the exact symptoms my co-worker, who also has MS, was describing, but I admired her resolve.
Even on days when I'd rather not get out of bed, part of me fears life sitting around watching daytime tv and eating cereal would get old. Especially since I can't have milk.
She went on to tell me about not being able to run, or even feel her legs for days at a time. I suddenly felt guilty that my numbness was limited to my left foot. We soon became like two old war veterans complaining about the weird things multiple sclerosis was doing to us. It was oddly fascinating to hear what she was going through, and not just because she had it worse than me.
Although that probably helped.
It started when I had to explain to my co-workers that I couldn't have birthday cake, or anything else with high sugar, because it would make my legs twitch, a rare feature I lucked out with. Then she asked what medication I was taking, and we shared the universal MS-bonding ritual of talking about how much we hate our respective medication prescriptions.
There are about 15 different MS drugs approved to treat MS, and from what I can tell everyone hates whichever one they happen to take. People with MS tend to seek out some secret less dreadful medication like the Spanish explorers sought out the Lost City of Gold, with about the same success (but minus all the homicides).
One of the newer ones is effective, but it takes half a day, and a trip to the hospital to administer. And it leads to brain tumors in a disturbing number of folks. A slightly older one causes stomach issues, and may cause cancer, and still others cause vital organs to shut down. Older ones have fewer side effects, but--forgive me for nitpicking--don't actually work.
I consider myself lucky in that my medication really hurts to administer but otherwise seems to work, and has not yet killed me. On balance, that's a win.
My coworker has had a rougher run. She had the disease for years and no one could figure out her issue. Even after a diagnosis, she hasn't found an effective treatment routine. One of the worst things about having multiple sclerosis is that no one else really knows what it is.
I don't blame them. I still don't know either.
When my doctor told me I might have it, one of the first things I did was look up the difference between MS, cerebral palsy, and cystic fibrosis, because I had them all conflated into one disease in my mind--one where the patient can't walk without assistance and looks really thin.
But now that I'm three years in, and mostly just look thin, people tend to assume that I'm not really affected.
"Do you have any symptoms?" people ask me sometimes. I get annoyed with that question, when it is phrased as though I can answer it in a sentence or two. You might as well ask me if there are any ways in which I feel different from a zebra.
I spent a couple hours yesterday wondering if I couldn't see clearly out of my left eye because I was having another MS attack that would leave me half blind for the foreseeable future again, or if I just needed to change my contact lens.
It turned out to be the latter this time, thankfully.
That kind of thing used to freak me out, but now I've gotten used to it. I don't know what my disease is going to look like from day to day.
One day I wake up, have breakfast and then need to go back to bed. The next I might run nine miles at 8-minute pace. The next day I might have stabbing nerve pain throughout the day and be unable to concentrate. The day after, I might feel totally fine, and feel so thankful that life still seems so normal. Then at night, when I can't sleep, I'll get aggravated about something and can't calm myself down. When I finally get some rest, maybe I'll crank out a brief that gets rave reviews and think that this whole yo-yo routine is all in my head.
And literally, I suppose it is. I have 16 scar ("sclerosis" in Latin) tissues in my brain to prove it.
On the bright side, life is never boring. On the downside, it's so hard to explain what MS feels like unless you have your own handy blog.
I posted an article to Facebook this week about what MS feels like, and I immediately worried that it would look like I was whining. I'm thankful for the life I get to have. Sometimes I just want some explain MS once, and not have you ask me why I'm not eating chocolate the next time I see you, why I can't eat outside on a hot day, walk a straight line down the hallway, or might be slow to return a message.
Or maybe why this wasn't my best blog post. In case you're wondering, I blame my medication.
Tuesday, December 17, 2019
Airport Adventures With a 54-Pound Suitcase
"That suitcase weighs 54 pounds, sir," the ticket agent said. "You're going to have to shed four pounds or pay $75."
That sounded like a challenge.
It wasn't even about the money. It would be a solid month before I was back in Livermore again, and I had resolved to get by in the meantime on two suitcases a carry-on and a personal item.
But when I first packed, by suitcase weighed roughly 918 pounds.
I tried for hours to pare it down the lightest, most essential things. I set aside my favorite bottle of wine, that was to welcome me to my new quarters in Atlanta. I threw away my black boots that had seen slightly better days. I left behind my heavy coat, thinking I could survive without it for a month.
But now I had left all that behind and was about to have to pay an extra $75 anyway. If the ticket agent was going to make me pay an excess weight fee regardless, I might as well be looking forward to drinking a bottle of good wine in my black leather jacket and matching boots while sitting on my Georgia balcony.
I couldn't stand the thought that I discarded all that other valuable stuff for nothing. I suddenly wished that I would have kept all that stuff in my bag and added a few gold bricks for good measure.
I couldn't find any, so I stepped out of line and set about trying to lessen my load by four pounds. The problem was that my other suitcase was already so full I had to sit on it and yank the zipper until the point of tears (for me and for it) to get it to close. Also, both my carry-ons were bulging, and I was already wearing a jacket and carrying my laptop in my arms.
I had planned on maxing out my baggage allowance without having to lose four pounds at the last minute, and there was, literally, no room for a plan B.
I had limited options, and the only one I could envision was to just wear a lot of clothes.
I found a heavy sweater. I put in on over my regular sweater. Over top of it, I put on a heavy-ish hoodie with a metal zipper, that might fit underneath my coat. I couldn't bear to try it on just yet--all I had to do was get it out of my suitcase--so I draped it between the handles of my carry-on for the moment.
I pulled out a hat and put it on. I couldn't have weighed more than a few ounces, but I was running out of body parts to double-cloth. I took out a notebook and carried it. I replaced a couple of magazines in my carry-on with a small book, and stuffed the magazines in my back pocket.
I briefly considered putting on a second pair of socks, but they were buried pretty deep.
Otherwise, I was wearing enough clothes to last me an entire long weekend. Never has a Vanderbilt-educated lawyer with a six-figure salary looked more like a homeless guy.
I lugged my suitcase back over to the ticket counter. This time, I checked in at 51 pounds, but there was absolutely nothing else I could carry. Thankfully, the ticket agent let it slide.
I gladly handed him my largest bag and another that clocked in just under 50, but that wasn't the end of the adventure.
I was drenched in sweat from my layers of clothing, and the process of balancing two carry-ons, a laptop, a jacket, a notebook, and having to pull out an ID along the way, while also fighting MS, a progressive disease that makes me sensitive to heat and has killed my balance. But eventually, I made it to my gate. (Side note: it's definitely not fun to use an airport restroom while carrying basically everything you own.)
As I got to the waiting area of the gate and plopped at a seat, I exhaled and proceeded to shed my layers, like a human onion.
Just as I removed the last (extra) layer I was wearing, I heard an announcement:
"Ladies and Gentleman, we have a completely full flight. So everyone please consolidate your items to one carry-on and one personal item. You will not be allowed to board with a third item, and will have to check any additional item beyond two."
This seemed an impossible command, but I had come too far to relent.
I dressed again in all the layers I had removed, except for one jacket in which I figured I would need to wrap my laptop inside. Then I walked with a full-sized carry on, a personal item that was pushing the limit of what might fit at my feet, a notebook, and a wadded up jacket concealing a laptop.
I walked as quickly as I could, attempting to use my body to shield some of my stash as I handed the agent my ticket. Somehow, she let me pass.
I proceeded to board the plane, immediately remove three layers of clothes, and breathed a sigh of relief. But not too big of a sigh, because in an hour I'd have to connect in L.A. and redo the whole process.
It turned out my next flight was full too, so I had to do the same ridiculous charade. One of the agents gave me a hard look ("Don't judge me," I thought. I take up the same functional space on the airplane whether I wear one sweater or five), but she let me pass.
I made it to Atlanta eventually, with all my stuff in tow, and nothing even broke on the way.
Maybe I could have fit something else after all.
That sounded like a challenge.
It wasn't even about the money. It would be a solid month before I was back in Livermore again, and I had resolved to get by in the meantime on two suitcases a carry-on and a personal item.
But when I first packed, by suitcase weighed roughly 918 pounds.
I tried for hours to pare it down the lightest, most essential things. I set aside my favorite bottle of wine, that was to welcome me to my new quarters in Atlanta. I threw away my black boots that had seen slightly better days. I left behind my heavy coat, thinking I could survive without it for a month.
But now I had left all that behind and was about to have to pay an extra $75 anyway. If the ticket agent was going to make me pay an excess weight fee regardless, I might as well be looking forward to drinking a bottle of good wine in my black leather jacket and matching boots while sitting on my Georgia balcony.
I couldn't stand the thought that I discarded all that other valuable stuff for nothing. I suddenly wished that I would have kept all that stuff in my bag and added a few gold bricks for good measure.
I couldn't find any, so I stepped out of line and set about trying to lessen my load by four pounds. The problem was that my other suitcase was already so full I had to sit on it and yank the zipper until the point of tears (for me and for it) to get it to close. Also, both my carry-ons were bulging, and I was already wearing a jacket and carrying my laptop in my arms.
I had planned on maxing out my baggage allowance without having to lose four pounds at the last minute, and there was, literally, no room for a plan B.
I had limited options, and the only one I could envision was to just wear a lot of clothes.
I found a heavy sweater. I put in on over my regular sweater. Over top of it, I put on a heavy-ish hoodie with a metal zipper, that might fit underneath my coat. I couldn't bear to try it on just yet--all I had to do was get it out of my suitcase--so I draped it between the handles of my carry-on for the moment.
I pulled out a hat and put it on. I couldn't have weighed more than a few ounces, but I was running out of body parts to double-cloth. I took out a notebook and carried it. I replaced a couple of magazines in my carry-on with a small book, and stuffed the magazines in my back pocket.
I briefly considered putting on a second pair of socks, but they were buried pretty deep.
Otherwise, I was wearing enough clothes to last me an entire long weekend. Never has a Vanderbilt-educated lawyer with a six-figure salary looked more like a homeless guy.
I lugged my suitcase back over to the ticket counter. This time, I checked in at 51 pounds, but there was absolutely nothing else I could carry. Thankfully, the ticket agent let it slide.
I gladly handed him my largest bag and another that clocked in just under 50, but that wasn't the end of the adventure.
I was drenched in sweat from my layers of clothing, and the process of balancing two carry-ons, a laptop, a jacket, a notebook, and having to pull out an ID along the way, while also fighting MS, a progressive disease that makes me sensitive to heat and has killed my balance. But eventually, I made it to my gate. (Side note: it's definitely not fun to use an airport restroom while carrying basically everything you own.)
As I got to the waiting area of the gate and plopped at a seat, I exhaled and proceeded to shed my layers, like a human onion.
Just as I removed the last (extra) layer I was wearing, I heard an announcement:
"Ladies and Gentleman, we have a completely full flight. So everyone please consolidate your items to one carry-on and one personal item. You will not be allowed to board with a third item, and will have to check any additional item beyond two."
This seemed an impossible command, but I had come too far to relent.
I dressed again in all the layers I had removed, except for one jacket in which I figured I would need to wrap my laptop inside. Then I walked with a full-sized carry on, a personal item that was pushing the limit of what might fit at my feet, a notebook, and a wadded up jacket concealing a laptop.
I walked as quickly as I could, attempting to use my body to shield some of my stash as I handed the agent my ticket. Somehow, she let me pass.
I proceeded to board the plane, immediately remove three layers of clothes, and breathed a sigh of relief. But not too big of a sigh, because in an hour I'd have to connect in L.A. and redo the whole process.
It turned out my next flight was full too, so I had to do the same ridiculous charade. One of the agents gave me a hard look ("Don't judge me," I thought. I take up the same functional space on the airplane whether I wear one sweater or five), but she let me pass.
I made it to Atlanta eventually, with all my stuff in tow, and nothing even broke on the way.
Maybe I could have fit something else after all.
Sunday, October 27, 2019
About That Job You Don't Like...
"So tell me exactly what is so terrible about this job," my boss demanded as she entered my office.
I looked down at my desk awkwardly. I had just resigned, and she apparently wasn't taking it very well.
I started spitting out some filler words as my brain searched for how to respond. The irony about quitting a job is that your employer wants to know exactly why you are leaving, but you can't exactly tell them.
"It was mostly for family reasons," I said. "But I also didn't always feel like I was a valued member of the team. More often than not, I went an entire work day without anyone saying a word to me."
"What, so you wanted us to throw you a party every day,?" she said.
I don't remember exactly what I said in response, but that doesn't really matter because I woke up from my dream right about at that point.
Thankfully, I didn't really have that interaction with my boss.
But I did resign my position this week.
Resigning was hard in some ways, because I like what I do. Resigning was easy in other ways, because I worked at the kind of place that made me have dreams like the one I had last night.
It's hard to know when to leave a job you don't love. Maybe it will get better if you just hold out? Maybe the money is pretty good or you've finally built up some vacation time, and leaving would get in the way of doing whatever else you want to do in your life. Or maybe it just doesn't seem like a good time to change your routine.
Besides, what if the next job is worse?
Some people I know have been in their current job for decades. In theory, I want to be that person, but it somehow never works out that way for me. Once I had a good job in a bad city, once I had a job that I liked, but the higher-ups changed it around so that I didn't love it so much anymore. Actually that happened twice.
Some people keep their head down and just tolerate work they hate. I admire that in a certain way, but I have this thing where I tend to keep looking around when life doesn't seem completely fulfilling for ways to make it better.
Hopefully, I'll get there.
A few times, that search has led me to landing at toxic places that were soul-crushing and miserable. Thankfully, I found a way out of those, and it was an easy and happy goodbye.
This one was a little more complicated, and I waffled for months on whether or not to leave. But in the end, I decided to make the change. My job, let's say, just wasn't working.
So I'm going back to work for the federal government in a position similar to the one I left last year. That job treated me well and provided me interesting work, and (except during one ill-considered federal hiring freeze), had the work-life balance I'm currently missing.
I'm looking forward to a shorter commute, some new opportunities, and not having to bill hours anymore. Billing, the process where you have to write down how you spend every second of your work day, and hit an arbitrary quota of productivity, is quite possibly the worst thing about practicing law.
I hope it works out. I hope to stay until I retire, and use my federal pension for many years thereafter.
But I hope, at minimum, not have any more nightmares about my job.
I looked down at my desk awkwardly. I had just resigned, and she apparently wasn't taking it very well.
I started spitting out some filler words as my brain searched for how to respond. The irony about quitting a job is that your employer wants to know exactly why you are leaving, but you can't exactly tell them.
"It was mostly for family reasons," I said. "But I also didn't always feel like I was a valued member of the team. More often than not, I went an entire work day without anyone saying a word to me."
"What, so you wanted us to throw you a party every day,?" she said.
I don't remember exactly what I said in response, but that doesn't really matter because I woke up from my dream right about at that point.
Thankfully, I didn't really have that interaction with my boss.
But I did resign my position this week.
Resigning was hard in some ways, because I like what I do. Resigning was easy in other ways, because I worked at the kind of place that made me have dreams like the one I had last night.
It's hard to know when to leave a job you don't love. Maybe it will get better if you just hold out? Maybe the money is pretty good or you've finally built up some vacation time, and leaving would get in the way of doing whatever else you want to do in your life. Or maybe it just doesn't seem like a good time to change your routine.
Besides, what if the next job is worse?
Some people I know have been in their current job for decades. In theory, I want to be that person, but it somehow never works out that way for me. Once I had a good job in a bad city, once I had a job that I liked, but the higher-ups changed it around so that I didn't love it so much anymore. Actually that happened twice.
Some people keep their head down and just tolerate work they hate. I admire that in a certain way, but I have this thing where I tend to keep looking around when life doesn't seem completely fulfilling for ways to make it better.
Hopefully, I'll get there.
A few times, that search has led me to landing at toxic places that were soul-crushing and miserable. Thankfully, I found a way out of those, and it was an easy and happy goodbye.
This one was a little more complicated, and I waffled for months on whether or not to leave. But in the end, I decided to make the change. My job, let's say, just wasn't working.
So I'm going back to work for the federal government in a position similar to the one I left last year. That job treated me well and provided me interesting work, and (except during one ill-considered federal hiring freeze), had the work-life balance I'm currently missing.
I'm looking forward to a shorter commute, some new opportunities, and not having to bill hours anymore. Billing, the process where you have to write down how you spend every second of your work day, and hit an arbitrary quota of productivity, is quite possibly the worst thing about practicing law.
I hope it works out. I hope to stay until I retire, and use my federal pension for many years thereafter.
But I hope, at minimum, not have any more nightmares about my job.
Thursday, September 19, 2019
This Is Another Post About Hope
"Introduce yourself to the Court," the chief justice said as I approached the podium.
I mouthed the words "Andrew Smith, on behalf of the People." Inside I had no idea if the first part of that was really true.
I use to be good at this sort of thing. But I also used to be able to stay up past seven o'clock on a work night, and now that prospect is hit or miss. And I used to be able to start speaking a sentence without concern of whether a stabbing nerve pain would let me finish it. Today, maybe, for all I knew, who I used to be was gone.
I didn't want to embarrass myself in front of the court and a whole courtroom full of folks watching--a captive audience resulting from my being first on the docket. More importantly, I didn't want a guilty person to go free because I pulled a Joe Biden and started rambling incoherently.
I used to do my oral arguments from a rough outline, where I wrote out the first two sentence to get myself started and then just used a few talking points from there, darting back and forth between those and the judges' questions. I don't trust myself to do that anymore, so I write out my entire planned delivery ahead of time.
That has usually gone ok. But this time I didn't get to practice my delivery much, because I collapsed in my bed from MS fatigue when it was still daylight outside the night before.
Please don't mistake this column for a lament of what MS is taking from me. It isn't about the early nights, the days where I can't find the word I'm looking for and end up repeating myself, or those times when I can't find the word I'm looking for and end up repeating myself.
I actually don't think my problems are all that unique. Maybe (hopefully) you don't have an incurable autoimmune disease, but you might look around and wonder every now and then much you have left in the tank.
It's been one of those seasons for me. And for Joe Biden too, I suppose. But he's not really my point.
My point is that lately I've been sitting (with my record player on per Uncle Joe's advice), wondering how much longer I can do this. I'm not a nearly 80-year-old man running for President (against a toddler), but some days I don't feel like I have my fastball any more.
For everyone, life gets harder in some ways every year from about age 26. You get new sets of bills and responsibilities, new sets of medical drama, more sick loved ones, and less natural energy. You start to get an increased urgency to fulfill whatever dreams you had back when you had time to look at the clouds.
When things start going sideways, at what point do you stop pursing your wildest, most unrealistic, dreams and just hold tighter to what you have? Or at least narrow down your list of dreams to just the one or two that are most important?
As I often do when I have important life questions, I look to one of my favorite bands. (I really do need to pull out that record player.)
It seems like a sad song, but it's really not.
Reality will break your heart
Survival will not be the hardest part
It's keeping all your hopes alive
When all the rest of you has died.
So let it break your heart.
Hold on to hope if you've got it
Don't let it go for nobody
They say that dreaming is free
I wouldn't care what it cost me.
-Paramore
That song is called "26," appropriately enough.
I've come to terms with the idea the fact that I'm never going to argue in front of the U.S. Supreme Court, which was my dream in my mid-twenties. I just don't have the health and energy to do what it takes to get there.
I'm ok with that. The end of this dream doesn't mean it's the end of dreaming.
Instead of trudging through life being sad about what is not to be, I just needed to come up with a better goal. Maybe if your long-held dream isn't working out, it isn't the right one for you either.
We can impact the world in more than one way.
There's a book inside of me. There are ways I can help. The crime victims I protect care more about sleeping through the night in peace than what courts are on my resume. I can still help them. I can continue my meager attempts through this blog to provide hope, or commiseration, for someone fighting against their body, their moods, or just life in general.
There's something more out there. Enough to keep hope alive, even if one dream has died. And even even if it broke your heart.
I'm going to hold on to the hope of what's still possible instead of looking back at what didn't work out the way I'd hoped.
And in the meantime, I can at least assure that my argument last went well. I woke up refreshed and my adrenaline carried me through. I mostly felt like my old self again. When it was over, I didn't feel like I had lied when I introduced myself.
I even think when the opinion is released, I'm going to win.
I hope so.
I mouthed the words "Andrew Smith, on behalf of the People." Inside I had no idea if the first part of that was really true.
I use to be good at this sort of thing. But I also used to be able to stay up past seven o'clock on a work night, and now that prospect is hit or miss. And I used to be able to start speaking a sentence without concern of whether a stabbing nerve pain would let me finish it. Today, maybe, for all I knew, who I used to be was gone.
It was my third oral argument before a panel of the California Court of Appeal in the last two months. I took this job in order to get to do these again, and hopefully even get to the Supreme Court someday. But between a heavy dose of arguments, a never-ending caseload of briefs to pump out, and a ridiculously long commute, lately I've been exhausted and fraying at the seams.
Oh, and I have this thing called multiple sclerosis.
I forget about it sometimes, but then it reminds me.
I didn't want to embarrass myself in front of the court and a whole courtroom full of folks watching--a captive audience resulting from my being first on the docket. More importantly, I didn't want a guilty person to go free because I pulled a Joe Biden and started rambling incoherently.
I used to do my oral arguments from a rough outline, where I wrote out the first two sentence to get myself started and then just used a few talking points from there, darting back and forth between those and the judges' questions. I don't trust myself to do that anymore, so I write out my entire planned delivery ahead of time.
That has usually gone ok. But this time I didn't get to practice my delivery much, because I collapsed in my bed from MS fatigue when it was still daylight outside the night before.
Please don't mistake this column for a lament of what MS is taking from me. It isn't about the early nights, the days where I can't find the word I'm looking for and end up repeating myself, or those times when I can't find the word I'm looking for and end up repeating myself.
I actually don't think my problems are all that unique. Maybe (hopefully) you don't have an incurable autoimmune disease, but you might look around and wonder every now and then much you have left in the tank.
It's been one of those seasons for me. And for Joe Biden too, I suppose. But he's not really my point.
My point is that lately I've been sitting (with my record player on per Uncle Joe's advice), wondering how much longer I can do this. I'm not a nearly 80-year-old man running for President (against a toddler), but some days I don't feel like I have my fastball any more.
For everyone, life gets harder in some ways every year from about age 26. You get new sets of bills and responsibilities, new sets of medical drama, more sick loved ones, and less natural energy. You start to get an increased urgency to fulfill whatever dreams you had back when you had time to look at the clouds.
When things start going sideways, at what point do you stop pursing your wildest, most unrealistic, dreams and just hold tighter to what you have? Or at least narrow down your list of dreams to just the one or two that are most important?
As I often do when I have important life questions, I look to one of my favorite bands. (I really do need to pull out that record player.)
It seems like a sad song, but it's really not.
Reality will break your heart
Survival will not be the hardest part
It's keeping all your hopes alive
When all the rest of you has died.
So let it break your heart.
Hold on to hope if you've got it
Don't let it go for nobody
They say that dreaming is free
I wouldn't care what it cost me.
-Paramore
That song is called "26," appropriately enough.
I've come to terms with the idea the fact that I'm never going to argue in front of the U.S. Supreme Court, which was my dream in my mid-twenties. I just don't have the health and energy to do what it takes to get there.
I'm ok with that. The end of this dream doesn't mean it's the end of dreaming.
Instead of trudging through life being sad about what is not to be, I just needed to come up with a better goal. Maybe if your long-held dream isn't working out, it isn't the right one for you either.
We can impact the world in more than one way.
There's a book inside of me. There are ways I can help. The crime victims I protect care more about sleeping through the night in peace than what courts are on my resume. I can still help them. I can continue my meager attempts through this blog to provide hope, or commiseration, for someone fighting against their body, their moods, or just life in general.
There's something more out there. Enough to keep hope alive, even if one dream has died. And even even if it broke your heart.
I'm going to hold on to the hope of what's still possible instead of looking back at what didn't work out the way I'd hoped.
And in the meantime, I can at least assure that my argument last went well. I woke up refreshed and my adrenaline carried me through. I mostly felt like my old self again. When it was over, I didn't feel like I had lied when I introduced myself.
I even think when the opinion is released, I'm going to win.
I hope so.
Saturday, July 6, 2019
Summer Is Here: I Kind of Hate It
The most disappointing part of being an adult is losing the joy of summer.
When I was a kid, a typical summer day involved sleeping until 11 (I'm not disclosing whether this was a.m. or p.m), picking blackberries in the yard, riding my bike somewhere I wasn't supposed to go, and then coming home to eat an entire tub of ice cream.
Now, my typical summer day involves waking up early to take a long trip to work, getting scolded for putting the wrong cover sheet on my TPS report when I get there, then taking a hot train ride home. On a good night, maybe there will be something interesting on tv after I collapse on the couch.
I kinda miss the old days.
Summer had such unlimited potential as a kid. Every day promised endless opportunities for new adventures (assuming I woke up when it was still daylight outside). Play basketball? Go fishing? Is today feeling more like a bike or skateboard kind of day? Or maybe just wander the neighborhood and see what happens?
There were no bills to pay, no commute to work, and no battles to fight against the company trying to overcharge me or deny my prescription.
I longed for the day when I could drive and make money and no longer be dependent on my folks, but I didn't realize how good I had it. Driving means trips to the DMV, making money means having a boss, and being an adult means responsibility.
I could use a summer break from adulting.
In 2017, I spent all summer in rehab for a broken knee and studying for the California Bar Exam, in what was quite possibly the worst three months of my life. When summer 2018 came, I vowed I was going to have enough fun to make up for lost time.
There just wasn't much fun to be had.
Other than a wonderful trip to Prague, what I remember about last summer was that it was really hit, work was busy, and after July 4th, there was absolutely nothing interesting happening until fall. All the good mindless action movies now come out in the spring and avoid the summer heat too.
The idea of a lighthearted fun summer doesn't seem to exist in the adult world, except maybe for teachers who get the summer off. Most of us get maybe one week's vacation, and otherwise life is the same as always except it's hot outside, there are reruns on tv, and nothing meaningful happening.
Summer as a kid meant having more fun. Summer as an adult just means it hotter outside when you have to wear your work clothes.
I don't mean to complain, at least too much. I really had a great June. San Francisco is one of the best places on earth to be in the summertime (outside of the occasional meth addict yelling at you). I have an amazing trip to Europe coming up, the Warriors finally lost, and the Blues finally won, and the weather is still nice out here.
But I know that won't last forever. So while I still can, I'll grill out when its cool, I'll take a trip to Europe, and then I'll take some time off from this blog to sit by the fountain in my courtyard with a cool drink.
I'll do whatever I can do to create some summer fun, and I'll do my best to enjoy what life brings.
But it will never be the same as when I was a kid.
When I was a kid, a typical summer day involved sleeping until 11 (I'm not disclosing whether this was a.m. or p.m), picking blackberries in the yard, riding my bike somewhere I wasn't supposed to go, and then coming home to eat an entire tub of ice cream.
Now, my typical summer day involves waking up early to take a long trip to work, getting scolded for putting the wrong cover sheet on my TPS report when I get there, then taking a hot train ride home. On a good night, maybe there will be something interesting on tv after I collapse on the couch.
I kinda miss the old days.
Summer had such unlimited potential as a kid. Every day promised endless opportunities for new adventures (assuming I woke up when it was still daylight outside). Play basketball? Go fishing? Is today feeling more like a bike or skateboard kind of day? Or maybe just wander the neighborhood and see what happens?
There were no bills to pay, no commute to work, and no battles to fight against the company trying to overcharge me or deny my prescription.
I longed for the day when I could drive and make money and no longer be dependent on my folks, but I didn't realize how good I had it. Driving means trips to the DMV, making money means having a boss, and being an adult means responsibility.
I could use a summer break from adulting.
In 2017, I spent all summer in rehab for a broken knee and studying for the California Bar Exam, in what was quite possibly the worst three months of my life. When summer 2018 came, I vowed I was going to have enough fun to make up for lost time.
There just wasn't much fun to be had.
Other than a wonderful trip to Prague, what I remember about last summer was that it was really hit, work was busy, and after July 4th, there was absolutely nothing interesting happening until fall. All the good mindless action movies now come out in the spring and avoid the summer heat too.
The idea of a lighthearted fun summer doesn't seem to exist in the adult world, except maybe for teachers who get the summer off. Most of us get maybe one week's vacation, and otherwise life is the same as always except it's hot outside, there are reruns on tv, and nothing meaningful happening.
Summer as a kid meant having more fun. Summer as an adult just means it hotter outside when you have to wear your work clothes.
I don't mean to complain, at least too much. I really had a great June. San Francisco is one of the best places on earth to be in the summertime (outside of the occasional meth addict yelling at you). I have an amazing trip to Europe coming up, the Warriors finally lost, and the Blues finally won, and the weather is still nice out here.
But I know that won't last forever. So while I still can, I'll grill out when its cool, I'll take a trip to Europe, and then I'll take some time off from this blog to sit by the fountain in my courtyard with a cool drink.
I'll do whatever I can do to create some summer fun, and I'll do my best to enjoy what life brings.
But it will never be the same as when I was a kid.
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