Sam and I took Grampa up to the Monterey Bay area to see Stepdaughter #3 at her boarding school. It sits right on the ocean and is a wonderfully scenic place.
As we drove into the valley on the edge of the ocean, we could only see fields of long ridges of plastic covered mounds full of strawberry plants. It was the most scenic thing: fields of these beautiful green plants full of ripe berries, and low lying fog clouds joining earth with sky.
We walked on the beach Saturday afternoon, Grampa holding Stepdaughter's hand to keep from falling. She was absolutely wonderful to him: so tender and attentive to his needs. At one point, while he was making a point to Sam in his Ricky Ricardo accent, Stepdaughter turned toward me and mouthed, "He's so cute!"
But in addition to the heartwarming experience of being together as a family, what really spoke to me was the beauty of that part of the world. Northern California, especially out on the Coast, is gorgeous. It is misty in the mornings and beautiful flowers grow everywhere. The trees are so green and nice, and the soil is loamy, dark, and fertile. There are four seasons there that are distinctly different from one another, unlike in the South where we live. As we drove through fields of frizzy topped, silvery-green artichokes, I felt an old familiar longing.
Years ago, I had two friends whom I visited outside of Napa where they lived. One was in school back in the early 80s and the other taught up there in the 90s. I always looked forward to going up there because it had such a different culture and the people were different from the people down here. They seemed more earnest and intent on being who they were, having little concern about how Hollywood thought they should look or act. There is a decided back-to-nature feeling about areas up that way. You see a lot more people wearing natural fabrics, wearing Birkenstocks, and eschewing makeup. But more than the people being different and more accessible, it has always been the countryside that has made me feel at home. For several years I tried every way I could think of to scout out a good job for myself up there. But I was interested in going back to school and nothing really panned out. I even indicated interest in a family ministry position at a big church on a college campus. No, I didn't get it and that was a real blow. As I would drive out of Napa Valley, past an old, huge Sycamore tree in the median, I would pray that God would somehow allow me to live up there. I really hated southern California and wanted to get out of here in the worst way.
I reflected on this from my backseat vantage point in the car on our drive through farmer's fields on Saturday. Funny, but although I still feel longing for that part of the world, I have to admit that there is no place where I feel a better fit, greater sense of purpose, or fulfillment in God's leading than right here in smoggy, overpopulated, hot, gang-infested, earthquake-ridden Southern California. And it struck me: a person can be in the worst place on earth and feel satisfaction and gratefulness that they are right where God wants them to be--and that can be enough.
Sunday afternoon we drove back into our town. It was 95 degrees and miserable outside. The hills outside our window look like (as my mother says) "they need a good long drink." You have to water everything to get any green, or else it's all dead looking. But I am happy here because there is a bigger picture and plan that makes sense of the fact that I don't get to live in a prettier place. It's at least not Blythe, Needles, or Yuma! And I haven't been asked by God to go to the Sahara or North Pole or some other uninhabitable place.
His will is amazing--as is His sustaining grace. I have not tired of thanking God for bringing me to this place.
September 30, 2008
September 25, 2008
In a family way.
(No. I'm NOT pregnant!)
My father-in-law from Fort Worth is staying with us while he undergoes proton beam treatment on his prostate cancer for several weeks. So far, he's been doing lots of sitting and waiting. Get a CT scan. Wait two days. Then go get lab work. Wait a couple more days. Then get an MRI. We're still waiting on that, and he's been with us for two weeks already. He is a delight to have around. Dad puts away the dishes in the dishwasher, picks up around the house, and tries to help out where he can. Most mornings when I tiptoe past his room, he is sitting in his chair, reading his Bible or praying. He is a devout man and it is really encouraging to see someone living his faith the way he does.
And I am cooking up a storm! Suddenly I hate everything I cook and wonder if he secretly hates my cooking. My mother-in-law is a wonderful cook and there is no comparison between the two of us (she wins, hands down!) And I cook mostly vegetarian food.
If you ask Dad if he is hungry, he looks at his watch to see if it's time to eat or not. Very cute.
Since I've never had kids to cook for consistently for, this is a new experience. I think most moms could pull this off without a care, but I convolute and worry. Sam tells me to settle down and stop worrying. Dad will eat anything. And he does. I secretly worry that I will have run out of every recipe I have by the time his treatment is done--probably in mid-December.
I worry too much.
So it is nice right now to have someone to eat breakfast with, and to augment Sam and I. It is nice to know he is sleeping downstairs in his room, and that he will be up and talking to God first thing in the morning. He has brought blessings into our home and I am so happy to have him.
My father-in-law from Fort Worth is staying with us while he undergoes proton beam treatment on his prostate cancer for several weeks. So far, he's been doing lots of sitting and waiting. Get a CT scan. Wait two days. Then go get lab work. Wait a couple more days. Then get an MRI. We're still waiting on that, and he's been with us for two weeks already. He is a delight to have around. Dad puts away the dishes in the dishwasher, picks up around the house, and tries to help out where he can. Most mornings when I tiptoe past his room, he is sitting in his chair, reading his Bible or praying. He is a devout man and it is really encouraging to see someone living his faith the way he does.
And I am cooking up a storm! Suddenly I hate everything I cook and wonder if he secretly hates my cooking. My mother-in-law is a wonderful cook and there is no comparison between the two of us (she wins, hands down!) And I cook mostly vegetarian food.
If you ask Dad if he is hungry, he looks at his watch to see if it's time to eat or not. Very cute.
Since I've never had kids to cook for consistently for, this is a new experience. I think most moms could pull this off without a care, but I convolute and worry. Sam tells me to settle down and stop worrying. Dad will eat anything. And he does. I secretly worry that I will have run out of every recipe I have by the time his treatment is done--probably in mid-December.
I worry too much.
So it is nice right now to have someone to eat breakfast with, and to augment Sam and I. It is nice to know he is sleeping downstairs in his room, and that he will be up and talking to God first thing in the morning. He has brought blessings into our home and I am so happy to have him.
September 21, 2008
Mona m'lady
When I was in my early 20s, my best friend and I collected pictures of Mona Lisa. I don't remember all the details, but we had a number of these kinds of pictures. It could have been a set of greeting cards, or just a bunch of pictures in a magazine. Seems it was the latter. In any event, in honor of those days, I have done an exhaustive search on Google Image and have come up with these versions of Mona Lisa. Enjoy, Shelly!
September 18, 2008
The Urge
When I was a young kid, our family friends lived about six miles from us on a sheep farm. They owned an enormous, four-story house with a ton of fireplaces in it, about six bathrooms to choose from, an old-fashioned dumb waiter on rope pulleys, and an attic full of antique dresses, complete with bustle and button top shoes. We loved going to their house. Nancy was close to my age and she initiated me into really fun farm activities. Because we lived in suburbia, I didn't know the first thing about laying on the backs of sheep while they were eating their supper out of the feeding trough. I had no idea of how tricky it was to go into the henhouse and gather eggs out from under testy hens. Only my father, who had had a pet rooster when he was a boy, knew that hens, chickens and geese can demonstrate affection for humans. Yes, Nancy's mother had big fat, white goose whom she named Chitty-chitty-bang-bang. He was called Chitty for short, a name which made a number of people pause as what his name wasn't, sunk into their minds. Chitty could be pretty mean. I remember being poked by his beak once when I didn't move out of his way fast enough. But Chitty loved Mrs. K. In fact, he lived to be nearly two decades old and one of his last gestures was a gentle whinny while he rubbed his cheek softly against Nancy's mother's face. I felt sick at heart when Chitty died.
Our parents wanted us to learn about the facts of life in a natural setting. So I remember several midnight phone calls from Nancy's mother: "One of the sheep is in labor. Come on over." We'd all tumble out of bed, put on our warm clothes, and go over to stand in the barn for an hour or so while we watched ewes struggle through childbirth. Gooey little, bleeting lambs slid into the world and took their first wobbly steps. We'd ooh and aah while Mrs. K checked the ewe and made sure she and baby were fine. She loved explaining everything to us through the entire process: why she'd have to put her hand up inside the ewe and turn the baby around, what to do when the cord was around the lamb's neck, etc. After the baby began nursing, we would traipse back to our car in the freezing cold, and drive home, happy for new life and the recurring miracle of birth.
But perhaps one of the most exhilirating things I remember from our many hours on Nancy's farm, was a typically illicit act that we were given permission to do. It was the rotten eggs. Mrs. K. kept a five-gallon bucket somewhere in the barnyard where the odd and abandoned egg was placed. If she happened across a clutch of eggs out in the woods that had been left and were of questionable age, into the bucket they went. After they reached a critical mass, Nancy and I were given permission to go destroy them. It excited us both. Off to the broken down barn wall off in the woods we'd go with our five-gallon bucket. We'd climb up onto a crumbling stone wall and settle down in a comfortable position, the bucket perched between us. Then it would be a contest to see who could hurl the egg with the greatest force into the old barn wall, about 20 feet away from us. Rotten eggs don't smash on a wall, they explode. And my goodness, they reek! That was really fun for kids to do--throw rotten eggs as hard as we could and watch the gooey gold-green-brown spatter in all directions. Then as the wind shifted, we'd groan and jump off the wall to get out of the sulfuric cloud of stench.
There are days when I wish I had a bucket of rotten eggs now, as an adult. As a child, it was only license to be reckless and waste potential food items in a sanctioned manner. But now, it would relieve such frustration and give me incredible pleasure to hurl rotten eggs on say, a public building, or the side of a bus. Wouldn't it be fun to watch brown shelled yucky eggs explode, brown-yellow yolk splashing in all directions upon impact? Then watching people draw back from the sickening cloud of malevolent effluvium (what a marvelous phrase...). I think it would be terrific fun for example, to hide in a park and from time to time, throw a rotten egg near a group of people, having it explode into a tree or rock. As the stink wafts toward people at picnic tables and on blankets, observing the shock and revulsion on their faces.
Yes, I am a closet rotten egg thrower. Few things in my young life can compare with those wonderful experiences. I have pushed my Id into place where it won't be allowed to have me throw eggs. But from time to time I can't help but fantasize about what it would be like...
Can you eat that egg?
If not sure you ought-ter,
If not sure you ought-ter,
then place it in water.
If it lies on its side,
then it's fresh; eat with pride.
After three or four days,
After three or four days,
at an angle it lays.
But, it still is a treat, so go on and eat.
Ten days, stands on end,
Ten days, stands on end,
in your baking 'twill blend.
'Cause it's definitely edible,
in your baking, incredible.
But, if it floats on the surface,
But, if it floats on the surface,
that egg serves no purpose.
'Cause a floater's a stinker!
Out the back door best fling 'er!
September 15, 2008
My life for a song
Some of you may know that I've been on voice rest for almost a year now. I wasn't able to sing worth a fig for the last four years. The last really serious singing I did was when I lived in St. Paul, almost seven years ago. The voice would go hoarse after just one go through a song and there would be no possibility for a second verse or any kind of proper rehearsal. At Christmas I gave a short concert with a friend and I was humiliated--people couldn't hear me, I went hoarse, and couldn't project sound. Although people thanked me for coming, there were no positive comments about my singing that I remember. So I thought I was finished.
I sought out the local ENT doctor to see what he could tell me. He greased up a flexible camera, slid it down my nostril into my throat and took pictures of my vocal cords. He said I had gastric reflux (I already knew that), and he put me on Nexium. There was the usual admonishment to put the head of the bed up on blocks, don't eat onions, don't eat supper after 7:00 p.m., steer clear from acid foods. He said I had developed a false vocal cord. I didn't know what that was but thought that maybe that was why my voice had a falsetto quality to it. He painted a dire picture of my prospects. Maybe I would be able to sing again, but he didn't hold out any hope. Come to think of it though, he wasn't terribly clear about too much.
I took the Nexium and it did nothing. We got blocks for the head of the bed but they were so high that the bed looked ridiculous. It seemed that we'd end up in a heap at the foot of the bed were we to use them. So I took the Nexium and kept propping myself up with about five chunky pillows at night.
After a year of that and no real change, I went off the Nexium and sought out a voice doctor. He is different from the average ENT man in that he participated in a huge study in Pennslyvania about teachers who go hoarse from using their voices for hours on end. When Dr. V walked into the exam room and found out that I am a teacher, he exclaimed happily, "I just love teachers!" and he was enthusiastic. And amazingly young. I wanted to ask him if he had a driver's license--blond curly hair, and huge blue eyes. He wanted to put a 10-inch rigid steel instrument down my throat, too. "I'm going to pull on your tongue and slip this down your throat. You will then sing an "eeeh" sound. It will sound like an "ahh" sound but think "eeeh" when you sing." I stuck my tongue out and he grasped it with a gauze. He wasn't fooling and I didn't think my tongue could stick out that far! Down went the implement of torture and he instructed me to begin singing. I squawked out low, high, and mid-range notes, all the while he effervesced about the pictures he was getting. A visiting doctor from Beijing and a resident stood by, fascinated by what they were seeing.
When it was all over, he showed me the movies he had taken of me singing. Apparently, I've had a minor vocal cord injury on my left cord, and need to learn how to sing and speak again so it will vibrate normally. But I should have no trouble returning to singing. The problem with gastric reflux remains. I will need to wear a little wire that goes down my nose and dangles in my throat--for 24 hours. It will measure the pH of my saliva there and detect whether or not I have reflux or severe allergies, or both. He thinks it's both. So we have a plan.
When I left his office I was elated. It's surprising how badly I want to sing again. Perhaps it took me losing my voice for four years to really appreciate it. In any event, I can't wait to get started. I've been booked for a classical evensong concert on January 17th and am eager to plan it. I'll probably put together a mixed quartet and sing some Bach motets or something, but I don't know. More on this later. But for now, I have permission to sing--and I'm thrilled beyond words.
Thank you, Lord!
I sought out the local ENT doctor to see what he could tell me. He greased up a flexible camera, slid it down my nostril into my throat and took pictures of my vocal cords. He said I had gastric reflux (I already knew that), and he put me on Nexium. There was the usual admonishment to put the head of the bed up on blocks, don't eat onions, don't eat supper after 7:00 p.m., steer clear from acid foods. He said I had developed a false vocal cord. I didn't know what that was but thought that maybe that was why my voice had a falsetto quality to it. He painted a dire picture of my prospects. Maybe I would be able to sing again, but he didn't hold out any hope. Come to think of it though, he wasn't terribly clear about too much.
I took the Nexium and it did nothing. We got blocks for the head of the bed but they were so high that the bed looked ridiculous. It seemed that we'd end up in a heap at the foot of the bed were we to use them. So I took the Nexium and kept propping myself up with about five chunky pillows at night.
After a year of that and no real change, I went off the Nexium and sought out a voice doctor. He is different from the average ENT man in that he participated in a huge study in Pennslyvania about teachers who go hoarse from using their voices for hours on end. When Dr. V walked into the exam room and found out that I am a teacher, he exclaimed happily, "I just love teachers!" and he was enthusiastic. And amazingly young. I wanted to ask him if he had a driver's license--blond curly hair, and huge blue eyes. He wanted to put a 10-inch rigid steel instrument down my throat, too. "I'm going to pull on your tongue and slip this down your throat. You will then sing an "eeeh" sound. It will sound like an "ahh" sound but think "eeeh" when you sing." I stuck my tongue out and he grasped it with a gauze. He wasn't fooling and I didn't think my tongue could stick out that far! Down went the implement of torture and he instructed me to begin singing. I squawked out low, high, and mid-range notes, all the while he effervesced about the pictures he was getting. A visiting doctor from Beijing and a resident stood by, fascinated by what they were seeing.
When it was all over, he showed me the movies he had taken of me singing. Apparently, I've had a minor vocal cord injury on my left cord, and need to learn how to sing and speak again so it will vibrate normally. But I should have no trouble returning to singing. The problem with gastric reflux remains. I will need to wear a little wire that goes down my nose and dangles in my throat--for 24 hours. It will measure the pH of my saliva there and detect whether or not I have reflux or severe allergies, or both. He thinks it's both. So we have a plan.
When I left his office I was elated. It's surprising how badly I want to sing again. Perhaps it took me losing my voice for four years to really appreciate it. In any event, I can't wait to get started. I've been booked for a classical evensong concert on January 17th and am eager to plan it. I'll probably put together a mixed quartet and sing some Bach motets or something, but I don't know. More on this later. But for now, I have permission to sing--and I'm thrilled beyond words.
Thank you, Lord!
September 14, 2008
So I went to this funeral
Sam and I went to Etta's graveside service on Thursday morning. The casket had beautiful pink and white roses on it and there were two beautiful floral arrangements on either side. True to form, Jack picked out one of the lovliest caskets for Etta--if there can be such a thing. Hers was a golden color and had sleek lines. But I digress.
Jack has a long, illustrious career as a church administrator: Union President, Treasurer, pastor, missionary, publishing director for the denomination, etc. He worked here at the university on special projects for years. It explains why he can speak knowledgeably about so many things. But to his credit, when Etta had her stroke 9 years ago, he became totally focused on taking care of her. Since she was then confined to a chair he had to do all the cooking, taking her water, helping her up to the bathroom--everything. And he did. His cooking left her cold at times, but he baked pies and cakes, and caseroles. I just remember her telling me once that she didn't like having pancakes for supper, and she had rolled her eyes. One of the few times she ever said anything disparraging about Jack. But he did all that he could to help her. And after I brought him home from his cataract surgery, his first thoughts were of how Etta was doing. He walked in the house, went straight over to her chair and kissed her on the lips. It was admirable. And that was the Jack who I knew--the man who loved and cared for his wife.
The pastor who gave the homily at Etta's service began with, "Etta was born in Moosejaw--and anyone from a place like that has to be a strong person!" Then he went on to eulogize not Etta, but Jack: all the posts he had held, the important jobs he did, the places he went, and where he knew Jack. Little was said about Etta. Then he opened up the microphone for others to remember Etta. People stood up and paid tribute to Jack. A few oblique references were made to Etta, but she was largely ignored at her own service. "I remember being in their home..." "Etta stood with Jack during years of great responsibility..."
As I looked over the group of people who were assembled there, I realized suddenly that many of them had come because they knew Jack, but not because they knew Etta. Why? There were probably a number of reasons, but women of her age were raised to stand by their men with the expectation of losing themselves. In fact, their identity was their husband. She was part of the package back in those years. I can picture her standing to be recognized whenever he traveled to distant churches, and that would be the size of it. People wanted to see Jack, hear his advice, seek his counsel. She just tagged along and people had to think of some way to occupy her time while he was doing the important things with "the brethern." Since they had no children, there would have been limited opportunities for her to be known as an individual by other mothers or teachers. Before she died, Etta told me that there were years when she hardly saw her husband because he was out on traveling assignments for his church jobs. She wouldn't see him for months at a time. "It drove me crazy, being left alone all the time. I used to get after him about it and he would smile and say, "Now Ett...."" So it must have been a bittersweet irony for her to have him so accessible after she had her stroke.
But hardly anyone remembered her at her own service. I was dumbfounded and disappointed. I said a few words about Etta out of respect for her, but really because I truly loved her. I wish the others could have known her as I did, because they would have not run out of things to say.
I didn't know Etta during all those years of Jack's ministry. Maybe she was a recluse, or she was such a wildcard that Jack was glad for her to stay at home out of the limelight. Maybe she got into some kind of trouble while he was away. Knowing her now, I can see that she must have been a force to be reckoned with and she could have been considered a problem wife because she was direct and outspoken--the very things I loved about her. That would not have been received well. But surely, someone at the funeral remembered her as a sweet, generous, good-hearted person who would give anything to anyone.
Women don't have to be the silent shadow behind great men anymore. We can be remembered for who we were, after we die. But perhaps what I witnessed was due to something else. People change over the course of their lives. I'm sure that the doting husband Jack was at the end of Etta's life was not the same person he was in his earlier, ambitious, career-building years. And if Etta was "a problem wife" of years past, she surely wasn't at the end of her life. There was no one sunnier, more uplifting, or interesting to visit. People change. There are predictable phases of development in our lives.
As I look at myself, there are core values and behaviors of mine that have not changed since I first became an adult and moved here to California. But I am as different as day and night when compared with attitudes, career, beliefs about myself and life, people skills, etc., to the very naive young lady who was an ICU nurse years ago. I would hope that I have grown up a bit, become more mild mannered and aware of other people's needs and expectations. And yet in that concern for others, I have become more attuned to myself. This is part of growing up, and I am hoping it continues (because I would not want to stall out here!)
So Etta's funeral has given me reason to review my own life. Had I died at several other stages in my life, I would have been eulogized for entirely different things. Perhaps. I would hope that some things will never change about me, but I'll never know. As I wrote some years ago:
"Perhaps the most important thing that I take with me from the many deaths I’ve been part of is this growing hope: When it is my time to die and I turn around to look back at what I did here, I want to see a life lived with joyful abandon, yet fully saturated with all of the feelings and experiences that could be packed into my years." (Couden, Journal of Loss and Trauma).
If that is the case, it doesn't matter what people do or don't say about me at my funeral service. It matters what I know about my life as I die. I'm choosing to think that this could have been what happened with Etta.
God rest her sweet soul.
Jack has a long, illustrious career as a church administrator: Union President, Treasurer, pastor, missionary, publishing director for the denomination, etc. He worked here at the university on special projects for years. It explains why he can speak knowledgeably about so many things. But to his credit, when Etta had her stroke 9 years ago, he became totally focused on taking care of her. Since she was then confined to a chair he had to do all the cooking, taking her water, helping her up to the bathroom--everything. And he did. His cooking left her cold at times, but he baked pies and cakes, and caseroles. I just remember her telling me once that she didn't like having pancakes for supper, and she had rolled her eyes. One of the few times she ever said anything disparraging about Jack. But he did all that he could to help her. And after I brought him home from his cataract surgery, his first thoughts were of how Etta was doing. He walked in the house, went straight over to her chair and kissed her on the lips. It was admirable. And that was the Jack who I knew--the man who loved and cared for his wife.
The pastor who gave the homily at Etta's service began with, "Etta was born in Moosejaw--and anyone from a place like that has to be a strong person!" Then he went on to eulogize not Etta, but Jack: all the posts he had held, the important jobs he did, the places he went, and where he knew Jack. Little was said about Etta. Then he opened up the microphone for others to remember Etta. People stood up and paid tribute to Jack. A few oblique references were made to Etta, but she was largely ignored at her own service. "I remember being in their home..." "Etta stood with Jack during years of great responsibility..."
As I looked over the group of people who were assembled there, I realized suddenly that many of them had come because they knew Jack, but not because they knew Etta. Why? There were probably a number of reasons, but women of her age were raised to stand by their men with the expectation of losing themselves. In fact, their identity was their husband. She was part of the package back in those years. I can picture her standing to be recognized whenever he traveled to distant churches, and that would be the size of it. People wanted to see Jack, hear his advice, seek his counsel. She just tagged along and people had to think of some way to occupy her time while he was doing the important things with "the brethern." Since they had no children, there would have been limited opportunities for her to be known as an individual by other mothers or teachers. Before she died, Etta told me that there were years when she hardly saw her husband because he was out on traveling assignments for his church jobs. She wouldn't see him for months at a time. "It drove me crazy, being left alone all the time. I used to get after him about it and he would smile and say, "Now Ett...."" So it must have been a bittersweet irony for her to have him so accessible after she had her stroke.
But hardly anyone remembered her at her own service. I was dumbfounded and disappointed. I said a few words about Etta out of respect for her, but really because I truly loved her. I wish the others could have known her as I did, because they would have not run out of things to say.
I didn't know Etta during all those years of Jack's ministry. Maybe she was a recluse, or she was such a wildcard that Jack was glad for her to stay at home out of the limelight. Maybe she got into some kind of trouble while he was away. Knowing her now, I can see that she must have been a force to be reckoned with and she could have been considered a problem wife because she was direct and outspoken--the very things I loved about her. That would not have been received well. But surely, someone at the funeral remembered her as a sweet, generous, good-hearted person who would give anything to anyone.
Women don't have to be the silent shadow behind great men anymore. We can be remembered for who we were, after we die. But perhaps what I witnessed was due to something else. People change over the course of their lives. I'm sure that the doting husband Jack was at the end of Etta's life was not the same person he was in his earlier, ambitious, career-building years. And if Etta was "a problem wife" of years past, she surely wasn't at the end of her life. There was no one sunnier, more uplifting, or interesting to visit. People change. There are predictable phases of development in our lives.
As I look at myself, there are core values and behaviors of mine that have not changed since I first became an adult and moved here to California. But I am as different as day and night when compared with attitudes, career, beliefs about myself and life, people skills, etc., to the very naive young lady who was an ICU nurse years ago. I would hope that I have grown up a bit, become more mild mannered and aware of other people's needs and expectations. And yet in that concern for others, I have become more attuned to myself. This is part of growing up, and I am hoping it continues (because I would not want to stall out here!)
So Etta's funeral has given me reason to review my own life. Had I died at several other stages in my life, I would have been eulogized for entirely different things. Perhaps. I would hope that some things will never change about me, but I'll never know. As I wrote some years ago:
"Perhaps the most important thing that I take with me from the many deaths I’ve been part of is this growing hope: When it is my time to die and I turn around to look back at what I did here, I want to see a life lived with joyful abandon, yet fully saturated with all of the feelings and experiences that could be packed into my years." (Couden, Journal of Loss and Trauma).
If that is the case, it doesn't matter what people do or don't say about me at my funeral service. It matters what I know about my life as I die. I'm choosing to think that this could have been what happened with Etta.
God rest her sweet soul.
September 9, 2008
First Day Back
Tomorrow I start back to school--in earnest. Classes don't start for another week and a half, but I have other duties. Tomorrow is the masters students' clinical orientation all day. I get to tell them what is expected for four hours. What to do, what will happen if they don't do it, what I do, etc. I'm told that this year's students are exceptional and it will be fun to work with them. We are going to discuss what can happen when therapists don't take care of themselves and then slip a cog. Take this beaut of a situation that a therapist found himself in:
"Therapist called his patient and left her a message stating that he needed to raise money because his grandson had been in an accident. The therapist's appeal for funds made the patient uncomfrotable and caused her to terminate therapy [good move!]. Two months later, therapist picked up another patient and took him to a Western Union office and directed him to sign documents in connection with a financial transaction for the therapist's benefit.
One year previous to this, the therapist went to the home of the older brother of this patient and told him that his nephew had been involved in a car accident and he needed money to help cover medical expenses. Pursuant to the therapist's request, the older brother lent him $500. A few weeks later the therapist asked for more money and the older brother lent him an additional $100. The therapist agreed to repay the initial loan in two months, but failed to do so. One year later the therapist called the home of the younger brother of the patient and told him that his grandson had fallen. The therapist asked to borrow money for medical bills. The younger brother gave him $100. Two months later, the therapist told his patient that the he was on the verge of being evicted and needed rent money. He asked the patient for a loan and drove the patient to his bank where the patient withdrew $300 and lent it to the therapist. He promised to repay the money in one month but has not paid the money to date."
You will be relieved and happy to know that this young man lost his license and career before it went too far. Are you shocked? I was utterly horrified to read this. It is from The California Therapist (Volume 19, issue 3, May/June, 2007). It is from their list of disciplinary actions that get published each issue. So people who screw up get published with full disclosure of why they have lost their licenses. It prevents them from being hired on by unsuspecting employers in other parts of the state.
I'm thinking that this and other horror stories of people who lost their licenses because of unprofessional (and ridiculous) behavior illsutrate what happens when you don't attend to your own needs and feelings outside of the therapeutic relationship. Makes you want to run right out and get a therapist, right?
Hopefully, this story will serve as a good object lesson and deterrent from illegal and unethical behavior. And keep the students awake.
September 5, 2008
Goodnight, Etta
Etta slipped away this afternoon. We got the call this morning that she had become unresponsive yesterday afternoon and was admitted to the hospital for palliative care. I dropped by to see her this morning as soon as I found out. As I smoothed back her hair I told her that I was there. She made a sound and became a bit more active but her eyes weren't tracking. She wasn't responsive to anyone. I don't know if she heard me or not, but it was the last sound she made.
Jack's great-nephews came by around 11:00 and I sent them off to the cafeteria at noon to get some lunch. Jack didn't sleep much last night and he failed to have breakfast. After they left, I pulled the chair up to Etta's bed and told her that it was time for her to go to sleep--the boys and I would take care of Jack. Then I sang to her, probably for about 30 minutes: Safe in the Arms of Jesus; Amazing Grace; Jesus Lead Me All the Way; Just a Closer Walk With Thee; How Firm a Foundation. She became very still and her breathing dropped way down. When the guys came back from lunch, she was barely breathing. I told Jack that I didn't think it would be very long. She stopped breathing altogether 10 minutes later. It was very peaceful. It was time and she was ready.
It is very hard to see an elderly man cry for his wife of 71 years. Their 72nd anniversary would have been this Sunday. Etta told Jenny, her caretaker, what she wants to be buried in, what to do with various of her personal effects. She knew she was dying but she made ready the best she could by giving instructions and sharing her heart with the woman who cared for her day in, day out, for eight years, missing only one day. Jenny is a devoted, loyal saint.
So Jack's great-nephews are with him this weekend--I am ever so grateful. I will stay in touch but I feel quite sad for him. He is 94 years old. Determined to stay in his own home (and he should), but the woman he has loved for so long, and for whom he has cared faithfully for the last 8 years, is now resting in peace.
Please hold him close in your prayers. He is a dear, dear man. A tired saint who has given much, as did Etta.
And I am without one of my surrogate mothers. Etta always "got" me. I could walk in the door of her house and call out, "Hi Sunshine!" and she would reply, "There's no sunshine here!"
"How are you today, Etta?"
"Well, I'm still alive."
"That's a step in the right direction!" And we would both laugh.
Etta could size me up in just a glance. She could tell if I was irked about something, tired, or going too fast in life.
"Barbara, you need to go home and rest. You're doing too much."
One day she made me promise that I would take a siesta for 30 minutes every day after lunch. I did a few days and she was thrilled when I reported back to her that her suggestion worked like a charm.
Etta was a saucy soul. She had a sense of humor that was unflagging. She often asked me, "How's Tall Dark and Handsome?" And full of zip. I told her that Sam woke me up one day from a nap. She replied without hesitation, "I hope it was with a hot kiss!"
"Etta!" We both laughed. "It was. How did you know?"
She just smiled.
There was never as generous a soul as Etta was. The few times when I told her about students who were in need she always asked, "How can we help?" If I had asked for money she would have had Jack write a check immediately. But I never asked for anything except to pray. She did, tirelessly. There were many times when she'd call me to ask how I was, or my students, or stepchildren, or mother. Etta seemed to recognize the burdens and responsibilities I have carried and her cheery phone calls blessed me.
She always saved her magazines for me to read. She'd dog-ear the pages with blue and white decorations and write next to it, "Blue" so I wouldn't miss it. Sometimes she'd circle recipes and make editorial comments or substitution suggestions on the side.
As I would leave the house she would tell Jack to go out and find me the magazines she had set aside for me. He's slip a mango or two into the sack and I'd go out with more than the food I'd brought in.
Etta was a kindred soul. I loved her grit, naughtiness, tender heart, and warm spirit. Few people in my immediate circle have connected with me the way she has or given me the gift of being so fully understood and loved. I shall miss her more than I can say: sitting up in her recliner, holding court and grilling me about what was going on in my life. How she stayed positive for eight years, unable to walk for the last nine months of her life, is beyond me. I only hope I can be half of the woman she was and I thank God for allowing us to cross paths. I look forward to seeing her in heaven, where we can be friends forever.
Good night, Etta.
I can't wait to see you in the Morning.
Safe in the arms of Jesus,
Jesus, my heart’s dear Refuge,
Jack's great-nephews came by around 11:00 and I sent them off to the cafeteria at noon to get some lunch. Jack didn't sleep much last night and he failed to have breakfast. After they left, I pulled the chair up to Etta's bed and told her that it was time for her to go to sleep--the boys and I would take care of Jack. Then I sang to her, probably for about 30 minutes: Safe in the Arms of Jesus; Amazing Grace; Jesus Lead Me All the Way; Just a Closer Walk With Thee; How Firm a Foundation. She became very still and her breathing dropped way down. When the guys came back from lunch, she was barely breathing. I told Jack that I didn't think it would be very long. She stopped breathing altogether 10 minutes later. It was very peaceful. It was time and she was ready.
It is very hard to see an elderly man cry for his wife of 71 years. Their 72nd anniversary would have been this Sunday. Etta told Jenny, her caretaker, what she wants to be buried in, what to do with various of her personal effects. She knew she was dying but she made ready the best she could by giving instructions and sharing her heart with the woman who cared for her day in, day out, for eight years, missing only one day. Jenny is a devoted, loyal saint.
So Jack's great-nephews are with him this weekend--I am ever so grateful. I will stay in touch but I feel quite sad for him. He is 94 years old. Determined to stay in his own home (and he should), but the woman he has loved for so long, and for whom he has cared faithfully for the last 8 years, is now resting in peace.
Please hold him close in your prayers. He is a dear, dear man. A tired saint who has given much, as did Etta.
And I am without one of my surrogate mothers. Etta always "got" me. I could walk in the door of her house and call out, "Hi Sunshine!" and she would reply, "There's no sunshine here!"
"How are you today, Etta?"
"Well, I'm still alive."
"That's a step in the right direction!" And we would both laugh.
Etta could size me up in just a glance. She could tell if I was irked about something, tired, or going too fast in life.
"Barbara, you need to go home and rest. You're doing too much."
One day she made me promise that I would take a siesta for 30 minutes every day after lunch. I did a few days and she was thrilled when I reported back to her that her suggestion worked like a charm.
Etta was a saucy soul. She had a sense of humor that was unflagging. She often asked me, "How's Tall Dark and Handsome?" And full of zip. I told her that Sam woke me up one day from a nap. She replied without hesitation, "I hope it was with a hot kiss!"
"Etta!" We both laughed. "It was. How did you know?"
She just smiled.
There was never as generous a soul as Etta was. The few times when I told her about students who were in need she always asked, "How can we help?" If I had asked for money she would have had Jack write a check immediately. But I never asked for anything except to pray. She did, tirelessly. There were many times when she'd call me to ask how I was, or my students, or stepchildren, or mother. Etta seemed to recognize the burdens and responsibilities I have carried and her cheery phone calls blessed me.
She always saved her magazines for me to read. She'd dog-ear the pages with blue and white decorations and write next to it, "Blue" so I wouldn't miss it. Sometimes she'd circle recipes and make editorial comments or substitution suggestions on the side.
As I would leave the house she would tell Jack to go out and find me the magazines she had set aside for me. He's slip a mango or two into the sack and I'd go out with more than the food I'd brought in.
Etta was a kindred soul. I loved her grit, naughtiness, tender heart, and warm spirit. Few people in my immediate circle have connected with me the way she has or given me the gift of being so fully understood and loved. I shall miss her more than I can say: sitting up in her recliner, holding court and grilling me about what was going on in my life. How she stayed positive for eight years, unable to walk for the last nine months of her life, is beyond me. I only hope I can be half of the woman she was and I thank God for allowing us to cross paths. I look forward to seeing her in heaven, where we can be friends forever.
Good night, Etta.
I can't wait to see you in the Morning.
Safe in the arms of Jesus,
Safe on His gentle breast;
There by His love o’ershaded,
Sweetly my soul shall rest.
Hark! ’tis the voice of angels
Borne in a song to me,
Over the fields of glory,
Over the jasper sea.
Safe in the arms of Jesus,
Safe on His gentle breast;
There by His love o’ershaded,
Sweetly my soul shall rest.
Jesus, my heart’s dear Refuge,
Jesus has died for me;
Firm on the Rock of Ages
Ever my trust shall be.
Here let me wait with patience,
Wait till the night is o’er;
Wait till I see the morning
Break on the golden shore.
Safe in the arms of Jesus,
Safe on His gentle breast;
There by His love o'ershaded,
Sweetly my soul doth rest.
September 4, 2008
KFD-ville
I once conducted a very interesting research project. Working with 8 and 9 year-olds, I asked them to draw a picture of their family, everyone doing some action. Not stick people or cartoons. Oh, and include a picture of God (these were Christian children who didn't think it was blasphemous to depict God, unlike other religions). So they would turn the paper round and round, then begin drawing. The picture above is a typical Kinetic Family Drawing (KFD). You can see each family member labeled, and doing something or another. Fascinating, I think.
Well, I remember one young girl who started drawing. She became very silent as she drew, most intently. But almost every other line got erased and she would painstakingly recreate it--perfectly. Every line was redrawn by the time she had finished the drawing. She had taken five times longer than the other students to do this, and I had to eventually stop her from continuing. She was worried because there were still mistakes in it that needed to be corrected. I promised her that she could come back and finish it up the next day. She did--another hour. I was stunned. Poor little thing: nothing was good enough for her unless she had prevaricated over it, erased it, redrawn it, looked at it, erased part of it, and then moved on to the next miniscule line. I was ready to scream after sitting in silence for that length of time, watching this little girl with a budding case of OCD (obsessive-compulsive disorder) agonize about the perfection of her picture.
There are so many of us who are like this but in different ways, I realized over the weekend. Take me, for example (!). I was so worried that my talk wouldn't be as good as the others and I agonized over it, rehearsed it, reworded it over and over, obsessed about how bored people's faces would be as they had to sit and listen to me, etc. But it was a good-enough paper. It was better than good enough--it was really quite good and I was delighted by the reception. But for several hours I was near tears, had stomach upset and catastrophized myself into a real state.
I hope that one day before I die I will realize in a deep way that I am human and that as such, the best I can do is good enough. Even though I am a wordsmith and love putting together sentences meaningfully, there is no need to create perfect talks, perfect phrases, seamless presentations. I can only do the best that I can do, given the time. And that is plenty.
As I was leafing through my KFD pictures a week ago, I remembered this little OCD child and wondered where she is today. I wondered if her parents caught on to what her issues were. I had sworn anonymity and as a researcher I couldn't identify her to anyone or refer her for help. That would be unethical. I have never forgotten her determined little face, frail frame, and busy eraser (I think she used up two pencil erasers during those two hours and we finally went to a large pink eraser.)
I am enough. The way God made me is fine. If I am doing my best and aiming for the highest that I can do (without killing myself to accomplish it), then that is good enough. Good reminder for today.
September 2, 2008
Nerves
I just returned from a long weekend of meetings. It was an historic meeting that several of us planned for the last 10 months. We brought theologians, mental health practitioners, and educators together to discuss how our religious tradition and mental health practices can be supported, integrated, and encouraged. There were about 25 of us who went out to Rancho Palos Verdes to a convent that is adjacent to some of the most expensive homes in the country (I was later to learn).
I have to say, our accommodations were rather austere. When I swept into my suite, a gasp escaped my mouth. It was a veritable cell with a single bed, a dilapidated lamp, a desk and chair, with an attached bathroom that was almost as big as the bedroom. Oh, and a built in clothes storage system at the foot of the bed and a chair. I'm not sure why one would need two chairs in there. For a visitor? My friend who was in an adjoining cell (and whom I could hear breathing during the night!) frequently knocked on my door and plunked down in the chair at the foot of my bed. But had I not been in bed with my legs pulled up and her legs on the foot of the bed, we could not have fit in there at the same time.
Anyhow, we had a most stimulating conference. It was called, "Symposium on Christian Worldview and Mental Health: Seventh-day Adventist Perspectives." We had all sorts of presentations. George Harding, great-nephew of President Harding, and son of the founder of the Harding Hospital in Ohio, gave the first presentation about the history of Adventist psychiatrists in this country. Fascinating. The majority of this man's male and female forebearers were physicians, mostly psychiatrists.
We heard from a theologian from Andrews Theological Seminary, who presented, "Christian Epistemological Foundations for Behavioral Sciences." This was followed by a Fuller Seminary PhD (marriage and family therapist) who reported on her dissertation entitled, "The Sabbath as a Resource for Marriage." Very interesting empirical findings that indicate when a couple has a high level of intrinsic religiosity--that is, religion that comes from a desire to serve God rather than to merely do what is required--along with the desire to spend time together, these couples reported a much higher level of marital satisfaction after observing Sabbath for 24 hours each week.
A clinical psychologist gave a paper entitled "Clinical Implications for the Practice of Psychotherapy from the Seventh-day Adventist Tradition: A Summary." Now, I don't know why, but I could barely follow this speaker. Some people love to use big words and take a sweeping approach to covering topics. He covered every major Christian doctrine plus some.
An Australian psychiatrist presented a paper entitled, "A Personal Integration of God in Psychiatric Treatment--Alcoholics Anonymous as a Paradigm." This was a wonderful paper in which the quite charming speaker pointed out the parallels between AA and the verse, "As ye have received Christ, so walk ye in Him."
Harvard researcher David Williams, who holds an MDiv, MPH and PhD, and who is the 6th most quoted scientist in the country, gave a paper entitled, "Scientific Research on the Study of Religious/Spirituality and Mental Health: Lessons, Positive Affirmations and Disquieting Questions." The stats just roll off this man's tongue. I've never met such a bright and also engaging man in my life. He has been part of many of the epidemiological studies on health and religion, health access, and lifestyle issues in the United States.
Then we were hit by a philosopher who gave an interesting talk that was way over my head: "The Science of Psychology and the Ethics of Freedom: An Adventist's Perspective." I hope we have a good perspective on it because I just couldn't take it in. But everyone else loved it. It was about how we are responsible even though we are free, and he quoted people like Polkinghorne and Stuart Kaufmann. As I listened initially, I was envious of his brain. But I think I'll stick with what I've got because I can understand mine at least.
A theologian gave a most fascinating talk called "Mental Health and Human Wholeness: Implications from Biblical Anthropology." We then heard an excellent paper by a psychologist that pointed out the psychopathology that occurs when Christians get all caught up in legalistic practices. His paper was entitled, "For as He Thinketh in his Heart, So is He: Maladaptive Beliefs and Compensatory Strategies in Psychotherapy." Some of this was about how conservative beliefs (read prudery here) about sex can set people up for the need of therapy. Another concept, which I and others call "Worm Theology" (Oh, what a worm am I in God's sight!) can reduce a healthy self esteem to nothing which we all knew but were interested in hearing his take on it.
It was so wonderful to be with top-notch mental health practitioners who were also devout Christians--people who are serious about forwarding the healing work of Jesus Christ through mental, emotional, spiritual, and relational healing.
Oh, and I gave a paper. That's why I entitled this post "Nerves." It was extremely well received but I was a weeping, tottering wreck only moments before I stood up to speak. Here's why:
There is an unfortunate pecking order in mental health disciplines: psychiatry is top dog, then clinical psychology, counseling psychology, social work, LPCs (licensed professional counselors--in states other than California) marriage and family therapists, and drug/alcohol counselors. Being down toward the bottom of the list doesn't feel good, especially when the others elbow you, cast aspersions, make disparaging comments about your life work, trivialize your skills, etc. I tend to take it personally. Now, this never happened at the conference this weekend because it was a collaborative group. But it has happened to me a number of times in horrid ways.
The first day that I worked for a group therapist practice, a senior social worker called me into her office and said (I still remember it exactly), "I just want to tell you that you are at the very bottom of the totem pole in this group. You will only be allowed to take whatever clients no one else wants to work with, and you will not take any capitated [insurance-paid] clients. Are you clear about that?"
I wasn't clear at all.
"Why is that?"
She glared at me. "Because you people don't believe in medications and these patients are really sick." She said "you people" with the same pathos as though she was cursing.
"Who doesn't believe in medications?" I was incredulous.
"MFTs. You."
"How do you know that I don't believe in medications? Do you even know me?" I was angered but respectful.
"I know how you've been trained and what Minuchin taught and if you believe that then you're a danger to clients."
"That's quite an assumption you're making." I was really mad now. "Did you know that I am also an ICU nurse?"
She just stared at me.
"Do you know any ICU nurses who don't believe in medications?"
She said nothing.
"What makes you so sure I'm a danger to clients? You know nothing about me or my training, and you obviously haven't kept up with Salvador Minuchin's work or else you would have a different opinion."
She wasn't going to back down. "You are going to be questioned repeatedly about this" she said with a very icy voice. "Do you feel that you can stand up to that?"
Very evenly I replied, "Do I seem to be having trouble right now with you?"
I know I didn't storm out or anything like that, but I can't remember what else happened. I just know that I left her office soon thereafter, determined to show her that she was wrong. I did. I had clients coming out my ears and a waiting list in two months.
That was a really rude wake up call. My graduate program director had painted a picture of the world on bended knee, waiting for us to just finish up our degrees so they could benefit from our superior work. She had failed to warn us of the elitism that can exist in the mental health field.
There have been other people, too. My own dear therapist, who is a psychologist, never did like MFTs. It's all about turf. He liked me and admired my work. But he had nothing good at all to say about my discipline. He even made a disparaging comment once about it in therapy and I very swiftly responded to that.
I also taught group therapy to a class composed of clinical psychology doctoral students and counseling psych students. Because I was an MFT, ABD (all but dissertation), and a new professor, those students had at me the entire quarter. It was truly awful: horrible course evaluations, students beligerrant in class, challenging anything I said. Just awful. I felt incompetent, bewildered, angry. So any time I'm around people of these other disciplines and they seem to be less than inclusive, I go to a really bad place in my head. "I'm bad--I can't do anything right--Why can't I be as smart as X, Y, or Z?" I get panicky and feel yucky.
In many ways, I suppose MFTs are analagous to the wild olive shoot that was grafted into the main tree (psychology) just like the book of Hebrews in the Bible. We need to hold our roots in esteem. The roots just have trouble with us and it is painful to be hacked at from time to time.
The redeeming grace is that the folks I was with this weekend--theologians, philosophers, psychiatrists, psychologists, church leaders, therapists, medical directors--all were respectful and delighted with the work and papers each of us presented. And I lived through my presentation by telling stories of training students and putting a human face on the theoretical paradigms and theoretical web spinning that they did--as good as it was.
So I have returned home with a head full of ideas, third editor for a book composed of these papers after revisions, and delighted to belong to a group of people who are serious about mental health services being as closely supported by our church leadership as we try to make vital connections with clergy, clients, parishioners.
I'm tired and glad to be home.
I have to say, our accommodations were rather austere. When I swept into my suite, a gasp escaped my mouth. It was a veritable cell with a single bed, a dilapidated lamp, a desk and chair, with an attached bathroom that was almost as big as the bedroom. Oh, and a built in clothes storage system at the foot of the bed and a chair. I'm not sure why one would need two chairs in there. For a visitor? My friend who was in an adjoining cell (and whom I could hear breathing during the night!) frequently knocked on my door and plunked down in the chair at the foot of my bed. But had I not been in bed with my legs pulled up and her legs on the foot of the bed, we could not have fit in there at the same time.
Anyhow, we had a most stimulating conference. It was called, "Symposium on Christian Worldview and Mental Health: Seventh-day Adventist Perspectives." We had all sorts of presentations. George Harding, great-nephew of President Harding, and son of the founder of the Harding Hospital in Ohio, gave the first presentation about the history of Adventist psychiatrists in this country. Fascinating. The majority of this man's male and female forebearers were physicians, mostly psychiatrists.
We heard from a theologian from Andrews Theological Seminary, who presented, "Christian Epistemological Foundations for Behavioral Sciences." This was followed by a Fuller Seminary PhD (marriage and family therapist) who reported on her dissertation entitled, "The Sabbath as a Resource for Marriage." Very interesting empirical findings that indicate when a couple has a high level of intrinsic religiosity--that is, religion that comes from a desire to serve God rather than to merely do what is required--along with the desire to spend time together, these couples reported a much higher level of marital satisfaction after observing Sabbath for 24 hours each week.
A clinical psychologist gave a paper entitled "Clinical Implications for the Practice of Psychotherapy from the Seventh-day Adventist Tradition: A Summary." Now, I don't know why, but I could barely follow this speaker. Some people love to use big words and take a sweeping approach to covering topics. He covered every major Christian doctrine plus some.
An Australian psychiatrist presented a paper entitled, "A Personal Integration of God in Psychiatric Treatment--Alcoholics Anonymous as a Paradigm." This was a wonderful paper in which the quite charming speaker pointed out the parallels between AA and the verse, "As ye have received Christ, so walk ye in Him."
Harvard researcher David Williams, who holds an MDiv, MPH and PhD, and who is the 6th most quoted scientist in the country, gave a paper entitled, "Scientific Research on the Study of Religious/Spirituality and Mental Health: Lessons, Positive Affirmations and Disquieting Questions." The stats just roll off this man's tongue. I've never met such a bright and also engaging man in my life. He has been part of many of the epidemiological studies on health and religion, health access, and lifestyle issues in the United States.
Then we were hit by a philosopher who gave an interesting talk that was way over my head: "The Science of Psychology and the Ethics of Freedom: An Adventist's Perspective." I hope we have a good perspective on it because I just couldn't take it in. But everyone else loved it. It was about how we are responsible even though we are free, and he quoted people like Polkinghorne and Stuart Kaufmann. As I listened initially, I was envious of his brain. But I think I'll stick with what I've got because I can understand mine at least.
A theologian gave a most fascinating talk called "Mental Health and Human Wholeness: Implications from Biblical Anthropology." We then heard an excellent paper by a psychologist that pointed out the psychopathology that occurs when Christians get all caught up in legalistic practices. His paper was entitled, "For as He Thinketh in his Heart, So is He: Maladaptive Beliefs and Compensatory Strategies in Psychotherapy." Some of this was about how conservative beliefs (read prudery here) about sex can set people up for the need of therapy. Another concept, which I and others call "Worm Theology" (Oh, what a worm am I in God's sight!) can reduce a healthy self esteem to nothing which we all knew but were interested in hearing his take on it.
It was so wonderful to be with top-notch mental health practitioners who were also devout Christians--people who are serious about forwarding the healing work of Jesus Christ through mental, emotional, spiritual, and relational healing.
Oh, and I gave a paper. That's why I entitled this post "Nerves." It was extremely well received but I was a weeping, tottering wreck only moments before I stood up to speak. Here's why:
There is an unfortunate pecking order in mental health disciplines: psychiatry is top dog, then clinical psychology, counseling psychology, social work, LPCs (licensed professional counselors--in states other than California) marriage and family therapists, and drug/alcohol counselors. Being down toward the bottom of the list doesn't feel good, especially when the others elbow you, cast aspersions, make disparaging comments about your life work, trivialize your skills, etc. I tend to take it personally. Now, this never happened at the conference this weekend because it was a collaborative group. But it has happened to me a number of times in horrid ways.
The first day that I worked for a group therapist practice, a senior social worker called me into her office and said (I still remember it exactly), "I just want to tell you that you are at the very bottom of the totem pole in this group. You will only be allowed to take whatever clients no one else wants to work with, and you will not take any capitated [insurance-paid] clients. Are you clear about that?"
I wasn't clear at all.
"Why is that?"
She glared at me. "Because you people don't believe in medications and these patients are really sick." She said "you people" with the same pathos as though she was cursing.
"Who doesn't believe in medications?" I was incredulous.
"MFTs. You."
"How do you know that I don't believe in medications? Do you even know me?" I was angered but respectful.
"I know how you've been trained and what Minuchin taught and if you believe that then you're a danger to clients."
"That's quite an assumption you're making." I was really mad now. "Did you know that I am also an ICU nurse?"
She just stared at me.
"Do you know any ICU nurses who don't believe in medications?"
She said nothing.
"What makes you so sure I'm a danger to clients? You know nothing about me or my training, and you obviously haven't kept up with Salvador Minuchin's work or else you would have a different opinion."
She wasn't going to back down. "You are going to be questioned repeatedly about this" she said with a very icy voice. "Do you feel that you can stand up to that?"
Very evenly I replied, "Do I seem to be having trouble right now with you?"
I know I didn't storm out or anything like that, but I can't remember what else happened. I just know that I left her office soon thereafter, determined to show her that she was wrong. I did. I had clients coming out my ears and a waiting list in two months.
That was a really rude wake up call. My graduate program director had painted a picture of the world on bended knee, waiting for us to just finish up our degrees so they could benefit from our superior work. She had failed to warn us of the elitism that can exist in the mental health field.
There have been other people, too. My own dear therapist, who is a psychologist, never did like MFTs. It's all about turf. He liked me and admired my work. But he had nothing good at all to say about my discipline. He even made a disparaging comment once about it in therapy and I very swiftly responded to that.
I also taught group therapy to a class composed of clinical psychology doctoral students and counseling psych students. Because I was an MFT, ABD (all but dissertation), and a new professor, those students had at me the entire quarter. It was truly awful: horrible course evaluations, students beligerrant in class, challenging anything I said. Just awful. I felt incompetent, bewildered, angry. So any time I'm around people of these other disciplines and they seem to be less than inclusive, I go to a really bad place in my head. "I'm bad--I can't do anything right--Why can't I be as smart as X, Y, or Z?" I get panicky and feel yucky.
In many ways, I suppose MFTs are analagous to the wild olive shoot that was grafted into the main tree (psychology) just like the book of Hebrews in the Bible. We need to hold our roots in esteem. The roots just have trouble with us and it is painful to be hacked at from time to time.
The redeeming grace is that the folks I was with this weekend--theologians, philosophers, psychiatrists, psychologists, church leaders, therapists, medical directors--all were respectful and delighted with the work and papers each of us presented. And I lived through my presentation by telling stories of training students and putting a human face on the theoretical paradigms and theoretical web spinning that they did--as good as it was.
So I have returned home with a head full of ideas, third editor for a book composed of these papers after revisions, and delighted to belong to a group of people who are serious about mental health services being as closely supported by our church leadership as we try to make vital connections with clergy, clients, parishioners.
I'm tired and glad to be home.
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