Yesterday I spent a total of $300 for 1) an agility lesson 2) housecleaning and 3) a massage.
It is not lost on me that I spent more in one day on non-necessities (frivolities?) than someone living at the poverty level earns in a week.
It was an uncomfortable feeling.
Wednesday, July 29, 2015
Saturday, July 11, 2015
Week 4 - Turning the Corner
VIRGO (Aug. 23-Sept. 22). Celebrate your wins. When your personal life hums a happy melody, the other elements — like fulfilling work and enough money to cover the bills — will click into place.
This was a recent horoscope entry. I generally do not put a lot of weight into these types of things, but sometimes, anything can serve as proper motivation.
As I take stock of my personal life, mid-summer, I find it to be humming a very happy melody. My screened porch is a daily source of rejuvenation. I have set my alarm a bit earlier so that I can get up and spend 10-15 extra minutes out in the backyard gardens building up a supply of joy and gratitude for the workday ahead.
This week, I learned that I could maintain at least some of the flexibility for personal activities that I had pre-reassignment. That is, I finished the calendar in time on Monday to make the early bus so I could get out to Clearwater for Jet's Monday night field training on time. Also, my 8:00 a.m. agility lesson on Wednesday worked out perfectly. I got home, showered, changed and caught the 10:30 bus to make it to work by 10:45. I was able to keep rogue hearings off my calendar for that morning and have done the same for several lessons through August. To top it off, the calendar that afternoon was actually manageable and entertaining.
I am getting into a rhythm. I am finding new ways to keep my passion for serving crime victims alive. I am feeling more comfortable with the volume and pace. When it gets tedious, I instant message my colleagues in their offices and pick out an amusing anecdote to share.
I have decided that I no longer need the weekly affirmation of something positive, as I feel sufficiently able to cope with the next 48 weeks. If that should change, I will make time to find something positive to memorialize on this blog. But for now, I have other things I can write about.
Finally, I would note that this was the first week I did all 5 days and I didn't fall apart. In fact for 3 of them, I didn't even need the stool! :)
This was a recent horoscope entry. I generally do not put a lot of weight into these types of things, but sometimes, anything can serve as proper motivation.
As I take stock of my personal life, mid-summer, I find it to be humming a very happy melody. My screened porch is a daily source of rejuvenation. I have set my alarm a bit earlier so that I can get up and spend 10-15 extra minutes out in the backyard gardens building up a supply of joy and gratitude for the workday ahead.
This week, I learned that I could maintain at least some of the flexibility for personal activities that I had pre-reassignment. That is, I finished the calendar in time on Monday to make the early bus so I could get out to Clearwater for Jet's Monday night field training on time. Also, my 8:00 a.m. agility lesson on Wednesday worked out perfectly. I got home, showered, changed and caught the 10:30 bus to make it to work by 10:45. I was able to keep rogue hearings off my calendar for that morning and have done the same for several lessons through August. To top it off, the calendar that afternoon was actually manageable and entertaining.
I am getting into a rhythm. I am finding new ways to keep my passion for serving crime victims alive. I am feeling more comfortable with the volume and pace. When it gets tedious, I instant message my colleagues in their offices and pick out an amusing anecdote to share.
I have decided that I no longer need the weekly affirmation of something positive, as I feel sufficiently able to cope with the next 48 weeks. If that should change, I will make time to find something positive to memorialize on this blog. But for now, I have other things I can write about.
Finally, I would note that this was the first week I did all 5 days and I didn't fall apart. In fact for 3 of them, I didn't even need the stool! :)
Thursday, July 2, 2015
Week 3 - Short Week and a Stool
This week is the 4th of July holiday week, which means we get Friday the 3rd off. The weather has been splendid and it is shaping up to be a good weekend.
After several long afternoons of standing, I started inquiring about getting a stool. Others before me had utilized one, so I was not entering uncharted territory. From the responses I got, it would seem I was asking for the moon on a silver platter. In the end, the boss who has dumped me in this position came to my office and told me to pick one out and have the office manager order it. As I made contact with her, she appeared in my office doorway a short time later with a high tech office stool.
My back no longer pains me and this week is almost over. :)
After several long afternoons of standing, I started inquiring about getting a stool. Others before me had utilized one, so I was not entering uncharted territory. From the responses I got, it would seem I was asking for the moon on a silver platter. In the end, the boss who has dumped me in this position came to my office and told me to pick one out and have the office manager order it. As I made contact with her, she appeared in my office doorway a short time later with a high tech office stool.
My back no longer pains me and this week is almost over. :)
Monday, June 29, 2015
Week 2 - New Shoes
Being a professional middle-aged woman is filled with potential pitfalls. Fashion and comfort are often mutually exclusive. As someone who has suffered from spinal stenosis, plantar fasciitis and a rapidly growing bunion, wearing heels has resulted in significant discomfort. My new position requires, at least for now, that I stand for an hour at a minimum. One day this week, it was 2 and a half hours.
So I have searched for shoes that are comfortable, but somewhat cute. Here they are:
So I have searched for shoes that are comfortable, but somewhat cute. Here they are:
Tuesday, June 23, 2015
Procuring Respite
I have been prosecuting domestic violence cases for 20 years. Victims of these offenses generally fit a typical profile. They are uncooperative, which manifests itself either in perjury - should they actually come to court - or complete disappearance, in which case it is difficult for the prosecution to proceed.
Often, a prosecutor has to negotiate a better deal than would be desired because of that lack of cooperation. Frequently, the offender is placed on probation and ordered to have no contact with the victim. And, most of the time, the offender and the victim reconcile…..until the next act of violence occurs.
This week I was tasked with preparing for a hearing that was likely to revoke the Defendant’s probation and send him to prison for around a year. I had subpoenaed a police officer and the victim. She was reluctant to come in, but she actually arrived on time for our prep meeting ahead of court. I explained the process and what was likely to happen. She was visibly upset and expressed great anxiety at having to testify in front of her abuser. She then tried to take responsibility for what had happened, telling me that she had allowed him to stay with her when he had nowhere to go. Her eyes welled up with tears as she explained how much she loved this man, with whom she had been in a relationship for 8 years.
I asked her what she wanted to have happen, thinking I knew her answer. The majority of victims sincerely believe that all it will take is “just one more chance.” But then this victim surprised me.
Often, a prosecutor has to negotiate a better deal than would be desired because of that lack of cooperation. Frequently, the offender is placed on probation and ordered to have no contact with the victim. And, most of the time, the offender and the victim reconcile…..until the next act of violence occurs.
This week I was tasked with preparing for a hearing that was likely to revoke the Defendant’s probation and send him to prison for around a year. I had subpoenaed a police officer and the victim. She was reluctant to come in, but she actually arrived on time for our prep meeting ahead of court. I explained the process and what was likely to happen. She was visibly upset and expressed great anxiety at having to testify in front of her abuser. She then tried to take responsibility for what had happened, telling me that she had allowed him to stay with her when he had nowhere to go. Her eyes welled up with tears as she explained how much she loved this man, with whom she had been in a relationship for 8 years.
I asked her what she wanted to have happen, thinking I knew her answer. The majority of victims sincerely believe that all it will take is “just one more chance.” But then this victim surprised me.
“I think he needs to do his time,” she whispered. She had grown weary of his jealousy, his belittling, his violence, all which was fueled by his drug use. She explained to me that she just needed some time to be able to breathe, without looking over her shoulder for the next explosive episode.
I told her that I would try to get through the hearing without having to call her as a witness. When we got to court, the defense attorney surprised me with the news that the Defendant planned to waive his right to the hearing and agree to go to prison. The victim's relief was palpable when I conveyed this to her, as she anxiously waited out in the hallway. She hugged me in gratitude and went on profusely about what it meant to have someone looking out for her.
It was a good day.
It was a good day.
Thursday, June 18, 2015
On the Year of My Professional Discontent
Very unexpectedly, I have found myself in a version of professional hell. Or at least that is how I feel. I was taken off a trial team and unceremoniously reassigned to a calendar position. It was a position nobody wanted, including me. In a nutshell, I am no longer doing a job I am confident in, enjoy and feel like I have the skills for, but rather, I now feel like I have been relegated to an assignment that is neither interesting, nor challenging. Apparently my feelings really didn’t matter when it was decided that I would relinquish my current caseload and take on this assignment.
It has been explained to me that experienced attorneys are needed for this position. Based on my 20 years in the County Attorney’s Office, I find this explanation not the least bit persuasive. It has been explained to me that it is a “break” from the “stress” of jury trials for serious cases. My response to that is that a trial attorney gets periodic breaks – they are built in to the calendar. I went for about six months without a break (ironically during Casey’s surgery and subsequent chemo) and then did not have a trial for another four months. That was my “break.” Or so I tried to explain. Where I have previously thrived on the complexity, variety and challenge of jury trials, I now find myself mired in the monotony and tedium of a day to day assignment that only varies by volume. I am tasked with representing the State in hearings where an individual is alleged to have violated their probation. The vast majority of these people are chemically dependent, suffer from some sort of mental illness and otherwise live on the fringes of society. The question before the court is “what response is appropriate to this person’s transgression?”
I have been mired in trying to figure out what might have been my transgression that has led to this unfortunate turn of events. With everything going on nationwide in the criminal justice system, particularly the allegations of racism, I have also begun to wonder if it is time to move on to another area of law. Criminal prosecution, with the exception of a year of defense work and a year representing child protection social workers, has been my professional life for over 20 years. I could never see myself doing anything else. Until now. The upcoming year in hell gives me an opportunity to reevaluate my thoughts and feelings about what I have been doing professionally and what I might do in the future.
For the last several weeks, however, my main response to this situation has been to complain. To feel humiliated when people say, “what a waste of your talent.” To dread the loss of personal freedom that this assignment brings. To dread the physical discomfort it brings (1-2 hours standing at a podium every afternoon). However, from time to time, I have been able to interject humor into the situation. I generally default to happy. I always have. It is easier for me to smile and laugh than to be angry. But for the last several weeks, I have struggled to overcome an overwhelming sense of bitterness and panic.
Today, I finished my first week in this assignment. It was every bit as awful as I imagined it would be. As I was preparing to leave work this afternoon, I joked with my colleagues that I would create a countdown of weeks until it would be over. Counting days made the situation seem insurmountable.….weeks would feel more endurable. So, on a year assignment, that would add up to 52 weeks. And after today, 51 weeks. After work, I went to the chiropractor, where she worked on my messed up back and hip flexors. We talked about the new shoes I ordered and how I will manage my posture better. But when it came to how I was going to cope emotionally, mentally and psychologically with this new situation, we were both at a loss. I did express that I knew, deep in my soul, that I needed to be able to identify a way to find peace.
And then, when I got home, I figured out a way.
For every week that I am in this assigment, I am going to find one good thing that happened. One thing that I am proud of. One thing that feels worthwhile. I already could think of two things for this past week, so I am already ahead of the game. The entries may not be long, but they will serve as a marker to show that I still can find value in what I am doing. That there may be a reason, long term, for why this has happened.
These entries will demonstrate that I can change the way I think about all of this. And there will simply be no room for complaining.
Friday, May 29, 2015
On the Slow Disappearance of Dad
Yesterday I got to spend several hours with my dad, one on one. That was not the original plan. My parents and I were supposed to attend an orchestra concert. But several days prior, my dad, who will be 87 in July had a “bad spell,” where he collapsed and my mom did not feel comfortable bringing him. So we turned two of the tickets back in and I dropped my mom off at the concert and Dad and I returned to my house.
I figured he would just want to sleep. As he said in the car on the way to my house, “it seems I could just sleep all day.”
But when we arrived, he didn’t want to sleep. He wanted to sit on the back porch and visit. He was delighted to be out there. We talked about what a great investment the screen porch was. We talked about the work that I have put into my house and how it will hopefully pay off when I sell it. We went through pictures of the gardens through the years. We talked about baseball. We talked about running speaker wire through the house to get speakers hooked up on the back porch. I told him I was pretty sure I got my jerry rigging abilities from him.
At one point he said, “it’s hard to be old.” And my heart broke for him yet again.
In late 2004, my dad went into the hospital for some sort of kidney stone issue which then developed into a very serious staph infection that nearly killed him. He was sent home after a week in the hospital with a picc line for antibiotics. It seems that was a catalyst for what was to come.
Sometime in 2005, he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease. For a long time, he and my mom lived in denial. The tremor and weakness was left over from the staph infection. Or at least that was what they wanted to believe.
Being the proactive person I am, I got several books on the condition, including one that had exercises in it. I accompanied my parents to my dad’s neurologist appointments. I distinctly remember driving them to one such appointment and talking with my dad about how he was feeling. I remember him saying that he felt like he didn’t have much energy and that he didn’t feel motivated. My parents were always at odds with the neurologist. I’m not sure why, there was nothing about her that I found lacking, but she certainly wasn’t a warm, fuzzy presence. When my dad described how he was feeling, she suggested that he was likely suffering from depression. She went so far as to write him a prescription and give him a free 28 day supply of the drug to get him started. They (in reality, my mom) decided that they did not want to try them. The reasons given were not compelling, but there was no changing their (her) minds.
It has been 10 years since that diagnosis and in that 10 years, I have watched my dad slowly fade away. My mom has always been the dominant one in their marriage. I unfortunately have more than a few memories of her throwing huge, volatile tantrums at him. There would always be the sound of her yelling and then his response, which was always hard to pick up. My mom has a permanent list of the ways my dad has disappointed her. I don’t pretend to know everything, but I do know he developed a habit of not always telling her the truth about things for fear of the outbursts. I can’t say I blame him, but it has left scars on both of them.
And so now, my mom gets angry at my dad if he doesn’t stand up straight, or speak clearly, or if he starts coughing in the middle of a meal. As if he intends all of those things. She has been so conditioned to feeling betrayed by him, that she now views his current shortcomings as just another example of intentional failures on his part.
Last year, my dad experienced drops in blood pressure that necessitated hospitalization. He also ended up clogging a toilet which resulted in an overflow and heavy damage to the floor of the bathroom and the ceiling of the room directly below it. All this, while their tri-level townhome was on the market. My mother sobbed that this was not how she expected her life to turn out. Her narcissism has exposed itself in many ugly ways.
She monopolizes conversations in an almost manic fashion when the three of us are together. That is, unless she forces my dad to talk on the phone. She does it in an obvious way, like one would prod a child to tell Grandma about a school project. She complains how lonely she is and how she has nobody to talk to. She talks about him and his condition as if he wasn’t there.
I struggle to remember my dad as a vivacious person. I know he has always been silly. I know he has always been kind. He was an actor when he was young and a college level theatre professor when I was a child. His last job was as a trainer to people selling insurance for a big bank. He would travel for business and I remember him coming to Minneapolis when I was going to law school. He took me to dinner on my 25th birthday and we shared a number of laughs.
I have a cassette tape he made for me when I moved to Washington DC in search of a job after college. It was, as he was, motivational. Where my mother’s anxiety would not allow her to see me in a life that did not revolve around her, my dad recognized and encouraged my desire to spread my wings. He bought me the 1988 edition of “What Color is your Parachute?” – a book that was designed for college grads, or anyone contemplating a career change. The sky was the limit as far as he was concerned.
Several years ago, I converted old videos to DVDs. I want to look at them, but fear I will fall apart when I see my dad before his diagnosis. I know I repress my feelings now because I don’t want to succumb to the sadness.
I know he won’t be here for much longer. His mind is still pretty much intact, which is almost the worst case scenario, because he is aware of all of his limitations. The depression is palpable.
I view my job now as to be the entertainer and the peacemaker. It is not an easy one and he recognizes that. Over the holidays, he commented as I was leaving after trying to get my mom back on track after a meltdown of sorts: “it’s so nice to have you here as the voice of reason…..” I want to bring him peace and a small bit of happiness in this last phase of his life. I have no idea if he looks back on his life, and if he does, how he assesses it. I have no idea if he thinks about anything at all when he is alone. I know he loves me and I love him dearly. And in the end, that will be all that matters.
I figured he would just want to sleep. As he said in the car on the way to my house, “it seems I could just sleep all day.”
But when we arrived, he didn’t want to sleep. He wanted to sit on the back porch and visit. He was delighted to be out there. We talked about what a great investment the screen porch was. We talked about the work that I have put into my house and how it will hopefully pay off when I sell it. We went through pictures of the gardens through the years. We talked about baseball. We talked about running speaker wire through the house to get speakers hooked up on the back porch. I told him I was pretty sure I got my jerry rigging abilities from him.
At one point he said, “it’s hard to be old.” And my heart broke for him yet again.
In late 2004, my dad went into the hospital for some sort of kidney stone issue which then developed into a very serious staph infection that nearly killed him. He was sent home after a week in the hospital with a picc line for antibiotics. It seems that was a catalyst for what was to come.
Sometime in 2005, he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease. For a long time, he and my mom lived in denial. The tremor and weakness was left over from the staph infection. Or at least that was what they wanted to believe.
Being the proactive person I am, I got several books on the condition, including one that had exercises in it. I accompanied my parents to my dad’s neurologist appointments. I distinctly remember driving them to one such appointment and talking with my dad about how he was feeling. I remember him saying that he felt like he didn’t have much energy and that he didn’t feel motivated. My parents were always at odds with the neurologist. I’m not sure why, there was nothing about her that I found lacking, but she certainly wasn’t a warm, fuzzy presence. When my dad described how he was feeling, she suggested that he was likely suffering from depression. She went so far as to write him a prescription and give him a free 28 day supply of the drug to get him started. They (in reality, my mom) decided that they did not want to try them. The reasons given were not compelling, but there was no changing their (her) minds.
It has been 10 years since that diagnosis and in that 10 years, I have watched my dad slowly fade away. My mom has always been the dominant one in their marriage. I unfortunately have more than a few memories of her throwing huge, volatile tantrums at him. There would always be the sound of her yelling and then his response, which was always hard to pick up. My mom has a permanent list of the ways my dad has disappointed her. I don’t pretend to know everything, but I do know he developed a habit of not always telling her the truth about things for fear of the outbursts. I can’t say I blame him, but it has left scars on both of them.
And so now, my mom gets angry at my dad if he doesn’t stand up straight, or speak clearly, or if he starts coughing in the middle of a meal. As if he intends all of those things. She has been so conditioned to feeling betrayed by him, that she now views his current shortcomings as just another example of intentional failures on his part.
Last year, my dad experienced drops in blood pressure that necessitated hospitalization. He also ended up clogging a toilet which resulted in an overflow and heavy damage to the floor of the bathroom and the ceiling of the room directly below it. All this, while their tri-level townhome was on the market. My mother sobbed that this was not how she expected her life to turn out. Her narcissism has exposed itself in many ugly ways.
She monopolizes conversations in an almost manic fashion when the three of us are together. That is, unless she forces my dad to talk on the phone. She does it in an obvious way, like one would prod a child to tell Grandma about a school project. She complains how lonely she is and how she has nobody to talk to. She talks about him and his condition as if he wasn’t there.
I struggle to remember my dad as a vivacious person. I know he has always been silly. I know he has always been kind. He was an actor when he was young and a college level theatre professor when I was a child. His last job was as a trainer to people selling insurance for a big bank. He would travel for business and I remember him coming to Minneapolis when I was going to law school. He took me to dinner on my 25th birthday and we shared a number of laughs.
I have a cassette tape he made for me when I moved to Washington DC in search of a job after college. It was, as he was, motivational. Where my mother’s anxiety would not allow her to see me in a life that did not revolve around her, my dad recognized and encouraged my desire to spread my wings. He bought me the 1988 edition of “What Color is your Parachute?” – a book that was designed for college grads, or anyone contemplating a career change. The sky was the limit as far as he was concerned.
Several years ago, I converted old videos to DVDs. I want to look at them, but fear I will fall apart when I see my dad before his diagnosis. I know I repress my feelings now because I don’t want to succumb to the sadness.
I know he won’t be here for much longer. His mind is still pretty much intact, which is almost the worst case scenario, because he is aware of all of his limitations. The depression is palpable.
I view my job now as to be the entertainer and the peacemaker. It is not an easy one and he recognizes that. Over the holidays, he commented as I was leaving after trying to get my mom back on track after a meltdown of sorts: “it’s so nice to have you here as the voice of reason…..” I want to bring him peace and a small bit of happiness in this last phase of his life. I have no idea if he looks back on his life, and if he does, how he assesses it. I have no idea if he thinks about anything at all when he is alone. I know he loves me and I love him dearly. And in the end, that will be all that matters.
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