Below are the 14 most recent journal entries recorded in Kyle Webb's LiveJournal:

Tuesday, August 26th, 2008
9:09 pm	Nobody's Perfect A troubled man paid a visit to his rabbi. A wise and good old rabbi, as all rabbis try to be. “Rabbi,” said he, wringing his hands, “I am a failure. More than half the time I do not succeed in doing what I must do.” “Oh?” said the rabbi. “Please say something wise, rabbi,” said the man. After much pondering, the rabbi spoke as follows: “Ah, my son, I give you this wisdom: Go and look on page 930 of The New York Times Almanac for the year 1970, and you will find peace of mind maybe.” “Ah,” said the man, and he went away and did that thing. Now this is what he found: The listing of the lifetime batting averages of all the greatest baseball players. Ty Cobb, the greatest slugger of them all, had a lifetime batting average of only .367. Even Babe Ruth didn’t do so good. So the man went back to the rabbi and said in a questioning tone: “Ty Cobb - .367. That’s it?” “Right,” said the rabbi. “Ty Cobb - .367. He got a hit once out of every three times at bat. He didn’t even bat .500 – so what can you expect already?” “Ah,” said the man, who thought he was a wretched failure because only half the time he did not succeed at what he must do. Theology is amazing, and holy books abound. From All I Really Need To Know I Learned in Kindergarten (Robert Fulghum, Ballantine Books, 1986) (Comment on this)
Wednesday, February 21st, 2007
8:57 pm	Not just a horse I hope when I leave this vale of tears, that my passage had some meaning... http://www.popmatters.com/pm/features/article/10806/americas-pony/ America’s Pony [7 February 2007] Despite a short career in a dying sport, Barbaro brought something special to a nation suffering a widespread poverty of hope and deficit of inspiration. by Phoebe Kate Foster On 29 January 2007, after eight months of loyal fans keeping vigil as he fought the good fight, the world lost a beloved celebrity. His passing was not just a footnote in the annals of a busy news day; it was a lead story, beating out the war in Iraq, a leak at the CIA, the economy, and Hillary Clinton’s presidential aspirations. In a televised news conference, the physician who was with him at his death could barely contain his grief. The hospital where he spent his last days has been flooded with sympathy cards and emails and flowers. Eyewitnesses report that when people across the country heard the news on radio or TV or by word of mouth, they openly wept in public. It is all the more remarkable that the object of such media importance and public devotion was a horse named Barbaro. “What’s the big deal?” cynics scoff. “He was just an animal.” Yes, he was only an animal. Yes, as superstars go, he was just a flash in the pan, an overnight success who paradoxically achieved his greatest success by failing. His entire career spanned only a couple of years and he died at a very young age (four). But in his lifetime, his fan base rivaled that of non-equine counterparts, and he never once let his devotees down. Not since Hurricane Katrina has the diverse populace of the US become so personally involved with a catastrophe that didn’t affect them directly, nor has there been such an outpouring of support. It’s almost tempting to dismiss this as much ado about nothing, fueled by anthropomorphists, small children, soft-in-the-head sentimentalists, religious nuts, and people who need to get a life. But the truth in this case is in the numbers, and an extraordinary number of people remained riveted by the fate of this racehorse until the bitter end. In reality, the phenomenon of Barbaro goes well beyond the status of freakish cult and deep into the zeitgeist of modern America. On 20 May 2006, a handsome and spunky bay colt broke his leg in the opening moments of the Preakness, the second race of thoroughbred racing’s Triple Crown. Up until then, Barbaro had been familiar only to racing buffs following his career. His record was impressive: seven races run, seven races won, including the Kentucky Derby. It looked like the Thoroughbred Hall of Fame had a legend in the making, an unbeatable horse the likes of which had not been seen in years, maybe decades. But the hopes of racing aficionados were short-lived. The injuries to Barbaro’s right hind leg were catastrophic and all but irreparable: two bones broken, a third shattered into more than 20 pieces, and a dislocated joint. While thousands watched in Pimlico’s grandstand and on television, the lame colt gamely tried to complete the race as his jockey, Edgar Prado, struggled to rein him in. The scene was gut wrenching and heartbreaking. Although a notable piece of horseflesh named Bernardini won the race, it was Barbaro, with his life-threatening injuries, who became a household name and the center of an American obsession. Despite the fact that Barbaro’s chances of survival were virtually nonexistent, owners Roy and Gretchen Jackson decided to attempt the impossible. Rather than having him euthanized trackside, standard practice for horses with injuries as devastating as Barbaro’s, they chose to transport him to the University of Pennsylvania’s New Bolton Center for Large Animals for treatment. Fixing Barbaro would be like putting Humpty Dumpty back together again, and saving him from the post-op complications nothing less than a miracle. Nonetheless, the Jacksons were willing to take on these odds. That one quixotic decision turned what would have been a sad but soon forgotten racing moment into a cause célèbre. For eight long months, Barbaro was under the care of Dr. Dean Richardson at New Bolton. The media faithfully chronicled Barbaro’s ups and downs. In response to overwhelming public concern, New Bolton Center posted regular bulletins on their website, and numerous online sources kept fans updated daily. Thousands of cards, letters and e-mails from every state, as well as from overseas, poured into the veterinary hospital in Kennett Square, Pennsylvania. Well-wishers deluged Barbaro with gift baskets of apples and carrots, handmade blankets, bouquets of flowers, peppermints (a favorite of his) and other treats, and kept the staff at New Bolton supplied with human goodies, too. Countless schoolchildren sent him get-well wishes. Fans wrote songs, poems, and even Christmas carols for him. He received Christmas trees and Christmas stockings stuffed with surprises. A bride and groom invited him to their wedding. His followers put up signs around the grounds at New Bolton with messages of encouragement. He became the focus of online chat rooms and blogs. People publicly credited Barbaro for saving their marriages, helping them regain their faith, and giving them courage to battle cancer. Groups formed to pray for him and stage candlelight vigils. “Believe in Barbaro” was their mantra. Perhaps the most profound gift to the horse, his owners, and the New Bolton staff was an American flag that had flown in combat zones from special military forces who had been wounded in action. Along with the flag came a plaque celebrating the “American spirit, the ability to overcome insurmountable odds in the face of adversity.” Despite Americans’ renowned pluck and grit, hidebound dogmas of self-reliance and success, and indomitable pioneering spirit, we are a desperate and insecure people. We may be the premier country in the world, but our position is tenuous—and beneath all our bravado, we know it. Our problems—personal, national and global—seem too close, too insoluble, and at times insurmountable for comfort. We are the living embodiment of W. H. Auden’s Age of Anxiety, casting about for something to believe in, something to help us through the long, dark night of the post-9/11 era. It is not the first time in our history that we’ve collectively turned to an animal to lift our sagging spirits. Sixty years before Barbaro, another racehorse became an inspiration to the American people. As the country struggled with the devastation of the Great Depression, Seabiscuit buoyed national morale, reminding a burdened and overwhelmed populace that underdogs can and do beat the odds and win. His popularity and appeal was so universal that he received the most newspaper coverage of any public figure in 1938, leaving President Franklin Roosevelt and a host of Hollywood big names in the dust to run a poor second. While our economy isn’t in the condition it was in the ‘30s, we are suffering from a different and even more serious kind of privation. We have a widespread poverty of hope, a deficit of inspiration. Our contemporary idols have such well-publicized and distasteful Achilles heels that we are more likely to pity or pillory them than lionize them. Do we really want to have more proof that Britney Spears needs parenting classes or watch the Knicks and the Nuggets slug it out on the court? Unless we’ve taken a big enough dose of Prozac or had several stiff drinks, our political leaders come off as uninspiring at best, indictable at worst. We drag ourselves to the polls to vote not for the best candidate but for the lesser of two evils, realizing that regardless of which party’s lever we pull, nothing will really change—except, maybe, for the worse. Barbaro was the perfect icon for us. He didn’t put his hoof in his mouth every time he opened it. Not only was he was good-looking and highly photogenic from start to finish, but he was well behaved: he didn’t make headlines for outrageous behavior or breaking the law. He wasn’t a public embarrassment or a laughingstock or the lurid subject of scandal sheets. He embodied the characteristics so often lacking in our human icons: nobility, courage, dignity, grace, good manners and greatness of spirit. Until the final moments of his life, when a series of setbacks made his pain level unmanageable, he was an outstandingly cooperative patient with a strong will to beat the medical odds. What more can we ask from our heroes? Let’s admit it, many of us in childhood, whether we grew up in a city high-rise or a suburban split-level or at the end of the rural postal-delivery route, secretly wished to own a horse. We longed to have the Lone Ranger’s Silver, our friend Flicka, National Velvet‘s The Pie, Misty of Chincoteague, the Black Stallion, Gandalf’s Shadowfax. Barbaro became America’s pony, and we mourn his loss as if he’d been our very own. Barbaro’s plight has provided the public some human heroes worthy of admiration, as well. Though touted as the sport of kings, racing is a rough and often callous business that views horses as a valuable but expendable commodity. Barbaro showed the world that racing has a heart, and a big one at that. No one will forget the much-publicized photo of Barbaro’s tiny jockey, Edgar Prado, supporting the weight a 1,200-pound horse to keep him from further injury until the track ambulance arrived. “If [my] tears could heal a wound,” Prado said during Barbaro’s long fight for life, “Barbaro would be healed by now.” Owners Roy and Gretchen Jackson’s deep commitment to their horse and courageous efforts to save him are nothing short of extraordinary. The intense personal involvement of Dr. Richardson and the New Bolton staff with their patient will long be remembered as one of equine medicine’s shining moments. Richardson’s aggressive and innovative techniques in tackling Barbaro’s case have broken new ground in equine care, which hopefully will benefit all horses in the near future. Gregory L. Ferraro, director of the Center for Equine Health at the University of California-Davis summed it up best: “I think the veterinary profession, from owners, to trainers, to doctors, should be proud of the way that horse was treated. The day of the injury, there wasn’t a vet out there who thought he had much more than a nil chance of surviving. The fact that they came very close to saving him is an example for other vets to follow.” That the patient died, in this case, is not an indication of failure. Barbaro is not unlike the early organ-transplant patients, who survived only a few days yet were the means for greater knowledge and advancements. Barbaro’s legacy to his sport may well be far-reaching. His ordeal has roused much-needed attention to issues of track safety and traditionally accepted racing practices. Statistically, for every 22 races run, one horse suffers a fatal injury—a shockingly high figure that begs the question, “What’s going on here?” Across America, race courses have started to switch from dirt to PolyTrack, a synthetic surface that is kinder to the delicate feet and fragile bones of thoroughbreds. Growing concern focuses on the racing of two-year-olds, whose physical immaturity could render them more vulnerable to stress-related injuries, both immediately and later on. Proponents also advocate shortening the length of races to save undue wear and tear on the animals. It’s even been suggested that racing cease to be a year-round sport and have a limited season like other sports in order to give its participants a necessary rest. Barbaro will not be forgotten. Odds are his story will become a book, perhaps a movie. We are a nation that loves our animals and believes—or wishes to believe—in miracles. We want to believe that “it’s not whether you win or lose, it’s how you play the game.” Barbaro certainly played the game as well as any athlete has. And like a good philosopher, he reminds us that we are all mortal creatures. We have a beginning and (although we don’t like to think about it) we have an end. And it’s okay. Rest well, Barbaro. You’ve earned it. Current Mood: melancholy (Comment on this)
Tuesday, June 20th, 2006
9:56 pm	Relativity Wow. 3 months since the last entry. Where did the time go? I went back to work, and it was as if I'd "never left." Never a dull moment at the mental health clinic. Never a lunch hour either. I was telling a client today that some people use their journals regularly; others, to sort out their thoughts and / or angst in time of need: PRN: "as needed," or more specifically, "Latin (doctor words) for "pre re na'ta," means literally, "according as circumstances ..." Anyway. Obviously, I am only here occasionally. It seems much of me is focused outward to others, and why not? it is my chosen vocation. I don't seem to have a great need to focus inward these days. I spent a lifetime figuring me out and got to where I needed to be, for now. Some things are starting up a cognitive itch, though. Maybe not to the extent it could have, as I have a recently developed tendency to start thinking of myself more in terms of self-preservation. I have begun the habit of taking time off here and there and not feeling too worried about it. Does it count that it's for pre-op and post-op necessities for my mother? Does it count that as soon as I know mother's health status post op, and son's status ***NEW JOB YES I SAID IT YEA!!!!!! that I hope to schedule a vacation out West? ***what's it matter. No state secrets. There's only maybe 2 or 3 people reading this, if that. Check my "friends" list :) Current Mood: buzzed, or something (Comment on this)
Tuesday, March 21st, 2006
11:06 am	okcupid.com politics test Amusing myself this morning, having come across this via other LJ postings. The results "appear" to be pretty close to whwre I'm at insofar as social consciousness. The outcome of this "test" could be construed as exemplifying my beliefs in personal freedom and initiative("socially permissive"), and my trust that most people will not only do better if given the chance to learn how to do for themselves, but also given that chance they will probably do "the right thing" - and that is never a one size fits all concept. The "economically liberal" (but not permissive) aspect is rather how I like to think I conduct therapy: provision of the room to think and grow (liberal), but I won't do your thinking and growing for you (permissive). Long after I have left this Earth, you're gonna have to be doing this thinking and growing stuff on your own. Let's see if this works: You are a Social Liberal (73% permissive) and an... Economic Liberal (36% permissive) You are best described as a: Democrat Link: The Politics Test on Ok Cupid Also: The OkCupid Dating Persona Test Current Mood: contemplative (Comment on this)
Saturday, March 11th, 2006
9:59 pm	Forgiveness On March 7, 2006, I was resting in the middle of the afternoon. It is something I’ve so very rarely done since the nonstop activity beginning early 1999 with 5 years of school including summers, driven to achieve a chosen midlife development that would ultimately lead to becoming a clinical social worker – driven to fulfill an emerging purpose to heal not only others but myself. So much of that journey involved what initially felt like losses: losses of social activities, losses, it seemed, of friends; losses endured watching my significant other react badly to what he perceived was a loss of me as I pursued a better existence, true purpose and identity. Countless times I had to set aside the pain of these losses and focus on the goal. My patience was tried many times to a breaking point that as time progressed moved (gratefully) further and further beyond my reach. I was growing stronger as I saw the beauty and fulfillment of purpose unfolding. I trusted that somehow if by no other means than setting an example and unwaveringly adhering to my integrity and principles that those who initially abandoned me or misunderstood me would see that I was not walking a divergent path from their own but rather a parallel path as for once I was taking care of myself as well as others. And to whatever extent was right, one by one most people in my life fell into a better place alongside me. There were countless individuals along the way without whose support and confidence I would not be where I am today. March 7, 2006 – resting alongside my dear friend Kermit, who just turned 7, and was in a few days facing his third orthopedic operation at Cornell University Veterinary Hospital. The phone rang. I’m never “that good” waking up and cognitively hitting the ground running (one reason I detest alarm clocks) and I was not prepared to hear my clinic director’s voice saying (in her customary straight-shooting get-to-the-point way, without more than a requisite "Hi, Kyle") “Can you come into work Monday?” Um. Pause. A dozen things juggling in my head all at once rather like racing a cold engine. Decisions that had been made based on “probably” not working around a working schedule. A hundred pound dog whose stability would be seriously compromised in a very short time. My mother who FINALLY made an appointment for surgical consult for a chronic and degenerating orthopedic problem. Could I be into work Monday? Not without abandoning or compromising the immediate needs of those who depend on me. I was not ready to do something like that again so soon after February 14, 2006, when I was suddenly thrust into a terrible position of “abandoning” a whole caseload of people who (to whatever extent) depended on me. I have been, for 3 weeks, using cognitive behavioral techniques on myself. “Limit the damage.” “Don’t let this hurt you beyond the initial blow.” “You will get through this.” All those things I said to save myself, after the insufficient (by virtue of its suddenness and powerlessness) response to a whole caseload of people who suffered at the hands of a what I will always believe was a poor administrative decision. And so I made a decision. I could not be back to work Monday the 13th. I was prepared to accept the consequences of maintaining my integrity and my principles. They did, however, accept my return date of March 27. It still won’t be fun scrambling to get things in place for Kermit and my mother, but I anticipate I will be able to do what I need to do for them without compromising their needs. Tonight, Kermit is resting at home, having made it with the help of compassionate professional healers who considered his unique needs (rather a story unto itself) and he will be able to get past this critical juncture because I was there for him. I think he will do well, once that is in place. How could I do any less for him? And my mother will be able to get her consult, and with the help of a retired significant other AFTER Kermit’s critical period, “probably” can she do the surgery and rehab even if I am at work. Not optimal, but doable. Again, these health decisions were put into motion before I had a clue I would be so suddenly called back. I decided that my clients who could be reinstated would better respect my actions coming to the understanding that I would not willingly compromise others’ interests, as opposed to dropping everything and coming back, as admin put it, “for the good of the clients, the sooner the better.” For the good of who, do you say? Admin making clinical decisions on my (professional) behalf? I have to think about that. So: the title of this entry: forgiveness: a term I have reframed many times for clients. “How can you forgive something so wrong?” How could I forgive what happened and go back? Well, for one thing, I may be paid by the county, but I am ultimately working for my clients. But I am set free by my reframing of the word “forgiveness” – Forgiveness: is not saying “what you did to me is okay,” it is more “I am letting this go so it doesn’t hurt me any longer.” Current Mood: tired (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Monday, March 6th, 2006
8:12 am	Delirium? Or Angst? de·lir·i·um (noun) 1. A temporary state of mental confusion and clouded consciousness resulting from high fever, intoxication, shock, or other causes. It is characterized by anxiety, disorientation, hallucinations, delusions, trembling, and incoherent speech. Okay, so I only have minor indications of 2 out of 6 signs / symptoms (maybe 3, if you've seen my IM typing :) ) - you pick. Or maybe it's just more of that existential angst again. The Logical Song - Supertramp, 1979 When I was young, it seemed that life was so wonderful, A miracle, oh it was beautiful, magical. And all the birds in the trees, well they’d be singing so happily, Joyfully, playfully watching me. But then they send me away to teach me how to be sensible, Logical, responsible, practical. And they showed me a world where I could be so dependable, Clinical, intellectual, cynical. There are times when all the world’s asleep, The questions run too deep For such a simple man. Won’t you please, please tell me what we’ve learned I know it sounds absurd But please tell me who I am. Now watch what you say or they’ll be calling you a radical, Liberal, fanatical, criminal. Won’t you sign up your name, we’d like to feel you’re Acceptable, respectable, presentable, a vegetable! At night, when all the world’s asleep, The questions run so deep For such a simple man. Won’t you please, please tell me what we’ve learned I know it sounds absurd But please tell me who I am. Current Mood: contemplative (Comment on this)
Sunday, March 5th, 2006
3:45 pm	Week Three: Intellectualizing in•tel•lec•tu•al•ize verb, transitive 1. To furnish a rational structure or meaning for. 2. To avoid psychological insight into (an emotional problem) by performing an intellectual analysis. Last few weeks have been professionally and emotionally difficult. The five stages of grief (aka. “The 5 Stages of Receiving Catastrophic News”) are real, as are the 4 stages of grief recognition and resolution: http://www.counselingforloss.com/article8.htm It wasn’t just a “job” I lost; it was rather like an unexpected earthquake that shook my foundations, with continuing aftershocks. Counseling is a unique profession – I have to think that for me and my now-former clients, it’s a bigger loss than if I was their usual grocery checkout person who was replaced by another similarly skilled worker. The emotional investment is significant on both sides. It is a loss of identity, after working towards this for many years to include school (nonstop) and internships. Lately I’ve been trying to sort out how much the “job” loss contributed to my current set of symptoms that suspiciously look like depression – the condition I am denying to some extent while I work my way out of this quandary. I used to tell clients that we are feeling to a large extent what we focus on. Denial is okay and works somewhat as long as I keep moving towards another reality set. The picture is complicated somewhat by my dog’s health issues and a few other unpleasant realities. Any of the factors “probably” wouldn’t be as unpleasant standing alone – depressive factors are not linear but multiplicative in groups. As I receive news from the “front” (former colleagues) I know it can only be the tip of the iceberg – I can’t quite wrap my mind around the probable trail of damage. Then again, maybe some of my former clients are relieved to see me go. It IS possible. :) However. If I were doing a mental health assessment on myself, I know that at the moment there’s no “clinical” diagnosis, because it’s only been about 3 weeks since I walked unsuspectingly into work Tuesday February 14, little knowing that I would be handed the news that Friday February 17 would be my last day at the clinic. I suppose what I would be diagnosed with at this time is “bereavement” – normal, expectable reactions to a (perceived) loss. I am reminded of the mind-body balance as I push the emotional damage to the side so I can go forward, only to have it surface as somatic complaints of fatigue, aches and pains, malaise, poor appetite, etc. And so I intellectualize here, because what I’m going through is oddly enough of scientific curiosity to me even if I am the subject. And now that I’ve talked about it (even to myself) I can put it down and quit focusing on it. Break’s over. One foot in front of the other. It works. Current Mood: discontent (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Saturday, February 25th, 2006
8:46 am	1984 Still thinking about that 4 days notice (see previous post) … Bearing in mind that I used to work for a government entity: Consider: 14 calendar days notice (the documented standard agreement between the county and the union for notice of layoff) minus the 4 calendar days notice I did get, minus the 2 weekends contained within that 14 days, equals a minimum of 6 working days unavailable to me and my clients for a face-to-face case termination. Multiply that by my (former) hourly rate – X – and divide that by number of clients I was unable to see face-to-face – Y. (6X) / Y = Z Z, as defined here, could be construed as the value the county placed on the mental health of each client (Y). Oddly enough, Z = 1984 ($19.84). Honest, I am not making this up just to suit false attributions purposes :) See http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/product-description/0679417397/ref=dp_proddesc_0/002-0129119-9813620?%5Fencoding=UTF8&n=283155 (Amazon.com review of George Orwell’s book, 1984) (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, February 17th, 2006
6:12 am	Journeys sen·ior·i·ty (noun) 1. The state of being older than another or others or higher in rank than another or others. 2. Precedence of position, especially precedence over others of the same rank by reason of a longer span of service. Without lingering on the reason for this posting, my account of this week is this: on Tuesday, February 14, 2006, as I walked into work, I was told Friday, February 17 would be my last day because someone who would be out on sick leave for (approximately) 364 days would be returning (right down to the wire). We are at full staff. I have known for some time that this could happen, so it was a partially processed shock for me. It's not like walking away from "just any job." I am counselor to (approximately) 70 people, some with significant mental health problems. The county did not see fit to allow time for proper client processing and termination / handover. In fact, had it been my decision to walk away I would have been required to give 2 weeks notice. I had often thought that should I have the opportunity to move on, I would give a months' notice to ease the change for clients who have reason to not endure sudden change. They say the worker coming back is bound to fail in her last-ditch attempt to put in enough time (one year) to secure her pension. She is profoundly ill. I understand her agenda. What I am not so understanding of -because of the field we embrace- is the inescapable fact that 70-plus people's lives and well-being are being compromised so that one may have a probable ill-fated chance to recoup. I don't fault the worker so much as the employer (the county). All my colleagues as well as myself are grieving for the poor cost-benefit playing out here. I wonder what it would cost the county to approve the pension "as is" without making her somehow get through this last year. Maybe I don't want to know, because then I'd know what value they place on the mental health of each displaced client. More than two-thirds of my clients will be notified by letter that "due to seniority hiring policies, effective February 17, 2006, I will no longer be employed as a clinical social worker at Broome County Mental Health." Many do not have phones. A precious few will have the opportunity to hear it in person, and even then, it is a blow with no warning. It must speak to my skills that I have been mostly able to close up the gaping wounds before they leave their last session. A few, I am not so sure about. Some have called back a day later, saying they will take my advice, and try to connect with another counselor even in the midst of their loss - perhaps a very important step in healing. How strange is it that they will be seeing the very person "responsible" for my departure. I don't want to think too much about the guy who left yesterday in tears, unable to be consoled. I share here my final words with my colleagues in my final staff meeting, delivered yesterday on the eve of my departure. These words brought forth a cascade of tears and grief. Somehow I managed to hold it together. The phrase "grace under fire" applies in both a metaphorical and literal sense. Without further adieu: Kyle Webb, LMSW, 2/16/06 I want to start out this soliloquy with 2 quotes: Experience is the worst teacher; it gives the test before presenting the lesson. -- Vernon Law To love someone deeply gives you strength. Being loved by someone deeply gives you courage. -- Lao Tzu No "dearly beloved, we are gathered here" stuff. I don't want to be too much of a drama queen about this. Figured I'd better write some things down that need to be said rather than entirely trust my memory, because when I face you all today, the chance of becoming emotionally and cognitively derailed is high. Probably some things will be left unsaid, too. In some ways I've been in a fog these last few days; in other ways I am as focused as I can ever be. It may look like I've been isolating in my office lately, but no doubt you know I am scrambling to tie up loose ends, in terms of paperwork, phone calls, what have you. One of the hardest things I had to do was make the best decisions I could make - under the circumstances - about who gets what clients, per (my clinical director's) list of available clinicians. I looked at the list again last night a second time, and knew that given the choices, I did right as I could by all my clients. So if you get one of mine, please know that I have entrusted you with each person for very specific, probably unspoken, reasons. I said to someone last night that I feel like I've been to 70 funerals - that number may not be entirely accurate, it may be an approximate metaphor for my caseload. It's not accurate because as you are probably aware, only a select number will be told face to face. Some, I can reach by phone. Others - well, I'll get to that shortly. My door has been the busiest it ever has been - and I can't pay proper homage to everyone who's stopped by not once but many times. The outpouring of support and heartfelt emotion has been staggering. There have been heroic efforts to make this nightmare a little easier to bear. That sounds a little over the top - a nightmare - and this isn't just a personal difficulty for me nor for my colleagues who've made it clear that they share in my grief. The majority of my clients will get the news through a letter. I don't have to tell any of you how phenomenally bad that is, mental-health wise. I will tell you what I managed to tell my clients in my letter. The best response I could hope for as you absorb this news is this: accept, process with someone close, stay the course. It's never been "all about me." And yet I am reminded of John Donne's words: John Donne Meditation XVII: No man is an island... "All mankind is of one author, and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated...As therefore the bell that rings to a sermon, calls not upon the preacher only, but upon the congregation to come: so this bell calls us all: but how much more me, who am brought so near the door by this sickness....No man is an island, entire of itself...any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee." Current Mood: numb (Comment on this)
Saturday, January 28th, 2006
4:57 pm	Existential angst 1972 - Jackson Browne - Doctor My Eyes Doctor, my eyes have seen the years And the slow parade of fears without crying Now I want to understand I have done all that I could To see the evil and the good without hiding You must help me if you can Doctor, my eyes Tell me what is wrong Was I unwise to leave them open for so long ’cause I have wandered through this world And as each moment has unfurled I’ve been waiting to awaken from these dreams People go just where there will I never noticed them until I got this feeling That it’s later than it seems Doctor, my eyes Tell me what you see I hear their cries Just say if it’s too late for me Doctor, my eyes Cannot see the sky Is this the prize for having learned how not to cry Sometimes this profession can be wearying. Or maybe I’m just coming down with something. After all, I work in a Petri dish. Going off to rally. To sleep, perchance to dream….. Current Mood: and numb (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Saturday, January 7th, 2006
11:04 am	New Year So the non-Orthodox Christmas holidays are over and most of us have landed into the New Year. Here in the northeast, it means enduring a longish bitter cold with gradually lengthening daylight inconducive to cheer and vitamin D-producing activity (except for the outdoors types who challenge the face of Old Man Winter and persevere in the outer world, armed with gear and tenacity appropriate to the occasion). Still, the promise of Spring and the headlong rush into rebirth and renewal holds a cyclical and special tradition that for the hardy Noreasters (not to ignore others on cold climes) anchors us to a perception of the passage of time that somehow means more than entropy and accumulation of years. And so it goes. Anxiety has driven me to the keyboard once again as major changes loom on the horizon. There are several storylines developing here: an aging mother with whom I am swept along the tide toward what surely must be the crescendo and final chapters of life – tempered by the absolute fact that no one can really know the future until it becomes today. A new page turns as my significant other has "come out" as a retiree – something we all knew was coming, something we all talked about in hushed tones in deference to his right and responsibility to speak it aloud himself when he finally realized he could no longer deny the truth and operate freely in society, tired as he was of the inconstancy of “maybes” and the paralysis of nondeclaration of identity. Well. In the meantime I face another 18 years of service to the county (Lord Willing and the Creeks Don’t Rise) before I can consider resting. Somehow we work it out. His new-found freedom actually comes at a good time for me as my external responsibilities increase exponentially, and "maybe" he can fill in the gaps in MomCare and continue being a more full time Dad/Mom himself to our shared furchild (Kermit the Wacky yellow Lab) while I slave away in my closet-like office. But the biggest change that occupies my thoughts is this one: And here is where I stop, because it is not a known quantity as yet. I have faith. (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, November 25th, 2005
11:45 pm	Freedoms America will never be destroyed from the outside. If we falter and lose our freedoms, it will be because we destroyed ourselves. -Abraham Lincoln Current Mood: contemplative (Comment on this)
Sunday, October 16th, 2005
10:57 am	Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening Robert Frost Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village, though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it's queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there's some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep. Woke up sick. Was sick yesterday. Don’t get sick often. Can’t. Kermit - my ever-faithful Labrador Retriever - has been anxiously following me around all morning and there's no storm brewing that I know of - he's just tuned in to my mood, and may be wondering why I seem to be engaged yet detached. Then again, he may just be hungry :) He depends on (S)He With Thumbs to open up the can. We bond over food :) So: keep going, one foot in front of the other. I do for others, then I do “for myself” by going to bed as often as possible, as early as I can. Maybe it’s an overdeveloped sense of responsibility. No man is an island. I have irreconcilable duty to many. But I have promises to keep. I work in a county clinic. There’s no way to avoid exposure to pathogens. That applies to me, and it also applies to my clients. Part of my duty is to show up, lend a ready ear, help people explore and / or make important connections for people on their life journeys. This week I must also find ways to limit dissemination of my particular batch of germs to them (I am not fond of OTC’s!). But with a waiting room full of Petri dishes, my efforts are mostly futile. What was it Robert Fulghum said? “First you have to live through it. Wisdom comes later. Just have to stand there like a jackass in a hailstorm and take it.” All health-related conclusions come down to this: balancing risk. Many of my clients live on the razor edge. You never know what missed connection will be a deciding factor. What is of great concern to me is the fact that with a full time staff, any of whom only rarely takes a day off, we are scheduling self-referred intakes as far away as TWO MONTHS from date of inquiry at the time of this writing. It is near-impossible to triage people presenting with mental health issues into groups off greatest to least risk, with the exception of those who are directly referred to us from hospitals and jails (they get scheduling priority). So, what’s the risk ratio of my cold germ to someone’s mental health decompensation risk, with a client base overload like that? I don’t delegate a lot of cognitive space towards sorting anxieties over who may or may not “go south” as a possible result of my interventions or lack thereof. There’s no way to know, when you give your best all the time anyway. But do not distress yourself with imaginings. Many fears are borne of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. It is said in this field that you do not call in sick; that you call in “dead.” There was a study to determine stress levels in a sampling of what is considered high-stress fields. Highest stress levels were correlated (for reasons not entirely understood by me) with sick days taken (i.e. not just sick, but “can’t face it today”). Clinical social workers were not determined to be a group enduring said disparity of stress levels because they didn’t call in sick. Hm. I’ve got news for the researchers. :) We are only human. Current Mood: fatigued (Comment on this)
Saturday, October 15th, 2005
5:44 pm	Desiderata Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible, without surrender be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly and listen to others, even the dull and ignorant; they too have their story. Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time. Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals; and everywhere life is full of heroism. Be yourself; especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, it is as perennial as the grass. Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore, be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace with your soul. With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy. Current Mood: contemplative (Comment on this)