My Mother, the Medical Records & Me

They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree; but when it comes to me and my mother, nothing could be farther from the truth.

I’ll be honest and say that I have never had a job that I truly liked. I don’t like getting up early. I don’t like working 5 days a week. I don’t like people telling what to do and when to do it. When I get home at the end of the workday, I like to pretend that my place of employment doesn’t exist.

On the opposite end of the spectrum is my mother. Now here is a woman who thrives on authority. At home, she defers to my father; at work, she treated management with a deference reserved for minor deities. In all her working years, my mother was never sidelined by illness, weather or family obligations. When she couldn’t find a baby sitter, she preferred to leave the four of us alone with a full refrigerator and admonitions not to open the door to strangers, than to miss a day of work. Rain or shine, snow or sleet, my mother was up at 6 a.m. and out of the door by 7:30.

My mother held several jobs during my childhood – sometimes, simultaneously. When I was about 7, she was the cleaning lady/bathroom attendant at a posh movie theatre in Manhattan. I have never seen anyone take so much pride in scrubbing human excrement off toilets. My mother’s bathrooms were spotless. The regulars came to know which days my mother worked and would only go to the movies on those days. My mother often received $50 bills in her tip jar. She was the best paid bathroom attendant on the East side.

As we were growing older, my mom decided that she wanted a more “respectable” job and went back to school. She obtained a certificate and became a nurse’s aide.

Although my mother liked the patients, for once, she clashed with her supervisors. They wanted her to spend 10 minutes or less getting the patients cleaned and dressed in the mornings. My mother dawdled – cleaning that last bit of crust from Mr. Smith’s eye or putting lotion on Ms. Jones’ ashy arms. Ultimately, she decided (with a heavy heart) to leave nursing behind and go back to school.

When my mother finished secretarial college almost 20 years ago, she was hired at a local hospital in the Medical Records department. She regaled us (fine, she bored us) with the details of endless days spent creating, sorting, filing and storing medical records. She dazzled her superiors with her knack for organization. She found records that had been declared missing years before. Soon, she had a line of doctors asking for her by name. She was the go-to person when representatives from the Health and Hospital Corporation showed up to audit files. My sisters and I discreetly rolled our eyes as the stories went on and on. She received a plaque for being employee of the year – we stifled yawns.

We were baffled that with 4 biological children, 1 adopted child and 7 grandchildren, my mother could lay so much stock in medical records. For crying out loud, how much difference could a person make locating and filing medical records?

In 2005, my mother retired from her beloved job at the hospital. She was so depressed, she took to her bed for months. She couldn’t mention medical records without getting teary-eyed. We continued to roll our eyes while we made her bowl after bowl of chicken soup.

About a year ago, I got into a fender bender and took my car to a shop in the neighborhood where my mother used to work. When I was in the waiting room, I met a lady who worked at the Department of Health and we got to talking. I soon found out that her job was to audit medical records.

As I was leaving, she told me that I reminded her of a wonderful woman she used to work with at a local hospital. She said that this woman was the best clerk she had ever had the good fortune to meet during her audits. This woman located records that no one else could; she responded to requests promptly and courteously; and the medical records she created were so well organized, that the information practically leapt out at you. But, alas, she had gone to the hospital a few months ago and was told that her friend had retired. Her presence was sorely missed, she said.

As she spoke, my jaw dropped.

“By any chance,” I asked when I could speak again, “did this woman work at the hospital down the street?”

“Why, yes!” She exclaimed, “however did you know?”

“And was her name Balby?” I asked and held my breath.

“Yes! Yes! Do you know her?” She asked.

“Yes, I do.” I said, smiling proudly. “The woman of whom you speak is my mother.”

Breakfast at McDonald's

This is supposedly a true story; even if it’s not, it has a wonderful lesson in it, so I pass it on:

I am a mother of three (ages 14, 12, 3) and have recently completed my college degree. The last class I had to take was Sociology. The teacher was absolutely inspiring, with the qualities that I wish every human being had been graced with. Her last project of the term was called, “Smile.”

The class was asked to go out and smile at three people and document their reactions. I am a very friendly person and always smile at everyone and say hello anyway. So, I thought this would be a piece of cake.

Soon after we were assigned the project, my husband, youngest son, and I went out to McDonald's one crisp March morning. It was our way of sharing special playtime with our son. We were standing in line, waiting to be served, when all of a sudden everyone around us began to back away, and then even my husband did. I did not move an inch, as an overwhelming feeling of panic had welled up inside of me as I turned to see why they had moved.

As I turned around I smelled a horrible “dirty body” smell, and there standing behind me were two poor homeless men.

As I looked down at the shorter gentleman, closest to me, he was “smiling.” His beautiful sky blue eyes were full of God's Light as he searched for acceptance. He said, “Good day” as he counted the few coins he had been clutching. The second man fumbled with his hands as he stood behind his friend. I realized the second man was mentally challenged and the blue-eyed gentleman was his salvation.

I held my tears as I stood there with them. The young lady at the counter asked him what they wanted. He said, “Coffee is all Miss” because that was all they could afford. (If they wanted to sit in the restaurant and warm up, they had to buy something. He just wanted to be warm).

Then I really felt it - the compulsion was so great I almost reached out and embraced the little man with the blue eyes. That is when I noticed all eyes in the restaurant were set on me, judging my every action.

I smiled and asked the young lady behind the counter to give me two more breakfast meals on a separate tray. I then walked around the corner to the table that the men had chosen as a resting spot. I put the tray on the table and laid my hand on the blue-eyed gentleman's cold hand. He looked up at me, with tears in his eyes, and said, “Thank you.” I leaned over, began to pat his hand and said, “I did not do this for you. God is here working through me to give you hope.”

I started to cry as I walked away to join my husband and son. When I sat down my husband smiled at me and said, “That is why God gave you to me, Honey, to give me hope.” We held hands for a moment and at that time, we knew that only because of the Grace that we had been given were we able to give.

We are not church goers, but we are believers. And that day showed me the pure Light of God's sweet love.

I returned to college, on the last evening of class, with this story in hand. I turned in “my project” and the instructor read it. Then she looked up at me and said, “Can I share this?” I slowly nodded as she got the attention of the class. She began to read and that is when I knew that we, as human beings and being part of God, share this need to heal people and to be healed.

In my own way I had touched the people at McDonald's, my son, the instructor, and every soul that shared the classroom on the last night I spent as a college student.

I graduated wit h one of the biggest lessons I would ever learn: UNCONDITIONAL ACCEPTANCE.

Much love and compassion is sent to each and every person who may read this and learn how to LOVE PEOPLE AND USE THINGS – NOT LOVE THINGS AND USE PEOPLE.

Rear View Mirror

Looking in the rearview,

Everything is distorted,
What is close? What is far?
What is real? What is not?

Reflecting on my hubris
Thinking it all came from me
Yet knowing there was so much more
Than what my puny eyes could see

On my knees now, no regret
Praying for wisdom on this path
Asking for guidance and a light
To navigate this aftermath

Of my pride and arrogance
Oh, that narcissistic me
Who thought the world was nothing more
Than something to kowtow to me

Not looking in the rearview now
Focused on the views ahead
Trying hard to do things right
And to live with no regret

-- Mirna M. Santiago

The Weight of the World

My middle sister has been in Honduras visiting our parents for the past 10 days. And every day, she has sent me a text complaining about: the weather ("it's miserably hot!); the people ("no one has any sense of personal space, and can we talk about the BO?"); the people again ("please send down a bus-load of deodorant; the body odor of these people is killing me!); the amenities ("they shut off the running water every morning for several hours down here. If you don't get up at dawn to take a shower, you're SOL. Come to think of it, that may explain the body odor issue"); and the critters ("can they have any more friggin' bugs?? I'm probably gonna catch Malaria or Denge fever on this alleged vacation").

Finally, I had to text back: "Why do you keep going there? Every year you spend all of your vacation time there and every year, I keep hearing these exact same complaints."

Her response: "Someone has to look after our parents."

Our parents are older, yes, but extremely healthy. They can fend for themselves and, unlike my sister, they enjoy being in their country. My poor sis has taken on the weight of the world (not to mention body odor, stifling heat and bugs) "looking after" people who don't want to be looked after. Go figure.

Intangibles

After posting yesterday, I went to bed with the feeling of "not enough." I was a big ball of "I want ..." I questioned whether God listened to, let alone answered, prayers. God responded.

I fell into a dream where I was standing on a bridge. On one end of the bridge was Life; on the other end was Death. I could choose to go in either direction; the only caveat being that my loved ones had to go the opposite way. To help me cope with their absence, God allowed me to take a few things from each one. Oddly, I was not distraught by this turn of events; instead I was focused. I was determined to get the best things from each person, so that I would almost feel like that person was there with me while I waited to see them again. When one of my sisters passed by, I grabbed her walk. From my brother, I held on to his amazing smell. And so it went; each person went by and I took from them something unique to them.

At the end of the line was Brendan. In his little arms was a big, heavy bag bursting with goodies. I looked at him with some sadness. "I can't take any of that stuff with me, Bren." "But, Mommy," he said, pulling the bag closer to me. "Look inside. Here is the smell of the pancakes we get at the diner when we have Brendan and Mommy time. Here is the sunset over the mountains behind our house when we sit together on the deck. Here is the feel of my hand in yours when we are walking down the street. Here we are picking string beans from our garden. In this one, we are making pizza. There are so many great things in here. Are you sure you can't take them?"

I awoke with the heavy sensation of sadness in my heart. Here I was, obsessing about relatively stupid things, when, in fact, if I were to die tomorrow, none of it would matter. Brendan wouldn't care that I bought him the most expensive uniform shirts; he would remember my laugh, my hugs, our bedtime stories or cuddling in the morning. He would think of me when he went to the park and even when he cleaned his room. Not to say that money isn't important, it obviously is, but it's the intangibles that make for true happiness.

Where My Burger At?

The past year has been one of financial hardship for me. Even to most people who know me well, this revelation will come as a surprise. I am not much of a talker; especially when it pertains to those parts of my life with which I am not thrilled.

At times, I wonder what has become of my life. I invested 7 years and $70,000 into my schooling, only to find myself – 15 years into the legal game – suffering money woes. I have always had champagne taste. For much of my working life, though, I have managed to have – at least – top shelf liquor wallet. This past year, however, my wallet has been decidedly beer, maybe even soda.

It started with the discrimination lawsuit against Zurich Insurance Company. The EEOC issued their finding that Zurich had discriminated against me; instead of offering at least an apology and the back pay to which the EEOC held I was entitled, Zurich offered a portion of the back-pay and a heaping serving of “eff you.” I could have walked away from the situation with my head held high; after all, I had already been vindicated by the EEOC’s determination. Instead, I allowed my injured pride and anger at the company and the situation to get the better of me and I proceeded to file a lawsuit against them. The situation has been dragging on for the better part of 5 years, but the litigation really heated up last year. In addition to paying my attorney out-of-pocket, I’ve had to shoulder the burden of countless depositions and their associated costs. Zurich has now filed a motion for summary judgment, to which we have had to respond and pay fees for. Turns out my pride and anger came at a very steep price.

Then, Brendan was at the age to start pre-school. And it so happens that our school district did not offer a free pre-school program. So, into private school he went – at $13,000 a year (which was one of the cheapest private schools I could find). This year, he’s ready for kindergarten, but the county doesn’t offer full-day kindergarten. So, that’s another $13,000.

Coming from the family I come from, this past year has been horrific for me. It was the first time in my adult life where the ends were not meeting. Heck, they weren’t even close enough to wave to each other. Each month found me liquidating assets to try to bridge the gap. And the financial bloodbath shows no signs of letting up: as I have written before, my company did not issue bonuses this year and has no plans of issuing any the coming year. Now, there is talk of a salary freeze. I am afraid. Very afraid. I don’t want to use up what I’ve worked so hard to save.

As always, in times of fear, I – like most folks – look for someone to blame. I was at a Bar Association event this past week where I met up with one of my good friends from law school. She confessed that she, too, was struggling. She married into an identical situation as mine; her husband has the same job as Big Bren and also has two children from a prior marriage. There were attorneys we knew there who married other attorneys. They seemed to be doing well, so invariably, the conversation turned to whether we had settled for “hamburger,” instead of waiting a little longer for filet mignon. We reasoned that, without the money flowing out to support other children, we’d have more to work with at home. And with the higher earning potential of our ideal partners, money wouldn’t be an issue.

I can tell you from personal experience that regret and resentment are horrible things; they will practically eat you alive. In just the past week after my friend and I had that conversation, I have been looking at everything through poop-colored glasses. School is starting in a few weeks, so I have had to shell out big bucks for Brendan’s uniforms, supplies, etc. And I have done so with such resentment that I cannot even describe it in words. I don’t resent Brendan; despite my financial shortcomings, I still want him to have the best I can possibly provide. I resent his father. Suddenly, the poor man is not “enough”; he doesn’t do enough; he doesn’t provide enough.

Today, he went to buy back-to-school clothes for the two other kids and I could barely swallow the bile that rose in my throat and threatened to choke me. “That’s money that should go towards Brendan’s uniforms!” my brain screamed. He wrote a check to the Psycho for child support and my mind went, “That should go towards tuition!” Then I stop to think about the wonderful things about him: how every day, at least once a day, he makes me laugh so hard, my sides hurt; how when he's holding my son, I feel like I'm seeing double; the time that I complained about one of the bathrooms and came back from work to find it completely gutted and him already working on the renovations; how he can fix anything -- yes, anything -- in the house and has saved us tons of money because of his handiness; how he makes my toes curl in the bedroom; how he sends me flowers at work "just because"; and how he goes with me to all of my Bar Association events because I just don't like people all that much.

At the end of the day, this is the life that I chose. For better or worse; for richer or poorer. It goes in cycles. And maybe people aren't just hamburger OR filet mignon; maybe they can be different things in different areas of their lives. In any event, having a good hamburger can sometimes be more satisfying than an ill-prepared filet mignon.

Fire, Meet Butt

When I accepted my position with the company I work for almost three years ago, I said that it would be a temporary thing. You know, until Brendan got older. Until we got our bearings in Putnam County. Until, until, until …

It’s not a bad job. My boss is based in Pennsylvania and pops up maybe once every other month. I set my own schedule and, as long as my work gets done, he leaves me alone. The people I work with are amazing; genuinely nice people. But – and there’s always a but – I took a $40,000 pay cut in order to accept the job. And, the work has never been challenging to me. At the time, I figured it was worth it to cut 2.5 hours out of my daily commute (which translates directly to spending more time with my family and less wear and tear on me).

Then, last year, the insurance market softened and my company began cutting its losses. It cut out almost every perk it had ever given. Cars and Blackberries were taken back. Administrative assistants were laid off. At the time, I remember vaguely thinking, “this might be a good time to look for another job.” Frankly, though, I was too comfortable to do so.

The next quarter it was announced that, while the company had made a profit, it would no longer be sharing them with the workforce in the form of bonuses. I groused about this to my boss, who had promised me that I would make back most of my pay cut in the generous bonuses the company always paid out. He said that this was a “temporary setback” and we’d be back to getting our liberal bonuses next year.

Then a few months ago, an e-mail came out that they would no longer be providing coffee in the break room. Alrighty then. My father (otherwise known as “El Cheapo”) provided coffee in the break room of his auto repair shop, but this Fortune 500 company can’t provide coffee?? Then another e-mail: no more paper products, either (i.e. paper towels, plates, etc.). The people at my office continued to smile and brought in their own coffee, plates, utensils and napkins.

Last week, it was announced that we’d be getting no bonuses in 2010 due to the company’s failure to meet its financial goals (although it still made enough of a profit to pay the outgoing CEO over $20 million for stock options).

Then, as of today, everyone has to keep a timesheet. I haven’t kept a timesheet in over 10 years. And I have never heard of so-called “executives” of companies keeping timesheets.

In “One Day My Soul Just Opened Up,” Iyanla Vanzant said that one needs to listen when Life gives you subtle hints. If Life is knocking gently at your door and you’re ignoring it, it will knock harder and harder. One day, it may even knock your door off its hinges; one way or the other, you need to respond. Preferably before things escalate.

Granted, these “changes” are, in the bigger scheme of things, relatively minor. I have a job; there are so many out there that do not. But the truth is that there are so many things I want to do; none of which involve insurance. Yet, for the past 7 years, I have kept myself mired in the insurance world, because it was the easiest, safest, thing for me to do. Perhaps Life’s insistent knocking is telling me that it is time to move on to bigger and better things. Perhaps the annoyance of time sheets and having no napkins to wipe your hands after lunch is simply the fire that I needed under my butt to get me moving.