March 6, 2015 § 1 Comment
You must forgive me. I’m writing this after one of the craziest and stressful periods of work I have had in a long time. For much of this evening, I thought to myself: I’m exhausted. The last thing I want to do is write about this stressful time. However, then I thought, but this might exactly be the time that I need to write about it.
So here I am. Barely awake. My feet and mind and heart aching.
What I really want to continue to say from my last post was that I had tried many things that I thought would make things better where I work. I had tried striking up a committee to look at increasing quality in workflow and care initiatives. I tried to drum up interest to have an ethics debrief session for staff to talk about traumatic incidents and compassion fatigue. I tried to be very respectful of people’s roles and attempted to cajole, kindly tease, and encourage, my colleagues into communicating with me about patients.
There were a handful of people who wanted things to change. (They had told me so – in confidence, of course.) And they showed up for the committee meetings when they could. But it all just fizzled. Despite my efforts at niceness, at respect, at encouragement – it all fell apart.
It is very frustrating to feel like the only one who is trying to drive change. It is very difficult to maintain an optimistic perspective when everyone is just waiting you out. I felt at times that they were watching me, waiting to see how long it would take me to just give up. And then they could feel free to go back to their regularly scheduled, apathetic activities.
Unfortunately for them, I took longer than usual. Almost a year. Looking back, I’m surprised that I was able to keep up the blind ridiculousness for that long.
And that was when I found myself at that window. Staring at the tiles on the floor, seeing nothing.
Defeat does not come easy to me. I imagine, it doesn’t come easy to anyone. But I was surrounded by colleagues who had been beaten down by defeat and bullying over years and years and years. And finally, I was one of them.
It still is hard for me to even look at that last sentence.
My struggle with defeat is personal. And it resides completely around the concept of acceptance. It took me a very long time to accept that the things I wanted to change are so much bigger than and so very beyond just me. That looking back now, I realize that my efforts were doomed to fail because I was fighting an “enemy” whose sickness permeated all the veins in its very being. To extract the sickness needed more than just my little committees and small kindnesses. I realized that the place where I work needs an overhaul, a complete body and organ transplant – beginning with its rusted-out heart.
My therapist told me that at times like these, there are only two choices: accept that things will not change and choose to work within that environment or make a plan to leave.
This sounds harsh, but I realize now that it is absolutely right.
Respect is something that I’ve learned I cannot work without. It permeates and informs my social work practice every single moment of the day. Slowly and painfully, I’ve realized that to continually feed a machine that takes my respect and spits it out on a daily basis is untenable and damaging to me.
So I’ve decided to make a plan. This has not been an easy decision. But a necessary one for my own emotional safety and wellbeing.
But until then, the struggle continues.
February 12, 2015 § 2 Comments
The struggle has been long and it has been tiring.
I remember the exact moment when I realized that I had finally reached the edge of it all. I had taken the elevator to almost the top of the tallest tower in the hospital. As I exited the elevator bay, there was a huge window, which allowed for a wide view of the city. On a clear day, you can see all the way down to the lake – even sometimes see the white crests of the waves as they rush into the city shore. This window was often where I would come when I was having a particularly hectic and myopic day. A glimpse of the outside world was what I needed to feel calm – to return a sense of perspective to me and my work.
But that day, I wasn’t there to look out the window. Instead, I slumped onto the wooden bench, hunched over with my head practically between my knees. My shoulders were rounded over and if you were a person coming upon me from the hallway, you would’ve thought that I was inspecting the tiny flecks of colour embedded in the tiles on the floor, very, very intensely. But to be honest, I wasn’t seeing anything at all.
You see, that was the day I realized that I had lost. That I was done.
Many months before, a new job had landed me in a new program and with a new team. I was both excited and trepidatious when I started. After being in precarious employment positions for a number of years, the prospect of having a stable and secure job was a relief. Social work positions in hospital settings are difficult to come by and this was one where I had just hung on and hung on and finally had won the waiting game. So I was very grateful.
Starting a new job is already a difficult thing to do – getting used to new procedures, a brand new environment, a different patient population, and not to mention, trying to remember everyone’s names. And in the past, I had been pretty fortunate to have worked on units and teams who welcomed me with open arms and did what they could to orient and support me through the transition.
But this was not the case with this unit.
When I arrived, I was almost completely and utterly ignored my first day. And in the weeks that followed, things only got worse.
Staff thought my questions about patients were intrusive. They didn’t know why I wanted or needed to know or worse, some nurses thought that I was checking up on them or into their nursing practice. One of the staff physicians thought I was accusing him and his group of residents when I was trying to locate a wayward patient chart. The desk clerk mistakenly thought I had gone over her head to the manager about an incident with a patient and definitely let me know her displeasure about it and threw personal insults at me. And the worst moment? When my manager thought he was doing me a favour by pulling me aside and telling me – almost conspiratorially and in the guise of “protecting” me – that he had received comments from staff saying that they thought I was a bully.
I was flabbergasted. Completely without words.
For a while after, I have to admit they almost had me. After going through that rough start, I had retreated into myself a little bit to regroup. They had almost succeeded in indoctrinating me into their fear-based culture. And they were so good at it that it took me a long while to figure out what was going on.
But when I did finally figure it out, I – being the kind of person glutton for punishment – was hopeful for change. I guess this is what makes me the social worker that I am. I still possess a tiny spark of naivete that can get me into trouble.
So, I embarked on a mission. A mission to change the culture, to cultivate trust and empathy, to change how staff viewed social work, to open up communication and foster team work, and make staff practices and processes transparent. And this was all going to be for the benefit for the most important people of all – our patients!
*Sigh* Such optimism. Such hope. Such blind faith. And needless to say, things didn’t exactly go as I had planned….
January 13, 2015 § Leave a comment
Maybe I’ve been doing this too long, and perhaps I haven’t yet tired of hearing my own voice, but being a strong and vocal advocate comes naturally to me. I’m shocked when I get reminded that being an advocate is a skill, not something that most individuals (and even some social workers) are innately able to do.
I guess I’ve always been a bit of a scrapper since I was a kid. I wasn’t ever afraid to go my own way or to do something that went against the grain. I was the outsider – the nerdy kid who always did well in school but didn’t have the right trendy clothes and brought weird lunches to school. I never got asked to the “cool kid” parties. It would be accurate to say that I was in elementary school “purgatory” but I certainly wasn’t the lowest on the totem pole.
But even at that young age, I had a healthy sense of justice. I always defended the kids that were picked on; the ones who fell even further down the elementary school pecking line. I think I also remember one year when I imposed a one-person protest and campaign against the whole damn elementary school social order – I just chose not to be around the cool kids and hung out mostly with the misfits, the ones who just didn’t “fit in”. That caused such a ruckus. The cool kids were so mad at me. (I had no idea why at the time.)
So when a new colleague of mine said to me the other day: “I didn’t know that I was allowed to fight.” I was floored. I didn’t understand. I stood there dumbfounded, unable to speak.
What he meant was, that he didn’t know that he could speak up for himself. Or that he could use his knowledge and skills to help patients get what they needed. He didn’t know that he could advocate – fight for something better.
It is in our very nature as social workers to advocate and fight for something better. Whether it is for our patients or for the betterment of society in general. Wherever we are, we are the ones who have the skills and capacity to facilitate change. However small or large, we can make a difference at all levels.
The sad thing is that we often forget this. The pressures and expectations of bringing about almost impossible outcomes (the so-called “magic” of our profession) for patients – amidst an environment of almost zero resource and usually entirely on our own – can grind you down to a place where you can’t even remember why you even started this journey.
Sometimes, I find that in advocating so hard for our patients, we are often in danger of fighting the humanity of ourselves. In that, we are always at risk of disappearing into our role and not paying attention to our needs as human beings. We forget that, as social workers in the face of such enormous responsibility, we are like patients too. That sometimes we need help, support, and someone to fight for us.
Perhaps this was where my colleague was at. Perhaps he had forgotten. And needed to be taken by the hand and reminded again.
January 5, 2015 § 2 Comments
It’s been a long while since I’ve written here. Years really.
The decision to begin again has not been an easy one. The long-ago event that precipitated and ceased my blog posts was painful and scary and devastating. It has taken me a long time to come to terms with it and to decide what to do – if anything at all.
When I said social work can be scary – I wasn’t kidding. You need to be a special kind of person to be one. A tough and courageous person. It is not for the feint of heart.
The responsibility can be awesome but it also can be cruel. I’ve learned hard lessons in the last couple of years and I’ve needed the time to recover.
But one of the main reasons I decided to resurrect this blog was because despite its dormancy, this blog was getting read. Even though I hadn’t posted in over two years. Not a ton of people were dropping by but enough. And the kind comments that were left for me were wonderful and inspiring.
These individuals reminded me that I still had something to contribute, something to say.
Something worth writing and reading about.
So thank you to those who gave me the courage to begin writing here again. You have given me back more than you know.
And now, here’s to new and inspired beginnings…..
January 17, 2012 § 2 Comments
It would seem that, more and more, I’m encountering people, friends, and patients who are having trouble dealing with feelings of anxiety and extreme worry. Often people will describe these feelings as overwhelming and paralyzing, cutting into their routines and often putting severe roadblocks in their day-to-day lives, careers and relationships.
And it would also seem that diagnoses of generalized anxiety disorder are on the rise. According to the National Institutes of Mental Health in the US, anxiety disorders now affect 18 percent of the adult population in the United States, or approximately 40 million people. This is a huge number, when you compare it to the percentage of those suffering from mood disorders (ie. depression, bipolar illness, etc.) which is only at 9.5 percent of the US population.
Canada is also not immune. According to the Anxiety Disorders Association of Ontario, over 12% of Canadians will be affected to varying degrees by anxiety disorders.
I’m no expert on anxiety, but thankfully there are people out there who are and are willing to write about it. In fact, The New York Times has just started a series of articles and essays on the topic of anxiety.
And Daniel Smith, a journalist, author, editor and generalized anxiety disorder sufferer writes a candid and amusing blog about his life and experiences: http://monkeymindchronicles.com/
Feelings of anxiety are sometimes very much a part of normal and daily coping and functioning. However, if these feelings become more and more frequent, or begin to impede on your ability to function in the various realms of your life, perhaps it might be worthwhile to discuss this with your family physician or with a counselor.
In the meantime, it never hurts to slow down and take a deep breath. Often this simple step can do wonders for easing feelings of worry, stress and yes, anxiety.
January 10, 2012 § 2 Comments
I drove and drove and drove, it seems. My little car wove in and out, between the rockface of the Canadian Shield. Huge juts of limestone, dotted with tiny and almost ramshackle Inukshuks – signifying that someone had once scrabbled across the top of those immense sheets of rock. I passed by sconces of frozen waterfall cascades – the result of a recent thaw that illuminated those ancient waterways, snaking though the granite.
For stretches at a time, I was the only car on the road, despite the brand new four lane highway. And it seemed that I had traveled so far north that there were no more familiar stations on the radio. The soundwaves of the city were long gone.
So in silence, I kept driving.
After a brief detour into a very isolated but quaint general store – whose decor and interior atmosphere (and even the white-bearded proprietor himself!) made me feel like I had stepped back in time to the days of the early lumberjack pioneers – I arrived at my destination. The childhood home of a very good friend I wanted to visit and to whom I was going to provide a ride back into the city.
Almost immediately, I felt a balm of quietness come over me. I was surrounded by trees, snow and vast, vast space. I could hear the crunch of the ice under my feet, I heard the dryness of the branches – their creaks and moans. And I breathed in the crisp air; so cold that it almost hurt the insides of my nostrils and brought an instant chill to the top of my lungs.
But warmth was immediately felt from my friend’s family and the coziness of the house. A welcoming hug, while the wood stove burned bright in the corner and an elderly golden retriever dozed nearby. A wonderful lethargy fell upon me. The day ahead fell away in a sort of timelessness. So different than in the city – where we are all ruled by seconds, minutes and hours. The currency that we scrabble to elongate or cheat. But up in this small town, and on this day, it only mattered when the sun would go down and it would become dark.
It is often said that life in a small town is such a very different thing. And even more so, the further north or more isolated it gets. But as I gazed over the stillness of a cove in the bay – laughing with my friend over a joke as we stood on the shore, and watching as my friend’s brother skip a stone across the thick slick of ice that had frozen over the water – I understood what Thoreau had written about. That this was indeed a sort of paradise. A paradise of solitude and stillness. A place where it is the easiest thing in the world to completely accept oneself.
Not once did I feel rushed. Not once did I glance at the clock. Things seemed to fall into place. Each meal was leisurely, the timing dictated only by the grumblings of our stomachs. Even the session of outdoor skating we decided to embark on had a feeling of looseness, despite being warned by a fellow patron to be sensitive to the time. We ambled around the shoreline, we trunched through the snow, and we made way for more ambitious snowmobilers.
And when the sun did go down and the sky went dark, we all gathered around the table to share a simple meal and talked, joked, teased each other, like we had done this for years. A sense of warm familiarity and gratitude washed over me. A feeling that I hope to carry with me for some time to come.