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LJ Idol Week 9
Jun. 3rd, 2022 05:54 pmPrompt: All hat, no cattle
After I saw the prompt and looked up what it meant (I am learning all sorts of things from LJ Idol!) I thought it didn’t apply to me, because I am a straightforward, well, blunt person who is always honest. After further consideration, I considered writing a humorous piece about how the world has always viewed my dad and me as organized versus the reality that my dad once went on vacation and had forgotten ALL of his clothes, or that I once led a board of directors meeting wearing my house slippers, which thankfully nobody noticed. (They were at least plain black house slippers, and not my Ewoks or Tribbles.) Then I realized that I truly am all hat, no cattle.
I have a confession to make: I am a very good actress. Not in the sense that I perform on stage. I actually have only been accepted for ten percent of the plays for which I have auditioned in my life, and even then had parts such as “Third Woman” or “Servant” and said six words. I am a very good actress in the sense that if I don’t want someone to know what I am actually feeling, they won’t. This is not necessarily a bad thing, especially when I was working as a hospital chaplain. I was told I have a calming presence, which is a job skill when dealing with patients and families in crisis. I witnessed some horrifying things in the hospital and was able to keep myself together, be as helpful as possible, only falling apart when I went home much later.
I am capable of acting okay and seeming okay, even when I am not okay. I had never heard the expression “all hat, no cattle” until this week’s prompt, but it fits me. Others only know my reality if I choose to let them in.
On August 12, 2021, my mom called me right as my stand up call for work was ending. She was in tears, saying “she just couldn’t do a thing with my dad.” I rolled my eyes, and said I’d come over, figuring my dad was having A Fit of The Stubborns. It had happened before. He’d get in a mood, not letting my mom change him or do his tube feeding, which would make her angry, and she would yell and nag and fuss, which would make him more stubborn–a vicious cycle. I was generally able to break the cycle by making my dad laugh and giving my mom a break. I expected the same again.
When I arrived at my parents’ apartment building, I saw my mom standing outside, meaning she had left my dad alone. That wasn’t a problem since he couldn’t get out of his recliner without two people and a Hoyer lift, but it had not happened before. My mom was also crying, and I had never seen her cry in public. I knew something was really wrong. I asked, and she at first didn’t speak and then said, “Your father hit me.” She showed me bruises. I said, “Mom, these bruises aren’t from this morning.”
She responded, “It’s not the first time.”
I didn’t ask why she didn’t tell me. We have rarely talked openly enough to share important things. I said, “That isn’t like Dad at all. Why don’t we go upstairs? I’ll call our CNA and pay her to come an extra time today at lunch, and I’ll call the doctor to see if we can get anti-depressants for Dad.” Mom nodded and we went upstairs.
My dad was fine with me there. I asked if he wanted anti-depressants and he said yes. I said I would take care of that. I spent the next four hours taking care of that, and managed it, with multiple phone calls to several doctors and the pharmacy, and a trip to the pharmacy to pick them up, and crushing the meds to give them through my dad’s PEG tube. When everything was as sorted as it was going to get, I made myself a sandwich to eat in my car and left.
When I got to my car, I started sobbing. I knew I could not go on like this. It was 12:30 PM and I still needed to work an eight hour day. I composed myself, ate my sandwich while sitting in the parking lot, and glanced at my work schedule. My farthest away patient was on it. As I picked up my phone to call her, hoping she would refuse the visit, my phone rang. It was the interim director of my office, asking me to come in because corporate wanted to interview me again. She said, “Just another follow-up. Nothing to worry about.”
Various people from corporate had been hanging around the office talking to everyone to “fix the problems in our office.” If anyone had ever asked me what the problem was, it was corporate’s inability to hire decent directors. My office had seven in eight years, three of them in 2021. But nobody ever asked me that question. Since the interim director said it was nothing to worry about, I decided I would talk to our Business Office Manager and get paperwork to file for FMLA while I was there.
I walked into the conference room where the four corporate Suits were waiting, only one of whom I didn’t dislike, and the Suit I disliked the most said, “We won’t keep you long. Due to A, B, and C, we are separating you from your employment.” A and C were completely false statements. Only B was true, and was exactly what I was told to do by every director we had had, except the last one. I didn’t know what “separating you from your employment” meant as I had never heard that phrase before, and I felt stupid not knowing what something meant. I stared at Suit for a moment and then said, “Do you mean I’m fired?”
He never actually answered the question and refused to use the word “fired” which made me angry. He repeated what he had just said and handed me two sheets of paper one listing the reasons ABC, and one for information on Cobra, which thankfully I didn’t need since I was on my husband Arthur’s insurance which was far better than what they had offered.
Suit asked me to sign the form listing the reasons I was “separated from employment.” I asked what signing indicated, and he said that we had talked about it and I had seen the paper. I signed, and a different suit asked if I had any questions. I asked for a box and thanked her when she got one for me.
I packed up my desk very quickly, and Suit came in and asked if I would like him to carry it to my car for me. I really did not want to accept his help, but I have costochondritis (a type of arthritis in my rib cage from breaking a rib and having complications years ago) and did not want my anger and pride to cause me to have a pain crisis. I tested the weight of the box and knew it was too heavy. I accepted his help.
He carried the box to my car. I was rather pleased I had parked in Outer Elbonia, so he had to carry it a long way. He put the box in my car, said, “Thank you for your service to the company.”
I said, “You’re welcome” which was not what I was thinking and drove home.
I usually do not go near Arthur’s home office during working hours, but walked down there and opened the door. He hadn’t heard the garage door open and I scared him since he almost jumped out of his chair. Thankfully he was not in a Zoom meeting at the time, so nobody but me saw it. He asked, “Why are you home? Are you okay?!”
I answered, “I was fired.”
He said, “Oh Sweetie! I’m so sorry!” He got up and hugged me, and while still holding me, said, “Are they STUPID?!” I burst out laughing. “I’m serious! You’re the best chaplain they have! The company made you the mentor for all of the chaplains in the state, and then fire you?! What complete idiots!”
His support made me feel some better, but I sighed and said, “I have to return my work laptop, so I should probably get that over with.”
~*~
Walking back into my former office to return the laptop took every ounce of courage I possessed. Thankfully, I did not see anybody but the receptionist and did not need to linger for a conversation with her since she was on the phone.
I left the office and went back to my parents’ apartment and told them in person, since I figured I might as well get that over with. My dad asked if I was fired because I spent too much time with him, which broke my heart. I reassured him that was not the case. I had continued working full time hours and even more and could account for every minute of my time. Sometimes I was doing paperwork at nine or ten at night, but I was working the number of hours I was supposed to.
On my way home from my parents, the Business Office Manager, Jane, called me and asked if I was okay. I told her I didn’t know and asked her to keep me posted on how my favorite patients were. She said, “I would if I could, but I can’t because I was fired, too, and so were Tina and Andrea.”
“WHAT?! That’s even more stupid than firing me!” Jane had been there the longest and was the glue that held the office together. Tina was the Volunteer Coordinator and had been there the second longest. As a result of her firing, every volunteer but one quit. The one who stayed is someone I know through ballroom dancing. She called me and asked if she should quit, and I told her not to, because I didn’t want the patients she was visiting or their families to suffer.
That evening, supportive text messages were flying amongst all of my former coworkers. Arthur actually completed my unemployment paperwork for me since I couldn’t figure it out. The next morning I didn’t get out of bed. I allowed myself at least one day to wallow in The Pit of Despair. I stayed in bed until Arthur dragged me out to eat lunch. I moped around for awhile not really able to settle to anything and then had a huge sob-fest when I realized I was no longer an essential employee and due to Covid visitation restrictions, I would no longer be able to see my favorite patient who lived in a nursing home right on the way from my house to my parents’ apartment. I also would not be able to see the majority of my patients because they lived too far away from me and I could not afford the gas to drive there when I wasn’t reimbursed and no longer had any income. Plus, I had scheduled time to write my seven-year-old nephew a book about Flat Stanley moving to Alabama and becoming the sidekick to a hospice chaplain, but I was no longer a hospice chaplain. I couldn’t emotionally even contemplate writing that book and felt like I had failed as an aunt.
The next several months were a blur of helping my mom care for my dad, especially difficult when my dad was in the hospital for three weeks with aspiration pneumonia. The hospital was only allowing one visitor per patient, but my mom couldn’t get to my dad’s room by herself, so that caused all sorts of drama with hospital security. I’m sure the security guards have me on some sort of watch list for life after the number of run-ins I had with them. Not that I plan to have anyone hospitalized there ever again.
I went to my parents’ apartment building every day and drove by my former office building in each direction, each sight causing a pang in my heart. When my dad was in the hospital, I drove by four times per day, six if Arthur and I managed to make it to a ballroom dance class. I still drive by at least twice per day, but the pang of sadness is lessening and usually is a pang of anger now.
I was able to spend the last four months of my dad’s life with him without juggling a full-time job, which was a blessing, but I also didn’t have an excuse to leave my parents’ apartment. I was staying at my parents’ for four to eight hours per day, feeling bad that I had not realized how hard things really were on my mom, and making meals as well as caring for my dad to make things easier. Even when our church restarted in person worship, I didn’t go, because I watched church online with my parents. Arthur told me, for my own mental health, I needed to see people other than my parents, so I began teaching my mom how to find our church service on YouTube TV. I succeeded in only a few weeks which may be my biggest accomplishment of the past year.
I am still unemployed, most of the post-death things are settled, and I have made huge progress with going through things and organizing my home (we moved just before the pandemic). People ask me if I’m looking for work, and I say, “Yes, something will come along when the time is right” or “The job that’s meant for me hasn’t come open yet.” Small talk is extremely difficult because the first question most people ask is “Where do you work?” or “What do you do for a living?” I try to stay positive, but as time goes by, I am becoming less convinced of the veracity of those statements. I have only had two interviews, as hospice chaplain jobs are few and far between. The first was for a hospice in a contiguous county whose mission statement is, “People of the community caring for our community.” I was not surprised I didn’t get that job if they were able to find someone who actually lives in the community. The second interview was three weeks ago at a hospice where a former coworker works, and who wrote me a very good recommendation. I was supposed to hear something “by the end of the week” which did not happen. I sent a follow-up email, and still have not heard anything. My mom asks me almost daily if I have heard anything yet. I promised I would tell her if I did. She said, “You are too good at what you do to not be doing it.” I think that’s the highest compliment my mom has ever given me.
I continue to fill out online unemployment forms every week, even though I have not seen a single cent. Since there is a “separation issue” I am not guaranteed unemployment, which makes me even angrier. I can appeal if my claim is denied, but it is still pending. I am encouraged that my coworker Andrea appealed and won, but I can’t appeal something that’s pending. I continue to look for jobs and apply for all that are open. I get angry at all of the job notification emails telling me to be a military chaplain. I have very great respect for those who serve in our military, but I am too old! Honestly, I’m not sure I could have passed a military physical when I was eighteen, but I definitely can’t at forty-eight. I exist in a constant state of frustration at my failure to find another job, anger at my former company and feelings of uselessness. I worry the longer I am without a job, the less likely I am to find one. I have no basis in fact for that last assertion, but it niggles in the back of my mind. I am still grieving for the loss of both my dad and my job. I have days of feeling almost okay when I am listening to a great audio book and manage to sort and put away several boxes. However, I have days of completely not being okay when I don’t want to get out of bed, cry for most of the day, and the most productive thing I do is play Fishdom on my phone. Overall, I have not achieved okay yet, but at least all of the hats now have cattle wearing them.
After I saw the prompt and looked up what it meant (I am learning all sorts of things from LJ Idol!) I thought it didn’t apply to me, because I am a straightforward, well, blunt person who is always honest. After further consideration, I considered writing a humorous piece about how the world has always viewed my dad and me as organized versus the reality that my dad once went on vacation and had forgotten ALL of his clothes, or that I once led a board of directors meeting wearing my house slippers, which thankfully nobody noticed. (They were at least plain black house slippers, and not my Ewoks or Tribbles.) Then I realized that I truly am all hat, no cattle.
I have a confession to make: I am a very good actress. Not in the sense that I perform on stage. I actually have only been accepted for ten percent of the plays for which I have auditioned in my life, and even then had parts such as “Third Woman” or “Servant” and said six words. I am a very good actress in the sense that if I don’t want someone to know what I am actually feeling, they won’t. This is not necessarily a bad thing, especially when I was working as a hospital chaplain. I was told I have a calming presence, which is a job skill when dealing with patients and families in crisis. I witnessed some horrifying things in the hospital and was able to keep myself together, be as helpful as possible, only falling apart when I went home much later.
I am capable of acting okay and seeming okay, even when I am not okay. I had never heard the expression “all hat, no cattle” until this week’s prompt, but it fits me. Others only know my reality if I choose to let them in.
On August 12, 2021, my mom called me right as my stand up call for work was ending. She was in tears, saying “she just couldn’t do a thing with my dad.” I rolled my eyes, and said I’d come over, figuring my dad was having A Fit of The Stubborns. It had happened before. He’d get in a mood, not letting my mom change him or do his tube feeding, which would make her angry, and she would yell and nag and fuss, which would make him more stubborn–a vicious cycle. I was generally able to break the cycle by making my dad laugh and giving my mom a break. I expected the same again.
When I arrived at my parents’ apartment building, I saw my mom standing outside, meaning she had left my dad alone. That wasn’t a problem since he couldn’t get out of his recliner without two people and a Hoyer lift, but it had not happened before. My mom was also crying, and I had never seen her cry in public. I knew something was really wrong. I asked, and she at first didn’t speak and then said, “Your father hit me.” She showed me bruises. I said, “Mom, these bruises aren’t from this morning.”
She responded, “It’s not the first time.”
I didn’t ask why she didn’t tell me. We have rarely talked openly enough to share important things. I said, “That isn’t like Dad at all. Why don’t we go upstairs? I’ll call our CNA and pay her to come an extra time today at lunch, and I’ll call the doctor to see if we can get anti-depressants for Dad.” Mom nodded and we went upstairs.
My dad was fine with me there. I asked if he wanted anti-depressants and he said yes. I said I would take care of that. I spent the next four hours taking care of that, and managed it, with multiple phone calls to several doctors and the pharmacy, and a trip to the pharmacy to pick them up, and crushing the meds to give them through my dad’s PEG tube. When everything was as sorted as it was going to get, I made myself a sandwich to eat in my car and left.
When I got to my car, I started sobbing. I knew I could not go on like this. It was 12:30 PM and I still needed to work an eight hour day. I composed myself, ate my sandwich while sitting in the parking lot, and glanced at my work schedule. My farthest away patient was on it. As I picked up my phone to call her, hoping she would refuse the visit, my phone rang. It was the interim director of my office, asking me to come in because corporate wanted to interview me again. She said, “Just another follow-up. Nothing to worry about.”
Various people from corporate had been hanging around the office talking to everyone to “fix the problems in our office.” If anyone had ever asked me what the problem was, it was corporate’s inability to hire decent directors. My office had seven in eight years, three of them in 2021. But nobody ever asked me that question. Since the interim director said it was nothing to worry about, I decided I would talk to our Business Office Manager and get paperwork to file for FMLA while I was there.
I walked into the conference room where the four corporate Suits were waiting, only one of whom I didn’t dislike, and the Suit I disliked the most said, “We won’t keep you long. Due to A, B, and C, we are separating you from your employment.” A and C were completely false statements. Only B was true, and was exactly what I was told to do by every director we had had, except the last one. I didn’t know what “separating you from your employment” meant as I had never heard that phrase before, and I felt stupid not knowing what something meant. I stared at Suit for a moment and then said, “Do you mean I’m fired?”
He never actually answered the question and refused to use the word “fired” which made me angry. He repeated what he had just said and handed me two sheets of paper one listing the reasons ABC, and one for information on Cobra, which thankfully I didn’t need since I was on my husband Arthur’s insurance which was far better than what they had offered.
Suit asked me to sign the form listing the reasons I was “separated from employment.” I asked what signing indicated, and he said that we had talked about it and I had seen the paper. I signed, and a different suit asked if I had any questions. I asked for a box and thanked her when she got one for me.
I packed up my desk very quickly, and Suit came in and asked if I would like him to carry it to my car for me. I really did not want to accept his help, but I have costochondritis (a type of arthritis in my rib cage from breaking a rib and having complications years ago) and did not want my anger and pride to cause me to have a pain crisis. I tested the weight of the box and knew it was too heavy. I accepted his help.
He carried the box to my car. I was rather pleased I had parked in Outer Elbonia, so he had to carry it a long way. He put the box in my car, said, “Thank you for your service to the company.”
I said, “You’re welcome” which was not what I was thinking and drove home.
I usually do not go near Arthur’s home office during working hours, but walked down there and opened the door. He hadn’t heard the garage door open and I scared him since he almost jumped out of his chair. Thankfully he was not in a Zoom meeting at the time, so nobody but me saw it. He asked, “Why are you home? Are you okay?!”
I answered, “I was fired.”
He said, “Oh Sweetie! I’m so sorry!” He got up and hugged me, and while still holding me, said, “Are they STUPID?!” I burst out laughing. “I’m serious! You’re the best chaplain they have! The company made you the mentor for all of the chaplains in the state, and then fire you?! What complete idiots!”
His support made me feel some better, but I sighed and said, “I have to return my work laptop, so I should probably get that over with.”
~*~
Walking back into my former office to return the laptop took every ounce of courage I possessed. Thankfully, I did not see anybody but the receptionist and did not need to linger for a conversation with her since she was on the phone.
I left the office and went back to my parents’ apartment and told them in person, since I figured I might as well get that over with. My dad asked if I was fired because I spent too much time with him, which broke my heart. I reassured him that was not the case. I had continued working full time hours and even more and could account for every minute of my time. Sometimes I was doing paperwork at nine or ten at night, but I was working the number of hours I was supposed to.
On my way home from my parents, the Business Office Manager, Jane, called me and asked if I was okay. I told her I didn’t know and asked her to keep me posted on how my favorite patients were. She said, “I would if I could, but I can’t because I was fired, too, and so were Tina and Andrea.”
“WHAT?! That’s even more stupid than firing me!” Jane had been there the longest and was the glue that held the office together. Tina was the Volunteer Coordinator and had been there the second longest. As a result of her firing, every volunteer but one quit. The one who stayed is someone I know through ballroom dancing. She called me and asked if she should quit, and I told her not to, because I didn’t want the patients she was visiting or their families to suffer.
That evening, supportive text messages were flying amongst all of my former coworkers. Arthur actually completed my unemployment paperwork for me since I couldn’t figure it out. The next morning I didn’t get out of bed. I allowed myself at least one day to wallow in The Pit of Despair. I stayed in bed until Arthur dragged me out to eat lunch. I moped around for awhile not really able to settle to anything and then had a huge sob-fest when I realized I was no longer an essential employee and due to Covid visitation restrictions, I would no longer be able to see my favorite patient who lived in a nursing home right on the way from my house to my parents’ apartment. I also would not be able to see the majority of my patients because they lived too far away from me and I could not afford the gas to drive there when I wasn’t reimbursed and no longer had any income. Plus, I had scheduled time to write my seven-year-old nephew a book about Flat Stanley moving to Alabama and becoming the sidekick to a hospice chaplain, but I was no longer a hospice chaplain. I couldn’t emotionally even contemplate writing that book and felt like I had failed as an aunt.
The next several months were a blur of helping my mom care for my dad, especially difficult when my dad was in the hospital for three weeks with aspiration pneumonia. The hospital was only allowing one visitor per patient, but my mom couldn’t get to my dad’s room by herself, so that caused all sorts of drama with hospital security. I’m sure the security guards have me on some sort of watch list for life after the number of run-ins I had with them. Not that I plan to have anyone hospitalized there ever again.
I went to my parents’ apartment building every day and drove by my former office building in each direction, each sight causing a pang in my heart. When my dad was in the hospital, I drove by four times per day, six if Arthur and I managed to make it to a ballroom dance class. I still drive by at least twice per day, but the pang of sadness is lessening and usually is a pang of anger now.
I was able to spend the last four months of my dad’s life with him without juggling a full-time job, which was a blessing, but I also didn’t have an excuse to leave my parents’ apartment. I was staying at my parents’ for four to eight hours per day, feeling bad that I had not realized how hard things really were on my mom, and making meals as well as caring for my dad to make things easier. Even when our church restarted in person worship, I didn’t go, because I watched church online with my parents. Arthur told me, for my own mental health, I needed to see people other than my parents, so I began teaching my mom how to find our church service on YouTube TV. I succeeded in only a few weeks which may be my biggest accomplishment of the past year.
I am still unemployed, most of the post-death things are settled, and I have made huge progress with going through things and organizing my home (we moved just before the pandemic). People ask me if I’m looking for work, and I say, “Yes, something will come along when the time is right” or “The job that’s meant for me hasn’t come open yet.” Small talk is extremely difficult because the first question most people ask is “Where do you work?” or “What do you do for a living?” I try to stay positive, but as time goes by, I am becoming less convinced of the veracity of those statements. I have only had two interviews, as hospice chaplain jobs are few and far between. The first was for a hospice in a contiguous county whose mission statement is, “People of the community caring for our community.” I was not surprised I didn’t get that job if they were able to find someone who actually lives in the community. The second interview was three weeks ago at a hospice where a former coworker works, and who wrote me a very good recommendation. I was supposed to hear something “by the end of the week” which did not happen. I sent a follow-up email, and still have not heard anything. My mom asks me almost daily if I have heard anything yet. I promised I would tell her if I did. She said, “You are too good at what you do to not be doing it.” I think that’s the highest compliment my mom has ever given me.
I continue to fill out online unemployment forms every week, even though I have not seen a single cent. Since there is a “separation issue” I am not guaranteed unemployment, which makes me even angrier. I can appeal if my claim is denied, but it is still pending. I am encouraged that my coworker Andrea appealed and won, but I can’t appeal something that’s pending. I continue to look for jobs and apply for all that are open. I get angry at all of the job notification emails telling me to be a military chaplain. I have very great respect for those who serve in our military, but I am too old! Honestly, I’m not sure I could have passed a military physical when I was eighteen, but I definitely can’t at forty-eight. I exist in a constant state of frustration at my failure to find another job, anger at my former company and feelings of uselessness. I worry the longer I am without a job, the less likely I am to find one. I have no basis in fact for that last assertion, but it niggles in the back of my mind. I am still grieving for the loss of both my dad and my job. I have days of feeling almost okay when I am listening to a great audio book and manage to sort and put away several boxes. However, I have days of completely not being okay when I don’t want to get out of bed, cry for most of the day, and the most productive thing I do is play Fishdom on my phone. Overall, I have not achieved okay yet, but at least all of the hats now have cattle wearing them.
