It's not me, it's you?

Two people were let go at work this week. In the vocabulary of the day, they are “pursuing other opportunities.” When that phrase is used, then you know this wasn’t voluntary and it wasn’t a lay-off or reduction in force (RIF).

I knew both only slightly; while they worked in my larger organization, our paths never crossed professionally. They were the people you nod at in the hall on your way to the cafeteria or bathroom, the people whose first names you know but not much else.

I feel for them both. While I wasn’t fired, I have been laid off and it’s a huge jolt of “now what?” In the same way and even though by all accounts they weren’t doing their jobs well at all, they’re still people who went home Monday evening and then learned they had an unexpected and unpaid vacation ahead of them.

My current employer doesn’t let the terminated employees pack up their offices. They’re notified after they get home that they’re not coming back the next day. Then the admins pack up those offices. I saw L doing that yesterday and asked her about it. She said over the years she’s packed a lot of offices. I told her that would be really hard to do but on the other hand, I guess it’s better that someone friendly does the packing up. I said I thought it had to be hard on her, too. She didn’t exactly agree outright but it sure looked like she teared up.

Sometimes in corporate America, we sanitize things with our phrases and clichés until there's no meaning left. But those soulless corporations are made up of human beings. Sometimes we do really well in that environment and sometimes, as was the case with my two former co-workers, we do not. But we're still people and those two had a really nasty shock this week. I feel for them, too.

Through someone else's eyes

I read a blog post earlier this week about a woman who ended up having serious heart issues. She’d gone to the hospital three times previously but her symptoms were atypical (which is quite typical for women and health issues—we aren’t men) so no diagnosis was made. Fortunately the fourth trip resulted in her getting the treatment she needed.

But that’s not what I’m writing about, although the way women’s health issues manifest themselves is worth writing about – just not today. In the "gosh this is a small world" moment, I read a comment on that post from my mother. She posted something about Dad having been taught in medical school that patients will tell their doctors what's wrong, if only the doctors will listen. 

This particular blog writer lives in Cape, which is where my parents lived for 18 years. She'd been a high school teacher, which is how I knew of her. I didn't know she knew my dad or that he'd been her doctor before my folks moved to Idaho over 20 years ago. She replied to my mother's comment: 

I think that your retired physician husband was actually my endocrinologist for a time before you moved out west. I was so upset when you moved out of state.

I have to say, though, that he actually sought ME out before I was his patient. It was the night of Christmas Ball, and he was there for coronation ceremonies because his daughter* was in the court. I was her teacher. When your husband called me aside, I assumed that he wanted to discuss something about his daughter. I thought his daughter was delightful, and I was genuinely concerned that something might be wrong with her.

He started by first saying, "Don't tell me who your doctor is, but are you under a doctor's care?" For a split second, I thought that maybe he was inferring that I needed psychiatric help! He went on to tell me that my eyes were too dilated and that he could see that my thyroid was enlarged, and then asked if I was being treated for my condition. I told him that my doctor had prescribed liquid iodine. "Well, that's not enough," he said, assuredly.

He then advised me to go back to my doctor and demand a T3, T4, TSH, and iodine uptake test. I was so impressed that he cared for someone who was not even his patient, and that he took the risk to go out of his way to say something! Eventually, I became his patient, and then I went through separation anxiety when he moved. Just in case we are talking about the same doctor, please thank him. I have never forgotten his caring attitude.

I asked her if she minded if I quoted her here. She said not all. "Your Dad went out of his way to help me, and I am proud to be quoted as having said that." 

See, I know my dad’s a neat man. But to me, he’s Dad so I can still hear the dad who would tell me to get up, or eat my broccoli, or help with chores or well, you get the idea. Just a dad being Dad. This is a different side to him, one I wouldn’t have seen growing up and it’s really cool. 

*She's talking about my sister, Amy.