this gruntled worker

(My) Life of Pi(e)

November 20, 2018 thisgruntledworker

This past weekend, we met up with a friend of my husband’s who he hasn’t seen since before we got married. After the logistical urban nightmare of agreeing on a place where we would meet (via email during her intermittent periods of wifi access), we gave up and squeezed ourselves into a tiny corner table at a cafe. We sat with our teapots, barely able to hear ourselves between the cacophony of a dad attempting to read a Madeline story to his fidgety daughter and a group of parents bemoaning the city’s competitive high school selection process.

The friend miraculously managed to find us (which is good, because we were not planning to go back out into the cold), and, after the introductions and pleasantries, she triumphantly unfurled her map of midtown, eagerly asking “So, where do you guys live?” We pointed to the place way off the map that would indicate our neighborhood, a full 130 blocks north of our current location. Then she asked where our respective commutes took us each day. My husband pointed smack in the center of the map: midtown. Then he smiled at me—he knew my answer would take a minute. Or twenty.

Unless I have class, I usually commute a full twenty feet to my home office these days, but there is something about saying this that still feels like defeat. Even though I am working with more focus than I ever have these days, It’s still easier to frame my answer in terms of where I used to work when I had a full-time job; it’s just an easier narrative for people to hear. I see her face turn into a question mark as I give my elevator speech about Narrative Medicine and my plans beyond graduation. So you’re doing career coaching for people who have chronic illness? Yes, that is my specialty, but I work with others as well. My proud husband chimed in with my various other projects: daily graphic medicine illustrations, volunteering with a hospice organization, working as part of the volunteer collective in my neighborhood bookstore, and co-writing and illustrating a children’s book. When he mentioned our craft business, I wondered whether she was thinking, “Wow, this woman has a lot of interests!” or “Damn, why can’t this woman decide what the hell her focus is?”

The judgment is mine, not hers, I am sure.

Why do I care so much, and what would it say about me if both of these things were equally true? Of course I want to make a good first impression on my husband’s friend. Almost four months post full-time employment, I’m still getting used to explaining what it is that I currently do. It was so much easier when I had a full-time job and thus, a quick answer: “I’m a teacher.” “I work in a startup.” “I work at a university.” Even “I’m a student” is fully true, but it doesn’t actually account for all that I am and how I spend the majority of my time. But people I’m just meeting don’t need to know all of this, anyway!

I have been so programmed to believe that if I am not producing, not earning at my maximum capacity, I am not contributing. But this is not fully true. I feel a greater sense of connection, satisfaction, and meaning from my six hours per week spent volunteering than I ever I did from sitting at a desk for 40-plus hours. What’s a better way to answer this what-do-you-do question? I could start with I am a teacher, a writer, an artist, and a coach, and talk about one of my projects. The story gets a little easier each time I tell it. I just have to keep talking.

And that diagram at the top of this post? That’s how I plan to divide my time once I’m done with school. Pie charts don’t have to be made with Excel, you know…

coaching, Support System

Compassionate Rabbits

November 13, 2018November 13, 2018 thisgruntledworker

Everyone seems to be talking about curious compassion lately. I saw it in Brene Brown’s new book, Dare to Lead, and in Michael Bungay Stanier’s book, The Coaching Habit, and even heard on the How to Be Awesome at your Job podcast while I was at the gym this week. When I heard the phrase a fourth time in class this afternoon, I knew something was definitely up.

So what is curious compassion, anyway?

It means listening to someone else’s story and withholding judgment—not waiting for your turn to speak, but just holding a space for the other person to feel whatever it is they’re feeling. The next part is even harder: approaching any response or reaction from a place of curiosity rather than one of judgment. In the case of a friend who is stressed out or upset, this might mean asking, “what would support from me look like?” This is much better than the half-assed, “Let me know if you need anything” or any unsolicited advice.

Let me give you an example. Recently, a colleague was stressed about marketing materials for an event that was due to happen in a few weeks. There were multiple layers of approvals that needed to happen before we could post our flyer, and she was really worried that we wouldn’t have it out in time to get a good turnout for the event. When she voiced this concern, my attempt to reassure her came out as, “Don’t worry – we have plenty of time. It’ll be fine.” Then I caught myself. I apologized, recognizing that my response was pretty invalidating. I was, in effect, telling her that she didn’t have the right to feel as she did. And when is the last time the phrase “don’t worry” worked for anyone? Exactly. My next attempt was not much better: I said, “I know how you feel; I get anxious too.” But I don’t know exactly how she feels. Damnit; this is hard!

This reminds me—I read another good book this week, a children’s picture book called The Rabbit Listened by Cori Doerrfeld. It teaches kids empathy and non-judgment. Taylor, a little boy dressed in striped pajamas, is building an elaborate structure with his blocks and it tumbles down. He is inconsolable. A parade of zoo animals pays their respects, offering suggestions or advice like “Get mad!” Or “Go for a walk!” Not to be a spoiler, but you know the Rabbit is going to have a different approach. He just sits silently with Taylor in his distress, and the boy feels safe to explore his feelings and share his frustrations. By the end, he begins to play with his blocks again.

Curious compassion would be just listening without the urge to problem solve or jump in with my opinion. It is holding space for the other person to express themselves fully without fear of being bulldozed with my damn opinions. We have to get out of the framework of quick-fix solutions. It’s much easier easier to make our own discomfort go away than to sit with a friend who is experiencing it.

So let’s all channel our inner rabbits…

chronic illness, Graphic Medicine

Death and Crayons

November 6, 2018November 6, 2018 thisgruntledworker

good-death

On Halloween, I attended the Reimagine: End of Life workshop called Graphic Medicine, Reflective Drawing, and Advanced Care Directives at the 53rd Street library. It was led by MK Czerwiec, author of Taking Turns: Stories from HIV/AIDS Care Unit 371. MK is one of the founders of Graphic Medicine, a genre of patient and caregiver narratives in a comics format.

As soon MK began to unpack her supplies, putting a brand new (!) pack of 24 Crayola crayons at each chair, I knew I was in the right place: we were going to draw! My giddiness was echoed in the voices of the other participants. Most of us were middle aged or older, but the moment we opened our boxes and inhaled that signature crayon smell, we were immediately nostalgic. I was transported (way) back to elementary school—that glorious time when I was allowed to call myself an artist.

Our first task was fairly simple: draw a self-portrait in “portrait mode.” I began immediately, drawing my typical doodle: huge hair, hands on hips, not-smiley, almost defiant “hmph” face, big glasses. I heard my professor comment from across the table, “No fair. Jen has practice doing this.”

We shared our drawings as a way to introduce ourselves, and gave our reasons for attending this workshop. Some of us were getting older and wanted a way to start thinking about their end-of-life decisions, a few were healthcare practitioners, and others were children of aging parents. More than one of us identified as “Graphic Medicine groupies.” One gentleman said he wanted to be more “easy with himself and others” as he aged. Another participant was a self-described “aspiring minimalist,” who was hoping to pare down belongings as she aged.

Most adults do not draw on a regular basis. MK asked us to speculate why this is. We spoke for a moment about the power of crayons: they remind us of a time when we were less inhibited, when we were encouraged to be creative with little expectation or judgment. No matter how old we may be, we can all stand to benefit from “kid thinking.”

Our next assignment was to hold the paper “landscape style” and draw a good death. We had seven minutes. People got to work immediately, and when it was time to share, many of us were still adding finishing touches. One drawing depicted a series of faces in rainbow shades connected by a line indicating our shared humanity and the cycle of life. Others featured scenes involving nature and blue skies and family and friends. One woman shared her process: her first priority was eating as much chocolate as possible, and only when this was in place did she add lower-priority elements like family and friends (you gotta love that honesty). My drawing was a series of faces in black crayon with speech bubbles. The voices were saying things like, “You can go now. I love you.”

As we were sharing, MK asked us about particular decisions that we made in our work. She spoke to us as if we were legitimate artists sharing our work in a gallery, with comments like “You’re the artist. You make all the choices” and “You are in charge of what this means.” Many of us felt like these alleged decisions were more a function of our limitations rather than our aesthetic acumen. MK offered us a challenge to nourish our artistic selves: draw a self-portrait each day.

So what does one drawing about the end of life have to do with advanced directives? An illustration like this could be a starting point for a conversation about our end-of-life priorities, and MK offered some extensions of this. One was to make our “good death” drawing the center panel of a three-panel comic. What comes before? What comes after? Another prompt would be to draw (then describe) the ideal decision-maker, listing the qualities that would make someone a good healthcare proxy.

It was really incredible to see that a bunch of strangers, each with a box of crayons, could connect so deeply in such a brief period of time. I hate to admit it, but this only child might not have been so nice if she had been forced to share.

Hmph.

chronic illness, My story

Refills are never free

October 18, 2018October 18, 2018 thisgruntledworker

So, who prescribed your medicines in 1994?

This comes from the new MD who takes my insurance. He pecks away at his keyboard, periodically peering over his laptop’s lid. I ask, “Wasn’t this information in the online intake forms I sent last week?” But what I also want to ask is, “Why does it even matter? The guy was old then. He’s probably dead by now.” Why is this detail even relevant, 24 years later? He continues with his data entry.

And what exactly is Narrative Medicine?

I love when doctors ask this question, especially the ones who can’t seem to maintain eye contact.

Since I started taking classes in Columbia’s MS Program in Narrative Medicine, I have had to answer this question hundreds of times. How I respond usually depends on who is asking. I usually say, “It’s a relatively new discipline that uses the tools of literary analysis to improve the quality of patient care.”

If the other person’s eyes haven’t completely glazed over at that point, I might continue with its origin story: Dr. Rita Charon, then an internist working in a community clinic, felt frustrated with the impersonal nature of the traditional patient encounter. She approached Columbia’s English department to learn how to better attend to and understand the stories of her patients. She stuck around (earning a PhD in the process) and learned to begin her appointments with an open-ended query like “What do you think I should know about you?” She would write and review her clinical notes with her patients, offering them the opportunity to revise the narrative to correct errors or insert omitted details. Considering that the average physician can only last 11 seconds into a visit before interrupting a patient, this approach was revolutionary.

But when a new doctor asks me about Narrative Medicine, I feel like my answer is a challenge: I study how doctors should treat patients. I believe that the story of embodied experience, told by the person living with illness, is more important than the forms on your computer. In other words: watch it; this woman is taking notes. Look up from your screen long enough to see me.

I anticipate his next question: What does this have to do with you? You’re not a doctor. Yes, but I am a person with a body and I am tired of being interrupted after 11 seconds. I am also a recovering high school English teacher, so it makes sense that I would be drawn to literature, philosophy, anthropology, sociology, and the narratives of patients, clinicians, and caregivers. In addition to reading, we look at paintings. We listen to spoken word poetry. We slow down, and we examine everything.

My response causes a subtle but palpable shift in the power dynamic in the room, and I feel like I am in that episode of Portlandia where two friends show off by book-shaming and one-upping each other: (Did you read this? Did you read that? Did you read the article in the New Yorker? Did you read the editorial in the New York Times? Did you read the classifieds? Did you read the menu?). He quizzes me on my knowledge of psychiatry, and I pass. I get the feeling he’s going to be looking up a few books after I leave.

When should my therapist call you? I ask.

Anytime, day or night. I begin to think he’s really dedicated. Until he ruins it: All times are equally bad.

Though this doctor is far from perfect, he’s a huge improvement over the last one I tried, so I’ll keep him (at least for now) to keep my refills coming.

Productivity, Support System, Work tools

How to be your story’s protagonist

October 9, 2018October 9, 2018 thisgruntledworker

levelup Imagine creating a secret identity for yourself, and now you are strong and brave and unafraid. You are resourceful, ready to vanquish enemies. You are part of a worldwide tribe that energizes and supports you. You are doing things you never thought possible and feel exhilarated and challenged. You are mastering—not enduring—life! Sounds pretty good, right?

A few weeks ago, I was browsing the shelves at the public library and found Steve Kamb’s 2016 book Level Up your Life. The subtitle reads: How to Unlock Adventure and Happiness by Becoming the Hero of your Own Story. A book combining narrative and agency to help people reach their goals? He has my attention.

The cover depicts a comic book-style illustration of a man ripping off his business shirt and tie to reveal his (six-pack abs and his) superhero costume. Our hero is answering a call to action; someone, somewhere, is in distress. Kamb does not need to rescue us readers, however. He offers an adaptable blueprint so that we can save ourselves. With a little imagination and discipline, even the humblest of nerdy office drones can take charge of her life, break free from being ordinary, and join this Rebellion. And she can have a lot of fun while doing so.

Kamb, the founder of nerdfitness.com, is a self-proclaimed formerly “risk-averse, picky eating introvert who felt more at home in front of a computer than in public.” He was happy enough in his post-college job, but was vaguely dissatisfied. After moving cross-country for a more interesting, but lower-paying job, he realized that he was still wasting his evenings and weekends drinking and playing video games to numb himself from his uninspiring life. He wanted a challenge, so he began with getting fit.

Kamb recontextualized his fitness quest as a game: he developed an origin story, an alter ego identity, and a series of increasingly more difficult challenges (in video games, this is known as leveling up). Once he began to see actual results from his workouts, he decided to help other nerds do the same by using game theory. He put his own video games aside, and for the next 18 months, devoted that same energy to building an online community. Then, he applied his method to other areas of his life. He knew he was onto something.

What I love about this book is that it is not just one guy bragging about how cool his life is now, how he is traveled to blah blah countries and done blah blah cool things. He makes leveling up accessible, encouraging his readers to start small while challenging them to play on increasingly difficult levels. Because he is a nerd, Kamb sprinkles references to video games and fantasy and science fiction characters throughout the book. He also builds his hero’s journey on the work done by Joseph Campbell and Christopher Vogler. Each step has its own chapter.

The main character is somebody of normal existence who goes through a journey that fundamentally changes him or her as a character. This character learns from a mentor, skeptically accepts the call to leave a comfortable existence, faces trials and tribulations, makes allies and enemies, outsmart or wins over the guardians of the threshold, struggles to survive/succeed, transforms, and ultimately returns home with altered/improved outlook on life.

My biggest takeaway from this book is the cautionary tale of the South Park Underpants Gnomes. In the middle of the night, these little elves run around the fictional cartoon town, stealing people’s underpants. When asked why they are doing this, one replies, “Collecting underpants is just Phase 1!” When asked about Phase 2, the gnomes reply with, “Phase 3 is profit!” The gnomes never find out what Phase 2 is. Kamb’s message to his readers: stop mindlessly collecting underpants, or don’t consume yourself with busy work that doesn’t move you toward your goal. You have to take action in Phase 2, or you will just have a shit-ton of underpants and no profit.

This idea really hit home for me as I think back to my summer research project. In the beginning, I was obsessed with collecting all available information on my topic. I became a hoarder of articles and blog posts and books, and wasted hours organizing them into an indexed binder. I knew my goal was to write a paper, so why was I wasting my time? At one point, my advisor had to cut me off. She said, “That’s it! No new sources!”

Damnit, I thought. Now I am going to have to do some real work.

Even if you don’t pick up the book, I hope you have learned this from Kamb, from the makers of South Park, and from me: Don’t be an Underpants Gnome.