"Are you ok? Are you?", the thin man said to me from the wheel chair. The skin on his arm were paper thin, and while his body was failing in the final hours of his impending death, his mind was all there.
I saw it in his eyes. Even the morphine and oxygen couldn't take away his sound mind, the sincerity in his question, the love in his eyes.
It had been seven years since I saw my father, and yet here I was, a thousand miles away from home at his bedside. They all told me that I was his dying wish.
"What does one wear to hospice?” I asked my husband. "Is the little black cocktail dress appropriate since its pre funeral or fleece and jeans better since I am going to Denver? They dress like shit there. I should try to fit in."
No one ever said living with a writer was easy.
What got me to Denver - Morrison, actually, was Jennifer. She called crying. Who on earth manages your fathers case load and calls crying? Apparently, I was my father's dying wish, according to her, which is all I could understand between her heart felt sobs. She looked all over a state where I no longer resided. It took her weeks to locate me, and when she did, she came apart. Afraid I wouldn't come, she told me about my Dad and the importance of my visit.
Lots of water under that bridge. I couldn't even muster up the strength to get angry, although people expected it and frankly justified it.
But I couldn't.
A dying man.
What on earth would I say to him?
What would he said to me?
Twenty eight hours later I'm there at Bear Creek Home, hardly recognizing the body that was in the chair called Jim.
My father being the stoic refused to be in bed. The nurses offered him to lay down in bed several times due to his condition, but oh, no. Dad would never allow his child to see him in that way.
Pride. One of the deadly sins. Apple doesn't fall from that tree, I thought with a laugh choking in my throat.
"I'm good, Dad. Real good." I smiled. We locked eyes. The oxygen tank hummed.
Pictures over his bed of children and grandchildren that weren’t of his blood, but were deemed as family. Not one shot of me. Elizabeth Lions: forgotten and invisible.
But I wasn't.
"You sure?" he asked, blue eyes never leaving mine.
"Yeah." Yup. Dad is all there. I can see it. Somehow it was important to me that he didn't lose his marbles along with his body.
"Dad, I have a good life. I have a book out and a second one coming out. I have a radio show, too. I help people that are lost in their career. I help engineers, and CEO's and even men in the military that come home. It's a good job, Dad."
"You don't say.” his eyes filled with wonder of the little girl that became the woman in front of him that he didn't know. All the years and all the fears vanished. It didn't matter what he did to me or what he had said. In these last moments, it just didn't matter.
"I am married now. My husband loves me and treats me well.” I reported.
It wasn't the married part, but the how I was treated part that mattered to him. The therapist in me sat in wonder watching his reactions. For a moment, I wasn't his daughter. It was therapist and patient. He held onto my hand tightly as we spoke in quiet whispers, like two children with deep secrets.
Bending over him, holding his hand, I proclaimed, "I am a good woman. I don't drink or do drugs like my brothers did. I am highly respected. Everyone knows who I am through my work. I work hard, Dad."
His response and the only one he really gave to me in those two days in hospice continue to roll around in my head, giving me affirmation and approval - the two pathetic things I craved my entire life.
He commented, "It couldn't have been easy for you."
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Why? (follow up to post A Promise Is A Promise)
This wasn't a normal job interview.
In fact, there was nothing normal about this meeting at all.
I sat across from a man that owned and ran a 600 million dollar business that was growing to over a Billion (yes with a Big B) this year.
The job was to run a team of recruiters, mostly men and fill over 200 open jobs. I had to lead them. Coupled with the projected business growth and industry trends, I expected this interview to be more about my qualifications.
But it wasn't.
Instead the man sitting behind the big desk asked me to tell him about myself.
Like most applicants, I am polite and started to talk about my career path, outlining what I do and how I did it. It was a sterile, egoistic interpretation of accomplishments I had made since 2000. Ironically enough he didn't care.
With dark eyes penetrating my soul he corrected me, "No, Elizabeth. Tell me about you. Do you have family? Children? Where did you come from?"
I squirmed. There was no way I could honestly disclose all of that. And, I there are few people walking this earth that actually know this about me.
Frankly, it never comes up. And, honestly, I don't disclose. That's my hiding place. I figure no one really cares, so why disclose.
He pressed on, "Tell me about you."
"Well, I'm not sure where to start."
Yeah, that was an understatement.
How do you tell a man that is a father of five that you have no family and they are all dead?
How do you begin to recount what drives you and what keeps you pressing on and that their deaths were the most blessed thing, other than cancer, that ever happened to you?
And how on earth do you weave that into a JOB INTERVIEW???
I took a long deep breath and looked out his window. The sun shined on the grass and I watched the warm Texas air blow the tree tops in the distance.
"I don't have any family. My tribe is dead."
He didn't seem shocked or uncomfortable, so I continued, carefully.
"What happened? Did they all die in a fire? An accident?"
Continuing to stare out the window, I responded, "No, I wasn't that lucky."
"Like any normal kid I went to high school and graduated at 18 in June. A month later, my oldest brother, Jimmy, died of drugs. By November of the same year, I buried my mother from lung cancer. I went to college in the fall and it continued. Within another year my other brother and grandmother died. From 18-21 years old, I was responsible for the burial of my entire family. So, while others were drinking beer and coupling off with who would be their spouses, I was a funeral director."
I swallowed hard and thought for sure this would cost me the job.
He asked....I told myself snidely.
That's about when I noticed religious articles in his office, like crosses and pictures and quotes. They were physical statements of him and his life, of his beliefs embedded his surroundings.
I continued, "For many family is their focus. For me, I have deep purpose."
It is my purpose that causes me to continually drive to leave something greater behind that is much larger than myself.
The drive is so big and the vision is so clear that each day at work or at home I am headed a direction.
The purpose, over time, has become my compass.
It runs into the deepest corners of my mind, heart and soul.
Without it, I would have been lost.
Few can survive the death of their entire family. Especially when you lose them all before legal drinking age.
This internal compass guides me in each moment of my life, knowing my time here is short. I learned life was short by 21 when I buried my own family. I learned that life itself is impermanent and that thinking it is otherwise is a grand illusion. And as if I had forgotten that, I experienced my own mortality in 2009 when I had skin cancer.
Nothing like imagining your own obituary and what it would state. At 40.
In the background I keep hearing the childhood song The Cheese Stands Alone.
I get, clearly that each breath in my body is not a dress rehearsal, but a moment in time where I may be able to make a difference, help heal, heal myself or give the gift of listening.
I choose, carefully, people that surround me. I will not allow people to treat me poorly, and I constantly monitor my own errs in my behavior.
I choose carefully my work, who I work for and what I produce. This is much more than a job, but about leadership and bringing others back to themselves for the good of others and for the company.
But make no mistake. My work is my expression through my life in which I measure what I leave behind. That and my marriage which is paramount to me.
Oddly enough, I got the job.
In fact, there was nothing normal about this meeting at all.
I sat across from a man that owned and ran a 600 million dollar business that was growing to over a Billion (yes with a Big B) this year.
The job was to run a team of recruiters, mostly men and fill over 200 open jobs. I had to lead them. Coupled with the projected business growth and industry trends, I expected this interview to be more about my qualifications.
But it wasn't.
Instead the man sitting behind the big desk asked me to tell him about myself.
Like most applicants, I am polite and started to talk about my career path, outlining what I do and how I did it. It was a sterile, egoistic interpretation of accomplishments I had made since 2000. Ironically enough he didn't care.
With dark eyes penetrating my soul he corrected me, "No, Elizabeth. Tell me about you. Do you have family? Children? Where did you come from?"
I squirmed. There was no way I could honestly disclose all of that. And, I there are few people walking this earth that actually know this about me.
Frankly, it never comes up. And, honestly, I don't disclose. That's my hiding place. I figure no one really cares, so why disclose.
He pressed on, "Tell me about you."
"Well, I'm not sure where to start."
Yeah, that was an understatement.
How do you tell a man that is a father of five that you have no family and they are all dead?
How do you begin to recount what drives you and what keeps you pressing on and that their deaths were the most blessed thing, other than cancer, that ever happened to you?
And how on earth do you weave that into a JOB INTERVIEW???
I took a long deep breath and looked out his window. The sun shined on the grass and I watched the warm Texas air blow the tree tops in the distance.
"I don't have any family. My tribe is dead."
He didn't seem shocked or uncomfortable, so I continued, carefully.
"What happened? Did they all die in a fire? An accident?"
Continuing to stare out the window, I responded, "No, I wasn't that lucky."
"Like any normal kid I went to high school and graduated at 18 in June. A month later, my oldest brother, Jimmy, died of drugs. By November of the same year, I buried my mother from lung cancer. I went to college in the fall and it continued. Within another year my other brother and grandmother died. From 18-21 years old, I was responsible for the burial of my entire family. So, while others were drinking beer and coupling off with who would be their spouses, I was a funeral director."
I swallowed hard and thought for sure this would cost me the job.
He asked....I told myself snidely.
That's about when I noticed religious articles in his office, like crosses and pictures and quotes. They were physical statements of him and his life, of his beliefs embedded his surroundings.
I continued, "For many family is their focus. For me, I have deep purpose."
It is my purpose that causes me to continually drive to leave something greater behind that is much larger than myself.
The drive is so big and the vision is so clear that each day at work or at home I am headed a direction.
The purpose, over time, has become my compass.
It runs into the deepest corners of my mind, heart and soul.
Without it, I would have been lost.
Few can survive the death of their entire family. Especially when you lose them all before legal drinking age.
This internal compass guides me in each moment of my life, knowing my time here is short. I learned life was short by 21 when I buried my own family. I learned that life itself is impermanent and that thinking it is otherwise is a grand illusion. And as if I had forgotten that, I experienced my own mortality in 2009 when I had skin cancer.
Nothing like imagining your own obituary and what it would state. At 40.
In the background I keep hearing the childhood song The Cheese Stands Alone.
I get, clearly that each breath in my body is not a dress rehearsal, but a moment in time where I may be able to make a difference, help heal, heal myself or give the gift of listening.
I choose, carefully, people that surround me. I will not allow people to treat me poorly, and I constantly monitor my own errs in my behavior.
I choose carefully my work, who I work for and what I produce. This is much more than a job, but about leadership and bringing others back to themselves for the good of others and for the company.
But make no mistake. My work is my expression through my life in which I measure what I leave behind. That and my marriage which is paramount to me.
Oddly enough, I got the job.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
The Face of Suffering in America
It is easy to see the suffering with the homeless man on the street, with ripped clothes, smelling of disaster and failure as you step over the body downtown.
It is easy to see the torture in a little boys eyes because he is beaten, abused and hungry.
It is easy to see the scars on the dog's side from the rage left behind of a selfish owner.
I think we all can see that, and sometimes we volunteer a day out of our lives to a charity or write a check around Christmas time, fooling ourselves into thinking that we've made a difference.
While, like you, I see that suffering, I live in the suffering of the silent.
They are normal Americans, just like you. Men and women who go to work each day and wonder if this is all there is to life.
It's the middle aged man who makes 100k a year, who plunks three ice cubes into his drink after a long days work, looking at his children who are growing and need him less and less. He lives in a big house with a woman called his wife who is a really a stranger in this country called his home. There is little connection and he fools himself each morning by getting up, going to work, managing his 401(k) and being responsible for those around him. He was told as a young man that he would have to provide for others and stop being selfish.
Yet at the ripe age of 40 or 50, he sits alone in his beautifully decorated palace wondering if this is all there is, and why isn't he happy after all he has accomplished.
Does anyone see him?
No.
Does anyone feel his suffering in lonliness and isolation?
No.
Furthermore, does he complain?
Little, for no one would listen.
Does he have a place or a book called "Work/Life balance" that would comfort him and tell him he isn't crazy?
No. He plods on to work then we judge and cruisfy him when he pitches his marriage, leaves, buys a sports car and perhaps quits his job.
We call that a mid life crisis because you would have to be nuts to leave the great life you had, buddy. Some thing is really wrong with you. Forget the voices in your head and return.
The face of suffering in America is all around you, in workers, in bosses, in large corporations churning out products and processes and more things we are supposed to buy.
We are no longer happy, and we don't know how to return to ourself and figure it out.
What do I do for a living?
I relieve pain.
It's that simple.
And I'll tell you why....
This is suffering.
It is easy to see the torture in a little boys eyes because he is beaten, abused and hungry.
It is easy to see the scars on the dog's side from the rage left behind of a selfish owner.
I think we all can see that, and sometimes we volunteer a day out of our lives to a charity or write a check around Christmas time, fooling ourselves into thinking that we've made a difference.
While, like you, I see that suffering, I live in the suffering of the silent.
They are normal Americans, just like you. Men and women who go to work each day and wonder if this is all there is to life.
It's the middle aged man who makes 100k a year, who plunks three ice cubes into his drink after a long days work, looking at his children who are growing and need him less and less. He lives in a big house with a woman called his wife who is a really a stranger in this country called his home. There is little connection and he fools himself each morning by getting up, going to work, managing his 401(k) and being responsible for those around him. He was told as a young man that he would have to provide for others and stop being selfish.
Yet at the ripe age of 40 or 50, he sits alone in his beautifully decorated palace wondering if this is all there is, and why isn't he happy after all he has accomplished.
Does anyone see him?
No.
Does anyone feel his suffering in lonliness and isolation?
No.
Furthermore, does he complain?
Little, for no one would listen.
Does he have a place or a book called "Work/Life balance" that would comfort him and tell him he isn't crazy?
No. He plods on to work then we judge and cruisfy him when he pitches his marriage, leaves, buys a sports car and perhaps quits his job.
We call that a mid life crisis because you would have to be nuts to leave the great life you had, buddy. Some thing is really wrong with you. Forget the voices in your head and return.
The face of suffering in America is all around you, in workers, in bosses, in large corporations churning out products and processes and more things we are supposed to buy.
We are no longer happy, and we don't know how to return to ourself and figure it out.
What do I do for a living?
I relieve pain.
It's that simple.
And I'll tell you why....
This is suffering.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
A Promise Is A Promise
"I won't talk about that, especially at a conference. No one wants to hear about that anyway!!"
"Yes, they do, Elizabeth.", my Marketing Manager warned me.
He has that look on his face. You know the one. It's the look that says I'm right and you know it you arrogant little twit.
I really hate when he's right, but I continue to argue, bitterly.
New tactic. This may get him silenced.
Maybe if I yell he will back off.
Those of you that know me personally know how much energy it takes to get me to get that angry. I allow myself to indulge in anger about three times a year. Kinda like a good house cleaning, where you get scrubbing in all the cracks and spaces in between, a good bout of anger can blow out some pent up frustration.
"You are not listening to me.", I start as my voice starts to rise. "No one wants to hear that crap. It happened. It's over. No one cares. Move on. I refuse to be someone that others feel sorry for! I'm not some whiny victim."
He lets me scream it out for a while. A good Marketing Manager does that. He figures he's got a thoroughbred horse here and this is a a part of the journey. Thoroughbreds are known for wining the race and then kicking their owner in the stables when they try to give the horse water and brush them down. Independence will kill a good horse because the horse doesn't know any better.
"Elizabeth", he nearly whispers, "You do this work because you are one of the best. You are one of the best in the country. In fact, think about this week. Where did that guy call from?"
"Chicago."
"That's right. And what did you do?"
"I helped him.", I answered slowly. I know where he's going with this and it's starting to piss me off.
"And what was his story? Other than the job loss?", he asks me with fake sincerity. This line of questioning is more about getting me to see the light.
"He got divorced after 25 years and recently lost his house. He had no money. His kids wouldn't talk to him. He needs the job to get back on track again. He was afraid to call me, but he did."
"That's right. He is one of thousands you worked with. Employed or unemployed, you work with all of them and help them through the tough spots in their life. Don't you understand? Sharing this life story of yours is important. It explains why. No one will judge you or think differently of you. In fact, they will deem you as quite remarkable, which you are."
"Shut up!" Now I am yelling. My Marketing Manager is doing his job. He's pushing me, but I won't go.
"Don't hide the broken parts. Let them see it. This isn't some cheap marketing ploy."
I am fuming. I mean REALLY fuming. He's opening the Pandora's box.
Unacceptable.
I am about to tune him up and start using the F word when he nearly threatens me.
"Elizabeth, let me put it to you this way.", his voice narrows as he leans into me, "If I catch you on stage even once in 2011 and you don't figure out a way to tell your story, you will really be in deep shit with me. Next year we have to start taping you when you speak. It's time to go to the next step with all this. The second book will be out and frankly, you have built such a following. You are in it too deep to turn back. Now, if you don't want to write about it, fine. But you better start disclosing that piece. On stage. In front of the audience. Am I clear?"
He continued, although I wished I had a sock to stuff in his mouth, "You work with those in transition. You are the best for a reason. Speak the reason."
I quieted down enough to take this in, but it wasn't for the last thing he said before he left the room that struck me the most profoundly.
"Elizabeth, you owe it to them."
And off he went.
A promise is a promise. Starting in 2011 I will come out from behind the curtain and tell why I do this work.
I would rather have a root canal with no Novocaine that do this, but I'll do it.
For you.
Perhaps it will give you some strength. Perhaps not.
"Yes, they do, Elizabeth.", my Marketing Manager warned me.
He has that look on his face. You know the one. It's the look that says I'm right and you know it you arrogant little twit.
I really hate when he's right, but I continue to argue, bitterly.
New tactic. This may get him silenced.
Maybe if I yell he will back off.
Those of you that know me personally know how much energy it takes to get me to get that angry. I allow myself to indulge in anger about three times a year. Kinda like a good house cleaning, where you get scrubbing in all the cracks and spaces in between, a good bout of anger can blow out some pent up frustration.
"You are not listening to me.", I start as my voice starts to rise. "No one wants to hear that crap. It happened. It's over. No one cares. Move on. I refuse to be someone that others feel sorry for! I'm not some whiny victim."
He lets me scream it out for a while. A good Marketing Manager does that. He figures he's got a thoroughbred horse here and this is a a part of the journey. Thoroughbreds are known for wining the race and then kicking their owner in the stables when they try to give the horse water and brush them down. Independence will kill a good horse because the horse doesn't know any better.
"Elizabeth", he nearly whispers, "You do this work because you are one of the best. You are one of the best in the country. In fact, think about this week. Where did that guy call from?"
"Chicago."
"That's right. And what did you do?"
"I helped him.", I answered slowly. I know where he's going with this and it's starting to piss me off.
"And what was his story? Other than the job loss?", he asks me with fake sincerity. This line of questioning is more about getting me to see the light.
"He got divorced after 25 years and recently lost his house. He had no money. His kids wouldn't talk to him. He needs the job to get back on track again. He was afraid to call me, but he did."
"That's right. He is one of thousands you worked with. Employed or unemployed, you work with all of them and help them through the tough spots in their life. Don't you understand? Sharing this life story of yours is important. It explains why. No one will judge you or think differently of you. In fact, they will deem you as quite remarkable, which you are."
"Shut up!" Now I am yelling. My Marketing Manager is doing his job. He's pushing me, but I won't go.
"Don't hide the broken parts. Let them see it. This isn't some cheap marketing ploy."
I am fuming. I mean REALLY fuming. He's opening the Pandora's box.
Unacceptable.
I am about to tune him up and start using the F word when he nearly threatens me.
"Elizabeth, let me put it to you this way.", his voice narrows as he leans into me, "If I catch you on stage even once in 2011 and you don't figure out a way to tell your story, you will really be in deep shit with me. Next year we have to start taping you when you speak. It's time to go to the next step with all this. The second book will be out and frankly, you have built such a following. You are in it too deep to turn back. Now, if you don't want to write about it, fine. But you better start disclosing that piece. On stage. In front of the audience. Am I clear?"
He continued, although I wished I had a sock to stuff in his mouth, "You work with those in transition. You are the best for a reason. Speak the reason."
I quieted down enough to take this in, but it wasn't for the last thing he said before he left the room that struck me the most profoundly.
"Elizabeth, you owe it to them."
And off he went.
A promise is a promise. Starting in 2011 I will come out from behind the curtain and tell why I do this work.
I would rather have a root canal with no Novocaine that do this, but I'll do it.
For you.
Perhaps it will give you some strength. Perhaps not.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Relocation, Relocation, Relocation
I stood in front of an audience of about 200 professionals and made a bold statement.
If you aren't getting any response on your resume, stop sending it out.
They laughed. Others looked stunned.
Stop doing what isn't working. Why continue on the same path getting the same result? Isn't that tremenously hard on your spirit?
If there is no response to your resume or skills it doesn't mean that YOU are the issue. It could simply be a reflection of the market itself.
I am not naive. I have heard of the 1% of the American population that is deemed 'unemployable'. No, I'm not talking to you. In fact, I doubt you are reading this blog at all.
Rather, I'm speaking to those that refuse to move to another city to find work or fear change.
Consider relocation. At least consider looking for work in another city and see what is out there.
There is an art to letting go and moving forward at the same moment.
Trust me....I've done this....
I don't ask others to do what I haven't done myself.
If you aren't getting any response on your resume, stop sending it out.
They laughed. Others looked stunned.
Stop doing what isn't working. Why continue on the same path getting the same result? Isn't that tremenously hard on your spirit?
If there is no response to your resume or skills it doesn't mean that YOU are the issue. It could simply be a reflection of the market itself.
I am not naive. I have heard of the 1% of the American population that is deemed 'unemployable'. No, I'm not talking to you. In fact, I doubt you are reading this blog at all.
Rather, I'm speaking to those that refuse to move to another city to find work or fear change.
Consider relocation. At least consider looking for work in another city and see what is out there.
There is an art to letting go and moving forward at the same moment.
Trust me....I've done this....
I don't ask others to do what I haven't done myself.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
The Purpose of Deep Pain
With pain there is hope.
Even if it's a glimmer.
A small spark.
There is always something inside of you that whispers...this could change. This may pass...it can't be this way forever.
Can it?
Even if it's a glimmer.
A small spark.
There is always something inside of you that whispers...this could change. This may pass...it can't be this way forever.
Can it?
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Here's a thought...
DISCLAIMER
NOTE: This is not new age crap talk.
Now, if you're into new age talk, well, you still may like this, but I just wanted to tell all the readers that DON'T like airy fairy happy crap, "think yourself better" people out there that the following blog post isn't that.
So just stay with me and take a deep breath.
Quantum physics tells us that nothing that is observed in unaffected by the observer.
I love science.
Call me a big nerd.
I'm a proof sort data kind of gal.
That statement, from science, not woo woo ugga bugga speak means that EVERYONE sees a different truth.
Because everyone is creating what they see.
Meaning: The place from which you are looking at dictates what you see!
Hate your boss?
Really?
What do you see?
Hate your relationships? Feel you are treated badly?
Maybe so, but what is your point of reference.
What did you create?
How are you accountable for this?
Are you brave enough to tell the truth....to yourself?
NOTE: This is not new age crap talk.
Now, if you're into new age talk, well, you still may like this, but I just wanted to tell all the readers that DON'T like airy fairy happy crap, "think yourself better" people out there that the following blog post isn't that.
So just stay with me and take a deep breath.
Quantum physics tells us that nothing that is observed in unaffected by the observer.
I love science.
Call me a big nerd.
I'm a proof sort data kind of gal.
That statement, from science, not woo woo ugga bugga speak means that EVERYONE sees a different truth.
Because everyone is creating what they see.
Meaning: The place from which you are looking at dictates what you see!
Hate your boss?
Really?
What do you see?
Hate your relationships? Feel you are treated badly?
Maybe so, but what is your point of reference.
What did you create?
How are you accountable for this?
Are you brave enough to tell the truth....to yourself?
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