Midlife Musings and my Second Career

My husband and I spent part of Labor Day weekend in Cooperstown. For those who cannot tell a baseball from a hockey puck, Cooperstown is home to the Baseball Hall of Fame. My husband discovered just last week, by serendipitous circumstance, that his childhood hero, one of the greatest of all time home run hitters, Harmon Killebrew, was going to be a guest speaker at the Hall of Fame that very weekend. We re-arranged a few things, left our daughter in charge of the 4 cats and 1 pit bull and headed to the wilds of Ostego county.

Most people would never notice anything different about my husband that day, but after 30 years you pick up on otherwise imperceptible cues. He was anxiously excited. He remarked, "I can't believe I'm getting to do this," quite a few times during the 4 hour drive upstate. I didn't need to put my ear to his chest to hear his heart rate's rapid knock or view the quickened breath to know what was going on.

We took our seats a few minutes before Harmon was to appear. I pulled out a newspaper to keep me busy and as I did so he slowly pulled from a large mailing envelope the illustration he hoped to have Mr. Killebrew sign. Half way through the program I noticed the strangest behavior I had ever seen in this man.

My husband is a fidgety twitcher. He channels his ADHD through rapid movements such as shaking and jingling the 3 Chinese Coins, 2 (Hudson) river rocks and various coins of American currency in his cupped right hand inside his pants pocket. Only recently did he give up biting his nails to the quick. But the most obvious movement is his up and down leg shaking while seated in a chair. So of course the sight of such would cause me no upset. But this night he didn't move. As far as I could tell, he sat through the entire Q & A, without rattling a bone.

Total stillness. There could be no explanation other than his being paralyzed by his own excitement. So, to my great surprise just as the moderator said we have time for one last question my husband's hand went up and out for the microphone. Sorry, I don't remember what he asked. I was too busy using his camera to take pictures of the scene. But I did know he went with the original illustration by Bill Gallo of the NY Daily News, inorder to bring home Harmon Killebrew's autograph. But alas, there was no such opportunity available. He shrugged it off but I knew better. Inside that 55- year-old man was the 10-year-old boy kicking dirt and throwing down his helmet having just struck out with the bases loaded and the winning run on second.

Tomorrow evening my inner 10-year-old will enter the fall semester with some new pens, notebooks, binders and bag with a rapid heartbeat, sweaty palms and great expectations for her final year at school. While my husband and I ate dinner later that evening I braved telling him that I was sad this was my last year of school. That while there were a few classes I found tedious, for the most part it's been one of the most gratifying, engaging, stimulating and enlightening periods of my life. I said I didn't know what I would do when it was over. So for me too it's the bottom of the 9th, the bases are loaded, 3 balls and 2 strikes, I swing and...

UGH!!! I am so envious of full time students. While for the most part I have been blessed with remarkable professors and great classmates, for the past 2 years I have, by way of my own choice, had no choice, in choosing them. Being on the Sarah Lawrence Campus limits choice, actually removes choice, from choosing what courses and what professors I wish to take. Being an OYR student limits choices no matter what campus you're on. Realistically, I can only take evening classes. Now that I'm back on the main campus those students suffering the same predicament no longer surround me. Students who have choice surround me. And envy strikes.

Yesterday a group of 20+ (that's number, not age) Policy Practice students met for the first time. It was a last minute invitation so it was graciously stated that if we couldn't make it, it would be understood. Of course it happened to be a day at work when two out of 5 clinical staff members we're going to be out. Our census happened to be low; there were no planned intakes and my supervisor felt I could sneak away for a couple of hours.

Around the conference table each student sat and introduced themself. Then we learned who our advisers are. I was pleasantly surprised to learn I would have one adviser who is in the Policy Practice specialty. I was sure I'd be assigned an advisor who had nothing to do with the program and instead had all the other OYR students at NYU. Ah, the power of negative thinking...

Anyway, I'll let you in on a secret. My first choice for Social Work school was Hunter, Not NYU. Why? My major interest was/is CO--community organizing. I only applied to Hunter and Columbia first time around. I got into both full time programs. I guess I was expecting some benefactor from above to come down and hand me a blank check for my education. Columbia gave me lots of money in terms of loans but when you're over 50 you don't have that much time to pay them back and we were just getting excited about having paid off our mortgage--especially with 2 kids (plus me) entering college. So I turned them down and unfortunately when the benefactor didn't show up I had to turn down Hunter to keep my full time job, which shortly thereafter I lost anyway when my agency closed. Certainly that was an ironic bump in the road.

I got a new job and applied to Hunter's OYR program, twice. Both times I got to the interview stage and thought I did well, but both times I was rejected. I decided enough was enough and scrambled to see if there was anyplace else whose admission process was still open. Almost overnight I got in my applications to NYU and Fordham. I got accepted to both. I finally chose NYU, known for its clinical focus, as I decided I was doing CO anyway in real life. Voluntarily mind you, but doing it nonetheless. Was I doing it well? Certainly not as well as I hoped but being born into a political household (Dad was an attorney, state assemblyman, had political appointments to numerous projects and conventions and retired as a Court of Claims judge) I imagined I’d picked up some training by osmosis. When I get upset with a policy, be it work, school, government or the local grocery, I usually get mad. The next thing I know I'm trying to organize a group to help change it.

While I had a decent amount of clinical skills having recently been educated to become a CASAC (by a former NYU PhD social work student, mind you) and having spent a couple of years practicing those skills in the field, I decided knowing more in that direction couldn't hurt. And it hasn't. I'm honored when allowed to participate in client’s recovery.

But then the head of the Policy program mentioned that for the first time in NYU's history a CO course would be offered in the spring and she'd be teaching it. At first I got very excited. Then I realized two things. 1. I'm sure it would be offered on a daytime schedule, so I couldn't take it and 2. I have no electives left to take. I did that by way of mini courses so I wouldn't be working full time, doing my internship and taking 3 courses all in my last semester of school !

Then I asked if there were any post graduate programs (post MSW) that I could take in Policy or CO. The Professor looked at me questioningly and asked "right after finishing graduate school?" And I thought why not? And while I can't wait to graduate and I can't wait to be finished with all this work and start applying it, I just love learning and don't like the idea of not being in school. Who knew?

So I have to work on my envy issues. I'd like to be 30 years younger and 30 pounds lighter too. Maybe I can work on one. I'm afraid the other one aint' in the cards.

Have a great year all!

I'm in Albany tonight. When i was a little girl my father would spend far too much time in Albany, or so I thought. My Dad served in the State Assembly a few years before I was born and from there it seemed he always had something to do in Albany. What it was exactly I wasn't sure but I thought it had something to do with politics. He had numerous political appointments throughout my life. My favorite came when he was appointed the Project Director of the New York State Pavilion at the 64-65 Worlds Fair. You can still see the Towers in Flushing Meadow Park that were once part of the Philip Johnson project. I have great memories of time spent there. At some point I remember proudly showing off when I told a friend I had been to the fair 37 times.

I still have my father's campaign poster from his run for the Assembly. On it were words used to describe him such as "progressive" and a "friend to labor." Nothing particularly odd about that except that he was a Republican, and a Bronx Republican at that. I wonder what happened to those Republicans. They didn't much look like the ones in the Bush Administration.

Anyway I bring my father up to let you know I grew up in a political household. One from which I rebelled in various ways, but one in which I probably got my foundation for social work even while rebelling.

This brings me back to why I'm in Albany tonight. I was one of five people given a 2008 "Outstanding Recovery Volunteer" award from OASAS (the Office of Alcohol and Substance Abuse Services). I was able to speak for a few minutes and came to realize as I spoke, that my volunteerism probably has a great deal to do with that political household I so strongly rejected when I was growing up. I learned from my father that you sometimes need to do things you don't want to do, for the greater good. I learned that volunteering to work on behalf of others is a noble idea. I learned that you can get more from giving than from taking. And I learned that no mater how hard you try and how much of your heart you put into a mission, it doesn't always turn out the way you want it to. These are all valuable lessons for a social worker as well.

So I found myself in Albany a lot over the past few years. I've testified before a Senate committee and spoken with state representatives advocating for insurance parity. I became a founding board member of the new New York State Friends of Recovery (FOR-NY) as well, and I've been asked to speak at a few conferences regarding my family's journey into recovery.

And even though in the end our politics were quite different, I'm proud to be walking the same streets my father did. I think he would have been proud of me as well.

I was dressed in New York black slacks topped by a yellow jersey knit pullover and a black jacket. Behind me I dragged my latest "e-bags" purchase=a very large, black with touches of red, rolling backpack, I'd been dragging it all week with co-workers wondering if I was heading back to Albany. I'd smile a bit sheepishly, somewhat embarassed with the idea that what looked like a good size over-night bag was merely my latest back pack for school. I'd been through quite a few already in the previous two years. With each new one came a few hundred extra cubic inches. After all I'd been told that the DSM-IV TR was to be with me at all times. I wasn't quite sure why however and found myself imagining some wild eyed woman in the throws of psychosis sitting across from me on the #6 train shouting, pointing at my back pack and daring me to give her a diagnosis.

I unlocked my office door and was greated by the fresh lavender smell permeating the room. The "Yankee Candle" difuser, a good friend of mine had recently given me as a gift had been doing an excellent job of masking the stale, still, odor you find in Manhattan office buildings with windows that do not open. I parked, which really is what it feels like- pushing and pulling and steering- this large container of books, behind my office door. I glanced toward my desk and didn't see the red light on the phone indicating a message was waiting and so I decided to check and see if any emails of importance came in over night. I left the office door open and my supervisor greeted me from the entry. "So how does it feel to be a social work intern?" she questioned. I'd been waiting for that lightening to strike but it wasn't happening I explained. "Well maybe when you do your first progress note something will click." I smiled and she exited saying "See you in rounds."

She was right, of course. Supervisors are needed to be right. I facilitated a group of 2 patients opening with an ice breaking question, "when you were young, who was it that you admired most, outside your family?" Sixty minutes later the "group" ended and walking by the nurses station I reached over the counter to grab "Progress Note" form # PN7-S. It was not unfamiliar to me. In my office I proceeded to input my observations on the group. And there in the left hand column was the space prodding me to fill in "title." "Social Work Intern," I wrote. I stared at the words for a few seconds, sighed, smiled and shook my head left to right. I'd signed similar forms before. The "title" then was CASAC-T (Credentialed Alcoholism and Substance Abuse Counselor-Trainee). I'm hoping to be admitted to the December CASAC exam and be rid of the "trainee" designation at last. Six-thousand hours of work were required of me before being allowed to apply to take it. I was hoping my being awarded the "CASAC-Trainee of the Year," for New York State in 2007, would have given me some time off for good behavior from those Six-thousand hours, but no such luck. I forgot I was dealing with bureaucracy.

Anyway my mind was trying to determine which title had more meaning-Social Work Intern or CASAC-T. Funny, as I studied the words I realized I was feeling as though I was betraying the profession I'd become so devoted to. I was abandoning all those past school mates who shared my struggle through "Chemistry of Addiction," and countless ethical vignettes. I was turning my back on my professor who put me on the course to this very moment. And then I realize they can't take any of that away from me. I still get to put CASAC with or without the "T" after my name only now I get to add some letters. The CASAC will still shout my specialty as I embrace the broader perspective of a social worker. It's all good.

"It's weird the way my '70's' idea seems to have actually occurred." I said to my daughter as she came into the kitchen. "What's weird about it? You're smart, you're observant, you just happened to take note of things other people weren't looking at." "I guess you're right. Maybe I was just hoping I was wrong."

For weeks, maybe even months now, I kept telling people I was afraid the 70's were coming back. It started with the graffiti. The late 70's was probably the height of the graffiti movement (if that's what you call it). Everything was tagged. Buses, subway cars, apartment buildings, office buildings, schools, train stations, and every security grate that covered a mom and pop shop from Main Street to Crown Heights. Back in the day, the most infamous tag was "Taki 183." Goggle it, you'll find more than you wanted to know. Taki never did anything elaborate or remotely creative, he just seemed to be everywhere. And recently I began seeing it again--on highway concrete barriers, school walls, apartment building walls, overpasses, bridges, tunnels, etc. I took it as a sign something bad was happening.

Then I began to see more homeless. Suddenly they were under overpasses I'd driven by for years--a tent here, a large cardboard box there, a shopping cart stuffed with textiles and industrial strength black plastic bags. How does this seem to come out of no where.

It wasn't really no where. The housing market had been on the decline for months. We'd been warned or frightened that something called a "sub-prime mortgage," could lead to an economic crisis.

Somewhere in the mid-west I believe, were video images of people lining up to withdraw their money from a bank they believed was about to fail.

And then the "gas crisis." I'd lived through one before. Back in the 70's it was more about shortage than high prices but here it was happening again. Jimmy Carter was president and "the Bronx was burning." Well, at least the Bronx is no longer burning. But I'd love to see the "luxury tax," come back on "gas guzzling" vehicles. I'm glad there are no Iranian Hostages but I hate that President Reagan took credit for their release. If he, not Carter, had been president when they were taken, god knows what the outcome would have been.

Right before Carter, President Ford told New York to Drop Dead. At least artists and writers and college grads fresh from the mid-west, even social workers, could afford to live here. Of course along with affordable housing came unaffordable crime stats fueled by unemployment and cocaine.

Well as Bette Davis, in one of her best roles had to say, "tighten your seatbelts, it's going to be a bumpy ride."