Archives For November 30, 1999

I had a chance to do something today that I’d never previously done in my 36 years on this earth. I visited inner-city poor people in a major U.S. city.

inner city housing

Me. A tall, doughy-skinned, somewhat naive woman who lives in a city where the vast majority of her neighbors look the same.

Me. A person who’s lived in five different places, all located within 15 miles of the other over three decades.

Me. A former spinner on the mouse wheel of corporate America turned advocate for change.

I don’t talk much on this blog about what I do for a profession. And that’s intentional. I learned long ago that it was best for me to separate my work life from my social life.

When my children were babies, I second-guessed my decision to work at all. On those dreadful mornings when one of them would cry out for me as I returned to my car to leave them at daycare, trying not to let them see me cry myself, I hated the idea that I abandoned them. I never wanted them to think their mom valued the almighty dollar over their happiness.

I saw those kinds of parents at the office. They clocked in early, left late, traveled often, and I wondered if they took pride in how many meetings and high-profile events they attended. Were they more concerned about being known by others than being known by their children? Did they justify their actions based on the size of their massive homes and the vastness of their personal toy collection? Did they need to be reminded that none of the credentials trailing behind their names was as important as the letters “M.O.M.” or “D.A.D.” in the eyes of their offspring?

It was during those years when I learned this about myself: No profession, no matter how fulfilling, will ever be more important to me than family.

So you can imagine my relief when, just over a year ago,  I found a company that allowed me to put my family first as well as gave me the opportunity to positively impact other families.

I now work with the poorer population, specifically on trying to improve access to health care and outcomes. What I do is not always considered useful or socially acceptable.

I’ve learned that as a people in general, we like to preach. We like to judge. It’s easier to criticize what’s going wrong (and, believe me, I know a LOT is going wrong in health care) versus build up the right.

I had the chance to shadow a young woman today who is building up the right. Her job is to visit with people who haven’t been to their doctors and ask them why. She goes to their homes, answers questions, schedules appointments, and shows genuine concern.

She’s also completing her last year of studies to earn a bachelor’s degree in psychology. A mom of three just like me.

It costs money to send people like her out into communities. Some may wonder why on earth money is spent on reminding people to do something that comes so naturally to so many of us. I mean, come on, visiting a doctor isn’t that hard.

That is, if you have a car like I do. If you have a job that gives you PTO like I do. If you have someone to watch your kids like i do. If you had a mom or dad who introduced you to a pediatrician like mine did. If you speak the same language as the office staff who schedule the appointments. If….if…if…

I learned the power of not making assumptions today. Every person is an individual with individual needs.

helping hand

“Too often we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all of which have the potential to turn a life around.” 
― Leo Buscaglia

Created by Heidi Woodard

Jerry Peterson in 2006

Jerry Peterson in 2006

October 19, 2007 – The day my parents and I made the painful choice to move my Grandma Peterson into a nursing home.

The following is an excerpt from a letter I wrote to two physicians who performed surgery on my grandma later that same year:

On October 19 (just over one month ago), my family made the difficult decision to move Jerry into a nursing home following her dispatch from Immanuel. Just weeks prior to her initial hospitalization, she was able to perform everyday tasks like cooking, changing channels on a TV remote, and playing cards. It was very shocking to me to watch her mobility deteriorate as quickly as it has. She is, at this time, on almost the same level as a paraplegic…unable to move her limbs, stand, walk, grasp, or even feel certain parts of her body. She is experiencing neck pain (I believe this is the primary reason for her surgery?), headaches, joint pain, vision impairment, depression, etc. And the absolute most concerning thing to me is that her mind is beginning to unravel like her body…and this has only recently developed during her time in the nursing home.

To my knowledge, she has never suffered a stroke or any other “qualifying event” that would logically result in such a rapid decline in her health and mobility. I understand that my grandma has lived many years and this may very well be just a natural effect of aging. But, keep in mind, that she was widowed over 30 years ago and had lived independently (with daily assistance from my mom) up until last October.

I don’t expect you to magically turn back the hands of time and get her to where she was years ago, but if you can at all alleviate her pain and improve her quality of life, I will be eternally grateful. And if the surgery proves unsuccessful, I will mournfully accept the consequences but still thank you for the respect and attention you’ve given her.

The surgery ended up working…or more accurately described…was deemed as successful as it could have been. We moved her from the initial nursing home – a place where she had volunteered for years, only to have been treated like one of the house plants she used to water – to a second nursing home. That second place initially seemed better than the first; honestly, it couldn’t have possibly been worse than the first.

I visited her as much as I could. Sometimes solo and other times with my kids because I knew seeing me and her great grandchildren was what made her happiest of all.

My parents made extra time, much more than I did, to tend to her needs. She had taken care of them and now it was their turn to pay that honor back.

A month or two passed and grandma was making noticeable strides in terms of physical therapy and mental clarity. She had a tracheotomy wound that was healing and I remember buying her a package of colorful straws that I had planned to give to her so we could drink our beverages in style. We talked and laughed about rearranging her little room so she’d have space to dance.

I remember answering my cell phone in January 2008 and hearing my dad on the other end of the line saying – somewhat agitated – that grandma had passed away.

What? (But I was planning on giving her those straws.) What?! HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?

I listened as my dad did his best to hold his voice firm, describing how he and my mom stopped in to visit with her only to find her halfway hanging off the bed. She had been changed earlier that day by a staff member who failed to re-position my grandma’s bed at the proper angle required for someone who had a tracheotomy. In essence, my grandma had been squirming with all the strength she could muster to find the call button because she was slowly suffocating. She never reached the call button.

My mom, her daughter, made eye contact with her before she passed. My dad roamed the halls like an angry lion roaring at whomever was within earshot after realizing what had happened.

Oh. God. You KNEW how much she praised you. How could you let these be her last moments on earth?

My place of employment was incredibly close to the place where she died. I could have stopped by on my way home to check on her that day. It could have easily been me who either prevented this from happening or who witnessed her last moments.

I’ve only experienced (what I assume was at the time) one panic attack my entire life. It happened in that first horrific nursing home. It happened because I feared my grandma was losing her will to live because the staff there was content to watch people do just that. And this second place ended up being worse than the first.

My daughter never got the chance to meet her Great Grandma Peterson. But she knows about her through my stories. No matter how hard it is for me to remember the good years – there were SO MANY – without having that last moment haunt me forever, I still try to remember all the good. We have a framed poem in my daughter’s room that displays the words that grandma used to say to me:

I love you…
A bushel and a peck.
A bushel and a peck…and a hug around the neck.
A hug around the neck…and a barrel in a heap.
A barrel in a heap…and I’m talking in my sleep.
About you!

My friend, Melissa, helping me display the framed poem at my baby shower.

My friend, Melissa, helping me display the framed poem at my baby shower.

August 4, 2013 – The day I finally decided to write about my grandma.

Created by Heidi Woodard

A professional photographer recently came to my work and took head shots of some of us.

Rewind nearly 15 years ago and you’ll see a vastly different work photo that a younger me posed for when I was bright and shiny and straight out of college.

The difference in those two pictures is striking.

1999 Heidi

I’m fresh and fluffy as a 20-some year old. Apparently, color photography had not been invented yet in the late 90s.

2013 Heidi

Note to self: I don’t care how early the photo session is scheduled…Do your hair. This mugshot proves it’s possible to look old and like a small boy simultaneously.

My life has changed dramatically as I evolved from a newly married full-time worker with more free time than I knew what to do with into a full-time professional who co-manages the schedules of three incredibly active children, who freelance writes on the side, blogs for fun, and battles with guilt that I’m not fully meeting anyone’s expectations.

The me of 1999 had time to do my hair, wore a nicely tailored suit (likely the only one I owned), and donned a genuinely relaxed smile. Don’t get me wrong…I still looked ridiculous, but the final product took hours upon hours of prep work.

The me of 2013 looks like I’ve given up on sleep, my hair, and my femininity in general. I take every chance I get to talk about my glory years of playing softball back in college. Boy do I look the part in this snapshot.

And don’t misinterpret that last statement as a slam on female athletes. It’s meant to be funny. My former teammates are laughing their butts off right now shaking their heads in agreement because they know I could probably snag a coaching job right now based on that mugshot alone.

The me “then” yearned to make her mark in corporate America. She thought she’d travel to far-away places with her husband. She hung out with her friends and stayed in shape without thinking about it. She wasn’t sure what she wanted to be when she grew up.

The me “now” is focused on cranking out her daily work with no egotistical expectations involved. She chooses sleep over vanity, considers staying at the Holiday Inn a vacation, and apologizes to friends for never having time to hang out. She still has no idea what she wants to be when she grows up.

I fully recognize this is just a busy time in our lives as a family. This beautifully written post reminds me to cherish these years as they will be gone far too soon.

The me “now,” although different than the type of person I thought I would be when I was young and naive, is fabulously frazzled — slicked back pony tail and all.

Some events from my life that have made me stop and reflect recently:

  • My daughter has a dress that she knows is my favorite. I told her I would never give it away. We talked about how someday, if she’s lucky, she might have a daughter who can wear that same dress.
  • My middle child, who has struggled throughout the summer at hitting a baseball, smacked a line drive into right center field to help his team secure a come-from-behind victory. He got to feel what it’s like to rise up to a challenge.
  • A night out with my oldest. I love that he’s turning into a young man who’s interested in sharing his opinions with me…even if they’re the polar opposite of mine.
  • I got to read a handwritten thank you card from one of my son’s teammates to my husband, thanking him for being an awesome coach.
perfect little dress

The perfect little dress.

Created by Heidi Woodard