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

Being nice does pay off

August 11, 2013
c/o cakespy.com

c/o cakespy.com

Let’s start off by stating some obvious facts:

  • In terms of guilty pleasures, I am hard pressed to name anything that tastes better than a Goodrich malt. (If you’re not blessed to live in one of the Midwestern states where Goodrich operates, I seriously feel bad for you because you are missing out on an experience that feels like driving with the top down, playing hooky, and skydiving all rolled into one.)
  • If someone placed a free Goodrich malt on the opposite side from where I stood across a six-lane freeway during rush hour traffic and told me I could have it if I made it to the prize unscathed like a human Frogger, I would take on that challenge without a second thought.
  • Goodrich malts have the consistency of wet cement, making them impossible to drink fast enough to suffer a brain freeze. They are a bit pricey for the portion size so you learn to savor every last sip.
  • Goodrich and Subway made a business decision to combine forces years ago, which resulted in them sharing store space and staff. It’s much easier and less messy for a typical worker to make a quick sandwich over a slow churned malt.

Knowing all of this upfront helps set the scene for my story.

I was on my way back into town after working at an event in a city that’s 2.5 hours from my home. My sole goal was to coast the last 15-20 miles because I didn’t want to have to stop for gas and I knew my tank was getting low, but the caution light came on to let me know my luck had run out.

I pulled into a gas station that’s connected to a Goodrich/Subway store and thought to myself, “Screw it. I need a malt.”

9:35 PM people. The best time of day to consume a gazillion calories. But, remember, I am a human Frogger when it comes to my obsession with the end prize.

Play Frogger at Classic Games Arcade

So, I walked in and made eye contact with the kid who got stuck working the late shift. He asked if he could make me a sandwich and I responded with the five words I know every Goodrich/Subway worker hates.

“I’d actually like a malt.”

Not only did I want a malt, I wanted a chocolate one with marshmallow added. HIGH MAINTENANCE HEIDI.

After my demands left my lips, I started to apologize like I was breaking up with him.

“I’m sorry. I know malts totally suck to make. But I need one so badly.”

We shared some laughs over the next several minutes as he affirmed they are a total pain to make and that people who request butterscotch malts or caramel to be added to their malts are the absolute worst. He also said they’d be 10 times easier to make if they had the right supplies – including those slick dome-shaped lids with the bigger openings on top like gas stations use for their slushies. I agreed with all his points and told him he should contact the big-wigs at Goodrich and share that idea with them. “Who knows?” I said, “You may end up with some big bonus for your brilliant idea.”

As he approached the cash register he said to me, “Well, you’re cool. How about $0.54?”

That same malt should have cost me around $4. Needless to say, he and I were no longer broken up. He was back in my heart to stay.

My life theory is – be nice without expecting anything in return. When your niceness pays off, it’s like having extra marshmallow unexpectedly added to your chocolate malt.

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