The Art of Letting Go

I am currently on my third career. It wasn't so much an active choice to live as a professional vagabond, as a chance meeting with my hopes and dreams.
I had become a nurse in my 20's, mostly as a vehicle to make money until I figured out what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. I find it curious how we as a society feel the need to force lifetime decisions on an eighteen year old. There are people who at a very early age know exactly what they want to be in their career and profession for the duration of their adulthood, but my experience is they are few and far between. Most of us are clueless, doing what we have to until a better idea comes along. I was a geriatric (old person) nurse for over 20 years. I worked with hospice patients, ventilator dependent quadriplegics, nursing homes and eventually landed in a locked down Alzheimer unit. I know you feel the irony of this with me. Go ahead and laugh. The latter became my favorite work. I loved working with people who no longer had unreasonable expectations and lived truly in the moment of whatever they were feeling. So many feel sorry for the patients, when in reality it is the family members who suffer so much more. The Alzheimer patients I had lived in the moment. Most were pain and obligation free. Most felt love and joy without expectation or attachment. My heart went out those families who brought in photo albums and wanted to reminisce with the patient of days gone by and family members who remained so very attached to their past and present. Most of my patients would throw the books down and walk away bothered by the fact they were forced to sit and listen to such drivel when clearly anyone could see there was pudding in the dining room.
My patients loved me and tortured me. I have been thrown into a brick planter as if I were a rag doll and choked nearly to death with my own stethoscope. I have been hugged and kissed. I have had poop thrown at my head. I would go home covered in feces, blood, urine, apple sauce and Ensure. I was crusty everyday I ended my shift. My hair was usually matted to my head from the sweat that poured out of me from lifting people all day long. My feet ached from 12 hour shifts that never seemed to end. My head hurt from frustration at a system completely broken down. My heart reminded all of the above, that I loved the people I worked with, patients and staff.
I became a massage therapist ten years ago. As a single mother I was being torn between the heavy and constant needs of my patients and the needs of my children. I had also begun to notice that the administration seemed to thrive on hanging my job over my head as a constant reminder that I needed the money. I noticed more and more single mothers coming to work as if they were in a hostage situation. I decided to go back to school and try to find a place in the work force that allowed for my family life. I worked two jobs and went to school for eight hours on my only day off. I graduated after two grueling years and started my own practice as a LMT. I had freedom and no health insurance. We squeaked by the best we could. What we lacked in monetary security we made up for in emotional refuge. It's a terrible choice to make, but in the end I was glad I chose home. The best part was nobody needed an emergency massage on Christmas.
After moving to Texas nearly five years ago, having no job to go to and closing the practice I had built from the ground up; it was time for me to rethink my future. I took a job at a spa here in town and worked four days a week. It was an OK job. Notice the word "job". I clocked in and out. I did my work and tried to come up with marketing ideas and new treatments to keep things fresh for myself. I was married to Mike and no longer had the responsibility of supporting the family alone. For the very first time I had some options. It took the four years working at the spa to figure that piece of information out: I had options.
Every morning when I get up, I pour myself a cup of coffee and sit down at the kitchen table with pen and notebook at the ready. This is the time I write. I write long hand, scribbled, scratched up messes. I write one topic for about 2 hours until my hand cramps or I had to go to work. I have done this now for many years. I have approximately 25 spiral notebooks filled front and back to prove it. I had always wanted to write a book. I had and have ideas pushing their way out of my head. It was a dream of mine to be able to work from home, so I could be there for my loved ones and still keep my professional interests.
Back in July of 2008 I had a diagnosis of carpal tunnel, both hands. This is what every massage therapist fears; it means the end of your career. I went through the stages of denial, grief and panic. If I am not this, then who am I? My adulthood was filled with being a care taker in one form or another. I had been a Nurse's Aid, Nurse and Massage Therapist. I believe in signs, unless I am in strict panic mode and then I temporarily become a fatalist. I am working on keeping that bad girl behavior down to a minimum. When first stricken with a life altering change, I have visions of us living under a bridge, beneath a cardboard box, eating cat food from dented cans. My imagination is most definitely a double edged sword. My husband, the beautiful optimist, offered up the idea that it was time for me to write the book, that was already filling up notebook after notebook. It was a sign. I see that now, but at the time, I must admit,I had to be convinced to do what felt as natural to me as breathing.
So here it is my third career. My other careers didn't pan out monetarily as well as I had hoped. I consoled myself by focusing on the good work I did. This time around I have no idea what will happen. I love what I do. My hope is still focused on the work and reaching out to others, although if I happen to make a boat load of money, then that is OK, too.