a sense of loss

There are of course no guarantees in this life. And *this* fall, I hadn't officially been offered the class to teach and signed a contract. I had only "unofficially" been asked via email.

So I shouldn't feel this heart-sick disappointment when I checked in at the University website and saw that a tenured professor will once again be teaching "my" Intro to Theatre class.

Last year, I had the contract in my hand-- I had signed it and was awaiting the Dean's signature, when I got a call that due to the budget cuts, etc, etc. a tenured prof would have to teach the class (since he already had to be paid in the budget) and many apologies, no reflection on my work.

*sigh*

Still, I was more than a little bit counting on this job. It has been great for my self-esteem to say I am employed using my PhD. It is helpful income. AND I am at a transitional point in my life when I want to move on to being more professionally employed and stop giving myself away.

I am trying to figure out my next step. Do I write to my department chair and say I noticed what has happened and I would like to meet to go over my teaching portfolio to make me more marketable? Do I ignore it and focus on my writing?

Do I give up and apply for a job at Tim Horton's Donut shop?

I am weeping inside, even though this is not a total surprise. I had been thinking, when I know *for sure* that I have the Intro to Theatre job, maybe I will look at buying a little used truck so we have a second super-useful vehicle.

I can, of course, continue to sub at Ken's school. It's something-- about as much as babysitting.

I could start up a kid's day care camp/pre-school.

I could go back to school to get a Master's in Education (literally backing up to school, to go back and get a Master's after a PhD).

Really, I want to go back to bed and curl up and cry.

overeducated and underemployed

I really have no room to complain, as I am part of a partnership (my marriage) that is financially stable.

However, I was doing the math the other day and I am appalled at how little I am making -- in a financial sense.

I work hard. I do quality work. But I am essentially giving it away.

Any suggestions?

farewells

My great uncle died. And a couple of weeks earlier, my friend Gary died.

It is, in part, a function of my age. I have passed the half-century mark. I know more people in the latter half of their lives.

My husband says: "ad 120"- to 120! to which I add, please God, in good health mentally and physically-- but even by that measure, he has started the second half of his life.

So farewells and goodbyes become more important to me.

Goodbye.

I heard, or read, once that "goodbye" is "God-be-with-ye".

I say I love you more often. I am making time to be with those I love.

God-be-with-you.

May you be well, and you be well. May we each fare well- until we meet again.

contact info

I used to carry many phone numbers in my head. Now there are very few.

I don't know my four children's phone numbers. They are on my contacts list in my phone!

I have put the numbers up on a database that I can access, just in case. But-- I don't *know* them. I really ought to learn them. What if my phone wasn't working and I wasn't near a computer?

BUT-- I *do* know their email addresses!

substitute

I work as a substitute teacher from time to time. I am working now as a substitute teacher in the Resource Room, which is the special education department here.

I have a kindergartner who has arrived with his work sheet of the __ip family of words. He is supposed to write the words. He says, he can do it himself! After asking a few times about working on it together, I finally agree. Of course you can do it yourself! I say. Let's see who can get done first. I will do my work over here (I point to the desk next to his table) and you can work there (point to his table). Who will get done first?

So I begin to write some journal entries, and he gets as busy as can be. I think we didn't do it quite right-- I think I was supposed to read the words, rather than his working on copying, but whatever. He is excited to finish his work before I finish mine!

I'm done! he exclaims.

Oh, darn! I say. I was ALMOST done! Let me see.

I check his work and find some errors. You need to fix it here, here and here, I say.

No I don't! he says.

GOOD! I say, then I can still beat you! -- and I turn away and he makes the corrections.

I'm done! he exclaims.

Let me look, I say. Oh! I say, you fixed it all! But I see you didn't put your name on it! I still have a chance!

And I turn back to my work, and he puts his name on his paper, and

I'm done! he says.

I look at his paper.

You won! I say.

I think to myself:

We won.

a binge personality

With me, it's all or nothin'
It's all or nothin with me!

The verse from Oklahoma! seems to sum up not my love life but my activity life. Today, I am heading off for a six hour rehearsal; squeezing in grading papers this morning and tonight; tomorrow, grading papers, taking my mom to the doctor's, writing the final, teaching the last Monday night class; Tuesday working 7:30-3:30 and rehearsing 4:00-10:00... and the rest of the next two weeks is basically like that.

I am hoping that I have a day or two of nothin' after that. Just to rest.

serious as a heart attack

I have recently been reminded how every experience in our lives can impact our lives as artists.

I am reaching the mid-point of directing Ibsen's Ghosts.

And, suddenly, I learn that my mother is being rushed to the hospital with a heart attack.

Drop everything and rush to the hospital. Cancel rehearsal for that night, and the next. As it happens, a 3 day break has been scheduled after that, so we will see...

At the hospital, helping my mom fill out paperwork-- although do we call it paperwork any more? It's all on the computer.

We are asked about her durable power of attorney for health care. Which she has prepared; of course it's not with her.

We weren't expecting this.

Mom tells me where the paperwork is. I fetch the durable power of attorney (POA) the next day and bring it to the hospital.

The first person named to hold the POA is my mom's significant other, now deceased. The nurse asks me to cross out his name, write "deceased," and initial.

I do.

I am the next named person to hold the POA.

The nurse takes the POA and adds it to my mom's chart.

A few minutes later, while my mom is trying to nap, the nurse calls me into the hall.

She points out the section dealing with "DNR"-- Do Not Resuscitate. Under certain conditions, carefully spelled out conditions, it is my mom's wish that she be allowed to die. And, in those circumstances in which she is unable to speak for herself, I am the one who is to speak for her.

The good news, in this episode, is that my mom is home, recuperating.

But at that moment, Helen Alving's pain and wrenching moment of decision with her son Oswald is no longer so melodramatic to me. It is deeply serious.

As serious as a heart attack.