Revisiting a painful memory
In preparing a "model" for my 10th graders' autobiographical narratives, I wrote about a huge "shift" in my life:
“When you finish that call, meet me in the conference room,” Mark said to me as he walked through the IT department to the door. Mark was my boss, the IT Director at the law firm where I worked in Columbus, and I had no idea what he wanted to talk with me about. I finished the help desk call I was on, put aside my headset, and shrugged at my co-worker, Tim, as I left my desk to go to the conference room next to our department.
When I got there, Cara, the HR director was there with Mark, and I looked at them, confused. Cara had a file and some loose papers, and they asked me to sit down.
Honestly, I have no recollection what they first spoke of; I thought they might want to talk about of the new document management system, my recent job review, or maybe the compliments from the training session I’d organized and run for the new DMS rollout. It was a few minutes before the words “severance” and “lay-off” sank in.
“Wait, are you firing me?” I asked, all the blood draining from my face.
“We are letting you go, yes,” replied Cara, and she picked up with the sentence I’d interrupted about a severance package and COBRA insurance.
“But why?” I interrupted again. “I just had a great performance review.” That’s when the tears began pouring from my eyes. Those tears continued for several days afterward, some of the worst days of my life.
I never did find out why I was “let go,” but I later found out that it is pretty standard practice - for security purposes when an employee is terminated from a law firm - not to allow the employee to return to his or her desk. Cara retrieved my purse and coat, and a few days later, a courier brought a couple boxes of my personal belongings and books from my work space. It was a stunningly unexpected and quick termination, and I didn’t even get the opportunity to say goodbye to Tim in IT, “the annoying little brother I never had,” or any of the secretaries or paralegals or associates or attorneys I’d worked with so closely for years. What had begun a normal work day in the cutthroat world of the corporate law firm ended (for me) in shock and despair. I bawled and bawled all the way to my car, all the way home, and when I got home, after making a quick post in my blog with the bad news, I cried myself to sleep.
The next few days were a nightmare for me. Just two weeks before, I had turned down a very lucrative offer to be a technical trainer in the biggest law firm in Ohio. I hadn’t been unhappy in my current position, and I felt a sense of loyalty to my firm, even though I’d have made $12,000 to $15,000 a year more at the other firm. The first thing I did the day after I was laid-off was call them to see if the position was still open. Unfortunately, they’d just offered the position to another candidate just two days earlier. I contacted all my other law firm contacts about openings in their IT and training departments - I knew and was known by them all - but no one else was hiring. it soon was apparent to me that I would not be able to find another job in my field, I would not be hired for a lesser position (for which I was overqualified), and without work, it was only a matter of time before I would be unable to pay my mortgage and would lose my house. It was the lowest period in my entire life, and I was terrified about what would happen to me.
Then I got a call from my friend Linda, a friend in Phoenix. She told me she’d seen my blog and tried to call me immediately (I wasn’t answering any personal calls or emails); she was worried about me and had lit a candle for me.
“Whatever,” I thought. I really didn’t want to talk with anyone. All I could think about was how I could get another job and how long I could hold out before my house would be foreclosed.
“Listen. Just listen, okay?” she persisted. I sighed and agreed. “Remember how you were writing a couple weeks ago about how cold you were and how you would fall asleep at night thinking about lying in the sun by the pool at Kirk’s house?”
Reluctantly, I agreed that I was looking forward to a vacation I had planned in April at my friend Kirk’s in Tucson. I started to protest that maybe I should cancel my vacation and focus on job-hunting instead, but she cut me off. “Instead of dreaming about Arizona, come here. You have always talked about how you felt encumbered by home-ownership and wanted to downsize. Do it. Contact a realtor about short-selling your house, and come to Arizona. Just do it.”
While it wasn’t easy, my life shifted that moment when Linda called and I seriously started considering her suggestion. I had plenty of friends in Tucson and Phoenix, and they would welcome me with open arms. I could start over again. And I did.
It’s still painful to think about that day last day at KBHR, but my life is better now for having left behind the corporate world, the legal profession, the ice, the cold, and the grayness of Ohio. Granted, I now make tens of thousands of dollars less than I had been making and I work much, much longer hours, but my attitude about my work and lifestyle are completely different. My “clientele” are now teens learning to express themselves, think critically, and prepare for their future, rather than wealthy individuals and business whose concerns are mostly related to protecting themselves against lawsuits, reduce taxes, and maximize profits. I never felt “useful” in the legal profession; I never felt anything I did helped make the world any better or improved the lives of anyone who really needed it. And though I knew it all along, I had forgotten just how cutthroat and cold the legal profession and corporate world can be. One day you’re employee-of-the-month and the senior partner is telling you how lucky the firm is to have you, and then next day you’re on the sidewalk in front of the building, blinking away tears and wondering what happened to the great, stable job you thought you had.
I would never have made that career change willingly; it’s a good thing the decision was made for me.
This was hard to write, but it occurs to me that it was time to resolve some of the pain from that experience.
“When you finish that call, meet me in the conference room,” Mark said to me as he walked through the IT department to the door. Mark was my boss, the IT Director at the law firm where I worked in Columbus, and I had no idea what he wanted to talk with me about. I finished the help desk call I was on, put aside my headset, and shrugged at my co-worker, Tim, as I left my desk to go to the conference room next to our department.
When I got there, Cara, the HR director was there with Mark, and I looked at them, confused. Cara had a file and some loose papers, and they asked me to sit down.
Honestly, I have no recollection what they first spoke of; I thought they might want to talk about of the new document management system, my recent job review, or maybe the compliments from the training session I’d organized and run for the new DMS rollout. It was a few minutes before the words “severance” and “lay-off” sank in.
“Wait, are you firing me?” I asked, all the blood draining from my face.
“We are letting you go, yes,” replied Cara, and she picked up with the sentence I’d interrupted about a severance package and COBRA insurance.
“But why?” I interrupted again. “I just had a great performance review.” That’s when the tears began pouring from my eyes. Those tears continued for several days afterward, some of the worst days of my life.
I never did find out why I was “let go,” but I later found out that it is pretty standard practice - for security purposes when an employee is terminated from a law firm - not to allow the employee to return to his or her desk. Cara retrieved my purse and coat, and a few days later, a courier brought a couple boxes of my personal belongings and books from my work space. It was a stunningly unexpected and quick termination, and I didn’t even get the opportunity to say goodbye to Tim in IT, “the annoying little brother I never had,” or any of the secretaries or paralegals or associates or attorneys I’d worked with so closely for years. What had begun a normal work day in the cutthroat world of the corporate law firm ended (for me) in shock and despair. I bawled and bawled all the way to my car, all the way home, and when I got home, after making a quick post in my blog with the bad news, I cried myself to sleep.
The next few days were a nightmare for me. Just two weeks before, I had turned down a very lucrative offer to be a technical trainer in the biggest law firm in Ohio. I hadn’t been unhappy in my current position, and I felt a sense of loyalty to my firm, even though I’d have made $12,000 to $15,000 a year more at the other firm. The first thing I did the day after I was laid-off was call them to see if the position was still open. Unfortunately, they’d just offered the position to another candidate just two days earlier. I contacted all my other law firm contacts about openings in their IT and training departments - I knew and was known by them all - but no one else was hiring. it soon was apparent to me that I would not be able to find another job in my field, I would not be hired for a lesser position (for which I was overqualified), and without work, it was only a matter of time before I would be unable to pay my mortgage and would lose my house. It was the lowest period in my entire life, and I was terrified about what would happen to me.
Then I got a call from my friend Linda, a friend in Phoenix. She told me she’d seen my blog and tried to call me immediately (I wasn’t answering any personal calls or emails); she was worried about me and had lit a candle for me.
“Whatever,” I thought. I really didn’t want to talk with anyone. All I could think about was how I could get another job and how long I could hold out before my house would be foreclosed.
“Listen. Just listen, okay?” she persisted. I sighed and agreed. “Remember how you were writing a couple weeks ago about how cold you were and how you would fall asleep at night thinking about lying in the sun by the pool at Kirk’s house?”
Reluctantly, I agreed that I was looking forward to a vacation I had planned in April at my friend Kirk’s in Tucson. I started to protest that maybe I should cancel my vacation and focus on job-hunting instead, but she cut me off. “Instead of dreaming about Arizona, come here. You have always talked about how you felt encumbered by home-ownership and wanted to downsize. Do it. Contact a realtor about short-selling your house, and come to Arizona. Just do it.”
While it wasn’t easy, my life shifted that moment when Linda called and I seriously started considering her suggestion. I had plenty of friends in Tucson and Phoenix, and they would welcome me with open arms. I could start over again. And I did.
It’s still painful to think about that day last day at KBHR, but my life is better now for having left behind the corporate world, the legal profession, the ice, the cold, and the grayness of Ohio. Granted, I now make tens of thousands of dollars less than I had been making and I work much, much longer hours, but my attitude about my work and lifestyle are completely different. My “clientele” are now teens learning to express themselves, think critically, and prepare for their future, rather than wealthy individuals and business whose concerns are mostly related to protecting themselves against lawsuits, reduce taxes, and maximize profits. I never felt “useful” in the legal profession; I never felt anything I did helped make the world any better or improved the lives of anyone who really needed it. And though I knew it all along, I had forgotten just how cutthroat and cold the legal profession and corporate world can be. One day you’re employee-of-the-month and the senior partner is telling you how lucky the firm is to have you, and then next day you’re on the sidewalk in front of the building, blinking away tears and wondering what happened to the great, stable job you thought you had.
I would never have made that career change willingly; it’s a good thing the decision was made for me.
This was hard to write, but it occurs to me that it was time to resolve some of the pain from that experience.