Give an Account

Faith
Last night, my housemates and I were watching a rare television show (the first for me this summer) and the topic turned to the child abuse perpetrated by priests. Inwardly, I cringed as I anticipated the inevitable —“Sarah, what do rational, ethical Catholics think about this?” I fumbled for an answer that I did not have, wishing that I could vaporize under the chair.
The question has many forms, many topics, but can be expressed by Elton John “Imagine no religion—the world would be so wonderful, the world would be as one”….. wouldn’t it? At times, I wonder if I am making a grave assault on all of humanity by being religious, and I know that, to some people, I am.
I have to give an answer, a reason for my hope. I am religious; I am a person who has faith. I am, of sorts, a spiritual addict who would find “quitting” ultimately devastating. Am I merely ingesting the opium of the masses? You may think so.
I am spiritual because I believe that life’s purpose cannot be found in material acquisition, sexual prowess, and power. I am spiritual because I am a seeker. I am seeking beauty and truth. I am seeking personal “set apartness” a set of values and a way of living that defies my culture’s aspirations. I have faith in purpose beyond my biological cells, and yes, in a great unknowable, uncreated being beyond my definitions.
My faith is found in and focused upon the person of Jesus. He challenges me to value the people that no one else sees—and to find the value in my own brokenness. Jesus speaks of charity, that the good Samaritan was truly good because he assisted someone with a different worldview and mindset from his own—without trying to change him. Jesus takes the woman at the well and addresses the core of her being. Instead of dismissively accepting her lifestyle, he addressed what she was seeking through her series of broken relationships; a sustaining renewal.

Jesus ultimately suffered and died. He, by all measures of “normality” and “the American dream” was a complete failure. In the bread and wine, he teaches me the value of a life given, the beauty of grapes bruised and fermented instead of the fast and sweet that my culture loves.
Corruption exists now in the Church as it has existed in religious organizations throughout history. Jesus was killed by religious leaders. Jesus was betrayed by a corrupt person in his own group. I am religious, however, because of hope. Yes, in the search for beauty and truth; in mass and in Eucharistic adoration; there have been priests who committed the unthinkable. This is condoned by no one, least of all faithful church members. The harshest words of Christ were for those who offended children. Hope believes that beauty and truth still exists, even when rottenness and lies are found. Hope is affirmed by the fact that church leaders must face appropriate judicial processes, seeing the renewing effect of exposure and change.
Contrast the suffering servant who lived in poverty and died in shame with Lucifer. Lucifer was the leader of angelic music, called the morning star, prince of angels, exceeding in beauty and light. Through pride he fell, becoming the embodiment of evil. The dark side of faith, then, is very real, very dangerous. As with love, hate and heartbreak on it’s heels, faith is neither comfortable or a guaranteed good. Arrogance, entitlement, and privilege, all threaten to bring the Church to ruin. This is why I am glad to be challenged. I am glad my faith is not one of society’s norm, but one that is threatened, and forced into examination. I hope my faith will come out pure, refined; gold.

God uses pennies

How was copper wire invented?  Well, you see, two Dutchmen were fighting over a penny........

My mom's cousin's husband--kin?-- told this to his fellow South Dakotan doctors at a meeting last week.  This was followed by:  well there's this Dutch girl by the name of Zoutendam who will be applying to our medical school next year...she's related to Dr. Zoutendam... and she told me that joke.

The same distant cousin who happily offered a spare apartment in her house for me, the same doctor who told me that I was on the right track and that I could shadow him...then said "They know your name now, Sarah, they'll be looking out for you."

An aunt said she had a pickup in good condition that I could use for the summer-- if I learn to drive a stick shift.  (I am memorizing all the hilly stop signs, and may not visit you if you live on a hill.)

Oh yes, a cousin who has some car dealerships and will sell to me at cost...

A job is opening up at the Children's Hospital despite my strange background..... in which I can provide care to a disabled child and join in all the therapy sessions  (with a broad spectrum of health providers).

There is a scholarship available to cover a significant portion of my tuition.

My grandparents on all sides are alive and remarkably well. They have all been very supportive of my next move. My mom's parents took me in when I had no idea where I was going and even let me use their vehicle for a few months. My Dad's parents offer a sounding ground, advice, and catch me when I fall.....

Oh yeah, did I mention the doctor who treated a problem in my leg... for free?  And then asked me to shadow him during his weekend on duty (because he wanted to hear more about Ethiopia)?  What about the doctor I shadowed who had been a SOCIAL WORKER for six years before going back to medical school-- and told me how much more a person from the social sciences can add to medicine?  

There is also a small town family doctor who knows one of my Rutgers professors and had me over for a chat. Who would guess that he is part of an advisory team for national health care reform initiatives and medicare payment amounts? Several professors, by the way, have sent recommendations to my various ideas of post- baccalaureates and are supportive of my final choice. They even send recommendations as I job- hunt.

Small things... my apartment is fully furnished-- down to oven, microwave, even dish rags -- better yet, access to a bread maker.... oh yes, and friends of friends with symphony members for free Sioux Falls symphony tickets....

Speaking of music, there's more...a friend has a recording studio that recorded Congolese choirs in the area (that I can go to hear).  More: an Ethiopian friend who wants to show me the local Ethiopian churches.  A contact with the local Sudanese "lost boy" community.

Stop, did I mention the local small group I joined in Aberdeen's parishes with a dear couple in their seventies? We go out for breakfast every Sunday after mass. They were raised on farms, were farmers and we can really share stories and thoughts! What about the parish I am connected with in Sioux Falls? It has a young, active congregation, intent on Christian communities.

I can't forget the wonderful ladies that I meet with in church who share advice on cooking roasts with Coca- Cola and care about who I am and where I'm going.

Oh, I forgot, I will be living near the historic district in an actual neighborhood and in a 3 mile radius of everything I need.

Wait, my first winter in South Dakota was the warmest one... EVER....

I am blessed and I cannot say anything else about it.  God needs a leap of faith, a moment of flying, but He is a good catcher.  Who knew he would take my little pennies and make a fortune?

Down

No sooner had I arrived in the house than I was greeted by a litany of questions. So, you going back to school? Didn't get enough there? How much is it going to cost? Where will you live? Do you have a job? Have you been applying for jobs? Yeah, what kind? In my family, this is how love is sometimes expressed. Brutally exacting, but out of concern. That's part of why I decided to stay here. I have to move to the biggest city in South Dakota, right by the Iowa border, in order to take the courses needed for medical school admissions. I am, however, staying in the sate, and very close to family on all sides. In this new stage of life, establishing a home is too important to put off. So, I put my foot down and decided to stay here. I am also applying for patient care jobs at different hospitals and nursing homes. The interviews are terribly embarrassing "So, you have a masters's degree and you are applying for this job?" "Where are you from?" "So, you're changing directions.....?(raised eyebrow)" Not to mention that contacting someone for references in Uganda doesn't always work well.
This is the hardest thing I will ever do. Choosing to plant roots somewhere, to humbly take my courses as a nontraditional older student, and to bravely take this one day at a time, are all difficult. If you would have told me at 18 that this is where I'd be 8 years later, I wouldn't have believed you---- then I would have cried. Yes, I battle my doubts every day, and I do look at the social work jobs posted every once in a while. In the end, however, if I take what's coming instead of trying to run away, it will turn out. After all, I have a lot of strong, sometimes rigid, support.

South Dakota terminology

The Peace Corps advised us to return home mindful that we would find a unique, and at times foreign, culture awaiting us. Here are some takes on life from South Dakota:
1. Theft: When someone takes your purse out of your unattended grocery cart. (In other states, this is called charity)
2. Town: Any place with a name, a grain elevator, an implement dealer, and a bar.
3. High speed information: ladies' society "prayer" meeting.
4. Headline news: "Man catches 63 fish over license limit"
5. Pot Roast Pizza: The local parlor's specialty; yes, corn, mashed potatoes and roast on a hand tossed crust...
6. State sport: rodeo (again, no joke)
7. Old maid: high school degree and STILL no ring...
8. Foreign land: well, you've heard of WESTERN South Dakota...
9. Claustrophobia: excess of 10 people per square mile (state average).
10.Family doctor: a medical doctor who treats children and senior citizens, and delivers babies! (in other states you need a 5 physician team to do all that!)

A stranger in a strange land: me!

The ducks stayed in South Dakota.... maybe I should too

I have, for several weeks, been hoping for acceptance into the University of Virginia's prestigious pre- medical post- baccalaureate program (yes it sounds like an old Detroit church name; too loooong). With experienced advising staff, hands on shadowing opportunities, and an excellent reputation for undergraduate instruction, 85% of the those in the program go on to medical school for a reason. The natural beauty of Charlottsville, warm weather, and the architectural beauty of Virginian mansions to boot cannot be ignored. I had been praying for favor, reading the director's research articles, and perfecting my only suit. Last week, I visited a cousin in Sioux Falls, as her husband, an internist runs the free clinic. I knew something was up when their house was on Euclid; a street always in the older, almost historic and always diverse part of town. True enough, every house on the street was unique and theirs; a purplish brown Victorian, overlooked and blended in with the sunset. Full of books, family pictures, and some well fed cats and dog, the house also had subscriptions to the New York Times and the Economist. My cousin showed me an empty but furnished apartment in the finished basement and told me I was welcome to stay there and do my coursework in town. It was tempting The next day, I was using a computer in the Sioux Falls free clinic as I followed my cousin in law on his patient rounds. As we were discussing prevalent STD's in the area, I opened my email. Yes, I was accepted into the University of Virginia's program. I did not dwell on it, however, because we were off to examine a suspected hernia. I met with the head of the clinic and worked out an internship using my past experience in social work. Could the mandatory volunteer time with other students at the University of Virginia free clinic really be better? The previous morning, I had visited Augustana College, a good liberal arts college in Sioux Falls, to see if they offered the courses I would need. The friendly admissions counselor, with the good Dutch name of Dykstra, didn't reprimand me for tardiness, but brought me to the head of the science department. Yes they had a premedical program; with about 90% of graduates getting into medical school. Yes they had worked with "nontraditional" applicants like myself. And yes, there were some scholarships available. With 5 days to decide; I realize that there are benefits on both sides; I do want to feel at home somewhere. I am tired of moving around. I would love to stay in Sioux Falls. I hesitate, however, to rely on my cousin and her husband and Augustana in place of an officially put together pre-packaged program from the UVA. So far, I feel differently every morning, but I have chosen Sioux Falls for two mornings in a row.....

Deciduous, Decidedly

All red blossoms and leaves verdant green
Fell, rotten, froze
Eventually my guise,
Out identity
If you didn't know me before,
Without,
You now won't glance, see
Only sticks
Stripped twigs thinly remain.
Naked, bare
You'd think them dying, strange
Oh, no.
This is not death,
Everlasting honesty,
Just a glimpse,
Purge,
Fleeting truth,
Look- see
Making way
For spring's bright color
Rest before summer's
Exhausting heat
And a glimpse,
To prepare,
To ponder,
That true fall
That last winter
With Peace.

I am not crazy

Valentine’s day recently passed and I celebrated in my usual manner; by filing my taxes. It didn’t take long because my life is remarkably uncomplicated. While I wait to see where I’ll be in April, study in preparation, and line up shadowing opportunities, I jog daily, bake, and hang out with my grandparents. Despite this simplicity, I do not have the clarity that I did in Uganda. I returned to the states a bit suspicious of the conclusions I reached overseas. I wondered if I could trust such out of context decisions. Cluttered now with my so much well intentioned advice, competing opportunities, chances to compare myself with others, and life details, details, details, many days I often cannot see the big picture. What am I doing? And why on earth? I realize this is the reason I went to Lesotho in the first place and part of what attracted me to the Peace Corps. The ability to think; clarity, solitude—and it is what I experienced. I have begun to respect the space for thinking that I had there. I am not confused about where I am going or what I am doing. I am not bewildered. I am not lost. I am, instead, one of the only people I know who have been able to think about what I am doing, to stop the hamster wheel, get out of the cage and make active decisions.

Cards

When it’s cold outside and you don’t have an ice shack or a hunting license (or even a gun), you end up with--- cards. I have developed my strategy; simply all or nothing. Like in crazy rummy, I hold on to my high cards until I can get them to count for me. If someone else goes out first, I lose, big. If not, I really win. As I was holding my cards, hoping that no one would go out first, hoping that the right card would come my way, I realized that this is my life. My masters’ and Peace Corps are great wild cards but not a complete hand. I have some small cards but am holding my hand for bigger ones. I turned down a position as the County child protective services caseworker. It would have been a decent hand. It would have led to a decent life. Instead, I held onto my cards. I’m turning down the small things that threaten to make me settle; a date with so- and- so; a minimum wage job, anxiety over future debt. I’m giving myself permission to take these three months at my grandparents house to study Calculus, Chemistry and Biology (some with and some without a classroom class) to review my MCAT books, to apply and look into different pre- med and med options, and to read. Paul Farmer, not a good bedside book because it fills me with drive to pursue medicine, teaches me that my background is valid and my future pursuits worthwhile—to keep holding onto these cards, to try for the big ones. I did hold those cards last night and made 500 points in one round (instead of the 20 I would have otherwise). The next round, I lost, also grandly. I do worry that I am throwing away the bird in the hand for the elusive flock in the tree. My life, however, is not exactly like cards. First of all, as a first world citizen, I don’t have to worry as much about someone else ending it for me. No, instead the round is very, very long. Too long to go out settling for what I have in my hand so far.

Men are falling from the sky!

A fellow returned Peace Corps volunteer told me, “Sarah, boys are just falling from the sky, I met Luke at a bar last night and now he’s my boyfriend!” --Not this sky, kiddo; I thought. Between classes (with kids 7 years my junior)

and singing at senior housing communities, I seriously doubt anything but snow from this sky. Yesterday afternoon, my grandfather, who had previously been joking about finding me a lonely rancher sat me down for a serious discussion; “I don’t want you to die alone, Sarah.” “Oh Lord!” I thought, on my way to work “Now I’m dying alone; and here I was hoping for at least a Golden Girls’ house beforehand.” At work last week, a little lady from Laos (mother of 10) put me on a machine with a former marine, not so bad looking. “Sarah, you single?” She asked. “Good; Robert, he single too. He vewy nice boy.” I mentioned this to another girl at work, and found that an entire ploy is in place to get Robert and I together. Don’t worry, she said, If Robby doesn’t work out, Sam over there is single too. I know he’s a good man. He loves hunting and fishing. She then proceeded to list each of Sam’s material possessions (and describe his hunting trucks). After all, she says, I don’t want you dying singe, now. Imperfect though they may be, men are indeed falling from the sky, like half fermented grapes from the very well functioning village grapevine. It won’t be long before I find myself on a date at the shooting range, pheasant field, or ice fishing pond some Saturday afternoon.

Oh Jah! South Dakota

In Uganda, when a young college graduate loses her job and is broke, she goes back home. Home is where your extended family is, where there is always a second cousin or an uncle or a grandparent to stay with and help out. In Uganda, when an astoundingly successful person finishes her career, she buys land and a house at “home” and cares for nieces, nephews and elderly relatives. I don’t know if I succeeded or failed; if I am choosing this or have no other choices, but I have also gone home to my people. I stay with my grandparents who refuse to let me pay for anything and want me to focus on school. I will stay with my cousin this summer, whose husband is an internal medicine specialist supervising USD medical students. Yes I wonder if I should go to Johns Hopkins in Baltimore. Yes I wonder if, in this state of 800,000, I could ever meet people to connect to. Yes, I am very annoyed that The Economist is taking so long to be delivered. Yes, my yearly habit of crying has become weekly. Yes, sometimes I wonder what the heck I’m doing. It is especially hard that those in my age group have such vastly different lives and outlooks. My people, however, my family; get it. They have me whether they wanted to or not. And I’ve got them.

Christmas Present 2011

Last year, for Christmas, I took a big piece of butcher paper and mapped out my options. This year, I was accepted to the prestigious Columbia University premedical post baccalaureate program. Wow, I got into Columbia! Now I could go to New York in two weeks and start going to the oldest and best program in the nation, with direct linkages to the nation’s top medical schools—if I really wanted to. Why the note of hesitation? Columbia would involve picking up and moving to a new city—when, due to previous moves, I am no longer accepted as a resident in any state! And it would involve burying myself in debt-- Columbia’s is the most expensive program in the nation, with linkages to the most expensive medical schools in the nation. That’s fine, I’ll just plan on making tons of money or I’ll go to the military. But is that why I started this journey? Do I want to be limited to the rat race of expensive medicine living in expensive places? Good thing I visited some doctor and med school friends in Detroit before I came, all of whom warned me not to get into too much debt and all of whom emphasized that it is not the program but the MCAT scores, and later on the med. school scores, that count. One laughed hysterically at me when I mentioned Columbia’s pre- medical price tag—about $100,000 When I started this journey, I wanted to be a meaningful part of a community. I wanted to have the skills to help people practically, and I wanted to be financially sound. I kept thinking of my grandfather, a family practitioner in a small Iowa town. When I think about going to New York in January, my stomach just begins twisting—and it’s not from Christmas cooking. For now, therefore, I am going to South Dakota with my grandparents. It is where I can take the classes I need for one tenth of the tuition costs at Columbia. It is where I can shadow doctors, work, and even be part of the Dakota Sunshine Singers—who sing oldies at different nursing homes. I am still applying to Johns Hopkins and am considering Columbia, If they’ll accept my excuse for deferment, and if I can afford the $500 for holding my place, that is.

Odessius

I recently had lunch with a friend, whose 21 year old son was done with college and in the local fire force. Wow, he is set for the rest of his life already and here I am, at 26, doing what? My 17 year old brother is making commission selling phones, drives a BMW, and looks on me with unbridled distain—“What are you doing, Sarah?” “ I’m not going to spend the rest of my life in school!” “I’m helping Mom and Dad, you abandoned them!” I know he has no clue, but it is still hard. I guess I have to ask, what did I get out of the last 5 years? Apart from Bantu languages and the real taste of pineapples, what did I learn? When I started this journey, I wanted a chance to think, to breathe, a wilderness experience. I wanted a colorful mosaic backdrop on which to paint the rest of my life. More than that, in my gut, I just had to go, I had to do it. Thankfully, I read Homer’s Odessey before coming home. On his way home from the war in Troy, Odessius lost all his booty, his ship, and his crew. He was delayed for over a decade, held up by various goddesses and vagrants, but, in the end, he returned. Despite all the delays, despite all the loss, despite, at times, regretting his life, he never regretted making the journey. It was, after all, the journey that made his homecoming the most epic poem of several millennia. His journey made him.

Alibi

To keep Ugandan men from pestering me about a green card or visa, I routinely began lying about where I was from. Usually I claimed nationality from which ever country had been in the news that morning-- Yemen, Ivory Coast, Zimbabwe, or Lybia. When coupled with a convincing story of my occupation-- crocodile farmer, mercenary, nun, it usually worked. In the US, where people really want to know where I have been and what I have been doing, however, I pause, slightly ashamed. I really want a good alibi. On one hand, I have had an interesting, rigorous experience and I have been pursuing my education along the way. On the other hand, I do not have much to show for it, neither have I had a very practical, stable existence. I am dreading introductions to old great- aunts and to my parents' friends before they begin. The problem, however, is that my old alibis don't work here. Lybian mercenary-- not for great aunt Delores. The best alibi I can think of is that I've been teaching kindergarten in northern Michigan or stealing kids for the state in Detroit. Hmmm... somehow, it's just not interesting enough; which is, probably, the reason why I have my real story in the first place.

This past weekend another of my best friends got married. You leave the country, and its like all your friends are parceled out to different men-- of their own will, of course. This gave me a great excuse to get back to the Big D. The city of light, the city of grime, the city leading in both syphilis and obesity rates, with the nation's top murder rate to boot. In other words, we may have some extra rolls around but we still get down. To me, the city is a frail, elderly woman who lives in sub- optimal conditions. One look at her face, however, and you'll know that she is a dancer. This is the place I call home from a distance. This is the place where I always cry when I leave. For the last few days, I have been alternately tearing up and trying to hide it. When here, however, I notice that most of my friends who are trying to do "good in the hood" are also outsiders. Those I know who were actually born and raised here are trying to get out. In fact, I feel like I am back as an expat in Africa.

I would love to live here, in the community of med students, doctors, and community workers that are trying to get this city back on its feet. But is that who can really do it? I feel that I have been around the block with this idea long enough to know that it is leadership from and in this community that will determine it's future-- not the carpetbaggers. Not me. At this juncture, I realize how important it is for me to be a part of a community. I also realize that people return home, they don't really make a home. So, for the first time, I'm telling people I'm from South Dakota or Iowa, where my extended family is, where my parents were born. That is where I plan to go in January, after all. We'll see what happens!

Everyone has a butt

Ok, one of my aunts excluded, everyone has a butt. Especially my new nephew who was just born-- he definitely has the prominent, rounded Zoutendam cheeks, with plenty of hot air to boot. Someone once told me that everyone has an opinion like everyone has a butt. Talking with different friends and relatives about my crazy past and my crazier dreams, this is ever so true. Two recent med grads took one look at me and said "Physicians Assistant or public health, but I would never do med school again." Another friend looks me squarely in the eye and says, "You need to start dating." Two friends, both of whom are also "late bloomers," having tried a variety of careers before settling down, were more encouraging. One former missionary kid who traveled for four years before, at a age 26, deciding to complete his pre- med requirements, said, "You'll be 35 either way." Another, who is, in his 30's and beginning law school, talked about following dreams, but at the same time not discounting previous strengths. He reminded me that I can do some cool stuff with public policy that I haven't even gotten into yet. The problem with all of this is that everyone is right-- for his or her life, but not necessarily for mine. One person told me just to focus straight ahead, ignoring the noise on both sides. That is not bad. Yesterday, a woman sitting next to me put her arm around me briefly in the middle of the sermon. I hadn't even noticed that I was leaning over, holding my head with my hands and trying to keep from crying. She had her son with her, whom she was trying to keep from running up and down the isles. Come on, Sarah! I thought, you are a hot mess! Yes, according to the urban dictionary-- someone who looks as if they've been to hell and back. Check!

Rocks

Coming up from this overseas experinece, it is time for the bends. Sometimes I feel like I have just been wasting my time and that I should have done it all differently. I find myself trying to keep from telling people what I have been doing for the past few years for as long as possible. I am applying to post- bac programs, and, considering the cost, also applying to universitites where I can get in state tuition for the same courses. I am agonizing over whether I'm doing the right thing, whether I am being crazy, envying people with regular jobs and steady lives, and generally twisted up in knots. When one aunt asked me where I'm headed, I told her "Straight to the psychiatrist's table!" Mornings are usually all right but at night, I lay shivering (in a heated house in Georgia, under 4 blankets), thinking, unable to sleep. The gospel today (now that I can get scripture readings and meditations in my phone as an app, I have no reason to fall behind) was from Matthew 7:21-27, about building a house, a life, on the rock of Christ. If my existence is really built on Christ, not on a career, or an education, or even a family, He is all that really matters. Yes, I am pursuing my career dreams, etc., but, in the end, it is my relationship with Him that is important. Moreover, if that is my rock, on which my life is built, these small storms of career and etc., cannot reach me; indeed, they are too low. The key to walking on water in a storm, after all, is to focus on Christ and not look down!

Color

First there was green, Tender, growing, unknowing/ Then came blue, Pure, rigid, cold/ And red, Hot, intense exhausting/ Pieces, scattered, cut And I, broken Between heart and mouth Between mind and mantra Between/ I could not move, in one, Too hobbled to dance/ Yellow sun has come Poured on my broken pieces/ Melting them into it’s yellow- white/ Intensity, love, purity, tenderness In the ray that holds all spectrum In one/

Grandpa Z

In khakhi shorts and black support hose
Saggy fanny pack, hairy nose
You every time
Rescued
Delivered
Knew
And these days,
I still wonder,
Are you omnipotent?
And how do you still
Outflag my energy
Rise early
Trimming fallen branches
Rescuing wayward child- adults
We needed you
We need you
We will need you
Until we don't need ourselves.
Uncombed white halo
Thinning, ever thinning,
Stubbornly There
Seep Grandpa
Stubby protruding chin fierce eyes
Sleep soft heart
Love embodied in competence
But not just yet

Ran out

The first scent dust rising/ And I hear small sprays on metal sheet roof// How many more? Avocado seasons large glittering green dripping emerald trees// Pineapple alone with bananas in cake/ pineaple wine so bitter sweet water to poison// How many hot, dry sunshines sweating with jerry cans at the borehole// Not many, not many, few.

Judge Judy

I spent the other weekend with a phenominal woman nicknamed Judge Judy. We went through plans for postbac premedical programs, medical schools, finances, last minute essay revisions, and other small crises. After staying up till 2AM Sunday morning with various problems and schemes, we had an idea of what lay ahead, and the time and money it would take. The next afternoon, I asked, what is the real difference between pursuing this medical degree at a top school and going to my grandparents' home to try and find a normal job or become a nurse? Quality of life, after all, is about joy in the little things and relationships. A pause, small eye roll, and hand to hip later, her answer was simple. "It's the difference between taking control of your life and allowing someone else to take it." I think I am the Judge's most difficult case.