tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59333570075966235872012-02-16T08:55:34.352-06:00Stories and reflections from my personal and professional journey.Hold my hand: a social worker's bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06283197748791227012noreply@blogger.comBlogger751100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5933357007596623587.post-75446523111060125322012-02-12T08:16:00.000-06:002012-02-12T08:16:25.867-06:00

“I don’t have to cook, clean, do laundry, pay bills...” Lucille counted on her fingers the verbs, her lips curving into a mischievous smile.  After a brief pause, she opened her arms and her voice echoed throughout the hall, "I’m living the life of Riley!” It was no surprise to other residents or to the staff.  “Living the life of Riley” was Lucille’s daily motto.  She was the most confident

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No longer at this address.  Return to sender, I wrote on a large, colorful envelope addressed to Barbara, my friend and ex-resident of the nursing home where I work as the social worker.  Since Barbara moved out of the nursing home, a jewelry company from which she once purchased a pair of earrings and a necklace, kept sending her catalogs and a variety of advertisements in the mail.  

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It was Friday afternoon at the nursing home. Many of my co-workers had already left for the day. I wasn’t feeling the T.G.I.F. (“Thank God It’s Friday”) hullabaloo people often express on Fridays. It’d been a busy day. I had new patients to admit that day. I was tired, and wanted to be finished for the day, and the week. But, I still had a few tasks to complete before I could head to where I’d

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“What?” I exclaimed in disbelief. “They may put her on a ventilator?”  I clutched the handset and pressed it close to my ear, praying the conversation was just a bad dream. But it wasn’t. “The doctor said there’s not much they can do,” my friend Liz related, the tone of her voice revealing her stress. “Barbara’s breathing problems have worsened.” “But I know she would never want to be on a

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A woman answered the phone. “Lucy?” I guessed, as she didn’t identify herself.  “Hi Doris.”  Yes, it’s Lucy!   Lucy recognized my voice on the phone, knew it was me from my accent or from my many conversations with her.  I had been the social worker assigned to her father, Mr. Brown, for a year. My residents and some of their family members almost become my extended family.  It’s a good

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                                                                                                        Photo Source “Have I said I love my job? I have... haven’t I?” I asked my fellow worker Frances, fighting tears back.   Frances gave me a sympathy look. “I know. There's too much going on,” she said, shaking her head.  “I have to confess, sometimes I don’t love my job.” I took a deep breath.

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“Is Mr. H coming back to the nursing home?” Nurse Claudia asked, her voice carrying a hint of hopeful anticipation. “Yes. He needs some therapy,” I replied, handing Claudia a folder with Mr. H’s medical information.  “Is he staying this time?” “Oh, no!” I shook my head. “He’s just coming for rehab.” I knew Mr. H very well. Over a year ago he had been discharged to his home, and, despite his

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Irene was a lady of few words. I wondered if it was part of her personality.  Or, perhaps, she had talked so much throughout her life as a school teacher that now she decided to indulge in solitude and quietness. But I knew my thought was false reasoning because the cold hard fact was that Irene had Alzheimer’s dementia.  Irene had become familiar with her environment and the routine of the

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Linda Austin is an author and publisher and a board member of the St. Louis Publishers Association.  After recent interview, I received the surprise of this article published on Examiner.com, a local newspaper in the St Louis, MO area:  HOME SWEET NURSING HOME? Thank you, Linda.  Photo Source

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“Are you the Social Worker?” A deep voice interrupted my train of thoughts as I was sitting at my desk, reading through a resident’s medical chart. I raised my head, fixing my eyes on a slender, disheveled man standing by my office door, holding a coffee mug.“Yes, I am,” I answered with an indiscreet expression of surprise. “I’m Mike. I came here last night from the ER.”“Oh, hi Mike. I was

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“Why are you working today?” Nurse Inez asked, with an expression of surprise on her face when she saw me.“I just came in for a little while to finish some paperwork,” I said, reaching for a resident’s medical chart. I didn’t normally work on the weekends, but that morning I felt the impulse of going to the nursing home to complete a couple of social services assessments.Once I was finished, I

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“We have a problem!” Sarah, a nurse assistant, exclaimed as she burst in my office.   “A problem?”  I wasn’t surprised.  As the nursing home social worker, problems were my daily quest. “What is it?” “Ms. Barnett has been stealing her roommate’s clothes.” Sarah’s face was distorted from obvious stress. “What do you mean ‘stealing’?” “Ms. Wilkinson complained that Ms. Barnett was wearing her

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I woke up at dawn, lifted the shade and the view of the beach was simply captivating.  I sensed it would be a gorgeous summer day.  I went for a walk on the beach.  The sound of the ocean reminded me of a classic symphony.  The breeze caressing my face was comforting, reminding me of when my Grandma used to brush her fingers over my forehead, telling me how much she loved me.  The beautiful

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This is a "thank you" note to my blogger friends who have kindly featured my book "Home Sweet Nursing Home" on their blogs: Writer Wayne Groner over at Your Memories, Your Book Mariette Vedder over at Mariette's Back To Basics Arlee Bird over at Tossing It Out  (Also, a guest post scheduled for August 31) I encourage you to check out and follow their wonderful blogs.  “For today and

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                   Photo by Elaine Shanks Blogging is such a therapeutic experience.  I am referring not just about my own experience of writing stories of life in the nursing home, but anyone who has discovered that a blog can be that special place where we share with others our experiences, as a way to reflect and to learn.   I have met many special people since I began to blog. Elaine Shanks

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“Excuse me, ma’am,  I am looking for Anne Smith.” A nurse assistant heading down the hall at a fast pace, holding a meal tray, turned around to see who was talking to her.  She glanced at a man in his seventies, wearing a blue buttoned-down shirt and black slacks, with shiny leather shoes. The man was a visitor. “I believe she is in room 302.”  The nurse assistant pointed out the hall.“Thank

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Mary was loud and presumptuous.  She thinks she owns the place!  I thought to myself as I walked by the nurse’s desk where Mary proudly perched daily, surrounded by nurses and physicians. She seemed to love being around other medical professionals, and to talk non-stop about the patients.Mary was in her mid fifties, working as a Hospice Nurse. Although she was not part of the nursing home

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HOME SWEET NURSING HOMEAn A to Z Collection of 50-word Stories on Aging and Healthcare Today’s nursing homes are no longer “rest homes,” but rather vibrant places where residents, families and friends gather, interact, and share heartfelt memories and experiences. Through a 50-word-story collection of vivid tales, Doris Plaster, LCSW, recounts the realities of life in a nursing home from her

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Another summer day. The temperature has been warmer than expected.  Patty listened to the news alluding to the scorching weather. Yet the heat wave wasn’t Patty’s chief worry that morning.  Patty’s health had not been the best in the last couple of weeks.  She had missed a few days of work.  Missing work made her feel uneasy as she rarely did.  Patty was one of those exemplary employees.  As a

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“I want to warn you,” Ms. Gibson’s daughter, Kelli said, cocking her eyebrow. “Mom doesn’t want to be here.”I remained calm, although I wanted to shake my head. I managed to keep my composure. “Sure, I understand,” I said, nodding.Ms. Gibson had just arrived from the hospital, after having foot surgery due to a fracture. While Ms. Gibson was being accommodated in her room, I led Kelli to my

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Hold my hand, lady!” Ed exclaimed as he extended his hand out toward me. “Hold my hand!”Ed appeared anxious—and I sensed he seemed worried about me. I was walking by his side as he was wheeling down the nursing home hall. I offered him my hand, and he grasped it eagerly while propelling the wheelchair with his free hand, and his feet. We glided down the hall.“Let’s go to the highway,” Ed

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I eagerly anticipated a normal day—if there is such thing. I glanced at my office planner. A couple of meetings were scheduled for the afternoon. My morning was open to either catch up paperwork, or visit with some of my residents. But my mind switched from my residents in the facility to my residents in the hospital.  It was a cool, crisp morning. My thoughts were of a couple of residents

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On May 22, 2011 my family and I found ourselves cautiously watching the dark clouds and the fury of the evening storm. Yet we felt the safety and warmth of our home. Meanwhile, at hour and a half from our home, a town was being hit by a devastating tornado.  "As day turned into evening in Joplin, a city of 50,000 about 70 miles west of Springfield, the skies brought the deadliest tornado since

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“It’s all over the news!”  Ms. Dempsey exclaimed, cradling her head in her hands with propped elbows resting on the dining room table.  “My daughter is dead!” Ms. Dempsey broke down in tears. “She refused to eat her breakfast,” Nurse Cecilia said, as I entered the dining room.    “Ms. Dempsey, do you want to drink your orange juice?” I offered, hoping that she would calm down.  “No. I don’t

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“What day is it?”  Ms. Spencer asked to nurse assistant Peggy.“It’s Sunday,” Peggy said, drawing close to Ms. Spencer. “Anything planned for today?”“I think my daughter said she would come to see me today.”  Ms. Spencer shook her head.  “Lord, I can’t remember any more!”Ms. Spencer wheeled down the hall, stationing herself next to the living room area, browsing at magazines. She waited

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The afternoon breeze swirled about her delicate body.  Her long, lustrous blonde hair flowing in the wind caught the attention of the maintenance men mowing the grass in the garden surrounding the nursing home.  A gorgeous woman in her early thirties.She approached the entrance door.  I glanced at her from my office window that faced the facility main door.  My gaze fixed on the visitor. The

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Thank you all of you who followed my A to Z stories. Thanks for your support and the encouragement to publish the collection of stories.  I have removed them from my blog as they will be edited and published. A few new stories will be added to the book.  In the meantime, I will go back to my customary posting, a weekly inspirational story.   Hope you enjoy them.

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Thank you so much to Laura over at A simple happy life  for giving me this nice award! So, here are the rules (I'm "adjusting" the rules...lol) Link back to the person who gave you the award. √ Tell 5 facts about myself... √   I'm a social butterfly... can you tell? Sewing is one of my hobbies.  I am a green belt in Taekwondo. I quit practicing though. Red is my favorite color.  I won a

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  I have to admit it.  I am a big fan of Lee at Tossing It Out  I greatly enjoy his posts and admire his leadership as a blogger.  Lee and other wonderful blogging buddies have an interesting and fun project: the A to Z April Challenge , which I finally decided to join.  How does the Challenge work? The premise of the Blogging From A to Z April Challenge is to post something on your blog

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“I am afraid we can’t meet his needs...”  I lamented.  I clutched the receiver to my ear, wishing that the hospital social worker on the other side of the line could sense my frustration, flowing through the telephone line like a river of regret. “You can try an interpreter,”  the social worker insisted. “He is too weak.  He won’t be able to communicate with an interpreter.”  I sighed as

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A personal event inspired me to write "The Rose Garden" story.   Short Story Book has published it online.   I'm being featured as a Guest Writer.                                                  CLICK HERE

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                                                         Photo: www.facebook.com/Biblioghetto Nook, Nookcolor, Kindle, iPad, MP3, iPod, ...“I think I want to upgrade from my iPod,”  Claire expressed. “I want an iPod touch!” It wasn’t an easy decision for Claire.  My teenage daughter debated which of the electronic upgrades would best suit her dream birthday gift.  Claire and I spent a great

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March is Social Work Month. The National Association of Social Workers, Missouri chapter is posting a story daily. My 50-word story is being featured today.                                     CLICK HERE

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Have you ever tried using a more neutral color?” my friend, Diane, asked me, as she perused my burgundy lip gloss.  I sensed some intrinsic motivation on her question. The fashion gurus were forecasting nude lipstick colors—which promised a more natural look for the wearer. I cared less about the year’s beauty trends.  “Red is a classic color,” I replied, flashing a crooked smile.  “That’s

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There was tension.  Uncertainty.  I was with family, and shocking news had just been delivered.  One of our loved ones was believed to have died.  An accident.  A fatal accident had occurred.  I felt my heart ripping into pieces. Pressure clutched my chest.  I felt short of breath. Agonizing.  I uttered inarticulate words, making no sense to the few that may have heard my anguished voice. 

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Five years. Five years  since his wife had passed away. Life was not the same without his lovely wife, but Mr. McLaurin had made it through the worst of his grieving. Now in his mid seventies, a retired businessman, Mr. McLaurin felt stronger, and was seriously considering to open his heart to the magic of love. The idea of finding a loving lady who may become his companion for the twilight

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I knocked at the door.  “Come in!”  Ms. Caldwell exclaimed, mustering all of her strength to greet me.  “May I visit with you?”   Ms. Caldwell had been admitted to the nursing home a couple of days ago.  After being hospitalized for a hip fracture, the surgeon had explained she needed rehabilitation therapy before returning home.  “Yes. Have a seat.”  Her voice sounded as weak as it did the

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Today is my birthday.  Unlike most of my birthdays, I am not dressed up.  I am not heading to work where I would expect to hear a few “happy birthday” greetings from my fellow workers.  I don’t expect to get flowers or to go out to dinner. The inclement weather here is preventing a conventional celebration. Today is different.  Simply different.  A casual day at home.  I woke up early—as is

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Rather than losing my head, I could have easily lost my mind.  “Be careful,” a few of my friends advised when, with excitement, I told them that my husband and I were heading to Mexico, on a vacation.  Despite all the macabre news of violence and crime in Mexico, our vacation was a go.  Being a native Colombian, I had already learned of similar violencia de las drogas—drug-related violence.  I

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Steve? Is that Steve?  I was astonished as I looked at Steve’s photos on the internet.  Steve’s picture showed him riding his motorcycle.  Another picture showed him in a suit, wearing a charming smile.  I was looking now at a strong and happy man.  A man full of life. That was not the Steve I had met a few years ago.  He was one of my residents in the nursing home.  After I met him I became

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Christmas music was playing in the background.  A tall Christmas tree adorned with colorful lights and fine decorations graced the living room next to the fireplace.  Families and friends walked up and down the halls, visiting their loved ones.  It was a wonderful day in the nursing home.  Everybody looked blissful. “I’m looking for Loraine Smith,” a man stated as he approached the

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I heard music playing as I was walking down the East hall.  I stopped for a moment to listen. ♫ Why can't you see What you're doin' to me When you don't believe a word I say? We can't go on together With suspicious minds ♫  Elvis!  I thought, as I opened my eyes widely. “Where is the music coming from?” I asked Julia, a nurse assistant who was walking by. “From Ms. Reid’s room,” Julia

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“Are you going out to lunch?”  my co-worker, Gina, asked as she poked her head into my office.  “No.  I have about twenty resident assessments to complete,” I replied, unable to mask my obvious stress.   “Do you want me to bring you something?”  Gina offered.   “No, thanks. I‘m not hungry.”  I glanced at my coffee cup.  “I have plenty of coffee to get me by.”  “You must have coffee

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“Where's Ms. Peterson?" I asked Becky, a nurse aide who was assigned to that floor. "She is not in her room." She was moved to the North Unit,” Becky replied.   Residents with advanced dementia and unable to ambulate were typically moved from the front halls to the North Unit. The North Unit was a smaller hall toward the back of the facility.  There, the residents were presented with

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“A reporter from the local newspaper is here to see Ms. Hicks,”  the receptionist announced. “What newspaper? Why?”  I inquired, unsure why Ms. Hicks would be having that type of visitor.  Ms. Hicks was a fairly new resident in the nursing home.  She was one of the most social and fun ladies in the facility.  Her sense of humor and witty conversations delighted every one that spent time with

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I’ve joined the Cinderella's Shoe Blogfest hosted by Madeleine @ Scribble and Edit!  YOUR CHALLENGE is to write max 500 word piece or a poem about any character who loses an item that when found by another results in their mutual happiness/relief/salvation....And here is my entry: “Where’s my lady?”  “What do you mean, Elaine? What lady?”  “My lady! You know.”  Elaine showed her frustration

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“I don’t know how you can handle working in a nursing home,” my friend, Daisy, commented, as we shared conversation over a cup of coffee.“Life in the nursing home isn’t what everyone believes, a place full of just problems and sadness.  Sure we have our share of that.  But it’s also a place where friends and family share memories and vivid experiences.” “But don’t you go home loaded down with

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May I come in, Ms. Lewis? I asked, after knocking on the resident’s room door.  “Please, come on in” she answered cheerfully.  Ms. Lewis was making her bed.  Although she was advised not to walk in her room by herself, she was ambulating around the bed, straightening out a beautiful bed quilt.  “My daughter made this comforter,” she told me with pride.  “I see you like to make your own bed. 

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“What are you listening to?” my co-worker, Jane, asked, as she walked into my office.  “It’s Andrea Bocelli,” I replied.  “I work better with music in the background.”   “Music has magic.  Have you noticed how much the residents enjoy the music in the dining room?”  “Music can be very powerful.”  I said, sighing.  Talking about music brought special memories to my mind of a few nursing home

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“Hello?” A man answered the phone.  “Mr. Myers?” I asked.  “Speaking,” he said, in a curt tone.   “This is Doris, the social worker. I’d like to set up a care plan meeting so we can discuss your mother’s medical changes”  “Again?” Mr. Myers queried in an explosive tone of voice. “I already got a phone call from a nurse telling me that my mother is getting worse, and that she needs to be on

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“Doris, keep your composure!” Sister Margaret said to me.  She was my fourth grade teacher.  I was quite upset and argumentative that day, defending my idea of what the art group should have worked on to present at a local art festival.  I was outraged when the group rejected my idea.I was a top student, earning high grades.  My family wouldn’t stop bragging about “how smart” and “what a good

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“We’re in the dark,” my fellow worker Jane told me on the phone.  “Come again? What happened?” I asked her, becoming anxious.   “There was a power outage and we are running on a generator.”  “Oh my God!” I exclaimed.  It was a stormy day. I was away from the nursing home at a seminar. During a break, I had called to the facility to check on pending issues. The bad news only increased my

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“Can I bring my dog with me?”  “No, Mrs. Johnson, pets are not allowed to live in the facility.”  Mrs. Johnson’s health had significantly declined in the past year. She had tried very hard to stay at home. But multiple falls and her increasing need for daily assistance forced her to make the decision that no elderly person wants to make: moving into a nursing home.   Mrs. Johnson was ready to

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“Oh my God.  Poor bird!” I exclaimed as I saw a bird bounce off the windshield of the car heading toward me. I was driving to work that morning and had the misfortune of witnessing what, to me, was a quite disturbing scene. I vividly remember seeing multiple feathers being blown off the bird at the time of the violent impact. But amazingly, the bird had rolled off the windshield after the

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“This is Doris,” I said, picking up the phone receiver with one hand as I continued typing on the computer keyboard with the other. It’s amazing how social workers learn, or are forced to become multi-tasking. There is never enough time to complete all that is required in a day’s work.   “The social workers are here,” the receptionist announced.  “Good!” I exclaimed. I’ll be there in a minute,”

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I love Jamaica was one of the stickers I glanced at the gift shop. It was as though my thoughts had been colorfully printed on that sticker. Definitely, our vacation in Jamaica was one of the best my husband and I can recall. The people were vibrant and friendly, and the island was a tropical beauty surrounded by its blue sea and inviting beaches.  On our second day in Jamaica I visited the

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This is exciting to me. I've submitted a story to a "short story contest". If you would like to read it--and perhaps to vote and comment-- this is the link: http://www.shortstorybook.net/2010/08/04/the-chocolate-milk-thieves-short-contest-story/ 8/7  Update:   I am officially in the contest! Thanks everyone who voted and/or commented on my story.

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“Where is ‘bus 21?’”  my husband asked to a man in a blue uniform at the airport. His shirt displayed the logo of the company that would pick us up at Montego Bay airport, in Jamaica, to take us to the resort of our destination.  My husband had called prior to arrival and believed he was told to find “bus 21.”  “Bus 21?  No, I think you are looking for Desk 21. Please go back inside, turn to

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“Throw the pie in my face” I goaded Mr Smith, one of the nursing home residents.    “I can’t” he replied. Mr. Smith looked at me with a caring look, through his big blue eyes which always cast an innocent sparkle.  “It’s OK, Mr Smith. Today you’re supposed to throw a pie in my face; please!”, I commanded.   Mr. Smith grinned, and mustering all the courage he could, he cocked his right arm and,

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“Happy birthday, Ernie!” we cheerfully exclaimed. My husband, stepson and I had taken Ernie out to dinner for his birthday.   Fourth of July.  A double celebration: our glorious Independence Day in the United States of America. And my son’s birthday.  Ernie was celebrating his 21st birthday.   His own independence, I mused.  I love my son with all my heart. I have been thinking about Ernie’s

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“Who is he?” I asked, pointing toward a man waiting for the start of the Memory Walk.  Next to him was a woman who wanted her picture taken with him. Rob looked at me, doubting.  “You don’t know who he is?” Rob was one of coordinators of the event, and a good friend of mine.   “No, I don’t know him,” I stated.   “That’s Andy Williams!”  My eyes opened widely, and my jaw dropped.   “Andy

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“It’s interesting to sit here, and watch the people,” our curious friend, Don, commented wearing a grin on his face. “That’s exactly what I was thinking,” I replied, amused. It was a family day at a theme park. My husband, our children and I were having a blast.  Our friend Don and his wife were with us. While our children were enjoying some of the park rides, we were sitting comfortably,

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I turned my head away, and discreetly wiped the tears from my eyes.  It’s very rare for me to become tearful in front of my residents or their family members. As a professional, I feel that if I can’t control my emotions, I won’t be able to give what my clients need at their time of crisis, my support, and rational advice. Crying with the clients can put a social worker at risk of overstepping

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“Kick the board,” my instructor demanded. A side kick. What I had seen in Kung Fu movies was now my real life reality. An exciting, yet frightening reality.   “You can do it!”, my instructor, the Sensei shouted. I heard encouragement in his voice, but my own inner voice questioned, “What if I hurt my foot?” I would be embarrassed if I failed. There were too many people around, watching me.

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“Where’s my apron?” -my 8-year-old stepdaughter, Sydney, asked after the church meeting. I looked at her, pondering her question.Early that morning, my two stepdaughters and I were to attend a ladies luncheon at our church. The theme was “Wisdom In My Apron Pocket.” Ladies were encouraged to wear their aprons. There would be an Apron Fashion Show.   I had found a plain apron and on the day of

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Another day. Nothing special planned. As usual, random thoughts of what I needed to get accomplished at work. I parked my car and walked toward the nursing home while immersed in my thoughts. I looked at the sky. My thoughts were abruptly interrupted as I noticed the clouds, big, billowing clouds.  The clouds are as dark as my life felt in the past two weeks, I mused. The dark clouds in the sky

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I wish I could rewind a day in my life as if it were recorded on tape. If I could, I would rewind it back one particular day.  That one day only.  If I could rewind that day, I would call my mother and tell her how much she meant to me; and how much I loved her. That was all I could think after my brother called, telling me that our mother had died that morning.   Wednesday a week ago my

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“The food is good!” a nursing home resident exclaimed. I was truly excited to hear that. Food-related grievances usually top the list. Not at this time. I asked co-workers how that facility has achieved such a high level of culinary satisfaction. Then, someone finally told me, “We have a good cook!”   Of course, it has to do with the cook, I mused.   I have heard people commenting about

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“A game that never ends?” I exclaimed, questioning Ernie, my son.  Ernie was trying to explain to me about EverQuest, an online game which he learned to play in his early teens, and now at age 20, decided to play again.     For those of you not familiar with EverQuest, it is a modern version of the popular game Dungeons & Dragons. The players are assigned a character in a wargame. They engage

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I recently read a quote posted by someone on Facebook: “Allow your disappointment to form a life-affirming pearl, just as an oyster does when an irritating grain of sand gets inside its shell.” The author’s name was not posted. It got my attention. I read the quote several times. I found it quite interesting. I thought it was a beautiful allegory. Definitely a seductive invitation to look at

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About five years ago I attended a symposium for nursing home professionals. There were multiple booths where sponsors displayed information on services and products, typical of these events. As I explored the booths I saw both important and irrelevant information, I filled my courtesy bag with brochures, pens, note pads, cups, and samples of lotions and skin care ointments for geriatric use.

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“It has to be special,” I kept thinking. March was the month to appreciate Social Workers and I wanted to come up with an innovative strategy to honor my fellow colleagues. I wanted to thank my fellow social workers who work at the hospitals and other institutions for referring new residents to the healthcare facility where I work. “Treasures!” - came to my mind. It sounded good. Treasure

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I find myself reflecting quite often, immersed in my thoughts of events or people at the nursing home, or simply on what’s going on in town. I am a social worker and I also market the facility for future prospective residents. It has been an interesting mix. Networking with other professionals and competing institutions brings me a rich experience. I could write a story daily, if I had the

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I couldn’t believe it. I stood, motionless. My son, Ernie, came home carrying a cage. Two rats curiously peered at me through the wires. “Are you crazy?”, I yelled. “What? What’s wrong?” -he sarcastically questioned, knowing what was wrong. “Mom, they make good pets.” A friend gave Ernie the rats. Ernie mentioned that he observed how his friend enjoyed petting the rats. He admitted that he was

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“Why would you want to be a Social Worker?” my high school friend Alex questioned me while shaking his head. "You should choose a more lucrative career." "Alex, life is not only about money or prestige, but fulfillment" I replied.  It was 1984, our senior year in high school. Alex and I were the top students in our class.  Our friendship developed after realizing that there was no sense

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