Working

Sometimes when I’m working, I feel incredibly lazy and useless.  While I’m incredibly grateful to have a job, to be able to work, to provide something “useful” to society, I sometimes do feel a little bit guilty.  After all, I’m the one who (though currently working) am sitting in the hallway of a hospital at 1:30 AM, working on my blog.  And I’m “working.”

Sigh…

(Quick explanation – for those who don’t know, I’m working as a medical interpreter in a number of hospitals in northern Illinois/southern Wisconsin.  And while sometimes I provide a useful service, I also get to do a lot of waiting.  I wait for patients to show up.  I wait for the doctors to show up.  I wait for test results.  I wait for the surgeries to be finished.  Currently, I am waiting – a patient is in a hospital, and there needs to be someone with them at all times so they can communicate, if needed.  However, said patient is asleep, and probably will be most of the night.  I’m only here “just in case.”)

The guilty/lazy feelings usually come about when watching those with much more education and training than myself actually do useful things all night long, while I sit around.  And I’ve been able to be productive – most of my applications to law school were formulated/tossed around/edited to some degree or another while I was waiting at work.  (A lot of good it did me – 25 applications, and ultimately I decide not to attend in the fall.  Surprise!)  Countless lists, to-dos, journaling, project ideas, studying Spanish terminology (especially medical terminology), and praying are useful things I’ve gotten done.  I’ve read a lot of books (including some mind-numbingly awful ones).  And I’ve finished an application to Palmer Seminary/Eastern University in Philadelphia (we’ll see what happens with that one.)

There have been some good conversations with nurses, doctors, and other health care providers.  There have been moments of connection with patients (clients, we’re supposed to call them.)  And ultimately, I am grateful for this job, while knowing that it’s not something I want to do forever…

I want to create – to build something (tangible or metaphorical) of beauty and utility.  To serve.  To listen.  To be useful.  To be alive.  And realizing it’s OK for me to write things on here that aren’t profound, hilariously funny, or earth-shatteringly real.  It’s ok to be me.  I’m only human, after all, and that’s fine…

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