This job is SO rewarding.

I hear it all the time.  "Your job is so rewarding."  I hear it so much, I think I must have missed something because I never think, "Wow, this job is rewarding."  Important, yes.  Necessary, absolutely.  Rewarding?  Meh.

Okay, maybe you think, "this guy is just jaded, he's been in it for too long, he's just forgotten how awesome his job is."  (I'll be honest, I love my job, but it isn't awesome by any stretch.)  Fine, you win.  I don't know fuck about shit.  I've only been doing this for a decade and a half, but you know, I could have forgotten all the great stuff, I might be burnt out on all the rewards this job offers.  Anyone who eats lobster and filets every day is bound to get sick of them and go for a sloppy joe eventually.

So, in an effort to make sure I'm not just tired of constant awesomeness, let's dissect this one reward at a time.

Part the First: Financial Rewards

Nope.  Trust me, this is not a job anyone does for the money.  From the lowest tier workers to the executive director everyone is paid for shit.  Don't believe me, most places for adults with intellectual/developmental disabilities are publicly funded, their finances, therefore, are public record.  Check it out sometime, next to nothing gets spent on staff.  I get it, the clients need a great deal more support than the staff does, and when you run in the red, most of that money has to go to the people who really need it.  If the McDonald's people get their $15/hr - more power to them - they will make more than I do as a supervisor who is required to have a college degree and a shit-ton of interdisciplinary experience, and that is to say nothing of our direct care staff who work their asses off for peanut shells.  One day I will discuss this inequity in depth, but, for now, suffice it so say the prospect of financial rewards is laughable at best.

Part the Second:  The Facility is so Beautiful

Admittedly, mine is, at least on the outside.   Most aren't.  Most are run down and depressing.  Thank God our executives and mucky-mucks decided they wanted the place to look like a home and not like a retrofitted hospital.  

But, that being said, it is old.  Once a day, at least, a toilet, somewhere needs to be plunged.  Doesn't sound bad, but, it is.  The clients don't really know that their toilets are clogged.  They flush, then flush again, then flush again.  Then, when Mt. Ararat is the only thing left dry, they ask for a plunger.  It isn't because they are stuffing the toilets, mostly, and it isn't because they are shitting bricks.  It's because the plumbing is so old that it has become curmudgeonly and contrary.  It doesn't work because it doesn't feel like it.

The doors don't work.  At least once a month someone gets locked out of or in his or her room.  Usually when they really have to use that horrendous plumbing.  I've gotten very good at breaking and entering. 

The kitchen is a fire hazard.  They keep it clean enough, but the stoves and ovens are older than I am, and, sure, I'm not exactly old, but I can count my age in decades.  There is equipment in there that they literally do not make anymore because it is so dangerous and unpredictable.

The roof leaks, the laundry room is a hot box, we use boilers for heating, the air conditioning is always on the god damn fritz and the brand new floors are already bubbling and pulling away from the glue.  My office is in the basement - my office mates and I go entire days without even knowing if the sun is out.  There is enough parking for approximately 1/3 of our staff, which forces us to be kind of creative on busy days.

And let me iterate, ours is one of the nicest places I've been in.  Let that sink in.

Part the Second: Emotional Rewards

Section 1: Gratification

At first blush it might seem pretty damn gratifying to help people out.  Some days it is.  Those days are few and far between.  Trust me when you are up to your elbows in shit, vomit, or any other number of disgusting or weird messes (some are a little of both: "hey, look at that turd on the entertainment console, how did s/he even get up there?") you aren't thinking "gee, I'm so happy that I can help these people," you are thinking "damn I hope I don't barf all over this and make the mess even worse."

Between paperwork, meetings that last anywhere from an hour to a year, and trying to keep track of 100 people going in every possible direction except the one they should be going in, you get tired.  Really really tired.  There is not one staff person that doesn't look like he or she hasn't been through the ringer a couple of times at the end of a shift; honestly, there are days that I would rather just sleep on one of the couches than drive home.  By the end of the week the only thing that seems sensible to do with a weekend is to go home and pass out for 48 hours.  So, maybe it is gratifying, but I assure you, we are all too god damn exhausted to tell.

Section 2: Hard work is its own reward

True enough.  When I finish cleaning the dishes or cook a good meal at home, I feel pretty good.   When I finally pump out one of these blog posts, I feel like I am in pretty good shape.  When the bills are paid, I could dance. That's because I can see what I've done.  I have, in some way, changed the world, however little, concretely or abstractly, but measurably.

After a shift, a week, a month or a year, the only change I might see in some clients is a haircut or two.  Sometimes even that is a struggle.  When your measure of success is "maintained skills (note:  not improved, just maintained e.g. stayed the fucking same,)" it is remarkably hard to see the reward in the hard work, in fact, sometimes it is downright disheartening.

Sometimes the hard work is watching someone die slowly while you wonder if you couldn't have done something to stop it.  The hard work is trying to tell yourself you aren't to blame, and then telling yourself that maybe you are, even though you really aren't.  Sometimes the hard work is being the only person to visit the hospital while that person lays there slowly ebbing away from the world.  Or worse, being the only person who didn't get a chance to visit before s/he was gone because there was too much to do at the facility for you to get away.

Section 3:  Those smiling faces, they must really love you

Yeah.  The smiles, the hugs.  Those happen.  They are pretty great.  They aren't what you remember most of the time.  I remember the scars.  I remember being bitten to the bone.  I remember getting the shit kicked out of me for trying to help someone into his mom's car.  I remember stitches, bruises, scratches, kicks, punches.  Sure there are smiles, but there is another shoe, it is going to drop, and it is going to fucking hurt.

Some days your walk into work and you are a god damn rock star.  Your hair hasn't been washed in two days, your clothes are a little wrinkled, you feel like the walking dead.  Then one of the clients tells you, "You look awesome."  Those days are great.

Most days your hair is washed, your clothes are pressed, you're smiling with a skip in your step, and one of the clients tells you "I hate you, you piece of shit, you didn't give me my dollar" whether or not you were supposed to.  And when they sling that verbal stone in your direction, you have to say "I'm sorry, remember you didn't earn your reward yesterday, let's try again today."  And you are not, under any circumstances, allowed to be angry.  Those days are pretty common.

Waist deep in a client's shit, I've never heard one of them say "thank you for helping me."  Usually its something more along the lines of "you can't make me take a shower dick-cunt."  After a week of helping a client through the stomach flu, s/he doesn't care that you brought chicken soup and hot tea to his/her room everyday so s/he wouldn't have to get out of bed and come to the dining room, s/he is pissed because s/he is going to miss grilled cheese today, and is cussing you out between bouts of vomit and diarrhea.  Which you then have to clean up with a smile on your face.

Nothing good that happens is due to  your care and concern, and everything bad or mildly frustrating is a travesty and horror exacted by your diabolical mission to make life a living hell.  I have been punched in the face for bringing someone the lime green shirt when s/she asked for the dark green shirt but really wanted the purple one.  Yes, shit really does get that crazy most days.

 

Conclusion

Are there rewards?  Sure, I don't deny it.  The days I get to go to a baseball game or a movie and get paid for it are pretty awesome.  And I love my clients, all 100 of them, each are pretty awesome in their own ways.  But when some dumb-ass sees me rushing around trying to figure out everyone's diet restrictions at a restaurant while each one of them is trying to order the one thing they cant have and seven need to use the bathroom that has one toilet, and tells me that my job must be SO rewarding, well, I kinda want to punch him/her in the jaw. 

Trust me, if it were SO rewarding, everyone would be doing it.  I have yet to see one of those people volunteer to take some of our clients without families to dinner or bowling.  I have yet to see one of those people fill out a job application.  They don't even help me carry a tray when I'm overloaded with food in one hand and pushing a wheel-char with another.  I think it just makes them feel better to validate something they have no inclination to do or even try to understand.  Fuck 'em.  I'm not here to validate your shitty unwillingness to help people who've got a pretty cruddy lot in life; I've got to make a client hate me for not letting him/her get the hazelnut crepes that would kill him/her if s/he so much as looked at them; the word allergy doesn't fit into a 100 word vocabulary.

I've heard one opinion on my job from an outsider that I actually respect.  It is my mother's.  She says, "I don't know how you do it."  Honestly, sometimes I don't know how I do it either.  I do know that I love it.  I do know that it is important.  But rewarding?  Meh.

Addendum:  Bopping around, I found a post that kind of fits in with what I'm saying here.  It is a different perspective from someone in a different part of the world with a different set of circumstances, but it is worth a read.  The blog post is titled "Autism is not a 'gift.'"  Give it a read.

What the Hell is a Q or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the R-Word

Prelude

Before I begin, a couple notes.  I am not editing this - this is not family friendly.  It will be real.  It will be true, at least, I will speak the truth as I see it.  I will not reveal my name, nor will I reveal the names of others.  I need to protect myself and my clients.  I won't even tell you where I am from.  If you are clever enough to figure it out, keep it to yourself, no one cares about your attempts to unmask me, I am not a superhero - I am just this guy.  I have some stories, and some thoughts, and maybe they're worth reading.  Probably not, but here we are.

Part the First

It seems prudent to begin with telling you what the fuck a Q is and does.  But I have something else more important to cover first - this will be a post in two parts.  Stick with me, I'll try not to prattle on.  Too late for that, I suppose.

I frequently use a word that is very offensive.  It is a descriptor, it is a medical term, and in my decade and a half's worth of experience, it has come and gone out of fashion several times.  I do not use it pejoratively.  I do not use it to describe anything other than the people to whom the appellation applies, however it will still piss a whole mess of people off.  They need to calm the fuck down.  It is just a word, and it is a good word when used correctly, and sometimes, there isn't a better word to use.

What, you may ask, is this horrendous word that may cause anyone curious about this blog to curl up into the fetal position next to their computers in a pool of their own tears and urine?  What word could possible engender so much anger and disdain?  Retard.

For a long time I didn't say the "r-word."  For a long time I was one of those idiots who would scream across an arena full up people saying, "don't use that word, it's not nice."  But you know what, if people with intellectual disabilities feel comfortable describing themselves as "retarded," shouldn't we?  It really is just a thing that some people are.  It isn't even everything they are, people are complex, nobody is ever just one thing.  But they are things.  I am a Q; you are a reader; David Bowie is a rock star; some people are retarded.  Not good or bad.  Not stupid.  Just, you know, retarded. 

You will never hear me say, "that movie is retarded." Never after seeing a guy throw a pass when he should have handed the ball off will you hear me say "that guy's retarded."  You will never hear me tell someone who is using a ladder on a chair "you are being retarded."  That's fucking mean.  But if a person is retarded, then he or she is just that, retarded.

Part the Second

Calling myself "Q" is not my attempt to be some hyper-dimensional, hyper-intelligent, malcontent with a penchant for waylaying and toying with the USS Enterprise.  Q is the first letter in QIDP, which stands for Qualified Intellectual Disabilities Professional.  We call ourselves Qs, our staff and clients call us Qs, that's pretty much what everyone calls us - it's alot easier than QIDP, and it sounds cooler.

Back in the day we were "QSPs" - I don't remember what that stood for, something like Qualified Service Professionals.  I was never one of those.  Even further back, we were QMRPs, Qualified Mental Retardation Professionals.  I was never one of those either, but I had one when I started working with this population.  But, really, I am both of those as well, because they are all the same thing.

Qs are jacks-of-all trades.  They manage care, they iron out social problems, they create programs for client to ensure they are learning new skills or maintaining skills they already have.  Qs have to know a little bit about medicine, about medications, about legal stuff, some know sign language, many are polyglots to some degree.  They have to know about OT and PT.  They have to know how to stop a punch or what to do if a fire breaks out.  They have to know how to respond to some really weird situations;  they have to know about just about everything that goes into making a person a person.  And then we have staff we have to train, supervise, teach, and mentor.  Qs are some of the most overworked, underrated, and underpaid people in our society.  Most people don't even know we exist.  I'm not getting on a soap box.  Not just yet.  This is the reality of what Qs are.   

It is tough work, but, it has its high points.  Qs are rock stars.  We walk in the door and our clients, who have seen us yesterday, tell us they missed us.  They tell us we look good even if our hair is pink and green.  They worry constantly if we are not at work on a day we are supposed to work.  Some of our clients cry when we leave the building for the day, even though they know we will be back in less than 8 hours.

But Qs are people.  We are not special, we are not doing anything special.  Doctors are good at medicine.  Bakers are good at making cakes.  Mechanics are good at fixing things.  Qs happen to be good at working with people with intellectual disabilities - we just have better - and weirder - stories than most people.

Note: the only time I used a permutation of the word retarded was to explain an abbreviation.  Beyond that it wasn't necessary.  I probably will use it later though.  I don't go out of my way to say it, I simply do not go out of my way not to when it applies.