June 2008
It’s Not About the Books … Or Is It?
Reflections on Work in a Time of Crisis
by Suzanne Parisien
I’ve not read Lance Armstrong’s book It’s Not About the Bike, but I plan to. It sits among a pile of books at my bedside that got eclipsed by stacks of medical information which became my literary diet after my breast cancer diagnosis last May. At the time of my diagnosis, I was already submerged in a sea of cancer alongside the aunt who raised me following my mother’s death many years ago. She was in her final months of life in the terminal stages of ovarian cancer.
I’ve always counted myself as one of those lucky individuals who genuinely enjoys both the practice of law and my job. After my diagnosis, lots of people, including some of my doctors, suggested I take a leave of absence while I underwent treatment. It made sense; after all, I had taken time off to care for my aunt and still had plenty of sick leave. Why then, in the midst of all of this, did I have a renewed interest in work? Why, when it came to my aunt’s illness, did I seem to have my priorities straight — with work properly occupying the back burner — but when it came to my own illness did I want and need work so much?
The obvious answer suggested by many is that work provides a “distraction” — maybe, but maybe not. I think I can safely speak for those who have been there when I say that no pleading, brief, or deposition can “distract” you from cancer. No, far more than just a distraction, work provided safety and meaning — the former being easier to recognize than the latter.
Work was safer than home because home was filled with the people and things that I cherished but had difficulty facing, like my daughters who wanted assurances from me that everything was going to be okay. At the time, I had neither the knowledge nor conviction to convey assurances. Home was filled with pictures and heirlooms of relatives loved and lost, and I was finding it difficult to face those, too. My second home had always been my aunt’s house, but in many ways that was ending. She had always been there for me; and in the different way that children are there for their parents, I was there for her. We both knew that if things were different, she would have taken me to doctor appointments, cared for the girls, cooked meals, walked the dog, and even tried her hand at ghost-writing an MSJ. But, in reality, she was sick and so was I. Abandoning our mutual roles was excruciating on us both.
On the days when I lacked the focus to work on my own cases, I would read advance sheets, sometimes for hours at a time, taking strange comfort in the process that perhaps I’d taken for granted after so many years of practice. Gradually, I realized that what was drawing me to work was the order and (some) predictability that the law provides — two things that at the time seemed lost. I didn’t comprehend the meaning that work provided until later. I’ve not read any of Scott Turow’s books, but he sums it up pretty well for me with this quote:
The law, for all of its failings, has a noble goal — to make the little bit of life that people can actually control more just. We can’t end disease or natural disasters, but we can devise rules for our dealings with one another that fairly weigh the rights and needs of everyone, and which therefore, reflect our best vision of ourselves.
Even in the midst of turmoil, it seems that we want or need to find meaning, not just in our personal lives, but in our professional lives as well. For me, I like to think that I am working “to make the little bit of life that people can actually control more just.”
Of course, some days, it wasn’t work that I needed, it was the office. I had always used the terms “work” and “the office” interchangeably. Now I know that they are different. After all, if not for the office, where else would I wear my newly amassed collection of wigs? Some days I’d be sporting long red hair, some days a sandy brown shag, and still other days — and my personal favorite — a jet-black short blunt cut with bangs, affectionately named “The Terminator.” And, while witnesses didn’t exactly wither under examination by The Terminator, my dog came when I called and the girls made their beds and practiced violin. Regrettably, my husband seemed unaffected by The Terminator; but, all told, not bad. I still chuckle when I think of the poorly timed arrival of our new receptionist trying in earnest to figure out who I was on any given day. Sure, I felt bad about confusing her with all of my wigs, but her expression as she frantically scrolled down the employee roster trying to match my face (and hair) to a name always provided the first laugh of my day.
I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the handmade pillow, notes, flowers, cookies, and, yes, even jewelry that my co-workers bestowed upon me. I needed that, too. Heck, I even had co-workers tripping over each other to cover depositions in Pullman, and it wasn’t even football season. These are but a few of the things for which I am grateful. Time and page limitations won’t allow for the rest, but if it did, early detection and great doctors would be at the top of my list. I hope women readers will indulge me in a shameless plea to check your breasts regularly, and not let anyone — no matter how many letters follow their name — tell you that a lump is “nothing to worry about.”
It’s a new year and I couldn’t be happier about turning the page and packing (okay… throwing) away my wigs. I no longer need the safety of the office, and of course, I am grateful for that. Better still, I’m comforted to know that work can offer meaning in the midst of life’s greatest challenges.
Suzanne Parisien is honored to be an assistant attorney general in the Seattle Torts Division and writes this in loving memory of her aunt, Barb Perlmutter.
