The Job of Acceptance

I needed a job. I really wanted to contribute.

I had moved in with my boyfriend. The next step in our plan was to buy a house together. I wanted a job because the majority of the money I would earn would go towards a down payment on a house.

I scoured the “Help Wanted” section of the local newspaper. There was not a lot of opportunity for work in this very small, blue-collar town, but eventually, I came across an opportunity that looked suitable for me. So I applied.

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I walked up the wooden steps into the small, old building. I took the application, offered by the office manager, with apprehension - it was about four pages long – and filled it out right there in the small office. The manager showed me to an open desk to sit at for completing the form.

My writing hand gave out by about the final portion of the form. It quit being able to put pen to paper. My writing towards the end became illegible and, finally, non-existent. I had to return the application incomplete. Not because I didn’t have the information, but only because I couldn’t write it down.

I took it to the office manager and handed it to her, along with my resume, and felt I needed to give her an explanation of my physical limitations, and why the application was incomplete. I felt I needed to be honest in order to avoid unrealistic expectations from either side. I didn’t think I had anything to lose at this point, anyway. I may as well try to maintain some integrity. Muster up some courage, before I completely lost it.

I left the office feeling dejected and heart-broken. I knew I wouldn’t be getting the job. Physically, I couldn’t perform the duties as expected. I didn’t know what to do, now or next.

I made it back out to my truck before the weight of the situation began to really affect me. Good thing it was a short drive from the office to the house. I started trembling, and my throat started to choke up with held tears of frustration. I made it safely home before I really broke down. I couldn’t stop the tears. Or the feelings of humiliation and disappointment.

I went home to my boyfriends place – a small rental home on the lake – poured myself a strong drink, and turned on the stereo very loudly with some head-banging, angry rock music. I sat on the floor in front of the stereo with my drink and broke down. My significant wasn’t home from work yet, so I could scream and sob while no one could hear me. I was sad; I was angry: I felt hopeless and worthless.

This was the first time I had given voice to the progressive effects of this genetic disease; the first time that I had acknowledged that it was affecting my life choices. It was devastating at first, but also, in a way, a relief for figuring out ways to move forward realistically. We would have to make some considerations for the future, and my ability to remain mobile, and as independent as possible, as my physical abilities deteriorated. This has been hard to accept, but honesty is necessary. So is determination.

The manager called the next day and offered me the job. I accepted.

Part 2:

Part 3:

(I have a genetic disease called Spinocerebellar Ataxia “SCA.” I was physically “normal” as a child. The type I have is not fatal, just frustrating. Over time, it has progressively affected my dexterity (hands, eyes, speech, etc.), as well as my mobility. My balance is limited, which is a huge challenge in continuing to do the activities I enjoy.)