"We can't 'love' everyone. We can care about humanity as a whole, we can reach out to others. But, ultimately, choices have to be made. We are, after all, only human." -- Leo Buscaglia.
We are a society that wants to care, that thinks we can "do it all." But then nothing gets done well, our families suffer, and our country has the highest death rate to heart disease. We have to stop thinking we can "do it all," recognize that we're only human (and pray our critics recognize this as well), and be careful how thin we are spreading ourselves.
My friend Beth was an excellent teacher in Texas. She kept her grade book updated, e-mailed parents on a regular basis, advised students when they asked (even if they were no longer in her class), wrote college recommendations for former students, bought hand lotion and sanitizer for her students with her own money, gave needy students lunch money, checked college entrant essays for students she'd never even had in class, and generally gave her heart and soul to her job.
"But," she said to me this summer during a visit, "it was never enough. I'd go well above and beyond my teaching assignment, but they still wanted MORE. They wanted me to abandon Mark and our girls so I could raise other people's children; I wouldn't do that and shouldn't have had to make that choice. So, I just couldn't do it anymore."
I watched big tears roll down her cheeks as she added the last statement. Beth loved teaching: the look in the eyes of the kids when they "got it," teaching them realistic expectations of the work world they'd soon enter even if it wasn't something they wanted to hear, and watching them succeed even despite their addled efforts to defy all authority. But she was forced to choose between her career and her family; she chose her family.
"I cared about those kids," she told me vehemently, "I just didn't care more about them than my own family." So she quit. And the Texas educational system lost an excellent teacher whose students learned how to function in a competitive world. She had to give up something she loved, abandon young people she truly did care about, in order to choose her own family.
My friend Keith, in Arizona, had to make a similar choice. Keith was an excellent physician. He cared for his patients, did everything he could to make their lives as healthy and comfortable as possible. For many patients, this was adequate. They had their own families and did not expect Keith to lie awake nights thinking about them or call them at home to make sure they took their medicine, or give them cookies and milk and tuck them in; they expected only that he would, as his job description implied, care for them during office hours or in emergencies. But the demand of others who expected Keith to be something less than human forced him to quit and become a 9-to-5 accountant. "Regina and the kids were much more important. I cared deeply about my patients, but I cared about my family more."
I sympathize. I have at times been guilty of spreading myself too thin, trying to please everyone, finding that some people are never happy, and not really being effective at anything. Family has always been important to me, but it's become even more important since I nearly lost my daughter in a horrific crash this summer. (Thanks to those who are caring and recognize that even though physical wounds have healed, my family is still suffering the emotional repercussions, and offer their understanding and support.) And I've decided, right or wrong, that nothing is more important than family.
I am, after all, only human.
We can love our jobs and truly care about those we serve, but nothing should ever lead us to shortchange the love our families deserve.