10. Some of us are slower than others

 

Failing the Series 22 exam meant that I would not be getting an NASD broker’s license – which meant that I lost my job at the oil company.

I spent weeks – and then months – recovering from the ordeal I’d gone through, just trying to pass the test and dealing with the diagnosis. I spent countless hours checking monster.com and sending out resumes as I sought a new line of work. I also spent a great deal of time researching Parkinson’s Disease.

Turning once again to “temp” assignments and contract work, I gained a position in research and placement, seeking potential employment for the “trailing spouse” of employees being hired and / or relocated by major corporations. It was gratifying work, in a pleasant environment. I enjoyed the telephone interviews, the cold calls to prospective employers, and the opportunity to use my writing skills as I prepared biographies of the professionals we were “selling.” I was happy with the work and my ability to produce quality material – but I was very aware that I was not keeping pace with my co-workers. I was not making my daily quota and, no matter how hard I tried, I could not catch up.

I had not disclosed the fact that I have Parkinson’s, and I was painfully aware that my ability to take handwritten notes during phone conversations was noticeably hampered by my “disabled” right arm. My typing was slow and was increasingly effected by some fingers that arbitrarily struck certain keys repetitively (while other fingers couldn’t muster enough pressure to type any letter at all). When I tried to hurry, I became stressed, and, the more stressed I became, the slower and less productive I was at my job… and, of course, I was constantly yawning, and nauseous, because of the Mirapex.

One Monday, four months after I’d begun working in that role, I was running late for work. I rushed into the office and rounded a corner to my cubicle, only to find someone else at my desk. I stood there, confused, as my supervisor rushed up behind me and clutched my elbow. “What are you doing?” he asked, as he escorted me into a nearby conference room and closed the door. “What?” I asked. But those words were barely out of my mouth before he spoke again: “I mean what are you doing here?”

It seems that I had been called off the assignment. I wasn’t supposed to have come to work that day! I just “wasn’t up to speed,” he said, uncomfortably, adding that the temp service was supposed to have called me.

[OUCH!]

But… ah, I thought… someone was even slower than me at getting their job done!