It was a heavy phone day. Not all of my work days are, but there are enough of them to make me fantasize about the day when my book sales reach a point where I can quit the account-managing job to just be a writer. But for now, my day job consists of fielding a lot of phone calls for my clients, covering everything from order status to product questions to catalog requests.
And so when the phone rang and a young man came on the line saying, “I’d like to get one of your catalogs,” I thought nothing of it. Those are usually the easiest calls, so I said sure and asked for his name and address.
And that’s when I knew that this would be no ordinary catalog request.
He verbally stumbled several times just giving me his name, and midway through his address the poor guy halted, apologizing, berating himself (“I should know my own address; I should know my own address”). I assured him it was okay, to take his time, because I knew. I got that tingling at the back of my neck; I knew that I was speaking with a young man who had a developmental disability of some sort, perhaps autism, perhaps not. And he was requesting a catalog of self-help CDs.
He finished giving me his address, and I thanked him, telling him when he should receive his catalog, expecting him to hang up then. But he didn’t. He said something that made my heart ache.
“Are you hiring any male phone operators?”
Then, in the seconds that I mentally formulated a response, I heard his mother in the background, gently correcting him. “Patrick, that’s not what you called for.”
My tears came then, because in that instant I realized that she was me and I was her. How many times have I stood by the phone, coaching Neil through calls in the exact same way? Teaching him phone etiquette? How many times? Will I be in her shoes ten years from now, with my adult son doing his damnedest to try to be independent, trying to get a job – any job – any way he can? I wanted to reach through the phone, to hug her, to tell her I know. To tell her I’m there with her.
I took in a quick, empathic breath and told Patrick that I’m sure he would be a wonderful phone operator, but we weren’t hiring any new people right now. He said, with sincerity and grace, “That’s okay. But I’m really glad that you have a job. Because it’s hard to find jobs these days, so I’m happy for you that you have one.”
I almost gasped at that point – his candor, his gentleness, was overwhelming. I thanked him and wished him the best on his job hunt. I hung up the phone and sat there at my desk, at my job that I fantasize about leaving, and thought about all the Patricks who are just trying to get any job, who with the help of their loving mothers are requesting self-help catalogs, who for all the world wish they could be in my shoes, have a job they can be proud of, and who are genuinely happy for those that do. I was deeply moved, and profoundly appreciative.
It may not have been what he called for, but I’m so glad he did.
As if I need another reason to cry or worry today….
I’m glad he got you on the phone. What a blessing.
Oh Tanya, this hits hard. You have such a gift. So many gifts.
That was beautiful, I’m glad he got you on the other end of the phone. Now I need a tissue!
That’s beautiful! I am so glad you are blogging again! This makes my night =)
If only the rest of the world could be more understanding like this 🙂
What a wonderful (heart-wrenching) story. Moments like that leave such an impact on us as parents. I think you were lucky to have that happen.. so, congrats. 🙂 You were able to help him be independent. He’s going to get his catalog!
You handled that call with grace and compassion. I hope your encouragement gives him the confidence he needs to land a job somewhere. The daily grind can be wearying, but you do it with aplomb.
So happy to read you are back.
These interactions make our lives so rich, I am so greatful that I can feel them. Hope that makes sense !
px
bless him. bless all of the patrick’s of the world. and their mamas.
I’m sure that even if his mother couldn’t hear your end of the conversation, the fact that he was having the conversation (and no doubt the look on his face) made her day, too!
Gorgeous post Tanya. GORGEOUS.
Your empathy is a beautiful thing.
And how did I miss that you have this blog here? I’m so excited to catch up —
In absolute tears
Sounds like Patrick’s mum did a wonderful job of teaching him phone etiquette …just as you do with Neil 😉
I seem to have lost your blog for a while… so glad that I found you again 🙂
xx Jazzy
Such a great post! I’m so glad you had that experience…both for Patrick and for you. A little teary thinking of my two “Patrick’s” now…they are still young (12 and 6) and both are in the shallow end of the spectrum pool, but still we wonder and worry about what it will be like for them 10-15yrs down the road.
This brought me to tears Tanya. Beautifully written.