The year Zach was born, I began acting inappropriately with my UPS delivery guy.
I don’t mean that I tried to seduce him (it’s hard to be seductive with milk stains on your T-shirt). I mean that whenever he delivered a package—which was often, given the need for baby supplies—I would try to detain him with conversation simply because I craved adult company. I’d strain to make small talk about the weather, a news headline, even the weight of a package (“Wow, who knew diapers were so heavy! Do you have kids?”) while the UPS driver fake-smiled and nodded as he not-so-subtly backed away from me to the safety of his truck.
At the time I was working from home as a writer, which meant that all day, I sat alone in my pajamas at a computer when I wasn’t feeding, changing, bouncing, or otherwise engaging with an adorable but demanding ten-pound human with a talent for screaming like a banshee. Basically, I interacted with what I called, in my darkest moments, “a gastrointestinal tract with lungs.” Before having a baby, I’d relished the freedom of a non-office job. But now I longed to get dressed every day and be in the company of verbal grownups.
It was during this perfect storm of isolation and plummeting estrogen that I started to wonder if I’d made a mistake by leaving medical school. Journalism suited me well—I got to cover hundreds of topics for dozens of publications, and they all revolved around a common thread that fascinated me: the human psyche. I didn’t want to stop writing, but now, while reeking of spit-up in the middle of the night, I reconsidered the possibility of a dual career. If I became a psychiatrist, I reasoned, I could interact with people in a meaningful way, helping them to be happier, but I could also have the flexibility to write and spend time with my family.
I sat on the idea for a few weeks, until one spring morning I called up my former dean at Stanford and floated my plan by her. A renowned researcher, she was also the med-school version of a camp mom—warm, wise, intuitive. I had run her mother-daughter book group when I was in medical school and knew her well. I was sure that after I explained my thought process, she would be supportive of my plan.
Instead she said: “Why would you do that?”
And then: “Besides, psychiatrists don’t make people happy!”
I remembered the old medical-school quip: “Psychiatrists don’t make people happy—prescriptions do!” Suddenly sobered, I knew what she meant. It wasn’t that she didn’t respect psychiatrists; it was that psychiatry today tends to be more about the nuances of medication and neurotransmitters than the subtleties of people’s life stories—all of which she knew I knew.
Anyway, she asked, did I really want to do three years of residency with a toddler? Did I want to spend time with my son before he started kindergarten? Did I remember talking with her as a medical student about my desire to have more substantial relationships with patients than the contemporary medical model afforded?
Then—just as I imagined my former dean shaking her head on the other end of the phone, just when I wished I could turn back time so that this conversation had never happened—she said something that would change the course of my life: “You should go to graduate school and get a degree in clinical psychology.” By going the clinical psychology route, she said, I could work with people in the way I’d always talked about—the appointments would be fifty minutes instead of fifteen, and the work would be deeper and longer term.
I got chills. People often use that expression loosely, but I actually did get chills, goose bumps and all. It was shocking how right this felt, as if my life’s plan had finally been revealed. In journalism, I thought, I could tell people’s stories, but I wasn’t changing their stories. As a therapist, I could help people change their stories. And with this dual career, I could have the perfect combination.
“Being a therapist is going to require a blend of the cognitive and the creative,” the dean continued. “There’s an artistry in combining the two. What could be a better mix of your abilities and interests?”
Not long after that conversation, I sat in a room with college seniors and took the GRE, the graduate-school version of the SAT. I applied to a local graduate program, and over the next few years, I worked toward my degree. And I continued to write, hearing stories and sharing them, while learning to help people change as my life changed too.
During this time, my son began to talk and walk, and the UPS guy’s deliveries gradually evolved from diapers to Legos. “Oh, the Jedi Starfighter!” I’d say. “Are you a Star Wars fan?” And when I was finally ready to graduate, I told the UPS guy the news.
For the first time, he didn’t try to run for his truck. Instead, he leaned over and hugged me.
“Congratulations!” he said, his arms wrapped around my back. “Wow, you did all that already, and with a kid too? I’m proud of you.”
I stood there, shocked and moved, embracing my UPS guy. When we finally let go, he told me that he had news too: He wouldn’t be on my route anymore. Like me, he’d decided to go back to school. And to save on rent, he needed to move in with his family, who lived a few hours away. He wanted to become a contractor.
“Congratulations to you!” I said, throwing my arms around him. “I’m proud of you too.”
We probably looked odd (“That must have been some package!” I imagined the neighbors murmuring), but we stayed that way for what felt like a long time, delighted by how far we’d both come.
“I’m Sam, by the way,” he said, after we finished hugging.
“I’m Lori, by the way,” I said. He’d always called me “Ma’am” before.
“I know.” He gestured with his chin to the package with my name on the address label.
We both laughed.
“Well, Sam, I’ll be rooting for you,” I said.
“Thanks,” he replied. “I’ll need it.”
I shook my head. “I have a feeling you’ll do just fine, but I’ll root for you anyway.”
Then Sam asked for my signature one last time and left, giving me a thumbs-up from the driver’s seat as he pulled away in his big brown truck.
A couple of years later, I received a business card from Sam. I saved your address, he wrote on a Post-it attached to the card. If you have any friends who need my services, I would appreciate the business. I was midway through my internship, and I placed his card in my drawer for later, knowing exactly when I’d use it.
The bookshelves in my office?
Built by Sam.