January 6, 1994, was my last day of work. I didn’t retire early or win the lottery. No one left me a fortune in their wills. Too bad, really. A careless driver ran me over as I walked my two dogs. I ended up in a ditch, unconscious and bleeding with brain trauma. Maxine, my scrappy mutt, sat down by side, licking blood oozing from a gash to my cheek. Rescued dog Judy got spooked and ran off. Evidently, she returned to the house in the early morning hours, cold and hungry. Almost two months would slip by before I returned home from a hospital/rehab center stay. My neighbors and friends cared for Judy and Maxine in my absence. I’d have been heartbroken without them.

Brain trauma compromised my ability to work because of memory loss, confusion, and mobility issues. I missed waking up at dawn, lacing up my sneakers and heading out for a daily jog. In 1982, I quit smoking and jogging helped me stay off cigarettes.

In the 1970s, I lived in NYC. As a good corporate servant, I slipped into panty hose, pumps, and a dress. I dabbed on a touch of make-up to avoid looking pasty. Carrying a brief case made me look important even though I wasn’t. I rode crowded subways to reach the office. Not all cars were air-conditioned. In the blistering summers, the ride could be insufferable. Now and then, I elbowed horny old toads who saw me as a piece of meat. The nerve of them. I often ate lunch in the company cafeteria. The lettuce was limp, the coffee weak, and the meat grizzly, but it was fun to be among friends and co-workers. On nice days, I ventured out for a walk and fresh air. It might be a stretch to call New York City air fresh. I squeezed myself among throngs of people anyway. I didn’t always like being cooped up for eight hours a day. I met madness on the midtown streets but at least I was outside.

Each morning, I bought a copy of the New York Times to stay current with world and national events despite no one asking me what I thought. I flashed fake smiles at executives, saying good morning, even if they had egos that stretched from Manhattan to Massachusetts. Women head honchos were slowly climbing towards seats in the boardroom. I read business magazines to keep up on industry trends. I wanted to get ahead and to shed the chaos of my working-class roots. I longed to move out of my roach-infested Queens apartment building. I dreamt of living in a comfortable Fifth Avenue apartment with a doorman wearing a uniform and bow tie. My Manhattan digs would have a wrap-around terrace. In that spacious apartment, I’d invite friends over for Sunday brunch. Afterwards, we’d stroll along Columbus Avenue, browsing in the shops. Maybe I’d pick up a new blouse.

College didn’t work out for me after high school, but that’s another story. I saw myself as a company girl, clawing her way up the corporate ladder. Maybe even reach executive status. To accomplish my lofty goals, I needed a college degree. I enrolled in Baruch College, part of the CUNY (City University of NY) network of two- and four-year public colleges and majored in marketing. At the end of a 9 to 5 day, I either walked or rode a bus to campus. At the time, Baruch College was scattered about in several office buildings around East 23rd Street and Park Avenue South. At first, I took two classes per semester, a slow, laborious trek towards a four-year degree. Later, I pumped up my schedule and took three classes a semester. Then four. The punishing schedule of work/school exhausted me, but I persevered. How, I’m not sure.

Some evenings, I was so beat from working all day then sitting through classes like macro-economics and accounting that I dozed off on the subway ride home and missed my stop. At least I was never mugged. I earned enough credits for my degree, but the end was anti-climactic. I graduated in January 1982. No formal ceremony was held. I finally got that degree. The next stop was an MBA and a big fat raise. Except that didn’t happen. My corporate career collapsed shortly after graduation. What timing.

In the spring of 1982, an unfamiliar term weaseled its way into my vernacular – RIF – which meant reduction in force or another way to say you’re fired. Rumors swirled that corporate profits were slipping. Manufacturing plants would close, departments would shrink, and employees would be released. My seven-year history was full of glowing performance reviews. I rarely missed a day, except once when I had the flu. I loved my job. I got along well with others. I stepped up for overtime when asked. How could I be on the chopping block?

I remember that dreary March morning when the department head summoned me to his office. My gut said it wasn’t for a friendly chat or a cup of coffee. From the snarl on his face, I knew what was next. Mr. Cost Cutter said my services were no longer needed. Wipe that caustic smile off your face, I said to myself. I was only in my mid-twenties and just earned a bachelor’s degree, which the company paid for. For my hard work, I received a modest severance package and pay for unused vacation. The master of my destiny wished me well. I refused to shake Mr. Cost Cutter’s outstretched hand. I left the office, ducked into the nearest lady’s room, and wept. I cleaned out my office into a tattered paper shopping bag, taking with me memories of Christmas parties, birthday luncheons and photos of co-workers, a few of whom passed too early. I poked my head into several offices to say goodbye to colleagues. Some could hardly believe I got canned. Everyone was sorry. Yes, me too. After tears and hugs. I rode the elevator to the lobby, pushed through the revolving doors, and left the building for the last time. Wow, I wouldn’t be returning to work here. Not ever. Holding my shopping bag full of memories, I passed by clothing stores I had patronized, buying dresses, skirts, and slacks to look sharp at the office, following the corporate motto of dress for success. Didn’t seem to help me, did it? What now? No more after work drinks with friends, company dinners, viewing the latest movies or museum openings. I felt dried up and worn out, like three-day old egg salad.

I woke up the next morning in a funk. I woke up the next week stuck in the same funk. How could I face a world that didn’t want me? Reality soon hit. I had bills to pay. I wasn’t Hollywood material, nor was I born into wealth, so I had to be realistic and find a way to earn a check.

I soon discovered that my educational background couldn’t compete in the fast-paced and power-driven corporate world of the 1980s. MBAs from Ivy League schools like Harvard and Yale carried far more prestige than my city college diploma. I was like a mom-and-pop deli competing against the mighty grocery store chains. Those graduates were in demand. I was not.

An employment agency counselor sent me out on several interviews, but nothing panned out. One counselor at another agency, who dealt primarily with the Smith College and the preppy types, didn’t know why I was there. I needed a job, not the glare from her steely eyes. If I held a bachelor’s degree from a prestigious institution like Columbia or Vassar, even if my diploma was in Greek mythology, I probably would’ve had a slew of corporate opportunities to choose from. Instead, I had nothing but a stack of rejection notices and fear of the poor house.

To avoid panhandling, I resorted to plan B. I enrolled in a six-week word processing course and found work as a secretary right away at a large medical center. My ego remained bruised. I no longer had an office, business cards, or an impressive title. No one invited me to meetings. I sat behind a machine, plucking away. Sorting the department mail was the highlight of my day.

I took up running not long after I got fired to revive my sagging spirits. At first, I huffed and puffed my way around Central Park, but I built up my milage without fainting. After running in road races on the weekends, I connected with joggers who went on group runs for safety and friendship. My confidence started to rise. In 1986, I ran the first of three New York City marathons. I straggled in at the end, but I always finished. Getting fired took a lot out of me besides a regular paycheck. Spending time on the track was a healthier alternative than chugging down beers. I was unhappy but fit.

I was on a packed bus that snaked through midtown Manhattan traffic on a nippy winter evening in December 1983. I squeezed through a sea of passengers to wait for my stop, on my way to a group run in Central Park. Anxious like a true New Yorker, I held my gym bag in case of a thief. Why, I have no idea. I had nothing worth taking. Most riders were exhausted souls on the way home from work. Ready to get off the bus, an overhead advertisement snagged my attention. Ever since the Transit Authority scrapped the cheesy promotions for the Miss Subway beauty contest where any local resident could compete for a beauty title of questionable value, I lost interest in the ads. This advertisement wasn’t for a miracle potion that could cure baldness. Rather, it depicted a little girl, perhaps six or seven years old, with a bruised left eye and a cracked open lip. The headline read, "You should get to know who did this to her." On a whim, I ripped off one of the cards attached to the poster and shoved it in my bag.

I hurried across West 64th street to catch up with west side Runners, a group of men and women who took off for their evening run promptly at 7:00 p.m. Sometimes they left at 5 past 7 because New Yorkers were fashionably late, held up by delays on mass transit, stuck at the office or mugged on the way. Group runs instead of costly visits to a shrink, or happy pills kept me grounded. Living and working in New York City often stretched my sanity level.

I thought about SCAN (Suspected Child Abuse and Neglect), the child abuse program pictured on the bus ad. I knew nothing about why parents abused their children and had mostly negative views of those who did. Instead of throwing out the card, I responded. At that time, my life was about as challenging as dry rye toast.

During a cold spell in December, I huddled under the blankets. My cheapskate landlord was sparing with the heat again. I stared at the television, not interested by whatever program was on. The phone rang. I assumed it would either be a friend or a sales rep trying to sell me something I didn’t want or couldn’t afford.

“Are you Debbie White?” The caller was Judy, a social worker from SCAN. “Yep.” “Calling to see if you’re still interested in our program.” “I wondered what happened. Been a while since I sent back the card.” “Can you talk now?” “Sure. Not doing anything.” Even though I lacked an impressive academic background, I had more to offer than typing reports on patients with skin disorders from a doctor who had more money than he could spend. What a shame he didn’t ask me. I had plenty of ideas. “Be available with our director. He makes the final decisions.” I called it a day. Maybe SCAN would fluff up my boring life?

At the end of an hour long interview with the director, a psychologist who made me laugh and shiver and asked me more questions about my life, my family, my job, my friends, my politics, and where I expected to be in five years (alive, I hoped) I was welcomed as a volunteer parent-aide. That was at the end of 1983, changing me forever.

After two and a half years as a parent aide, the complexities of child welfare, institutionalized racism and abject poverty floored me. There’s no space here to describe how the story ended. Because of my volunteer work, I enrolled in NYU School of Social Work and graduated with a master’s degree in 1988. Despite the shock of losing my corporate job, I slowly realized that it was a blessing. Corporate earnings, balance sheets or sucking up to cocky managers was in my past. Corporate America disappeared from my radar screen.

In social work, I found a calling. Clients depended on me to locate affordable housing that’s still in short supply. They relied on me to secure health care in the frenzied AIDS era. Colleagues consulted me on complex cases and expected me at meetings. I dealt with homelessness, child abuse, drug addiction, domestic violence, and teen pregnancy. Sometimes I felt over my head, but I knew I was in the right place. I couldn’t solve everyone’s problems, but I belonged.

I never imagined that a simple walk that wintry day in January 1994 would end my social work career. At the end of a two-month hospital stay and a long recovery, I found a new life through volunteer work and creative writing. Life goes on after job loss whether it’s from a reduction in force, outsourcing, downsizing, or disability. I could’ve become an angry person after my job loss in 1982 or my disability in 1994. Instead, I became involved with the world around me, even if I lost income, status, and a nice place to live. I kept my dignity intact. I’m old now. My body and brain don’t work as well. Volunteer work gives me a purpose. For that I’m so thankful. I volunteer at an airport, animal shelter, refugee agency and serve a meal at a homeless shelter once a month. I was a pet therapist for seven years. I assisted in a children’s reading program and helped teach English to refugees new to the USA. I did clerical work for the Sierra Club. I answered the phone in former AZ Gov. Janet Napolitano’s office and pitched in for a couple of political campaigns. Sometimes, I even get published. I thought my world ended in 1982 when I lost my corporate job. Little did I know it had just begun. My life almost ended in 1994 in a car accident. Volunteer work made me whole again. It gives me a reason to get out of bed every day since the accident of 1/6/94. At the age of 70, I haven’t given up.