Andi doesn’t hear anything about Carlton Willis’s senatorial ambitions until Dom tells her at dinner over take-out chicken vindaloo. When the news drops, she’s at lunch with Connie Trujillo, a social worker who consults on their ICSW cases.
Connie has also led workshops to help Andi’s team understand the social, familial, and cultural challenges facing the populations they represent. During one, Connie warned team members to be on the lookout for something called “compassion fatigue,” saying it wasn’t uncommon for people whose work requires them to witness others’ trauma to also suffer mental and physical setbacks.
This is why Andi has invited her to lunch.
“My team is burning out. I’ve already lost one attorney and a legal assistant. If I lose any more, I’m concerned we may have to cease our ICSW cooperation altogether.”
There’s a crash in the kitchen, shattering glass and porcelain. She knows it’s just a server dropping a tray, but the noise sends her blood pressure sailing, her heartbeat into her ears.
Connie notices. “You okay?” She’s one of those people who seems to have been physically designed for her profession. Brown eyes that widen when you say something good, or droop when you need sympathy. A face that’s uniquely hers in conversation, but completely forgettable afterward. What you see is what you get. And right now, Andi sees a woman who smells trouble.
Andi says she’s fine, even though her hands are trembling. “Anyway, my fellow partners aren’t going to let me poach any more resources from the firm, and I can’t hire from outside with the money we earn.”
Frankly, she’s amazed the firm has allowed her team to continue this long. If it weren’t for Andi’s glad-handing of prominent intergovernmental and human rights agencies, she wouldn’t have been given six months of runway, let alone twenty and counting.
“I asked you here because you once talked about compassion fatigue. I need to know how to stop that from happening with my team. Or, if it’s already started, from getting worse.”
Connie asks, “How long have you been representing ICSW clients? A couple of years now?”
“Almost. Two years this September.”
“With the same legal team?”
“Until a few weeks ago, yes.”
Connie’s brown eyes grow big. “Congratulations. That’s a long stretch of time to retain your resources, especially with the types of cases you’ve seen.” She knew what she was talking about, as she’d consulted on some of their most egregious.
“Well, our streak appears to be over. Though the work isn’t anywhere near finished.”
“You want to know the average tenure of a caseworker in our office?” Connie asks. “Eight months.”
Andi isn’t surprised. “You’re asked to work for practically nothing, though. No offense.”
“None taken.” Connie has somehow managed to keep a smile on her face since sitting down. She hardly flinched at the crash in the kitchen. “It’s not all about the money, though. People drawn to my profession tend to be highly empathetic. We know going in that our salary won’t be anywhere near commensurate with the work, and yet we choose to do it, anyway. We’re wired to help people. Problem is, the more we give to helping those in pain, the less mental emotional energy we have to care for ourselves.”
“So, you burn out?”
Connie hmms. “More than that. The body begins to show internal stress in external ways—inability to sleep, headaches and stomachaches, mood swings. That sort of thing.”
“I’ve yet to meet a lawyer who sleeps well,” Andi says. “It starts in law school and never ends.”
“That’s too bad.” Connie’s brown eyes shift to sympathetic.
“I’m kidding, of course.”
“I know.” She shrugs. “But how are you coping with all this? You’re handling some pretty hefty cases, and you’re the public face of the work.”
Andi brushes away the question. “I’m fine.”
“What does fine look like for you?”
Maybe it’s because Connie is still smiling that Andi chooses to answer, even though they’ve strayed from the topic she’d hoped to discuss—the well-being of her team members. “About six weeks ago, I made deep cuts to my travel schedule. My son was acting out as a result of me traveling so much. The change seems to have made a difference.”
“For you?”
She finds the question surprising. “I meant for my son. And my husband. It’s made a difference for the family, and that’s good for me, too.”
“But how are you doing? You said ‘fine.’ And yet you’re asking about compassion fatigue. I’m curious if maybe you ask because you’re beginning to experience some yourself.”
The words I’m fine nearly escape Andi’s lips a third time before she catches herself. “I’m coping, let’s put it that way. Trying to control what I can and roll with the rest.”
“Like quitting the travel?” says Connie.
“Exactly. That’s something that made a difference.”
“Good for you.” Connie sits back in her seat, beaming.
She doesn’t say anything more for a such a long time that Andi finds herself filling the silence.
“I mean, of course, my team has had to pick up the slack. And that’s been rough. I’m sure it led to a good part of their burnout.”
“Meaning, people on your team quit because of your choices?”
Connie’s question cuts like a razor blade in the shower—so quick, you don’t notice the injury until the water runs red. Andi agrees with the insinuation; her inability to keep up with the work put an undue burden on others. She also hates hearing the words aloud; Connie has made her sound presumptuous and self-centered.
Andi says, “You sound as if you don’t believe me.”
“Did they complain about the extra workload?”
“Not directly. But I know firsthand they had to travel more because I had to be at home.”
Connie leans in and says gently, “What I’m saying is that you seem to be taking a lot of personal responsibility for other people’s choices.”
Without warning, Andi’s chest tightens. There’s a siren screaming in her head. She grabs the table.
“Andi?” Connie’s voice sounds a mile away. “What’s happening?”
It’s not until she feels Connie’s hand on hers that she snaps back. “I was at Target.” She means just now, in her head, though she also means when she’d slid to the floor of the toilet paper aisle. “I think I had a panic attack. Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe, all the symptoms. But I didn’t know what started it until you just said that.”
Connie waits without speaking.
Andi explains, “Personal responsibility. You just said it. But the other week, there was a mother berating her kids. I couldn’t see them, they were on the other side of the aisle. But she was hollering, ‘You’re not getting this back until you learn to take personal responsibility.’ And then I don’t know what happened, but the kid just started to scream.”
Her mind drifts back to the scene and her palms begin to sweat, her face clammy. She refocuses her gaze on Connie. “Am I losing my mind?”
Connie’s brown eyes turn to deep pools. “No. You heard a child crying and your brain connected it with something terrible—a kid in real trauma, maybe. Think of all the frightened and vulnerable children you’ve seen over the last few years. It rewires one’s circuits.”
Andi nods. Perhaps that was true. She liked to believe that she was strong and resilient enough to separate her personal and professional lives. What she doesn’t tell Connie is that the face that flashed before her eyes was Cam. Screaming for her.