The Time I Temporarily Lost the Ability to Read and Kept It a Secret
Or, How Getting Fired Taught Me That Quitting Doesn’t Equal Failure
Have you ever been fired?
When I was 19, I worked as a kennel technician and dog bather at a small business that handled dog grooming, kenneling, and doggy daycare.
The very last month I worked there I also had a secret.
It was a secret that also led to the events that got me fired.
But before I share what that secret was, a little background to help explain.
At 19, I had shared my struggles with my manager and co-workers about my chronic, undiagnosed illness.
I was really frustrated not having answers at the time and talked about it with my manager, who also had a chronic illness (though, hers was diagnosed).
In fact, this was also around the time I went to see a doctor who ended up telling me I should see another doctor.
No one specific. Just not him, since he was feeling absolutely clueless with what to do with me.
Frustrated, I decided to just pretend it wasn’t real. After all, a lot of my previous doctors, friends, or adults would tell me it wasn’t real, so maybe if I just ignored it, it would go away.
Then the last month of working, I got a new symptom.
The secret I was keeping? I had temporarily lost the ‘ability’ to read. Or, at times when I could read somewhat, I couldn’t even comprehend what I was reading.
It felt like trying to read while shaking your head from side to side. On top of that, when I really tried to focus, the letters and numbers would feel like they would flip and sometimes even turn into symbols.
Sometimes, it was like looking at a foreign language, and yet it seemed so familiar. Every once in a while, I could make some words out.
Honestly, I was really embarrassed, so I didn’t tell anyone.
And I still didn’t tell anyone when my secret — and my illness in general — led to a dog going to an ER, another dog dying, and me getting fired.
Disclosure: Some names are changed for sake of privacy and also because I can’t remember their names to begin with.
Strike I
The place I worked at had a three-strike rule.
My first performance review was OK, but I was also told that I took too long to clean the dog suites.
I wasn’t sure how long I was taking, though, because I didn’t have a watch on me.
Quite frankly, I wasn’t even sure what the time range was supposed to be when I had to clean vomit, diarrhea, and sometimes blood because one dog kept smacking their tail so hard against the wall that blood splattered everywhere.
But strike 1, and technically my last actual strike, was entirely my fault.
I was on a closing shift, and before the place closed, we had a customer drop off her two dogs before she had to leave town.
Elizabeth, the receptionist, gave me the dogs and their name sheets — a small sheet of paper we put on the dog's suite that says their name, feeding and care instructions, and anything else such as whether they go in a suite or crate or have medical conditions.
Most of the time, I had no problem. I could sometimes make out the shapes and sizes of words if I couldn’t seem to read the word or read with confidence. So, sometimes I can make out an “S” for suite, or other times It looks like a bigger word than cage (or whatever word they used, since I can’t remember).
Listen, it may have taken me five minutes to read one thing, but I always managed to put the dogs in the correct place.
And thankfully, Elizabeth said the word ‘suite’, and there wasn’t so much confusion. Granted, I could barely process anything else she said.
So, I took the two dogs to their suite, then tried to read each paper three times just to check over everything.
After the dogs were all settled, I finished my closing duties with everyone else and left to start all over again tomorrow morning.
The next morning, I learn that the two dogs fought, and one had to be sent to the animal ER.
Turns out, the paper said to go into separate suites.
While the dog was thankfully fine and the business had to settle the bill, I still got a stern talk from the boss and thus, my first and last strike.
Because what happened next was the incident that really got me fired.
“The Incident”
I had just washed a medium-sized, sweet brown dog. She was a bit older, so I made sure to take my time with her and go slow.
After I towel-dried her, I set her on the table, secured her, and started to blow dry her.
For a long moment, she seemed okay. Scared, but OK.
Then she starts shaking. She crouches down low and shakes, looking like she’s suddenly terrified, so I instantly pull the blow dryer away and take a moment to watch her and try to soothe her.
I turn off the blow dryer, but I doubt it would help. The room is already loud with other blow dryers and scary as is.
She still shakes, and it looks exactly like a terrified dog — nothing more. I wonder if I should just ask my manager if we can skip blow drying, but in the blink of an eye, the dog is gone.
What the hell?
I turn to the right, ready to start looking for her. How did she even get out of her secured leash? How did she get off the table?
But then, I see her. Lying on the ground a foot away from my table, my manager kneeled down next to her holding her down as the dog shakes — this time, like she’s having a seizure.
I’m still holding the nozzle of the blow dryer — off now — but I’m standing there stunned.
What just happened?
Did I just black out?
This can’t be happening.
But it is, and I feel like I can’t breathe. The other dog bathers are watching, but still mindful with their own dogs. I don’t know what they are doing — if they are going to bring the dogs back to their kennels so they don’t see what’s happening and to clear the room, if they stopped blow drying or are just starring in a stunned silence like me.
Every sound seems muffled, and it feels like my lungs are being squeezed, just like my chest. But for the first time in ten years, I’m not in pain. My body feels numb.
And then, I watch my manager pick up the dog and leave the room — apparently to give CPR.
Everything else is a blur, and at one point I start to shake as I wonder if the dog died.
Is it my fault?
Did I do something wrong?
Am I going to get fired? Do I even care if I get fired?
But then, my thoughts shift back to my health.
Did I really black out?
What if I was taking so long cleaning those kennels and suites because I was actually blacking out?
What if every time people asked “wow, what took you so long?” even though I felt like I wasn’t long at all, were actually right? What if I was blacking out this entire time?
First not being able to read or comprehend what I’m reading, and now this?
What’s wrong with me?
Will I ever get diagnosed?
Am I going to be sick forever?
Am I only going to get worse?
I don’t remember much about what happened. I think I sit in the break room for a while, with some of my co-workers trying to talk to me.
I don’t remember if I responded.
I don’t remember what they say.
I don’t even remember if I was crying, or just wanted to cry.
But eventually, I’m called into Stella’s office — the owner — who I have only met twice.
Once when I started working here.
Another because she was passing by.
And now.
As I sit in her dark office, my manager — Abby — sits next to her.
They talk about how they re-watched the video of what had happened, and I want to ask the same thing, but instead I’m silent.
They tell me how the dog passed away, but Abby reminds me that it wasn’t my fault, and that the dog had never had a seizure before, only to then say, “but you took too long to respond”.
As if I would be able to tell the difference between shaking from fear and an onset of a seizure when the dog looked awake.
As if I had experience with animals for 10 years just like Abby did.
But I keep silent. Athletes don’t give excuses.
Then again, I wasn’t really an athlete anymore.
I get exhausted the moment I wake up.
I can barely shower, barely brush my teeth, barely do anything.
But I want to tell her that I blacked out — or whatever had happened to me.
I want to tell her that the dog looked scared, not like she was suffering a seizure.
And when she tells me that I’m fired, I finally open my mouth to speak.
“Thank you.” I say, and a wave of relief hits me as I leave.
Because I didn’t quit. I stuck it out until the end.
And that’s a good thing, right?
The Lesson Learned — But Way Later
Getting fired didn’t teach me what I know now immediately.
It was actually a series of lessons and mistakes.
Like, my barista job. The time I studied abroad. My job at the movie theater.
But eventually, I realized that there is a difference between “giving up” and quitting when it’s necessary.
Quitting is okay.
Fuck, I wish I knew this before, because as much as I want to say this was the last time that I had a job where I had serious symptoms that got in the way with work, it isn’t.
It wasn’t even the first one.
My first job caused an asthma attack that led to bronchitis for three months and blacking out while driving that nearly caused a car accident.
I want to say that I won’t ever have health problems at another job again, but I probably will.
At least now I have learned — or maybe, I’m still learning — that quitting doesn’t equal failure.
It just means putting my health first.
