“I hate what I put myself through for this profession,” I sobbed hysterically, still convulsing, as my husband’s terrified expression started to fade and turned to anger and sadness.
When my husband and I moved to California, I was already licensed to practice in Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and Washington, DC – and I really didn’t want to take another Bar Exam! But then I found my way to a firm with work that excited me, people I respected and admired, and an environment where I felt I could be me. So, I signed up for the California Bar and put a multi-month study plan in place.
After only a week or two of study, I got unexpectedly and frightening ill. I have a complex constellation of chronic conditions. I had already blacked out and experienced anaphylactic episodes during one of the previous Bar exams. I’m a pro at navigating major hurdles. It’s unusual for illness to scare me, but this was beyond anything I had experienced and it confounded my medical team. My study plans went out the window until three weeks before the Bar, when my health had improved enough that I could study for up to a few hours per day. I was still sick as a dog, but I was determined to get through the exam. I passed, and the next hurdle was the MPRE.
One of my conditions – Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome (POTS) – is a nervous system disorder that is becoming better known because it’s associated with Long-COVID. POTS can cause fainting, heart palpitations, difficulty breathing, brain fog, and more. It’s not just unpleasant; it can be dangerous. One of the primary ways POTS patients keep our blood pressure in check is by consuming an unreasonable amount of water and salt throughout the day. Filtered water in glass bottles, in my case, due to a chlorine allergy.
After dozens of hours collecting and submitting my medical history to an adjudicator, I was granted an accommodation shortly before the MPRE exam date permitting me to bring water in a “clear sports bottle” into the exam room. I assumed the “clear sports bottle” was about the transparency element, and didn’t think much about the “sports bottle” piece.
The exam was far enough away that my husband and I decided to travel there the night before to ensure I was well rested. That went awry due to an excessively scented Airbnb, but we’re used to rolling with the punches when we travel. I headed over to the testing center, where the proctor read through my accommodation letter and informed me that there was a problem. She wasn’t certain that the glass bottles I had brought were sufficiently sporty, or what qualified a bottle as sporty in the first place.
This seemed a little absurd, but the proctor wanted to be extra careful (her job would be on the line, after all). She called NCBE to confirm, and the individual she spoke with at NCBE said, “no.” It must be a “sports” bottle – plastic, clear.
People with disabilities know that there’s a certain kind of administrator whose mission in life is protect society from the “unfair advantage that the disabled are trying to steal.” This proctor hadn’t had to deal with one of those before, and was sure she’d be able to resolve this misunderstanding. After all, it was clearly absurd to deny me water that was medically necessary over a plastic versus glass issue. What kind of sadist would do that? She was about to learn.
The proctor didn’t want me to any lose time on my exam so we agreed that I would begin without water, and she would bring my bottles in once she resolved the issue. She tried to understand their concern, explaining the nature of the accommodation, the nature of the medical issue, clarifying that the water bottles I had with me were completely transparent – no possible way to cheat. She suggested that she could hold onto the water bottles and I could come out to her and drink the water in her presence. “No, not even if it’s urgent.” She spoke with multiple NCBE personnel. Again and always, the answer was the same. Under no circumstances could I drink water from my bottles, “NOT EVEN IF IT’S URGENT!”
The proctor interrupted my exam, clearly bewildered, to tell me the news. I would need to take the multi-hour exam without any water, even if it was urgent. I almost cried because I knew what would happen to my body without water.
I pulled out all my tricks during the exam – breathing exercises to calm down my nervous system, squeezing my body parts like a fighter pilot to try to prevent fainting and blood pooling – in a desperate attempt to get through. I was racing my own biology and I started to fade, losing the ability to see clearly or concentrate. Toward the end, I could barely discern what I was seeing on the screen, let alone read or understand the words. I couldn’t check my work. I had to stop, hopefully with enough points to pass.
The proctor was in shock when she saw me come out. I’d gone from bubbly and talkative, to shaking and unable to speak. I couldn’t hear what she said as I stumbled past her, but she seemed traumatized to see what the testing experience can be like for those of us with disabilities.
My husband was waiting in the car to pick me up. He looked terrified as he saw me stumbling toward him, convulsing, barely able to walk, and mumbling single syllables through a clenched jaw. He quickly got juice, water, salt, and electrolytes into me. He put headphones on me and handed me my phone so that I could start a binaural beats program that helps calm and recover the nervous system. I just stared at the lock screen, unable to remember my own passcode. He unlocked the screen, started the app, and continued to hydrate me. Over the next 30 minutes I started to look less like death. Then the tears started to flow, and I exclaimed with such sadness, anger, and disappointment:
“I HATE what I put myself through for this profession!”
A year prior, I had launched The Wellness Esquire – a movement to shift the legal culture to recognize and value the connection between wellbeing and success, to do great work while prioritizing our health and wellbeing over the often abusive demands of our profession. And here I was, choosing to partake in a profession that has explicitly and implicitly tried to shut me out.
I could have chosen not to take the exams under those conditions. But at the same time, I didn’t really have a choice. Could I delay becoming licensed by 6 months? Risk unemployment? Risk a lower salary because of not yet being licensed in California? Risk scheduling for a new date only to be faced with some other potentially worse challenge? Just quit being an attorney and do something else that I don’t love as much, with 6 figures of student loans?
It's fantastic to see the spark of interest in a corner of our profession that desires more humane and realistic professional arrangements, but it’s not enough. The big players – partners, Big Law, Bar Associations, corporations with legal departments, the NCBE, law schools, etc. – need to decide that the health and safety of lawyers is a priority. Trickling up may work eventually, but trickling down from the tippity top will work, and it will work faster.
My story isn’t a fluke. If you speak to lawyers or law students with disabilities, you’ll hear atrocious stories – many far worse than mine – about the discrimination and gatekeeping that we face.
I did pass the MPRE, with flying colors. But not without risking my safety. It didn’t have to be that way.