“So how do you feel?”
“…I don’t know. It hasn’t quite set in yet that I’m never going back.”
The last 24 hours had been the longest, yet shortest day in recent memory. After saying my last 14 goodbyes, I had spent an additional 2 hours crossing every t and dotting every i to make sure I left in the best way possible.
Reality was a stark contrast to what a friend had thought I would actually do: throw up the deuces and walk out at 5 while yelling, “I’M OUT!!”
No, instead I addressed every remaining lab, reviewed all the documents in my inbox and diligently wrote out plans for my most complex patients until the clock finally ticked down to 7 pm. The clinic could be mad at me for leaving, but dammit, they wouldn’t be able to say I didn’t do good work.
Is the cost of taking the high road worth it, M?
The buzz of my phone from an incoming text from J thankfully interrupted my foray into frustration.
“Hey, when are you coming home? You invited people over at 8, remember?”
Cursing myself for overstuffing my schedule in typical M fashion, I quickly did one more loop around the clinic to make sure every last remnant of my existence had been wiped out.
The drawer containing my secret stash of Altoids and candy right next to the otoscope insufflator I would likely never use again in the hospital – already emptied.
The offensively bright pink water bottle I would refill as an excuse to take a mental break, knowing full well that potty breaks would just make me later than my usual 20 minutes – couldn’t leave that behind.
Eyes landed on the Ikea children’s stool I used for three and a half years since even with 2.5 inch heels, my 5’1.5 frame couldn’t reach the counters well enough to comfortably type notes on my laptop between patients. Tears unexpectedly welled up as I recalled my medical assistant asking earlier that afternoon,
“Are you going to take that, Dr. M? They bought the stool just for you – no one else is going to use it… you’re the shortest one here!“
No, that was going to stay. I didn’t need to bring home any more useless artifacts of my time here, even if it was for nostalgia’s sake. Because #minimalism.
The memories would have to be enough.
Fighting back the tears as I rounded the corner to head back to my office for the last time, my voice echoed in my head from a conversation the night prior at run club.
“I’ve allotted 2 hours of cry time for tomorrow after work so… you can be over at 8 and I think I’ll be good!”
Did my friends know how serious I had been beneath the smile that blanketed those words?
The seamless weaving of truth into lies perfected over years of being on show was yet another thing I’d take away from my time at clinic. I’d leave it there if I could, but how does one divorce such a thing from their being?
At any rate, 2 hours had now been drastically cut down to 15 minutes before friends would gather to “celebrate” this momentous occasion.
Enveloped by the dark as I rushed to my Jeep as the last person to leave the building, I wondered,
Why does this feel so different from my last day of residency?
There was so much more excitement back then, even with saying goodbye to people I had spent more time with than my own husband over 4 years, growing together as we shared countless painful and joyful experiences during training.
That day there were no tears. There were no last minute reminiscing tours of the hospital. Holding myself back from literally skipping down the tunnel to the parking garage, I was that buoyant with the realization I would never again walk under those fluorescent lights.
The send-off party was an even more exuberant affair as 70 people overflowed from J’s and my tiny house into our poorly maintained yard. The air was buzzing with anticipation as we all discussed our future plans to move to different corners of the country – for us, J and I couldn’t stop talking about our upcoming great Pacific Northwest adventure.
In somber contrast, this evening’s gathering was much more intimate – 9 people hand-selected who I wouldn’t mind if they saw any wayward emotion spill out beyond my containment zone. But even as I superficially flitted from conversation to conversation waiting for the relief to set in, their laughter only served to accentuate the empty hollow where my excitement should have been.
How could this be so different?
The morning after
“So how do you feel now?” J asked as I finally got to packing for our New Zealand trip.
The right answer is excited, M. But that would be weaving in a lie for someone who can actually see the holes through your story.
“Numb. Just numb. I couldn’t see beyond 7 o’clock last night… and I still don’t see it now.”
“Even knowing that we’re leaving on a trip to New Zealand for 3 weeks starting tomorrow??”
After spending the last several months stuffing my emotions down in order to make it through, I couldn’t seem to find the switch to turn them back on again.
When we numb sadness and pain, we also numb our capacity for joy and happiness. Don’t you remember that from Brené Brown’s TED Talk you’d make patients watch as homework?
Of course I did, and what was worse, I knowingly used the same numbing mechanism I chide others for using: busy-ness.
Now there was nothing left to hide behind.
No more worrying about how many messages were in my inbox, how many items were on my to-do list, studying for any re-certification courses or even over-scheduling dinner plans to avoid a moment of solitude and reflection.
Now I was free to feel it all but without worry over work as my constant companion, happiness wasn’t rushing in to fill the vacuum like I had expected.
How do you just let go of something you had been building for years?
It was everything and now it’s… what? Nothing to me anymore?
If that had been the case, I wouldn’t have stayed til 7 last night making sure everything was up to the standard I hold myself to.
I wouldn’t have obsessed over every detail, still carrying the responsibility of things I no longer will have control over.
I wouldn’t still be wondering about the ends of my patients’ stories left undone.
Are they ok? Did they find their peace? Did they know I had to leave them to find mine?
When do I finally let myself be free?
***
Photo of me and the dogs somewhere on the Oregon Coast via J’s drone.
I think as time passes this bittersweet moment will fade and replaced with new emotions. It’s just how humans operate.
It is great that you are taking a well deserved 3 week break to New Zealand. I have never been but it looks lovely (Be sure to visit our blogs from NZ so we can bump our google analytic #’s. LOL)
Have fun and your new medical adventure awaits when you return.
I’m finally getting around to responding to all the comments.. sorry for the delay! In return, I think I did end up visiting your blog but who knows.. the wifi there was so sketchy I could barely even get my posts up.
As for your actual comment, I’ve been telling myself this new mantra: Nothing is permanent. This moment in time will never happen again – sometimes that’s a good thing, other times I never want it to end. But it does help when the going gets tough!