"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!!”
And just like that, our time had come to an end. Had I adequately traced the wrinkled outline of his face? Memorized the way he waved his hands to punctuate his speech? Figured out the cadence of his filler words of "anyway" versus "anyhow"? You’re making these final stops of your farewell tour much harder than they need to be, M.
Returning to the picture on the page of an angry, pink baby with a T-piece resuscitator hovering over its face to supply oxygen, I was immediately transported to another place, three and a half years ago. Except that baby was limp and gray. Slippery in the warmed blankets that didn't seem to be able to contain her. Listless despite the efforts to stimulate her to breathe, turning bluer by the second. "Why isn't she breathing?? What are you doing to my baby?!?" Mom's wails rang out in my right ear as if it were yesterday.
My friend, I remember being where you are, feeling like there wasn't anyone who could possibly understand the darkness I found myself in. The isolation. The inability to explain the full weight of what I dealt with as a primary care physician every day to my very well-intentioned non-medical tribe. The difficulty reconciling the knowledge that I was "living the dream" but in reality was merely existing in a living nightmare, my own personal hell I had spent my entire adult life trying to achieve. I resisted for a long time to share my story - it's not an easy thing to do... it took me 2 years to even admit to my husband that I was struggling, and that in and of itself felt like a failure. Because we should be stronger than this, right? We knew what we were getting into, we logically understood that we would see and endure a lot of suffering. But to know this is different than to live this reality.
"So I heard you're leaving..."
"I am."
"When?"
"My last day is February 1st."
C shrunk into himself as he centered his gaze on his worn hands. After 10 seconds of silence, he finally sighed and looked back at me with eyes that hadn't known true rest for the last 6 months.
"It's hard to start over, you know? I don't know if I can tell someone our story again."
Nodding my head, I looked over at his wedding ring and felt a familiar pang of regret.
"My new schedule is going to be 5 days on, 5 days off! It'll be like a long weekend every other week, Papa. J and I are thinking of getting a camper too.. maybe go on those national park trips we've been talking about. There's so much out here in the Pacific Northwest." "Mmm hmm..." … Continue reading How to Move On With Your Life: Quit Your Parental Guilt
What an epic last full week of 2018! -Christmas -Blog anniversary: 12/26/18 -My birthday! Due to my scripting (I'm supposed to blame my parents like a good millennial, right?), I'm kind of a grinch about Christmas and since celebrating the 4th anniversary of my 29th birthday is a little cliché, I'll just round out the end of the year with my reflections on a year of Reflections.
I haven't really talked much about my toxic work environment as a cause of my burnout, not because it didn't exist at my clinic but because this seems to be universal in all of healthcare at all levels. What else could I possibly add to this discussion? This is the reality of the world we work in. Fear based leadership. Seeing people as cogs in a machine, to be spent in any way deemed useful to the organization with no concern for the actual person. There will always be another you - don't forget, you are easily replaceable.
"So when should we see each other again?"
She's young and healthy, M. No reason to have her come back sooner than her yearly physical. Are you OK with her just getting a letter in the mail notifying her that you're gone?
The thought of her discovering I was leaving via an impersonal letter on clinic letterhead filled me with dread. She deserved better than that. To hell with my promise of keeping my mouth shut.
"You know, you're being that annoying prodigal daughter you used to complain about in residency. The one who wouldn't let her estranged parent go until you came in as the hospice queen and convinced her to pull the plug.
Your current job is already dead, you’re just keeping it alive for some reason."
No preamble. Just straight to the quick.
"M... what's stopping you from signing your new contract?"