Chickens. Also organ music. Chorale Preludes and some stuff with a brass choir. Daily runs. That Edward Gorey puzzle. House cleaning. Perhaps meeting my friend's newborn son, if he decides to arrive. Listening to my playlist, compliments of Martha. Learning a new job or two. Buying new organ shoes. Yes, organ shoes exist.
Daily runs, to be recorded with pictures or sketches and something memorably descriptive. I am not traditionally a diarist but I am a letter writer, and apparently I write this blog. I have this book that is blank and in it will go my daily run.
Daily runs, rain or shine, with dog or without. Today was: Miles and I on the Hammond Trail, and he was mostly a perfect gentleman, even when some wacko lab came viciously running at him headlong. Poodles, they don't like surprises, but Miles is learning that as a team we can deal with pretty much everything.
Teams. That will be the theme of my new work. My old work (which ended yesterday, except for the fact I had to go in this morning and help them with some stuff unexpectedly, but I swear that was the last time! I swear!) also had teams. Like the nurses and the other doctors, when things were working the way they should, would all be on a team to care for the unbelievably ill on our wards. It seemed fitting this week be my last, as I felt shot through and hollowed out by the loss of Steve,whose voice was like he had a microphone in hand at every second and truly drove me insane but also made me feel like I was in a familiar place, and I knew he cared and he also made me feel special. He did not lie, once ever, as far as I could tell. And he filled the ward with A Voice that must have certainly made his higher ups quake in their boots. Some of us whisper and find other ways of making our presence known. But he exuded joy and an absolute lack of bull shit. This, I might add, is depressingly lacking in most workplaces.
It is amazing that any of us get out of bed in the morning. I can think of a half a dozen things that could kill you before you even get your first cup of coffee. Not to mention the terror and embarrassment of failure and being judged. I was thinking, as I ran today, that I am as slow as molasses right now and God forbid any of my athletic friends see me sucking air. But Miles was fairly content, tongue lolling to the west and taking in the smells of the ocean air, the fumes of 101 next to the trail and the horse poop on the rabbit trail begging to be devoured. Why worry?
This week, I am starting anew, but also really just continuing on my path. I plan to raise some chickens, and had a fairly amazing tutorial in the step down unit at the hospital the other day with one of my favorite neurologists regarding the best breeds to choose. Ameraucana is on my list, because who doesn't need blue eggs? Barred Rocks too. Among others.
Chickens, organ (the instrument, not the innards), the puzzle I bought in San Francisco, a finally clean room and childbirth. That is all I need. Also the playlist. I have a friend who has sent me at least a song a day for a few months now, to help me cope with this transition and the incredible hours I have been working. Why am I so blessed? And my other dear friend, so soon to start on being a Mom. And my oldest daughter, about to turn 18.
18 years ago, surrounded by friends and my doula and my husband, Vera arrived. I remember that day, when my medical school professor was quite miffed that I called to cancel my OSCE. "No really, I will not be there today." said I. Their disbelief should've been my first red flag regarding the priorities of the medical world. WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU WILL NOT BE WORKING WHILE GIVING BIRTH???????????
Despite all that, I do like doctoring. One of my patients this past week called me Dr Sweet Potato. When they found out my last day ("no actually my LAST day") was yesterday, they burst into tears. I do enjoy connecting with people. It is just time to reconnect with my own, including the OSCE crasher, the Boy with curl in the middle of his forehead and the dancing Dragon. And the Man who is already plotting my chicken coop and run. And my legs, which, come hell or high water, will break a 3 in the marathon. Unless something kills me before that, in which case, I will die happy and knowing I tried my best to engage with This Life.