The island of France was about twenty miles long, five miles across the middle, sandy and crescent-shaped. In fact, it seemed to exist not so much as an island in its own right as simply a means of defining the sweep and curve of a huge bay. This impression was heightened by the fact that the inner coastline of the crescent consisted almost entirely of steep cliffs. From the top of the cliff the land sloped slowly down five miles to the opposite shore.
On top of the cliffs stood a reception committee.
This afternoon, a little reception committee from the health system that owns the outpatient surgery center where I work paid me and my coworkers a visit. I knew this committee was coming. Found out about it yesterday. When my boss called about the meeting, my coworker asked her, "Is this good news?" My boss replied, "I think people will be happy."
Well, the happy news was that the surgery center is closing. The even happier news is that it is closing at the end of this month (February 28, to be exact). The last day of surgeries is February 21, and we will spend the next week packing up supplies, equipment, and patient charts. After that, my coworkers and I will move to the main operating room at the hospital, where we will work until March 21. By that time, we all are supposed to have secured other positions in the hospital.
I have been blogging about this possibility for several months now. I guess this post is the culmination of all of those previous blogs.
Am I upset? Yes. Am I worried? Yes. Am I pissed? Yes.
You see, my sister, who died of lymphoma of the brain three-and-a-half years ago, built this surgery center. She oversaw its construction from blueprints to grand opening. Until she got sick, she managed the place, poured everything she had into it. For me, the surgery center is her legacy. When I walk into the place every morning, I can still feel her there. I find forms signed by her, instructions initialed by her, every day. The address book that I use to contact vendors and coworkers was filled out by her.
On February 28, when I walk out of those doors for the last time, the only piece of my sister that is still alive (in a way) will cease to exist. That makes me very sad. It's like I'm watching her die again.
A winter storm is raging outside my window right now. It's supposed to keep raging until tomorrow morning. That seems appropriate to me.
Marty isn't feeling very saintly this evening.
Please vote for Saint Marty (Marty Achatz) for 2019/2020 Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula at the link below:
Vote for 2019/2020 Poet Laureate of the U. P.
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