February 9: He Might Scream, Kubler-Ross, Self-Preservation

Here is President Zaphod Beeblebrox making his grand entrance on the planet Damogran . . .

He twisted the wheel sharply, the boat skidded round in a wild scything skid beneath the cliff face and dropped to rest lightly on the rocking waves.

Within seconds he ran out onto the deck and waved and grinned at over three billion people.  The three billion people weren't actually there, but they watched his every gesture through the eyes of a small robot tri-D camera which hovered obsequiously in the air nearby.  The antics of the President always made amazingly popular tri-D:  that's what they were for.

He grinned again.  Three billion and six people didn't know it, but today would be a bigger antic than anyone had bargained for.  

The robot camera homed in for a close-up on the more popular of his two heads and he waved again.  He was roughly humanoid in appearance except for the extra head and third arm.  His fair tousled hair stuck out in random directions, his blue eyes glinted with something completely unidentifiable, and his chins were almost always unshaven.

A twenty-foot high transparent globe floated next to his boat, rolling and bobbing, glistening in the brilliant sun.  Inside it floated a wide semicircular sofa upholstered in glorious red leather:  the more the globe bobbed and rolled, the more the sofa stayed perfectly still, steady as an upholstered rock.  Again, all done for effect as much as anything.

Zaphod stepped through the wall of the globe and relaxed on the sofa.  He spread his two arms along the back and with the third brushed some dust off his knee.  His heads looked about, smiling; he put his feet up.  At any moment, he thought, he might scream.

Saturday morning.  I'm at McDonald's with my wife, sitting on a sofa, having breakfast with my wife, trying not to scream, like Zaphod.  I realize that angry blog posts are not fun to read.  In fact, they are tiring.  I don't like reading them (unless they happen to be about Donald Trump, and then I will read them, comment on them, and share them with friends).  So, for this post, I promise to set aside my angry eyes, as Mrs. Potato Head says in Toy Story,  Anger is not going to solve the situation that I'm in right now, anyway.

Of course, if I am going through the Kubler-Ross stages of grief, I know what I'm in for in the weeks to come:

1. Denial
2. Anger
3. Bargaining
4. Depression
5. Acceptance

So, I think I've been in denial for several months, thinking that the other shoe wasn't going to drop.  (Deep down, I knew this was coming, however.  I just didn't expect it to happen as suddenly as it did.)  Now, I'm in anger.  So, if I follow the Kubler-Ross list, I just have to check off bargaining, depression, and acceptance.  Then I'll be back to the old Saint Marty.

I need this weekend time, away from my jobs and teaching.  Time to process.  Come to terms.  See this whole situation as an opportunity, not a death.  I have a feeling it's going to take a while for me to get to that place.  Most of the other people who work at the surgery center don't have as close a connection as I do.  (Some do.  Some of them were my sister's best friends.  They were at her hospital bed when they told her she had a life-limiting illness.  They came and visited her when she was home and on hospice.  They know.)  However, for the rest, it's just a place to punch a time clock.  

Humans are just like any other creatures on this planet, in a way.  It's all about self-preservation.  This weekend, most of my coworkers are in self-preservation mode.  Scrambling to figure out how they're going to find new jobs.  I get that.  I started that process myself yesterday at the cardiology office where I work on Fridays.  People have health insurance to keep, bills to pay, family to support.  Self-preservation.

For me (and a few others of my coworkers), it's more personal.  On Monday, I have to walk through the doors of that surgery center and tend to its death, because I work there (for now) and that's what is expected.  I can't change what's going to happen.

Now, this blog post is sounding a little more like bargaining, maybe even acceptance with a little depression mixed in.  Grief is such a mysterious thing.  I have a sense that I'll be pinballing between steps one through five for some time.

Please vote for Saint Marty (Marty Achatz) for 2019/2020 Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula at the link below.  Last day!  Polls close at 11:59 p.m. tonight:

Vote for Marty Achatz for Poet Laureate of the U. P.