Desert Rain and Tearful Goodbyes

My Last Day at Work

There are about 17 rainy days a year in my otherwise extremely sunny desert town.  My last day of work was probably the rainiest day of the year.  I thought this seemed fitting as I sat in my car at the end of my last shift. 

During my time off for my thyroidectomy, I decided I was going to quit my job, move to Charleston, and take a sabbatical.  In July, I put in a two-month notice of my resignation.   The final months passed slowly and I was very busy.  Truthfully, it wasn't until my last day that the realization that I would be leaving set in.  

I had kept my departure somewhat under wraps because I did not want everyone trying to schedule an appointment last minute.  Regardless, Monday through Thursday, I found myself triple and quadruple booked.  Aside from the burden of the extra work, I felt guilty for leaving.  

Whenever I feel myself feeling guilty, I remind myself of a quote by Iyanla Vanzant who says "Guilt is an emotion of the ego".    Usually, this reminder helps me snap out of my guilty fog, but, on Friday, my final day of work, the guilt consumed me.  

I had asked for a half-day schedule so that my last four hours could be spent reviewing labs, paperwork, phone calls, etc.  I was very grateful to myself for asking for this time as I was able to complete my pending tasks before I left.  This also left time for many goodbyes. 

In my interview for this job, the medical director, who worked at the main clinic in a larger town, said it was common for people to stay for one or two years and leave.  He expressed that they didn't expect me to stay forever.  After all, I was a young woman and this was the middle of nowhere.  They had to be realistic. 

The people of my small town were initially skeptical of me. Prior to my arrival, they had a series of short-term locum providers.  They would share their history over and over again with these new providers and make slow progress toward their health goals.  However when they saw that I lived in town [other providers would stay at a hotel for the week and leave on the weekends], went to their church, went to the grocery store etc, they felt comfortable getting close to me. 

I think this is the origin of my guilt.  Maybe I gave them a false hope that I would be there long term.  When I first started there, they would always ask me if I planned on leaving.  To me, this question was like asking someone if they planned on dying.  No, I wasn't planning on it but, of course, we all die someday.  As a free-spirited wanderluster, leaving is always a possibility, but also not of today's concern.

Being a small town, I got to know everyone very deeply.  I knew their struggles, their kids, their grandkids, their siblings, their parents etc.  In our little small town, all of them were not only my friends but also my patients.  They looked out for me as well.  When they noticed my tire was flat during clinic hours they took my keys and changed it out.  They texted me to check on me when they heard a radio tower fell on my house.  Some had heard about the tower because they heard my sister's 911 call to dispatch, others had driven past the house with the tower and realized it was my car in the driveway, and still others found out from my neighbors.  It's a small town and news travels fast. 

Likewise, the news of my departure spread quickly and my final day was filled with waterworks.  The reason all this emotion stressed me out is because I, myself, can get very emotional very quickly.   My sister mocks me for this as I otherwise come off like a kind and quirky version of Wednesday Addams. The truth is, if I walked around with my heart chakra as fully opened as it could be I would be in a perpetual state of tears.  

I managed to keep my composure throughout the day.  I saw patients the first half of the day and despite their tearful goodbyes, we kept the appointments to fifteen minutes and I managed to get my work done.  In the afternoon, I completed my administrative tasks with goodbyes to coworkers sprinkled throughout.  I said my final goodbye to my supervising physician at the end of the day.   

I packed up my belongings, making two trips to the car to take my office supplies and parting gifts.   Leaving my job meant no more after-hours charting or worrying about patients on my day off.   I had imagined that on my last day of work, I would run out of the clinic clicking my heels together in joy like an Irish leprechaun.  Instead, I walked to my car alone, got into the driver's seat, and then, seeing that everyone else had left, I let my guard down and cried. 

I came home tearful and my sister, a sabbatical professional by this point, consoled and reassured me. I felt better but still somewhat fearful that I would continue to feel this guilt throughout my sabbatical. I took a shower, a cleansing of sorts for the new chapter in my life about to unfold.  When I emerged I was cheerful again, the guilt I felt for leaving slowly transformed into gratitude for the memories and connections I had made.  I sat on the couch and thought about my new adventure with all its possibilities before collapsing into a much-awaited and much-needed nap.