Days

Today is brown and it smells.

A surgeon who worked at the hospital in Fayetteville used to say that to me. Come to think of it, he was a really nice man. Dr. Whitaker, white-haired, kind, soft spoken — he sort of mentored me. He had me enroll in classes far beyond what I should have been doing — cardiac stuff taught as in-service classes in the hospital. I was doing EKGS, a routine anyone-can-do task now, probably. In 1974, it meant being on call, working in the ER for long hours as severe trauma cases required constant monitoring via the EKG machines of the day. But Dr. Whitaker made sure I learned how to read EKGS so I could call him the night before a scheduled surgery if I found what a suspected abnormality. Seemed like a routine thing to learn at the time. Years later I realized just how much he thought of me, of my abilities, since I was a poli sci major with absolutely no medical training. He told me I could learn anything and he trusted my to read his pre-op EKGs. It paid off, by the way, one night I did call him over a young man’s EKG. Surgery was canceled and the patient moved to CCU.

After my brother committed suicide, we decided to move to Arizona. It was a rash, young couple move — done in haste to try to run from ghosts. Dr. Whitaker and two other doctors who knew me wrote me amazing recommendation letters. I kept them for decades because reading them made me feel smart, and special. I didn’t ask for the letters. The spontaneity of their existence meant everything.

I never again had a job where I felt smart. Or special.

Until I worked for myself.

(and Rob)