I sat, staring blankly at a heart that had been through a myriad of surgical procedures in its brief lifetime, the mouse playing images back and forth, back and forth…and nothing was registering in my mind.   I wasn’t processing the details.  I wasn’t thinking medically: is this heart okay?  Is the surgical procedure doing what we thought it would?  I wasn’t thinking emotionally: what does this child look like?  Where is the family from?  How many children do they have?  Do they get out and play and have fun?

So I stopped and forced myself into analytical mode.  I realized I was and had been absolutely numb to everything.  How long had I been like that?  I could put out a good work product and receive accolades for the number of studies I reviewed in a day.  I was a great warrior in the battle of childhood heart disease.  But I was a fake.  I drove home every day to my single-person townhouse, with my loving little doggies left over from my kids, who had long since left home, and there, I would let myself feel.  I held my breath from work until I backed my car into the garage, where I would allow myself to breathe, shoulders sagging and head hanging.  No bravado at home.  Just a small, gray woman, wanting more from life.

I sorted through the mail, and there was the monthly bill from Cubesmart, where I housed trinkets from my 25-year marriage, my kids’ homework assignments and athletic gear, and the textbooks where I proudly boasted chapters.  How long did I keep all of that stuff hidden in the background, never sorting through it, never acknowledging it, just hiding it in a neat cubicle?  My entire life was in a well-tended, clean, and neat storage cubicle in Albuquerque, New Mexico, where I occasionally added to it, but much less frequently, now that I didn’t visit to pull out the Halloween costumes and scary pumpkins.  Now that I didn’t look for the actual research papers I had spent so many sleepless nights writing in a rented hotel room so that I could think without the kids around.  Now that I didn’t pull out the Christmas tree and ornaments and cookie-making paraphernalia.  Why did I send a check to keep all of those parts of my life tucked neatly away?

I needed to confront it.

I found an affordable hotel room on Hotels.com and located someone to care for the dogs for the weekend and then took off with a purpose.  On the way from Denver to Albuquerque, through the stretches of brown grass with mountains in the background, I called each child (now an adult):  “I am cleaning out the storage unit.  Do you need to rescue anything?” I thought maybe I should rent a truck and then wondered if I could handle the load by myself?  Would it all fill a truck?  Where would I take it?

I checked into the Comfort Suites with its clean, air-conditioned, quiet, and sterile room, and sat on the bed.  My eyes filled with tears.  How was I going to do this?  Did I have to do this?  Was this the right thing to do?

 I called my youngest son:  “Jake, I am renting a Penske truck and cleaning out the unit.  Anything you want or need in there?  Should I NOT do this?”

“Do YOU, Mom. Do what is going to help you the most. Anything I want or need is already at the apartment in the spare bedroom.”

I called Travis:  “I am renting a Penske truck and cleaning out the storage unit.  Remember when you and I filled it up?”

Travis laughed: “Yeah, Mom.  And it’s going to be hot as Hades when you pack that truck, just like it was when we packed it the first time.  Drink lots of fluid, and go to town.  Clean out your past life, Mom.”

Lastly, Maddie: “ Wish you were here to help me clean out the unit.  Is there anything I should set aside?”

“No, Mom.  I have all my stuff.  But if you find pictures of Nana or Grandaddy, save them.”

With all of the consents out of the way, I went to my car to drive around to find something to eat.  Nothing was appealing, and although I usually have no trepidation sitting in a restaurant by myself, I didn’t want to go to Flying Star, with its happy music and personnel, and sit on the back patio and dine.  This seemed like a heavy time of grieving to me.  So, I went to Whole Foods and browsed their aisles for 20 minutes, leaving with a ready-made good-for-me vegan meal and a huge bag of my favorite tortilla chips.

Back at the hotel, the room was very cool.  I set up my meal on their desk and turned the huge TV screen toward me, flipped through 96 channels, and attempted to eat my over-priced meal, which tasted dry and like cardboard.  I scrolled through and rented the smallest truck I could find, with an 8 a.m. pick-up time.  I cleaned up, tucked myself neatly into the clean cotton sheets, and attempted to sleep.

The fluorescent security lights from the parking lot filtered through the gap in the curtains.  The air conditioner fan hummed in the wall unit.  I re-arranged the pillows six or seven times, rolling from side to side, trying not to think about buying that extra Christmas tree when Mark (my ex) tried to trick me.  The kids were small.  It was snowing big time and he refused to allow one more “real” Christmas tree with all the damn needles getting caught in the carpet.  I acquiesced to the artificial tree with the caveat that it look real.  He laughed and said we could spray some pine-scented air freshener.  

We went to Lowe’s and grabbed two shopping carts, one for each small child and the older one held onto my hand.  I picked out “just the right tree” and he told me to go pick out ornaments.  I moved forward but looked back to find him replacing the tree we had just chosen with a much smaller version.  I waited for him to go to the checkout counter with the smaller tree before picking up the larger tree and following behind him with, “**Well, how nice! Now we have two trees to celebrate Christmas!**”  He doubled over with laughter, and each year we set up two trees until he left that one Thanksgiving: “I just don’t want to be married anymore.”

**What was I going to do with Travis’s baseball hat collection that filled an entire wardrobe-sized box?**  I recalled sitting up in the stands in the hot New Mexico sun with just enough wind blowing to mess up the pitcher.  I smiled thinking of Travis sauntering up to his walk-up song and felt my mother’s stomach again in knots as he waited to bat.

Would I really be able to throw away all of those research papers and book chapters that I had used to build my career?  The like-new textbooks that sat on the shelves collecting dust with my name emblazoned on the first page of the chapters?  What of all the awards and plaques and “Teacher of the Year” citations?  What of parting with all of that?

We used to sit as a family and watch all sorts of silly movies.  All of us could recite lines from the silliest of the silliest movies, with each of us filling in whatever was missing.  That was our special love language to each other.  Was I really going to toss all of those DVD’s?

**And what about the skis?**  I fell asleep dreaming of the Christmas Day I spent with the boys on the ski slopes.  There was a perfect dusting of snow and we skied until we were exhausted and I drove us home, boys sound asleep, through a blizzard.  Where was Mark that Christmas?  Why did he seem to have to work for all the holidays?  I fell asleep.

The next morning, I attended the breakfast buffet, with a delightful young hostess scurrying about cleaning tables, refilling the coffee urn, and fussing over the powdered eggs in the shape of the rectangular pan. It was all dry and tasteless, but I think it was my poor palate.

And then it was off to the Penske store.

I got to the Penske counter and the well-dressed and polite man helped me find my truck.  He showed me all the features and gave me a few warnings.  I climbed into the driver’s seat wishing I had a booster seat and some blocks to better reach the brake and gas pedals.  I adjusted all the mirrors I could adjust, started breathing a prayer that I would not kill anyone or sideswipe anything major, just touched the curb as I left the parking lot, and I was off.

I pulled into the Cubesmart parking lot unscathed and found out that if I drove a large enough truck, the gate would automatically open.  Perhaps there was power in being large!  I carefully wound the truck through the narrow aisles of storage cubes and found E200.  I parallel parked as best I could, and, heart thudding, jumped out to open the combination lock and bin.  I slid the door up, and there was everything as I had left it 2 ½ years before.  The skis and gear were at the front for ready access, and my eyes filled with tears.

I gently picked up the skis and began the task of jumping in and out of the truck, loading everything as numbly as I could. It was hot, and I was already drenched in perspiration. I set about the task as I did in my daily work: with one objective and driving through until it was all done.

I was exhausted, hot, mildly dehydrated but still not hungry, but the truck was loaded.  The first stop would be Goodwill where anything usable/desirable would be donated. 

I oh so cautiously navigated the streets of Albuquerque to the large Goodwill Store.  There I was greeted by an enthusiastic young woman who looked **over the gear and household items approvingly and helped me unload them. I was satisfied these things with which we created such great memories, were going off to new homes to bring cheer to others.  Unfortunately, the Christmas tree pair and accouterments were not accepted along with our huge DVD collection, which made me a bit sad. 

And it was off to the dump.

The Eagle Rock Convenience Center was hopping late afternoon on Saturday, and I assertively lined my Penske truck up amongst the brethren who were unloading yard waste and various and sundry odd pieces of broken-down furniture and such.  The procedure was to be guided in to spot with the truck in reverse, such that the back of the truck faced the large rectangular graveyard hole, where two tractors crushed what was thrown in the pit and then scooped the remains into piles.  I began to experience immense sadness at the thought of all of my precious memories being tossed into a large grave with everyone else. I fought tears, when the dump engineer ambled up to my open window.

“Hey, watcha’ got in there?  Anything dangerous? Can I take a look?”

“Sure.  Want some water?  I cleaned out my storage bin and there is just a bunch of junk left.”

We walked back and I rolled up the door.  He looked in and smiled.

“Hard to part with stuff, huh?  He chuckled and asked for the $4 dump fee and wished me luck.  I took a big breath and recalled holding my mother’s hand as she passed from this realm to the next.  I remembered cleaning out her 84 pair of shoes and all the liquor in her bar.

I pulled into the huge, covered dump.  I was motioned into my spot in reverse where a guy with heavy gloves and ear protection kept shaking his head at me:

“You know how big that truck is, Lady?” 

Indeed I did.

Eventually, I was in a secure parking spot, shut off the engine, raised the door, and it was time for the real work.  I heard the bulldozer coming and first, without thought, hastily tossed the big Christmas tree.  My heart ached.  It even bled a little as the bulldozer flattened it along with the yard waste that had been tossed in with it.  I flashed back to happy Christmas mornings with the little ones.  Wait, that was fabricated.  I flashed back to Christmas mornings on call, where I rushed through present opening and stockings stuffed with trinkets and candy, so I could round on time at the hospital.  Suddenly, the stark truth was there. My entire life WAS medicine.  All the rest were inconvenient details or distractions.  Really?  Had I rushed through the scents of my children’s faces stuffed with Christmas cookies, the feel of their warm little hands in mine, their sporting events, their dance recitals, their first romances, their school graduations traded for the struggle of maintaining and hopefully even improving the health and lives of so many others?  Had I really traded the deep friendship and love of my best friend of 25 years, for promotion after promotion and invited talks at conferences?  No wonder my soul was hiding in a corner.  No wonder my spirit departed (where did I put it?)

Now, finally, I was angry.  Emboldened by my Christmas evacuation I grabbed a box full of my publications and tossed them high in the air.  They fluttered like birds and landed, spread over the mud floor.  All my outdated ideas, the basis for someone else’s work, spread in a large pock-marked blanket at the bottom of the dump grave.  And before I could jump down and scoop them back into my arms, they were flattened by the bulldozer.  There were first tire treads obliterating elegant prose, and then all of it was scraped up in one huge pile and pushed to the side.  I had a moment of panic, and then realized my thoughts and ideas were still there.  Like many others before me, they were bricks in the foundation of medicine.  I had lost that part of me but had become a permanent part of something larger.

The textbooks were next.  The spines had not even been creased, as they sat like trophies on many different bookshelves.  I tossed one 400-page tome after the next, watching each splay awkwardly, awaiting the tread of the bulldozer to break each spine.  And I found with each spine broken, a different part of my spirit began to surface.  The white coat was added to the graveyard floor.  That white coat had hidden all my feminine parts, so my colleagues would be speaking only to “the doctor”, and not the warm and loving female person who dare not EVER cry or express emotion lest she be considered weak.  The bulldozer blackened it and scraped it up with tree branches and old lawn furniture.  I sighed.  There I was: naked and unprotected.  Wait!  I had been protecting everyone from what?  The real me?   Ohhhh, there were vestiges of my spirit surfacing

As the bulldozer crunched the last Press-Ganey 5-star review, the last Teacher of the Year plaque, my soul and spirit united and surfaced from the dump floor.  I had shackled myself for almost 40 years with the trappings of academia, and while they were titillating in my youth, they were constraining in my twilight.  I climbed into the Penske truck and moved out into the brilliant sunlight.  It felt as if I had spent a lifetime in the dark gray storage unit and at the even darker graveyard dump.  But outside on the horizon, was a multitude of subtle hues:  blues and purples, rose pinks and watermelon as dusk approached.  Dead and gone were the platitudes, the soul-sucking dementors of academia, and all the reminders of my youthful aspirations.   I mourned their loss as more than half my life and almost all my day had been devoted to them.  But here I was, in an array of rich, deepening colors that was about to give rise to a dark New Mexico sky with its infamous myriads of brilliant stars.

And my shoulders and spine straightened, and my gray hair turned to silver as I walked away from the Penske station, with a new song in my heart, soul, and spirit united. 

What’s next?