Blog

December 25, 2011 – I sit on the couch in front of my wood stove on this crisp Christmas morning. The gentle flames and nurturing heat warm me and fill me with peace. I’m reflecting that this holiday brings the perfect backdrop theme of re-birth to my life this day. My sweet cat Button is curled by me, his head resting on the arm of the couch like a pillow. His feet curl in precious ways that deeply endear him to me. Otherwise, I am alone, which is what I need for now–for the enormous change in my life. Two days ago, I retired from the Rockbridge Area Free Clinic in Lexington, VA. I closed out the year with the conclusion of my eleventh year there. 

                I was clearing my desk and finishing up the last pieces of work for my successor. As my Executive Director was leaving, we briefly exchanged heartfelt words. (The earlier farewell gatherings had been profoundly, extraordinarily moving.) Now I am alone. I complete a few more small tasks, and soon the inevitable moment arrives. I begin to turn off the lights in the dental area for the last time. I softly touch Alexander’s fur—he’s our bright green alligator puppet. Alexander possesses a beautiful set of teeth that we use to teach oral hygiene to our area school children. I walk around the clinic a final time to each respective green, blue, yellow, and mauve patient rooms (or operatories). Sudden memories flood back as tears leak into my eyes. I remember the planning lunches with Carol Tyree, our richly experienced dental assistant, who walked every step of this journey with me. We choose these wall colors. These chair colors. We propose the myriad other decisions over the years that give birth to this dental program. 

                These are incredible memories. I say silent thanks for all the gifts that have transpired inside these walls that I’ve been part of. Slowly I walk to the far end of the clinic. I key my code into the alarm system for the last time. I close the keypad cover, push open the already locked door into the cool afternoon, push the door closed. Then I pull on it to be sure it is locked. It is. Tenderly I place my palm on the door as if touching the shoulder of dear friend to say good-bye. That, of course, is just what I am doing. Just as my body houses my soul, so does this building silently surround the daily, incredible acts of care by our small staff and cadre of professional volunteers. This is the final closing, for I no longer have a key to this door. I am outside the walls now; I will surely visit but can no longer let myself inside. Tears return to my eyes as this realization affirms that I have truly left this amazing circle of people. People who donate their medical, dental, eye, mental health, and women’s health care skills to the uninsured, low-income residents in our county. 

                An Ellen Goodman quote has soothed my soul in the past during times of deep transition like this one. I let her words wash over me again: “There’s a trick to the ‘graceful exit.’ It begins with the vision to recognize when a job, a life stage, or a relationship is over. And let it go. It means leaving what’s over without denying its validity or its past importance to our lives. It involves a sense of future, a belief that every exit is an entry. We move up, rather than out.”

Her perspective is perfect; the next chapter of my life waits. I know it’s going to be as good as these years here have been. I’ve planned and my next career waits: more writing, editing, reading, cooking, gardening, knitting, sewing, quilting and…. and the most important, more time with my family, friends, and John.

                Yet I let my heart linger a little longer at the closed door, as the day moves toward late afternoon. What a journey this has been. I think once again how graced I’ve been to have had a career that reflects the deepest values I hold. To help others have a better life. Although I know this is the right time to exit gracefully, I also knew it would not be easy. I take a deep breath, exhale, then turn and walk toward my car. We are both alone in the large asphalt parking lot.

                I drive to my Raphine, VA home and pack the last few remnants of household goods into my car. Sunday was moving day and last night was the final night I’d spend here. I’ve loved my decade in this sweet little Cape Cod. Yet starting tomorrow I’ll live full time in my retirement home. I purchased it more than a year ago and have been living there on weekends. Now I won’t drive 55 miles to work two counties away from the home that is my true home now. It’s small and set on two private acres with a stream and lots of trees. There are open spaces where John and I created our first garden together last summer. And where I’ve got lots of other plans. I drive home, knowing I will go back to Rockbridge County. The house has not yet sold and my heart will draw me back for visits to the clinic. Our volunteer coordinator, Lynn, has sent me off with a volunteer application, after all. 

                In the solitude of Christmas morning two days later, I gather the unopened gifts and cards from my retirement party. this past Monday night. Ever so slowly, as if I am handling sacred objects, I open each gift and card. I let the words and the physical gifts of caring into my heart. My emotions tumble around like a kaleidoscope. I cry, smile, feel the sadness of loss, feel the gratitude of having shared years with these amazing people. I know each memory these tangibles will evoke whenever I see or use one of them will gift me. Over and over with a panoramic slideshow of my time with the giver. This coffee mug. That tea cosy. The three beautifully hand-crochet-covered wooden clothes hangers. The Christmas cactus. The abundant cooking utensils for my now-increased time for my beloved hobby. The hand-embroidered bureau scarf. The wall plaque that tells the gifts of retirement. The mug and tea set. All this and so much more, especially when I think of unforgettable moments with our patients. 

                I break for a minute to make a cup of tea. While I wait for the water to boil, I glance out my kitchen window into the silent yard. As I turn away, movement catches my eye. I turn back. A small parade of deer—one, two, three…. Six in all pass by the bare trees at a leisurely pace ten feet from my window. Then one pauses and looks at the window as if she senses my nearness. We both remain still for several seconds. As I watch the line of deer continue on with their journey, I smile at them. Somewhere deep inside I feel reaffirmed that, at this moment in time, I am exactly where I need to be.