Most of my close friends know I have a love/hate relationship with my chosen career.  When it’s good, it’s very, very good and when it’s not – I just want to run away forever.  It is probably for this reason that I’ve decided I don’t want to take it further by going to school for an advanced degree. 

I’ve learned that the bad days are temporary, though.  Just this past week I was not feeling well, rescheduled my patients and rested all day yesterday.  The idea of going back was so stressful – my present patient load is not very challenging, I feel like I’m just going through the motions.  Thank God Al and I are going on vacation next week.  

A couple of years ago I really burned out and took 3 months off.  One of my last patients before I did that was a wonderful old man with quite a dapper personality and a lovely wife.  He was pretty demented though – not a great memory, terrible safety judgement.   He was an opera afficionado.  He had books about operas, DVDs of operas, opera record albums.  One of their goals now that he was home from a long stint at the hospital and skilled nursing/rehab facility, was that he be able to go back to the San Francisco Opera on a regular basis.  It was a bit of a chore – he didn’t like using his walker and his wife was afraid that he would fall again, with good reason.  We worked on his balance and walking and endurance.  It was springtime and for our outdoor “ambulation on uneven surfaces” we’d head out to the cul-de-sac where he’d tell me stories of when the kids were young and played on the hillside above the street, how the neighbor’s dog knew him well, and what he thought of life in general.  Almost every phrase was punctuated with a chuckle.  He was simply delightful.  He would laugh at me when I would admonish him to use his walker for safety, his wife would fret that he wasn’t taking any of it seriously.

The deal with going to the opera was this: apparently a doorman at the opera house knew them well and he would help Bob out of the car, Emily would go park the car and Bob would have to stand there and wait until she came around to go inside.  If the weather was lousy the doorman would assist him inside.  Emily was concerned about him standing there – even though he could use the cane safely in the house, outdoors was another thing, and with all the people entering the opera house, she had a valid concern. Even with the walker it could be dicey.

I helped him get to what was probably his highest level.  His dementia meant his safety judgement would not improve and likely a fall was again in his future.  His family knew the exercises that would keep him at his present level or maybe even improve his balance and safety, and it was time for me to go. 

When my leave of absence was just about over, I was still dreading returning to the workplace.  I just wanted to continue sewing, gardening, making jam, enjoying life.  One Sunday I opened the paper and as I often do, and checked out the obituaries – this may sound morbid but because I work with the gerontology set I frequently will see friends who have passed away.  It is nice – I get to have one more thought of them, remember them happily, or maybe not so much, but either way it is a final goodbye.

This particular Sunday I saw Bob’s name.  My heart sank.  Then I read the obituary.  He had died rather suddenly, but the week before he died he had been to the opera, his love for it second only to his dear wife and family.   I went back to work if not enthusiastic, at least with a sense of duty to use my talents in that arena.

Fast forward to this week, that awful feeling creeping up on me: PT ennui.  What’s the point? I’m not enjoying it anymore.  I have other fish to fry.  As I was leaving an assisted living facility today there across the lobby a familiar face caught my eye and we greeted each other with big hugs and smiles.  It was Emily, she had just moved into the building in July.  We talked about Bob – it is hard to believe it’s been two years since he’s gone.  No wonder I’m tired again!  So many patients between then and now.   I reminded her how much it meant to me to know he went  to the opera right before he died, that I do make a difference. 

I still am going to continue to fry the other fish, but tomorrow I head back into the homes of people who need me to improve their quality of life, whether they live for another five years or another five months.  It’s not so bad.  I can still do this for a little while longer and, most of the time, love doing it.