Marching Band

My eyes opened in the darkness this morning, and for just an instant I was disoriented. The palest of light was lying across the blanket thrown over my feet, and I briefly wondered how this scratchy striped blanket had found its way through the house to my bed. I felt for my clock on the nightstand, but my hand found neither my clock OR my nightstand. Then I remembered: I had fallen asleep on the couch last night watching TV, too tired to even make the few steps to my bed. Sometime in the night I had turned off the TV and pulled the blanket over my tired body.

The sky outside was still dark, but the full moon had risen and was holding court over the land. A faint cough told me that Chuck was awake too, and the smell of freshly brewed coffee would soon be drifting through the house.  Our internal time clocks are set together, from years of rising and sleeping and rising together again.  As I came through the dark kitchen, he wrapped me in a hug, lifting me until only the tips of my toes were touching the cold floor.

"Coffee on the front porch?" I asked him. "Sure," he said, "but I’ll have to add some more clothes; it’s cool out there."  Ten minutes later we were wrapped against the cold of the morning, sitting side by side, rocking and sipping coffee. The sky was so dark that the morning star still hung just above the horizon like the Hope Diamond; our breath hung in the air like steam. We talked until the sun came up and the sound of birdcalls filled the woods. I don’t understand how this simple ritual has the power to heal the hurts of the week, but it does.

This was my week to work the late shift; the hours on paper are 9am-5:30pm. I learned early on that I cannot wait until 9am to come to work; the trip is horrendous, with traffic snarled along the interstate like knotted yarn. A drive that normally takes 40 minutes turns into an exercise of endurance lasting sometimes twice that long.  I prefer instead to come in early, while the traffic is light and the office is empty.

Another thing I quickly learned is that 5:30 is only a suggestion of when to leave; rarely is it reality. Some days, Dr. B is only just getting his second wind by 5:30, snapping orders and asking for black coffee.  Most days during my late week, I stay until the last patient has been seen, whether that is 5:30 or 7:30, or somewhere in between. The bright lining to this situation is that it allows Summer and me to commute together.

She works in the main part of the hospital, on one of the surgical floors; her hours are 6:30am-7pm, three days a week.  So on those days, when I am on late shift, she and I meet at the commuter parking lot in the pre-dawn darkness; she climbs out of her car and into mine, and we make the trip together. It’s a good way to stay connected, and we have come to treasure those times together.

I drop her off at the front door of the hospital somewhere around 6:15 am, then drive around to the other side of the campus where I work. At the end of the day, I reverse the process and we ride home together. The hardest part of this arrangement is learning to wrap my head around the fact that she is a grown up; the dandelion-haired little girl that used to hide behind my skirt is now making decisions that affect people’s lives. And she is doing it with grace and wisdom; I am continually awed.

Yesterday we actually finished clinic early. Dr. B is attending an international medical convention, so our case load was very light. By 5:00, all the patients had been seen and attended to; all the staff had gone home except for me. At the stroke of exactly 5:30, I logged off my computer and snapped off the lights. Borrowing a book from a co-worker’s desk, I rode down the elevator and out the back door. The cool breeze blowing smelled of autumn and bonfires and crisp apples; I rolled down the windows in my car and opened up the borrowed book to pass the time until Summer got off work.

At 6:55, I closed the book and tucked it into the back seat. Fastening my seat belt, I noticed my friend Candace standing at the shuttle stop directly across from me. She was talking on her cell phone; her arms were loaded with boxes, and she had a large canvas bag slung across her shoulder. I drove up next to her and rolled down my window; "Can I give you a ride, Candace?" I asked her.

Relief flooded her face. "Never mind," she said into her phone. "One of my friends is here."  "I was calling the campus police," she said. "I think the shuttle has stopped running for the night."  "Hop in," I told her.  "I’m parked all the way over at the stadium," she said, "and I have all this stuff…"  "It’s OK," I told her, "I’ll drive you there, and I have plenty of room."

She loaded her boxes and bags into the back seat, and fell in beside me with a huge sigh. "Today is my last day," she told me, "and it was ‘cleaning out my desk’ day." She works downstairs in one of the other clinics, but had found another job she is much better suited for; I was very happy for her, and told her so.  We chatted about her new job as I drove to the other side of the campus where the huge stadium parking lot is.

As we got closer, we could see that it was game night. The parking lot was filled to overflowing with cars and tailgaters. A haze of barbeque-scented smoke hung in the air like a cloud. The elderly man standing in the entrance already hadhis hand out for the $10 he thought I would be handing him for parking. Instead I just held up my badge; "University employees," I told him. Nodding my head toward Candace I said, "She’s parked here." He waved us through.

"Where are you parked?" I asked her. "All the way over by the stadium," she said. We just laughed at the dozens of cars and hundreds of pedestrians that stood between us and where we needed to be.  Finally we were able to inch our way close enough for her to spot her little silver car; I pulled up behind it, effectively blocking traffic in both directions. Putting on my hazard blinkers, I hopped out of my car to help her. 

She unlocked her trunk and together we filled it with boxes and bags and papers. She slammed down the lid, and turned to give me a hug. "I’ll miss you," I told her. "I wish you all the best."  "I’ll miss you too," she said. "Thank you for being my friend." Meanwhile, angry drivers all around were honking at us.

I turned and got back into my car, very deliberately fastening my seatbelt, then adjusting my mirror. The man in the white blazer in front of me continued to lay on his horn. I turned off my hazard lights, put my car in gear and drove slowly past him; his mouth was uttering words I hadn’t heard in a while. Looking directly into his eyes, I blew him a big kiss as I drove by, and gave him my brighest smile. Some people take football wayyyyyy too seriously.

I was still smiling when Summer got into my car. I eased into the traffic and we started the journey home. I had survived another week. The earth has spun seven more revolutions, and I am another week older, hopefully another week wiser.

And for sure, another week closer. I will see you there, my friends.