A previous night pharmacist once asked me if I were to that point yet where I would sit in my car, mentally willing myself, forcing, if you will, myself to go to work. I laughed, thinking he was joking but was surprised when he said with absolute seriousness, “When you get there, quit. You can try to make it work, but you’ll only be wasting your time.” At the time, the very idea seemed ludicrous. I loved my job. And, in all honesty, there are still aspects of it I truly enjoy. But those aspects no longer have the ability to scare away the boogie man.
Maybe they are as tired and worn as I am.
In all honesty, it is not the job. It is that there is no “whole” here. We are but a basket of broken pieces strung together with fishing line and scotch tape. It has probably been this way for years, with our worst offenders being our oldest allies. But lately, as I’ve watched line after line snap, the urge to cast my lot elsewhere grows. After all, who plants a trivet into a crumbling mountain? Only the very foolish, I maintain.
Where will this all lead? Possibly nowhere. We have a department-wide meeting scheduled for Saturday morning. My head says to give them the benefit of the doubt.
My heart says run.
Who’s to say which is right?