Sylvia's Journal

The suitcases are more or less packed, the goodbyes to colleagues and friends in the Cambridge area said, the locker with the smelly rowing clothes, not used for a year, cleaned out and its contents washed, the paperwork for our continued retirement savings completed, the old computer returned and wiped clean and the final to dos put down on paper. I am indeed in the final stretch of my long transition period.

Psychologically my final day of work yesterday at MSH/Cambridge was more like a field visit to headquarters. I no longer have an extension number – my computer and cell phone constituted my virtual working space.  I had plenty of times to chat and visit with colleagues I am not going to see for awhile.

At the end of the day I was tricked into a ‘surprise’ sendoff party that was not really a surprise because Nina had already spilled the beans early in the morning and Alison spilled them again at noontime. Also, I am not stupid, and had correctly interpreted what the 4 o’clock ‘meeting’ scheduled for me was all about. I have attended too many of those sending other colleagues off.

I was touched by the kind words of colleagues that accompanied the send-off, especially those of younger colleagues whose public health careers at MSH, so they tell me, have been positively affected by things I did and said.  I have also been positively affected by them as my transition, work wise, was so much smoother because of them. They, the thirtysomethings, are now pretty much running the place and they do it well. It felt entirely natural for me to move to another place where there are fortyandfiftysomethings who could use some help.

At the end of the day, after making one last sweep through the office for some final hugs I picked Maria Pia up at Central square to visit Said at Mass General. She had not told him I was coming. I caught a surprised Wafa who surfaced from behind a curtain where Said was being catherisized or cleaned or what not by medical staff at the pediatric floor of MGH.

Wafa and I waited outside his room by the elevators watching the evening fall over Boston. We mostly talked in mime as his English is about the level of my Dari. I had forgotten my verbs again, the days of the week and other things I was able to say a couple of months ago. It was frustrating not being able to have a conversation with him as there is so much I had wanted to ask him. All I could repeat, over and over, was ‘Boston khub?’ and ‘Shoma khosh?” (Boston good? You happy?).  My next priority is clear: language lessons. A teacher is lined up and waiting for me in Kabul.

This morning, now doing my exercises in the dark, I achieved the hoped for 180 degree stretch with my arms over my head when I touched the ground with both hands holding a stick; not bad, six and a half weeks post-op. I have decided that I will not travel with my bulky sling. Between the anti-inflammatory pills, the cortisone shot and my shoulder’s range of motion I feel as good as new.