Was it just September that I left Slate Falls?

It could have been yesterday and it could have been a lifetime depending on my emotional and mental state.

So yes, I left Slate. Worked that last day until 1700, organized referrals, make the typical 60 calls to stubborn health workers across the district,  ran the last meds across to the band office at 1650, locked the clinic, got in my car, and drove away. BAM. Done. Finished. Goodbye, gotta go, gotta make it out before dark, see ya later, nice knowing you.

Gone.

No more phone ringing. No more late night calls. No more broken fax machine. No more responsibility to keep things organized  or running smooth or keep people alive, and happy. No more wood smoke. No more tea and potlucks. No more laughing at Miriam racing off to the plane.

I was so sure I would cry the whole way out, part with exhaustion, part with sadness, part with joy.

But I didn’t. I was numb and calm. Had to get to Dryden before dark. Had to get oil changed, battery changed, and drive to MN the next evening. I spent the next three days driving to Orgeon.

Three months later, I am exactly 16 days away from my wedding.

Yes, you read that right. I’m getting married in 16 days.

To some of you that is old news. Some of you are like, “Um..WHAT?”

It is a long story.

Which can wait.

Nia told me he was the one, after she saw letter after letter come out of that old canvas mail bag this spring and never saw me send one in return. “He’s a rare man”, she said.

Somewhere in the next 5 months I found I loved him for the 2^nd time in my life. Maybe for the first time, but that’s just too complicated. The best gift I’ve ever been given.

So I’m going to marry Justin Doutrich on the 26^th in my simple, homemade dress, with lots of birch trees and “Except for Grace…”  written on the isle, because that what our story is. Grace. All Grace.

We will move back to Oregon and for the first time in many, many years I’m going to try to stop running, stop using adrenalin, and stop being in the middle of crisis. Maybe getting married when you are still totally burnt out wouldn’t be recommended in those Christian how-to  books, but I have it on official word from Jesus, Justin, and a psychologist, that I will be just fine—all reputable sources in my option. It will be an interesting ride.

I’m going to actually live in a Mennonite community for the first time ever.  Stay tuned for embarrassing stories to follow J

As Anne Morrow Lindbergh said, “ Wish me…wisdom, courage, and a sense of humor… I shall need them all”

“How are you doing?”

She is the critical incident counsellor for nurses working in northern communities.

“I have a pile of about six critical occurrence reports from your clinic dating back the last two weeks. How are you handling things?”

I laugh, because that’s what I’ve learned to do.

“I think I’m doing okay”, I tell her.

“The other day the shampoo bottle fell off the ledge while I was showing and I almost screamed. A  little sob of terror caught in my throat. So I’m a little jumpy”,  I explain. 

We talk some more.  About the last 20 months and all that that holds.  About the tragedy of the last week and the heaviness of everything. She knows. She’s been there too.

“But I’m leaving in two weeks”, I  say.

“Ah, so the light is started to glow at the end of the tunnel”, she says quietly.

Yes, in many ways it is. And yet in some ways I see all the light, the light of this experience fading as I most toward the beginning of the next.

Not an hour goes by that I don’t think about how these are my last two weeks. And how before I know it I will be miles away from the clinic instead of that short walk through the birches.  If I actually let it settle as reality I feel my heart squeeze, squeeze and I have to catch my breath.

I know I need to leave. I am looking forward to beginning a new season. I am burnt out and jumpy and tired. I have a lot of processing and sleeping and debriefing  to do.

Yet this clinic has become my world. And I almost forget what it was like to not have my life revolve around the health of these 40 homes tucked around the bay.  Slate Falls has become home to me, in many ways, but the clinic has become more than that–it has become my life.

I think back to what knew when I first moved up that March day, almost 20 months ago, and what I know now, and marvel.

I had no idea how all-consuming my job would become. I still had visions of hours spend in the bush or learning Ojibway or hanging out at duck camp. And I brought up scrapbooking material. I kid you not. I laugh now.

I hadn’t yet experienced how much just a phone ringing can send your whole body into panic.

I didn’t know how beautiful a small kind gesture, like a bag of chips or a cup of coffee could mean, on busy days. Or how satisfying it would be to care for people and know you made a difference.

I didn’t know that sometimes people don’t appreciate you, even when you do your best and you just need to grow a solid combination of an iron backbone and oiled feathers.

I didn’t know how important it was to sit totally still and listen to people. Not offer advice, or try to fix anything, or worry that you are not being caring enough. Just sit. Totally still. And listen.

I didn’t know that I would become quiet.

I never would have guessed that I would become good at administration and the thousands of details that come with keeping a clinic functioning smoothly, driven by the necessity of being the only long term nurse. Me? The disorganized, absent minded RPN who hates paperwork?

I didn’t know there was something called Compassion Fatigue.

I didn’t know what it felt like to feel sleep deprived for days on end.

I didn’t know that a community of 150 people and one small gravel road could open my world up so wide.

I didn’t know how much I would come to love this community and these people and my job, even though all three were very, very different than all my expectations.

Yes, the light is at the end of the tunnel , and I am thankful.

But at the same time, I’m going to miss the light as well. The light of Slate Falls, and the light of all my friends and patients and coworkers , the hard florescent light of the emerge room at 3:00 am,  and the light of the cold fall sun, splashed out over the lake.