January 20, 2018

Hard to say whether things at work are starting to retreat from the Will Riker “Red Alert!” status of the past seven weeks or not. I equate the current state of things to a California 5K acre brushfire that has been 95% contained but can reignite into an inferno at any moment. Have we got a handle on things at the Client-Who-Shall-Remain-Nameless? No. And there are still landmines galore planted all across the battlefield? God yes. Enough for the next three months.

Still, at some point there is only so much that can be done. While this is the absolute worst I’ve ever been involved with by a long-shot, it’s not my first rodeo in the healthcare IT arena. At some point, the client and the vendor have to decide whether all the work that’s been done to date is worth it. I’ve been on both sides of the fence in similar circumstances and I’ve told the vendor to pull their crap out. I’ve also been on the other side where we and the client decided there was no going back so you keep pounding away at what’s been implemented and try to make the best of it.

I think the jury is still out on this.

But what I’ve found this past week is just how much I rely on music to keep me from getting too far in the weeds. The other day in the middle of a long work session I put on my “Tropical Breezes” music collection and the first song that came up was Bob Marley’s “Exodus”. And it made me laugh – here I was, deep in Babylon, and seeking my own exodus. It made me feel good.

The next song was Jimmy Buffett’s “Banana Wind”, a whimsical instrumental where Jimmy intones at the start, “Meetcha at the end, meetcha at the end.” As in, like, get through this and we’ll all meet together at the end. And while I was still there slogging away at my work session, I could feel my stress level begin to drop.

The next song was Kenny Chesney’s “Flora-Bama”, and it made me think of the other side of life – one very different from the one I was living – but also knowing that the Flora-Bama and the “Redneck Riviera” is just a short drive away from “The-Client-Who-Shall-Remain-Nameless” where I was immersed in stress and misery just seven weeks ago.

It’s amazing just how much of a healing force music can be.

Today I hit the PGA TOUR Superstore to spend my Christmas gift certificates given to me by Tracey. Bought a couple of boxes of Wilson 50 orange balls, a box of Callaway Supersofts, a couple pairs of gloves and another bucket hat in case the one I have falls apart. The Cobra bay was empty, and there were a bunch of left-handed 7-irins of all kinds in a golf bag nearby, so picked out five different brands and just hit 7-irons in the bay for 20 minutes. Felt good. I was pretty rusty but my weight transfer was good from the start.

To quote that superb late-era Pink Floyd tune, I can feel myself coming back to life.

Of course, it could all change and go to seed at a moment’s notice, but I choose not to think about that right now.

I should add that I’m still employed, but my relationship with my company and my immediate boss will never be the same. Folks can disagree with one another about “stuff” and I’m fine with that. But I won’t be disrespected in front of others – especially my peers – and that’s something I can neither forgive nor forget. There’s a part of me that actually wishes I had gotten my walking papers, forcing my hand and enabling my next career with Visiting Angels or something similar. But money is the universal language, and it’s worth another few years at what I’m making to put up with what I hope is just this bump in the road. But you reach a sort of rubicon where once the cord of loyalty is broken, your perspective changes. Mine has.

Filed in: Uncategorized by The Great White Shank at 19:01 | Comments Off on Coming Back To Life
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