I put my resignation in late last week

And I thought of the words I’ve often heard patients speak

“What’s his name?” they say 

When speaking of the old timer doctor (my predecessor) who went away 

The man who sat across from them for years in that tiny exam room

The one who always seemed to know better 

The man who shielded them from disease like a butterfly’s cocoon 

The man who knew their families 

Their blood test results, their body’s every cavity 

I wonder if he was ever undone by the weight of human depravity 

I took over after his retirement 

I was just 28

After the first week I felt spent

By Adderall and Percocet 

Hypertension and diabetes hadn’t finished their work yet

But I stuck it out for nine years 

Handled the in-box, the insults, the metabolic syndrome 

I like to think over time I gained some wisdom 

And not in the form of comebacks or lessons in income tax (that’s real too)

But  in focusing on what I’m paid to do 

Diagnose and treat 

If only it were an ease 

But then wouldn’t I complain about that?

Now I feel weightless as I dump all the facts 

It happened when I handed that letter to the postman

And when I’m gone from the office I wonder what patients will tell my successor

“That girl, what was her name….” They’ll take up precious moments of that next doctor’s time trying to remember 

But it’ll never come to them 

They’ll recite all the hurtful remarks 

The daggers like inflammatory plaque on my heart 

And it’s not my first rodeo 

I remember when I let jiu jitsu go 

I swung back around just a year or two later 

And one of my old sparring partners asked me cordially, “What was your name again?”

It was the place where I’d spent so much time and sweat 

Turns out even the closest people forget 

Ecclesiastes is right 

All of our achievements and accolades will take flight

No one’s gonna remember 

But I can’t be bitter 

Nah.

In my resignation there’s a subtle, internal celebration

In not coming back

And it’s not to spite anyone

Nah, it’s just that my job here is done 

And life’s duties will move on to the next one

Who will also be forgotten

Will I leave more than a trace of peanut dust behind

Or the Atlas of Dermatology

In the crevice between the back of my desk and the wall what will my successor find?

Everything is vapor 

I wonder if I’m any longer sane

I’m aged tissue paper

What’s my name?