Goodbye

When I was a kid, my parents owned a red, 1992 Pathfinder that took us everywhere. My brother and I would sit in the back (sometimes accompanied by our dog, Sheba) and would be taken on grand adventures. Durango, Albuquerque, the Grand Canyon, Yosemite. We saw most of the natural world in that car. When we were at home, I used the Pathfinder as my own personal spaceship/transformer/Megazord, pulling out and playing with bits and pieces from under the steering wheel which, in retrospect, was probably not the smartest thing to do.

I loved that car.

Then, one day, I learned that I had a little sister on the way. The Pathfinder would no longer work for our growing family. As excited as I was to have another sibling to mold and shape in my evil image, I was devastated to learn that we were getting rid of that car. See, it wasn’t just a car to me; the Pathfinder was a part of the family. However, that was no combating the inevitable. We parked the Pathfinder on the lot and said our goodbyes. I sat in the passenger seat, tears streaming down my face, reminiscing about battling the evil hordes of Rita Repulsa, cuddling with Sheba in the backseat, and driving through the various campsites on my dad’s lap. I’ve ridden in several cars since then, and will probably ride in several more before my untimely death, but none have or will come close to inciting that same kind of feeling that the Pathfinder did.

This little anecdote should tell you two things. First, I have an almost indescribable, insurmountable, and otherwise irrational fear of change. Second, I am overly sentimental to the point of turning into a weepy mess over inanimate objects. It’s why Toy Story 3 was such a hard watch for me. Imagine, then, how difficult it is for me to walk away from a job, let alone a job with some of the greatest people I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. That sadness that I felt with the Pathfinder is that same sadness I carry with me now.

This job at Canyon Ridge Mental Hospital came to me at a time I desperately needed one. As many of you may well remember, I was unemployed and “standing-in-line-for-government-cheese” broke at this time last year. What some of you may not know is that I was jobless for a full two months after the conclusion of my Marvel Retrospective (shameless self-plug). It was difficult enough to pay for our normal expenses and adding the cost of an upcoming wedding made me increasingly desperate. I was about to go crawling back to a job I absolutely hated (on hands and knees, asshole agape) when my soon-to-be-wife, beautiful optimist that she is, found one final place for me to apply. Two days later, I was hired and two weeks later, I began my career as a Mental Health Worker.

And boy, has it been a ride!

There are so many stories I can tell about flying chairs, fights with septuagenarians, penis screaming, shit smearing, Game of Thrones-like betrayals, passive aggression, inappropriate jokes guaranteed to offend all races, religions, and sexual orientations, lost shoes, lice infestations, poorly timed DJ-ing, hilariously bad impressions, day drinking, and all around good times. Perhaps one day, when I decide I want to become a real writer, I’ll jot it all down, release it in a novel, and become a millionaire who never has to work again.

But this is not that. While I may choose to write about all of the (for lack of a better word) crazy things I’ve witnessed, heard and smelled (oh God, the smells!) that’s not what this is about. On the eve of beginning the next leg of my journey, I would like to say thank you and farewell to everyone who has helped shape me into person I have become.

To the OG Unit 3 NOC Crew: Honestly, I probably owe you guys more that I really care to admit. I have never met a handful of people more inviting, welcoming, and supportive than you assholes. Things on Unit 3 can go south really fucking quick. As such, it’s important to know that your crew has your back. When you guys were there, I knew that I was going to be safe (from patients or otherwise). Looking at how everything has played out over the last year, I realize that I could not have been as adequate of a worker if I had started out on any other Unit or any other shift. Plus, without Unit 3, I would not have been privy to The Continued Misadventures of Bugsy and Gilbert (the story of two friends who are each a cock-in-the-mouth shy of being boyfriends. Seriously, it was like watching Top Gun every night). Thank you.

To the Sups, Both Past and Present: Thank you for believing in me, trusting in me, and otherwise validating my work so early into my career there. While I didn’t always necessarily agree with your various courses of action, I respected each of you enough to trust you knew what you were doing. That is the most faith I have ever put into any other supervisor I have ever worked for. All of you deserve better than that place, and I cannot wait to see what you guys do with your futures.

To My Unit 2 Family: My home away from home. Thanks you for being so welcoming when I would get bumped to your Unit, and thank you for being accepting and receptive when I was made a Lead over there. This is a hard Unit to be on, not just because of the patients, but because we get a lot of the day players, pinch hitters, and otherwise homeless employees. It’s like the Island of Misfit Toys over there. And yet, every night, no matter how short-staffed we were or how busy the night was, we always handled our shit. You guys made me a better worker.

To those who thought I was Worth Celebrating: Thank you for the cirrhosis. After two weeks of drinking, I think my liver is finally back where it should be (which means it’s time to go out again, whoo!). I would name names, but you motherfuckers know who you are. I really hope that you all remain a huge part of my life, because I cannot imagine going through the rest of this without you guys laughing at my terrible jokes. You are what made me want to come to work every day.

To my Amazing Wife: There is this misconception that Melissa followed me to the hospital, but really she should have gotten there first. She had every intention of applying for the same position, but figured that I should probably have one job before she picked up a third. Melissa, you have loved and supported me through every decision, good or bad, I have made this last year, and I don’t know if I could have handled working there if I did not have you to come home to. Run that shit, and take care of these idiots.

To all of my Canyon Ridge Friends, Family, and Coworkers:

Thanks for being my Pathfinder.

Thanks for the memories.

-James