Execu-Yankee

...as in Candle.  Not a New Yorker.

Isn't it funny how smells and scents can take you back?  The smell of turkey cooking inevitably reminds one of holidays and impending family time.  Cookies baking away in the oven smell like home. For me, the smell of bleach reminds me of a clean house, Coppertone of the beach, coffee of another morning in the boardroom, of the daily grind.  Autumn Wreath Yankee candle reminds me of my year in Chicagoland by myself, sans Jack.  Every night in fall, I'd light that candle, hoping it would transport me to my "real" "home."  Back in SB.  "Home" at that point meant "familiar."  I sat alone in my Chicagoan rental house, pondering my new life, deep into hospital management - continually vacillating between a strange bewilderment that people actually thrived on this stuff and a weird attraction because I belonged.  I fit into this strange breed and found myself eager to accept its acceptance of me.  

Was this really where I belonged?   Was I destined to be a salmon swimming upstream for my entire career?  The one who wasn't in this game for personal power, advancement, or wealth?

Smells are powerful.  I bought another Yankee Autumn Wreath candle last week, when I got home from work at 7:32 and after changing into my yoga pants, dove into that Yankee catalog.  I'm re-examining the concept of "home"

Today, I'm grappling with a new game.  A dear friend and fierce competitor of mine (same person) is trying to play me like a game.  I see the game, their actions, and am trying to interpret the game's rules.  I can almost predict the reactions to certain moves.  I realize that I am responding to them in a similar manner, guarded and on edge.  I'm careful of each word, each reaction, making sure my actions portray the perfect combination of cunning and trust, belief and skepticism.  

When did this happen?  When did my friends at work become games?  One more thing to strategize about, plan my actions, and eventually conquer?  I'm not sure I like this.  

Things are different lately; people who "befriend" me in the professional sphere are in it for some other gain, some other reason.  Have I reached that point where my "friendship" is a commodity for the free market, something to be sold when the market is most lucrative for profit?  It's a scary place - I am accustomed to friendships (and relationships in general) being genuine and honest for each party.  I cannot imagine opening my heart to another person, even in a platonic collegial relationship, just to be harvested when that person decides the pickin' is right.  

The friend thing is tough because you want to trust the people with whom you work.  I don't want to become that guarded, scripted person because those are the people *I* steer away from because they seem fake.  They *are* fake.  If you're acting differently than you normally would, then you're putting on some lofty veneer, shiny and filtered enough to impress whomever you decide needs impressing on that particular day.  

I hate that.  It's adding to my exhaustion at work.

The other thing sorely weighing on me right now is, yet again, the question of whether I'm in the right profession.  Last weekend, I visited my dear friend, Nurse Starbucks, at her Floridian retreat center on the ocean.  At least that's what it felt like - a respite.  She fed me well, with lots of fruits and veggies but also excellent cheeses and gourmet tailgate eats for the Notre Dame game.  I slept like a dead woman each night, in my own room, and with her proximity to the ocean and screened-in pool and hot tub, think she should seriously open up an Execu-retreat place.  Where people's cell phone signals are scrambled and they get a measure of peace, especially when they play with and borderline terrorize the two awesome Boxers.  Dogs heal so many wounds.  They're magical.

But what's been eating at my soul for the last few days is Nurse Starbucks' husband.  He seems to LOVE his job.  As the three of us played in the ocean waves for several hours last Sunday, he mentioned that he no longer has to work for retirement because this is the life he wants.  Near to the beach, able to visit the ocean on a random Wednesday night if he wants to, and doing a job he loves.  

It hit me squarely in the gut.  I am having a very difficult time with my job.  I don't want to divulge too many specifics, but I feel as though I'm in a fight for my very soul...do I become a slimy Execu-robot, with the perfecly-scripted verbiage and filtered veneer?  Or do I remain as I currently am, being myself in each and every moment, not really filtering my words, in a desire that my staff see authenticity in my actions and decisions.  You're never liked or popular in management, but it means a great deal to me that my staff respect me and believe in me.  I try to lead from the back, by encouraging people to move forward and spread their proverbial wings.  I love management because I love cultivating new talent.  I love helping people develop their own leadership style and approach.  But the politics, sliminess, entitled employees, and sheer busyness of the job is really getting me down.  

Despite all of my writings about vocation, it's the healthcare piece I am really questioning.  It never slows down and, frankly, healthcare really sucks right now.  You have to do far more with markedly decreased resources and the burden ends up falling on the healthcare managers' shoulders.  I could work 24/7 and not ever be "done" with my work.  The treadmill is whirling by faster than ever, smoking and threatening to short out.  I've worn out my tennis shoes, my knees are aching, and my breath labored.  But to step off the treadmill admits defeat.  Hospital management is built upon Darwinian philosophy, of the survival of the fittest.  I feel as though I haven't come this far, to prove myself to the world, just to give up, to step off the treadmill because I'm tired.  

There's no crying in baseball.  There's no tired in baseball.  Or hospital management.

But on this sunny Sunday in early autumn, I'm going to keep going.  While the neighborhood kids play and yell in the backyard, I'm writing an Aquinas paper.  Because I'm going to graduate in May.  If I can just get through the next 12 months, maybe I will love my job (because I'm "just working" and not worrying about school).  If I don't, I will need to re-evaluate a lot of stuff.  I'm sure I will keep you posted!