Lucky Seven

Here’s this week’s reflection. I hope it resonates with you and ask that, if you enjoyed, please comment and share on your social media. Heartfelt thanks for all your support!

Keeping the light on for you,

Carol

“Number seven… Lucky 7,” I muse and smile. “Seven, Seven, Seven,” I whisper to myself as a row of 7s skid to a jackpot stop on the slot machine in my mind’s eye. I open the metal door and move in –clogs, stethoscope, pens, scrubs– the accoutrements of life in health care. Locker Seven initiates the part-time journey I’ve now attained and coveted for years: the promise of better work-life balance for my sanity and for that of my family. 

Fast forward 20 years. Locker Seven has remained my faithful companion and home base at my current job. Except this time, I’m moving out and moving on. Once full, the utilitarian space is now forlornly bare –save for a few hooks– and at first glance incredibly unassuming. Yet it came to secure far more than clothing, clogs, pens, or purses. 

This nondescript metal stall in the expanse of similar vestibules came to hold laughter (lots of it), tears, frustration, outright anger, and the steady hum of the daily grind. It offered protection on days I wanted to forget but couldn’t. Its interior soaked up overflowing sadness of bearing witness to difficult days in the operating room or the occasional silent, prayer filled organ donation honor walks. And it held the joy of participating in an infant’s entrance to the world, moments of meaningful connection with patients, and the various life milestones of coworkers celebrated by many a potluck. It was all here, stowed for safekeeping and firm conviction. Locker Seven was both steely fortitude and steady compassion no matter which direction life in an operating room might bleed.

Every locker holds someone’s story –their personal triumphs, failures, and struggles. Even though they all look the same, the interiors and exteriors are anything but. As names change when new occupants move in with their specific trappings, the vessel’s story begins a new chapter. New pictures on the outsides of doors add to the collective life of the locker room. If lockers could talk, they would surely be bestselling novelists.

Occasional celebratory trappings would turn Locker Seven and its kin into bright spots in the otherwise droll beige landscape. Holidays, childbirth, weddings, graduations, and memorials all on display here; a gorgeous, masterful, artfully wrought tapestry stitched by many hands. Even on the darkest days, the photo of someone’s new baby was the reminder we needed to keep moving forward, traversing the hills and valleys of this life we shared. 

My mother always reminded me: “When the Good Lord takes one, He provides another.” Nowhere was this sentiment more concentrated or powerful as in this locker room. 

As I close Locker Seven one last time, I close a significant chapter of my life. My vocational novel comes as a quiet ending to a thirty-year career of highs, lows, and the steady in-between. So, I stop and savor this last, monumental closure. It’s been a great ride with a trusty companion and consummate protector. I remove the lock, place it gently on my daughter’s locker six doors down the row –she’s my firstborn of twins, in Locker 1– and allow myself a few tears. 

My daughter speaks of moving into my locker. We’ll see. She too is sad my locker is now vacant. But both the genetic and vocational torches have been passed, and I’ve assured her she’s “got this” –the grit, determination, and soul of a provider who can look stress in the eye and declare “Game on” and ‘Git er done” on the tenuous tightrope of patient care. While nostalgic, she doesn’t need my locker space to affirm this, only the lock to keep her safe wherever she may go.

Ordinary objects are usually more than just that. They’re harbingers of US. Always there, ready to hold what life dolls out, ready to support and console with silent strength.

I eventually smile, give one last longing look, relegate my OR clogs to the trash, exit the locker room, and stride into my next story.

Thanks for the memories, Lucky Seven. You’ve indeed been my jackpot talisman.