Dear Friends and Family,
You may not be aware, but my partners and I provide both weekend and extended hours to our community because the nearest hospital and emergency room is a half-hour drive away in Salt Lake City. Many of the shifts I work at the clinic end late in the evening because we offer a place for Park City residents and guests to obtain medical care and treatment during nontraditional hours.
After work tonight, I raced through the door of the clinic at 8:05 p.m., eager to “get down the canyon” to our apartment. Though I’ve been commuting to Salt Lake City for almost nine months, I still find the drive difficult. The lion’s share of the commute is on Interstate 80, over a mountain pass and through a narrow canyon. The drive, more often than not, is often a white-knuckle adventure.
Almost always, in addition to the reoccurring curves, there are lots of speeding semitrailer trucks and “big rigs”—plus snow in the winter as I speed (not literally) to our “home” away from home. But not tonight. There were very few cars on the road, and a brilliant full moon lit my entire way to Nancy. In the back of my mind was the thought that if I arrived by 9:00 p.m., there would be a quality hour with Nancy before bed. I pulled into the apartment parking lot at 8:47 p.m., daydreaming about our old (but functional) couch. My feet were up, Nancy’s head was on my lap, and I was holding her hand ever so lightly. All things considered, it would be an appropriate end to a long day.
“Hi, Winnie, how are you?” Nancy’s toe-tingling kiss erased the chill from my lips as I walked through the door. I immediately thought to myself that at this time of night, she usually doesn’t have the strength to meet me at the door.
I choked on the word “tired” and changed it to “fine.”
As my eyes slowly focused to the lower light in the apartment, I noticed that Nancy was dressed in clothes—not PJs. She had on her Survivor “buff” head covering.
“Guess what, Winnie? Michaela from ASA called. My friends are having a party, starting at nine. If you hurry, we’ll be hardly more than fashionably late.”
“All right, dear.” (What else could I possibly say as I gazed longingly at the couch?)
We only stayed an hour, but Nancy was the guest of honor of some of her flying colleagues before her illness. When we arrived, I placed her on a couch with her feet up, kept the host’s cat away, and made sure that she didn’t partake of the vodka, gin, and other libations there were readily available. But it was a real party—nonetheless.
“Thanks for taking me, Winnie. It meant a lot to me.”
And to them, my love.
Summary: Nancy went to her first real party this evening. I hope it is the first of many and that she will feel up to raising a glass with each of you in the near future.
All our best,
Winnie