“I make my livin’ off the evenin’ news
Just give me somethin’, somethin’ I can use
People love it when you lose
They love dirty laundry”
– Don Henley

This song feels tailor-made for the era we’re living in. I think about it every time I open my blog dashboard and see that—surprise—posts about trauma and disaster get more hits than the hopeful musings or political rants. People like dirty laundry. I like it too, so I’m not even trying to pretend I’m above it. It’s the same morbid curiosity that slows down traffic past a wreck or keeps NASCAR fans watching laps just for the crashes.

And yeah, I’m trying—really trying—not to just churn out angst-laden dispatches from the edge. I’ve been tossing in healthcare commentary, because hell, after nearly 30 years in the field, watching its slow death spiral deserves a eulogy. But let’s be honest: more folks show up when I start dragging skeletons out of the closet.

Speaking of which—transitioning into retired/disabled life has been…weird.

I’ve had way too much time to confront the archaeological dig that is my home. It’s been over two years, and I’m still not done purging. In the Summer of ’23, I made huge changes. If you hadn’t seen my house since before then, you probably wouldn’t even recognize it now. I gutted it, repaired it, repainted it, redefined it—turned it from *our* house into *my* home.

But let’s talk obsession. Or at least something that smells suspiciously like it. I’ve been on a mission to donate, toss, or destroy anything that tethers me to the past in ways I’m not ready to keep. And sure, there’s that piece of advice everyone offers when you’re grieving: if you’re unsure about something, box it up and revisit it later. I did. The box isn’t big. Mostly art. And oddly enough, yeah—my feelings have softened.

Then there are things that still hit like a brick to the chest.

I recently found an old box of records and miscellaneous computer stuff tucked in a closet. Just seeing it was enough to keep me out of the room for nearly two weeks. It’s not rational. It’s not even sentimental. It’s just *there*. And that’s how grief works—it doesn’t ask for permission.

One small victory: I finally wiped and got rid of his old phone. It’s ridiculous how freeing that felt. Every act of letting go feels like a minor exorcism. Heavy sigh. More lessons. Always more lessons.

On a lighter note…

Despite being out of the game, my brain still occasionally thinks I’ve got a shift to cover. That “you’re forgetting something” panic will creep in, especially around 6am or Sunday nights. Just recently, I got a call from the hospital at 9:00 PM on a Saturday. Old reflexes kicked in. That caller ID means you answer—because God help you trying to call them back.

A familiar voice greeted me: “Hey Joe, your admit is here.” First of all, I’m not Joe. Joe was my night shift counterpart. But that voice—man, that voice—instantly transported me. All those nights, all those people, the rush, the weird calm of a good shift… it hit me harder than I expected.

I loved that job. I mean, *really* loved it. Especially in the final stretch. Good leadership, good coworkers, fulfilling work. It wasn’t perfect, but it was home. I planned to die working there. Then my health had other ideas. I finally had what I wanted—and I screwed it up.

But hey—even if you fuck up, your dog and your mom still love you.