Since then, the key moments of my life have been decidedly farther apart, leisurely plodding along at a pace of about every few years. It was a pleasant tempo that allowed my psyche time to recover and process everything that was happening.
That's why I assure you that, given the choice, I never would have planned the timing of events that unfolded during the last week of May 2011. Sure, there are some people who thrive on unrelenting milestones. They're called Type-A personalities. I am not one of those people.
*****
11:06 am, Friday, May 20th -- I'm sitting at my desk at work, trying not to think about how much time has passed since I interviewed for a managerial opening at my company. No such luck: It's been 10 days, I reluctantly remind myself, and I still haven't heard anything. That's ten days on top of two weeks, when the job was officially posted. Two weeks on top of two months, when I had already finished my cover letter in anticipation of the new position. Two months on top of a year, when I first heard rumors of the loan servicing manager's impending retirement. Now all of that time and preparation is boiling down to a phone call that won't come.
Then my phone rings. Caller ID announces it's from HR. This is it. As I reach for the phone, a stream of adrenaline courses down my arm and out my fingertips. As I put the receiver to my ear, my hand goes numb. On the other end of the line is the HR supervisor. She begins by saying "Hi Danny. I'm calling everyone who applied for the manager position." Then she offers a short pause that seems like an eternity. It's enough time for one thought to race through my head: She's not just calling the winner, she's calling everyone. Crap. Get on with it then!
"You've been selected as the new regional loan servicing manager," she says finally.
Boo-yah!
"That's excellent news," I say flatly as an understatement for what my insides feel like.
The HR rep waits for me to continue, but I have nothing left to say. Actually, I have a million things to say, but none of them are appropriate at that moment, so I remain silent. I let her continue with details about the position, which all fade to gray as I repeat cerebrally the only words that hold any immediate significance: "You've been selected." In the background of my mind a tune begins to swell. It's The Heavy's "How Do You Like Me Now?" I consider it to be a personal theme song chosen by my subconscious specifically for this occasion, and I hum it to myself for the rest of the day.
If HR had waited any longer to make the announcement, they would have had to call me at home, because I had already requested time off starting the following Monday. You see, the job opening wasn't the only thing I had been anticipating for months on end. My wife was going to deliver our second daughter in a few days.
*****
8:37 pm, Sunday, May 22nd -- I'm fiddling with my fantasy baseball lineup when my cell phone rings. It's my mom. She asks me if I've been watching the news. I remind her that since I cancelled the cable, about the only thing I watch is streamed from Netflix. She tells me that I should probably get my antenna working, because I need to see what just happened in Joplin, MO.
There's something else, she says. It's about my brother. He and his wife had been in Joplin around 5:00 pm picking up his step-daughter from her father. They're OK, she says, but because the storm was between them and their preferred route back to Fort Scott, they almost drove directly into it. Fortunately, a mammoth hail stone that struck their windshield (and multiple radio warnings) convinced them to turn around and take northbound 71 Hwy instead. It was a decision that probably saved their lives.
*****
1:14 pm, Tuesday, May 24th -- Call her Avery Quinn Phillips. At 7lbs. 5 oz., she's almost a pound lighter than her sister's birth weight, but all of the other Phillips/Akins hybrid genetic trademarks are present: pinched, broad nose; a good start on a dark head of hair; pouty lips. The c-section had been scheduled months in advance, and even though it's only my second child, the entire operation seems strangely anticlimatic, as if one prior birthing experience already makes me a delivery expert.
The major difference is that we're at Menorah Medical Center instead of Shawnee Mission Hospital. It's the equivalent of vacationing on a secluded beach with a personal staff, as opposed to riding a noisy tour bus in a foreign country with a guide who calls you "Bud." Both experiences can provide you with lasting memories, but only one leaves you refreshed at the end.
At Shawnee Mission, the entire stay feels somewhat mechanical, as if you're assembly line fodder being processed as fast as possible because there are more customers on the way, and they really can't spare the room. You rarely see the same nurse twice during checkups, and the accommodations for fathers consist of a rock-hard chair in the corner of the recovery room that doesn't fold out or even recline.
Menorah, by comparison, is a veritable luxury stay, complete with four-star accommodations, as far as hospitals go. You get to know your nurse by name, the delivery rooms are spacious, and there's a snack room down the hall with free goodies you can raid at any time. Oh, and there are couches in the recovery rooms. With real cushions. And they fold out into beds. What a concept.
If you need a meal, you can call the kitchen, order from an in-hospital menu, and they'll deliver it to your room. Dads can take advantage of this comp as well. Seriously.
*****
7:57 am, Wednesday, May 25th -- I wake up from my couch of opulence to the sound of Channel 5's weather guy saying there will be overcast skies and intermittent rain showers, but no severe weather. Good to know, I say, especially with Joplin still fresh on everyone's mind.
About an hour later, I look out the window and see a few rain drops. Then I hear tornado sirens. "That's odd," I think to myself. "Why would the city run siren drills on a rainy day? It'll just confuse people." Of course, when the nurses start telling everyone that we can't be near the windows, I realize it's not a drill. Soon, we find ourselves in the middle of the hallway with the rest of the patients. The spouses are allowed to stay nearby, but any guests are required to wait downstairs, which means my father and 2-year-old daughter have to leave.
Ultimately, the tornado - or funnel or whatever - does minimal damage, so there's no repeat of the Joplin hospital calamity. In fact, the only drama that takes place during our 45 minutes in the hallway is when my wife's bladder acts up at the worst possible time, and she isn't allowed to go back into our room. Instead, the nurses wheel her into an interior bathroom, which happens to be the private lavatory in the nurse supervisor's office. Ah, the perks of having just given birth. I doubt Shawnee Mission would have been so accommodating.
*****
12:00, Friday, May 27th -- Home is so close that I can almost feel the carpet under my feet. Swanky digs or no, even the best hospitals start to feel like dorm rooms after awhile. Plus, it's hard to fully appreciate the new addition to your family until, you know, you're all living under one roof again. Now the fun begins. Late nights will begin to dovetail into long days learning a new job. But hey, this is what I signed up for. I just didn't expect God to approve all aspects of the deal at the same time.
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