Last night, we said goodbye to the Class of 2007. We bid farewell to some of my favorites: our multiculti co-valedictorian trio(Go Bears!), our Cal Football bound running back, the principal’s star child and our trusty office assistant Spartan Boy, and a host of thugs, sweethearts, brainiacs, weirdos, and mouth-breathers. For once, the valedictorian speech was funny, catchy, and real(hurray me for being the official speech coach.) No one broke their foot(my boss did last year) and no one forced me or anyone to attend a staff dinner at a too-expensive restaurant. It was but one graduation of the week.
On Monday, as I recovered from a fantastic weekend(bad cold/cough, sore muscles, giddy smile), I went to what would be my “last” therapy session. My doctor has nudged me out of the nest to stretch my hope-is-the-thing-with-feathers wings. We talked about the closure of my grief. We talked about my budding relationship. We talked about my progress and goals. Though I feel strong again and I know I have made progress, it feels unnerving yet liberating to be deemed “better.” Five months ago, I was unraveling at an alarming pace. I turned to medical care because I didn’t want to end up in an ambulance as a 5150. I have been part of that process with kids at work and it has not been pretty.
I was in crisis mode when I first went to my hospital’s psychiatry department. When I left the office Monday, I realized I am closer to “normal” than I have been in several months. I will continue to stay in my new support group. My doctor is on-call and she says I can return to therapy if I have another bad spell. But she congratulated me on my progress and I was released, without a cap and gown, but a graduate nonetheless.
On New Year’s Eve, I firmly declared that 2007 would be my year. That hasn’t changed. This is still my year. And as the kids said last night, no class goes as hard as the Class of 07.