My Renaissance

I’ve learned that strange valleys can lead to even stranger peaks.

Where to begin?

For me, this last year has been as off-putting as it has to the rest of the world, even speaking as one who is often sedentary and reclusive. Vague rumors turned to fear, fear turned to action, action turned to loneliness. This dose of isolation was a lot to ask, even for me, though I am grateful that I remained employed when so many others had not.

In the last few months, as the world-cocoon began to break, I began to seize my ambition to make a life for myself in New York City. At first, I was clueless and frustrated. Internal transfer requests were simple enough in my hospital, but transferring to another company location required the company website, which used a system that would not work at my location—it had to be done at home. When I got home, the same website told me the transfer portal could only be accessed at work. Calling the HR department to help me resulted in the same wait times and runarounds one might expect, and the so-called “talent acquisition” specialist at my desired location wanted nothing to do with a prospective employee.

With patience, I was able to get the system working, but only at the hospital. So, every night at around 3 AM, I went to the computer in the break room and applied to every available job at that Manhattan hospital. My every application was met either with silence or an automated rejection. After two months of this, I came to the same conclusion that I had been trying to suppress from the start: I had to talk to somebody; I had to show my determination to someone with the power to help me, and make them see that I was a perfect fit for their needs. I had to use all of my abilities, not only the ones I liked to use.

I was sure that the agent who had first rebuffed me gave very little chance of helping me now, but I emailed her anyway. The worst thing she could do was rebuff me again.

In response, I got an automatic email saying that the agent in question was indisposed, and gave the information of two of her colleagues who had taken on her share of the work.

I contacted both of them.

One of them responded. He explained to me just how difficult it was to get a job at this hospital—90% of job offers went to people already working there. I would never have imagined that was a mathematical possibility. Second priority went to laid-off members of the hospital’s union. Even though I already belonged to this union, the odds of my even being considered were slim at best.

The same man who explained all of this to me was nice enough to invite me to call him in a few days with any questions. I almost didn’t—why bother? But I prepared a few questions and, perhaps with desperate inspiration, called him. I asked my questions, and, as our conversation continued, he recognized my determination and decided to help me, to search among the available positions for which I was qualified and see what he could do. My hopes were not high, but I was happy to have someone in my corner. That really meant something to me.

It wasn’t but a few days before he found something. He set me up with a phone interview and I was offered a position that paid considerably more than I was expecting. At long last, by virtue of a stranger’s kindness, my trajectory was Manhattan. I could finally think about that city knowing I would soon be calling it home.

The next day, I found out that my cat, Hatchet, whom I’d had for more than half my life, was dying. A few days later, on my birthday, I came home from work and found that he had passed away perhaps the moment I walked through the door. His eyes were still clear, still reflecting light, but he was gone. Lifting his body, which I had done so many times, feeling it stiffened into his final pose, I broke down. I buried him that morning, along with a shirt that I liked. I cried, went to sleep, woke up, celebrated my birthday, and thought about my future, watching what I’ve wanted for so long come at me faster than I ever thought it would.

I would say it was a strange day, and strangely poetic, notions of “goodbye” and “hello” presenting themselves like a squall on the day I turned 32.

Now, the clock races past midnight, May 24th becomes May 25th, and I look back at this year—the loneliness, uncertainty, ambition—and now look ahead at all to which I have to say “hello.”