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This little fellow greets you at my office. He’s been there for 25 years.
I don’t know where he came from originally. When I started out he was up front with the physician I subleased from and when he retired he passed him on to me (thanks, Fran!).
From the beginning he’s been the first thing I see when I arrive each morning. Because of my suprachiasmatic nucleus kicking me out of bed between 4 and 5 each morning, I’m always the first one in the office and so I update him. At this point he’s as much a part of my morning ritual as coffee and tea. I juggle the cubes to change the day (12 times a year I change the month) and once this is done I don’t think of him again until the next morning.
When I started setting him each morning I didn’t have kids. Now I have three, all grown. Patients, years, drug reps, and even a pandemic have all been marked by the clicking of his cubes when I change them each morning.
Now two-thirds of the way through my career, he’s taken on a different meaning. He’s counting down the days until I walk away and leave neurology in the hands of another generation. I don’t have a date for doing that, nor a plan to do so anytime soon, but sooner or later I’ll be changing his cubes for the last office day of my life as a neurologist.
What will happen to him then? Seems like a strange question to ask about an inanimate object, but after this much time I’ve gotten attached to the little guy. He’s come to symbolize more than just the date – he’s the passage of time. Maybe he’ll stay on a shelf at home, giving me something to do each morning of my retirement. Maybe one of my kids will want him.
Inevitably, he’ll probably end up at a charity store, awaiting a new owner. When that happens I hope he gives them something to pause, smile, and think about each day, like he did with me, as we travel around the sun together.
Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.
This little fellow greets you at my office. He’s been there for 25 years.
I don’t know where he came from originally. When I started out he was up front with the physician I subleased from and when he retired he passed him on to me (thanks, Fran!).
From the beginning he’s been the first thing I see when I arrive each morning. Because of my suprachiasmatic nucleus kicking me out of bed between 4 and 5 each morning, I’m always the first one in the office and so I update him. At this point he’s as much a part of my morning ritual as coffee and tea. I juggle the cubes to change the day (12 times a year I change the month) and once this is done I don’t think of him again until the next morning.
When I started setting him each morning I didn’t have kids. Now I have three, all grown. Patients, years, drug reps, and even a pandemic have all been marked by the clicking of his cubes when I change them each morning.
Now two-thirds of the way through my career, he’s taken on a different meaning. He’s counting down the days until I walk away and leave neurology in the hands of another generation. I don’t have a date for doing that, nor a plan to do so anytime soon, but sooner or later I’ll be changing his cubes for the last office day of my life as a neurologist.
What will happen to him then? Seems like a strange question to ask about an inanimate object, but after this much time I’ve gotten attached to the little guy. He’s come to symbolize more than just the date – he’s the passage of time. Maybe he’ll stay on a shelf at home, giving me something to do each morning of my retirement. Maybe one of my kids will want him.
Inevitably, he’ll probably end up at a charity store, awaiting a new owner. When that happens I hope he gives them something to pause, smile, and think about each day, like he did with me, as we travel around the sun together.
Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.
This little fellow greets you at my office. He’s been there for 25 years.
I don’t know where he came from originally. When I started out he was up front with the physician I subleased from and when he retired he passed him on to me (thanks, Fran!).
From the beginning he’s been the first thing I see when I arrive each morning. Because of my suprachiasmatic nucleus kicking me out of bed between 4 and 5 each morning, I’m always the first one in the office and so I update him. At this point he’s as much a part of my morning ritual as coffee and tea. I juggle the cubes to change the day (12 times a year I change the month) and once this is done I don’t think of him again until the next morning.
When I started setting him each morning I didn’t have kids. Now I have three, all grown. Patients, years, drug reps, and even a pandemic have all been marked by the clicking of his cubes when I change them each morning.
Now two-thirds of the way through my career, he’s taken on a different meaning. He’s counting down the days until I walk away and leave neurology in the hands of another generation. I don’t have a date for doing that, nor a plan to do so anytime soon, but sooner or later I’ll be changing his cubes for the last office day of my life as a neurologist.
What will happen to him then? Seems like a strange question to ask about an inanimate object, but after this much time I’ve gotten attached to the little guy. He’s come to symbolize more than just the date – he’s the passage of time. Maybe he’ll stay on a shelf at home, giving me something to do each morning of my retirement. Maybe one of my kids will want him.
Inevitably, he’ll probably end up at a charity store, awaiting a new owner. When that happens I hope he gives them something to pause, smile, and think about each day, like he did with me, as we travel around the sun together.
Dr. Block has a solo neurology practice in Scottsdale, Ariz.