“Hello Doctor, how are you feeling?”
“Under employed,” I said flatly.
This was Winona, my outplacement co-worker at UC San Francisco Medical Center. We were on a phone call. She lived somewhere over the bay near Tiburon. I’d never met her face to face.
“I see your divorce got date stamped,” she said.
My profile was updated just prior to the call.
“If you don’t mind me saying so, it looks like you came out on top.”
“I have your test results,” she said, “very interesting.”
“They suggest you might be open to something a little different.”
Winona and I had talked for a couple of months about my retraining and what I might do next. The ER where I’d worked for the last five years was the last part of the hospital to be automated. I’d taken a gig as the surgical project lead for commissioning. To be honest it was make-work; the robots were near flawless. All I did was squeeze plasma bags and straighten QR codes; it was nothing a process monitor couldn’t do. I’d spent most of the time cerfing.