Not the Charts, Not the Cases—The People
Last night at Back Bay Farmhouse, with beers clinking and laughter spilling out of everyone’s chest, I thought, this is it. This is what life feels like when it’s good. Not the hours we logged. Not the cases we finished. But these dumb, beautiful moments with people we somehow got lucky enough to share them with, the people who surrounded you, stood with you, celebrated you. And that says everything.
As I watched everyone from afar, I realized how many years it must have taken to build this bond, coworkers slowly becoming second families, close friends. And it hit me: the things that stay with you aren’t the charts or the schedules. Not the add-on cases that show up like uninvited guests. Not the cases that run so late you forget what day it is. Not the missing bipolar or harmonic attachment—seriously, where do they even go? Or the freezing temperatures, half the time it feels like it’s about to snow in there.
What matters are the moments in between. The sprinting and scrambling, piecing it all together, duct-taping the madness into something that somehow works. And right there, in the middle of it, someone rolls their eyes, someone cracks a joke, and suddenly you’re laughing. Or singing along to whatever music’s playing, even if it’s not everyone’s cup of tea. Sometimes, you’ll even someone dancing like absolute cray-cray in the middle of it all.
These are the moments that matter most.
And Chad, you weren’t in every scramble, but you gave us something else. You gave us a space to walk in and know you’d listen, even when the conversations were hard. And I can’t speak for everyone, but I can speak from what I’ve seen, the way your colleagues light up when you walk in, the way they cheer with you. That’s presence.
I’ve only known you for two years, but I told you this when I heard you were leaving: wherever you’re headed, that OR is going to be lucky to have you. I’ve been to several hospitals. I’ve seen a lot of managers. Not everyone makes the place lighter. Not everyone makes people feel like they matter. But you did.
So yeah, saying goodbye sucks. Because it means something. Because it mattered. Because you mattered.
So good luck, Chad. I hope the new place knows what they’re getting. I hope they give you the same respect and joy you gave here. And I hope you keep finding those little moments, the ones between the work, the ones that remind you life’s not about the hours logged, but about the people you spend them with.
Here’s to you, Chad, for the chaos, the laughter, the presence, and for reminding us that it was always better because you were here.