On the Beach . . . no, not the famous book by Nevil Shute about the world slowly dying from the effects of an atomic war. My version of on the beach is about the next four days of my life. Actually, it’s about the lives of 22 people, most of whom I don’t really know or have only seen a few times, living under one BIG ROOF at the beach. This house is so big, it even has an elevator, and because you split the rent 22 ways, on a per person basis, it works out to about the same as a seven day stay at the Comfort Inn.
The trip started out a little rough when the four year old got a fever. We got him checked out and then started him on antibiotics for strep throat, but that quickly caused lower GI distress. Because there are four babies here, there is great fear and trepidation that the disease will spread and wipe out the youth of Australia. No, sorry, that was On the Beach, the book again.
Kids are running everywhere, I’ve been on the phone and e-mail now since about 9 AM dealing with ISSUES, and, on Monday afternoon, I get to jump into the car, drive half a day and head back to Washington D.C./Frederick for an all day meeting Tuesday with the scientific leadership from Ft. Detrick. Then I get to spend the rest of the afternoon with our attorneys and head back to Windber for a board meeting or two dealing with SPECIAL ISSUES. (Someday, I’ll be able to write about the Special Issues thing, but for now…)
Okay, okay, it’s not a real restful vacation, but, at least I don’t have to go deep sea fishing for Father’s Day with the other Dads. We did that about 26 years ago and I threw up things I had eaten in First Grade.
Back at the hospital, babies are everywhere, our surgery suites are booming, anesthesiology and the OB nurses are going bonkers from the patient load, the accounting staff is dealing with lots of auditors ( just cause it’s time of the year) and we are heading toward a whole new fiscal year and $45M of new challenges.
So, unless I find a tanning booth, it looks like I’m going to remain pasty white and pleasantly plump as I watch the sun set over the Atlantic Ocean from the windows of Seasar’s Palace, our zillion dollar home away from home.
What was that I just heard? Oh, it was the sound of a cold beer calling me. “I’m here, . . . Over here.” Gosh, I miss the mountains, deer and work . . . NOT.