I always imagine that moving is going to be something akin to a sequence. A series of steps in which boxes are created, transported, and piled up in the new location. Perhaps if one belongs to the economic stratum that can afford to hire professional movers (or is a member of the Armed Forces), this is what happens. In my case, moving proceeds with approximately the same grace as one deposits belongings into the plastic airport security screening bins. Our move to San Diego has been no exception.
Are we moved? Is it over? I’m not sure. Rachel is still working nights at her hospital in the Inland Empire and has been alternating weeks between here and there. We’re essentially attempting to pull an Antonio Banderas in Mask of Zorro, riding two horses by standing with one foot on each saddle. Only instead of the balance of a sexy folk hero, we have the skills of any other regular human attempting a similar feat.
Why isn’t Rachel down here permanently? Simple, she is establishing her nursing career and her current full-time job doesn’t neatly relocate to whatever random city I happened to match to for residency–much like our belongings, as it turns out. In light of how frequently this question gets asked, I think it is important to emphasize that Rachel has worked very hard to get where she is and it doesn’t make sense to jeopardize that in order to live in San Diego a little bit earlier. It will happen when she’s confident she can transition to a similar position here, and like any good resident physician, I trust my nurse.