Stick a fork in me

This morning I successfully defended my dissertation.

Sorry. I'm trying to figure out what to write next. Do I mention that my good friend and former colleague Sheryl braved 19° temps to sit with me, serve as my proctor, and be my only witness? Do I tell you how it went, how nervous I was, how I stumbled over my words? Should I tell you that my cell phone beeped during my presentation as it received a texted photo of my brother's girlfriend's old black dog, holding up a hand-written sign that read, “Good luck, Carol!”? Should I try to identify what I felt after it was over (a wintry mix of relief and nausea), or should I talk about how I am now? (Post-dissertation blues, already?) Should I even mention how my brain is already trying to rewrite history in a bizarre attempt to convince me that none of this happened? No, best not, perhaps.

After Sheryl left, I called my mother. Her line was busy. I called my brother: He wasn't home. In desperation, I emailed my sister, my most trusted advisor: Bless her heart, she called within minutes from her job in Boston. Finally. Someone to help me understand what I was feeling.

“Do you have any plans to see people next week?” she asked.

I looked at my calendar. Does taking my car in for an oil change count? “No,”I replied.

“You need to stay connected,” she said. Hmm. Is there a high suicide rate among new Ph.D.s?

I promised to make plans to do something with people. She said, “Congratulations, Dr. B.”

“Thanks, Dr. B.” I replied with a smirk.

I emailed a few people, ate breakfast, and went to bed, too saturated and weary to stay awake any longer. I dreamed of burned onions. (19° outside means no windows open in the Love Shack.) Finally I couldn't stand the smell and got up to find a smattering of congratulatory emails in my inbox. That was nice. My mother called. We talked about her condo board meeting.

I stood around for a while, looking at things. I cleaned out the drawer I had devoted to academic files for the past eight years. I cleaned up my desk. I filed papers I want to keep, for what, I'm not sure. As I stacked paper and filled the recycle bin, the phrase eight years kept rolling around in my head. Eight years, $50,000. Now what? What's next? Who am I, if I'm no longer a struggling grad student? Who am I if I can no longer complain about the wretched massive tome, or the timeline, or the waiting?

It's time to reinvent myself. I'll give it a few days, though, before I tackle that challenge. I need more sleep.