MEMOIR
The Apology Dream
For Yom Kippur, a tale of forgiveness and an apology… of sorts
During my sixteenth year working in an executive position at a medical school, a new chancellor was hired and became my new boss. He seemed to take an instant dislike to me, going to great lengths to correct, humiliate, or make an example of me almost daily. It wasn’t long before I dreaded coming to work.
This went on for nearly two years, from his first day on the job to the day he called me into his office and “invited” me to retire. After spending thousands on a lawyer — several other women of my age and station were suddenly leaving, hinting at discrimination — the resulting separation agreement included a non-compete clause that prohibited me from working in my field.
I’d given my best years to the organization. I had served as a trusted member of the president’s cabinet. I had allies and loyal staffers. But once I signed that severance agreement, I was shunned. There was no farewell party, no thanks, and no fond goodbyes from the people I’d served with for almost two decades.
The experience rankled me, but I resolved to move on. Within a year I had established my own freelance writing and editing business. Eventually I admitted that my unhappiness at my last job had started long before the arrival of my nemesis. Suspended between the comfort of a regular salary and fear of the unknown, I finally realized I had been in prison, and now I was free.
Still, I couldn’t get past the bitterness I felt toward the man whose sole focus, as I saw it, had been to torment me into leaving so he could replace me with someone more to his liking. Nursing my resentment and persecution like a sore tooth, I avoided any mention of his name or the name of the organization. I severed my friendships with former colleagues. I told anyone who would listen about the poor treatment I had received, and each time, the sting of injustice would be just as fresh as it had been that first day.
They say that resentment is like a poison that only harms the vessel that contains it. I knew I couldn’t go on this way.
Then, like a whisper in my ear, the idea came to me: write him a letter. Putting pen to paper, I confessed that my unhappiness had led to errors in judgment so that, by the end, I was no longer suited for the job. I acknowledged my former boss for the strength his decisive action must have taken. I let him know I was fulfilled and successful in my new business. I ended the letter with my gratitude for the lessons I’d learned from the experience. I mailed the letter and, with a lighter spirit, forgot about it.
Weeks later I opened my mailbox and pulled out an envelope marked with the return address of my nemesis. Trembling, I unfolded the single sheet of paper and began to read. In a tone that was professional and cool, but not unkind, my former boss thanked me for the goodwill inherent in my letter. He congratulated me on my accomplishments and wished me well. I felt a tremendous weight had been lifted from my spirit.
Sometime later, I had a dream that my doorbell rang. Standing on my front porch were eight or ten people I had once worked with. They were in business clothes; I was wearing pajamas. (Aren’t we always wearing PJs — or naked — in our dreams?) One fellow was trying to wedge a gift basket inside the door. Another was in the midst of a little speech, acknowledging all my years of faithful service. Lurking at the back of the group I saw my former boss, gazing into the distance with the aloofness I remembered. I was still standing there in my PJs, taking it all in when I awakened from the dream.
With that dream, any remaining bitterness and resentment were lifted. At a gala last year, I saw my former boss across the room. Though the sight of him — my first glimpse in over ten years — hiked up my pulse rate a bit, I went to him with my hand extended. We exchanged pleasantries before saying a cordial goodbye.
Without ever saying the words “I’m sorry” or “I forgive you,” my former nemesis and I had made amends.
