Friends, it’s the end of an era. After 10 months of dedicated time and energy, I have finally finished “Grey’s Anatomy.” I know!
What started last October as a fun way to engage with my younger daughter over a beloved series quickly turned into a near obsession as I got sucked into to the trials and tribulations of the young surgeons at Seattle Grace. Before I realized it, I had even surpassed her viewership (which was only through Season 13, the quitter!) and ended up solo watching the longest-running medical drama in history (although between my perimenopausal shenanigans and plethora of alternating joint issues, I could give “Grey’s” a little competition). Now, 420 episodes later, I have summited TV’s Mount Everest and am left with a sense of accomplishment, obviously, but also with a mild case of post-achievement depression and a few frostbitten toes.
I mean, seriously, what am I supposed to do now? For nearly a year, I have filled my evenings and weekends with Meredith and Miranda and Richard and watched doctors and patients grapple with diseases and trauma and messy relationships. I’ve borne witness to plane crashes and explosions, hospital mergers and personnel changes, medical mysteries and groundbreaking surgeries. And I’m not exaggerating when I say at this point, I could probably perform an emergency trach successfully (although for the life of me, I still don’t understand what a Whipple is). “Ten blade, Bokie!”
I’ve laughed, cried, screamed, contemplated, criticized, empathized – really been in my feelings with this show. And now I have nothing (because “Succession” reeks). Alas, it’s the end of an era. My “Grey’s” era.
Peace out.
