My daughter Emily dropped me off at the entrance of Ballard Swedish at 7 a.m. “See you on the other side,” she said. Then I was ushered into day surgery by a nurse who already looked like an old friend as she announced. “We’re sort of in party mode here today.”

Not everyone schedules the procedure that will not be named here (but is associated with turning fifty) with a doctor one day short of retirement. After thirty-seven years in Ballard Gastroenterologist Peter Torelli was closing his practice. I’d heard good things about the doctor but it was his wife and office manager Karen Torelli that I’d follow anywhere. Even talking to her on the phone was like having a new best friend.

The day surgery nurse told me she had started Ballard just one month earlier than Dr. Torelli, back in 1975. I knew I would be in good hands even though discussion around me was centered on a Mariner’s theme for the party at noon, to include hot dogs prepared in a rice cooker.

I was also hoping there might be some kind of prize for being one Dr. Torelli’s last patients, like being the millionth visit at Woodland Park Zoo. I tried to match my mood to the calm efficiency of the nurses but I was too nervous. From the minute I smelled bleach on the hospital gown I was too aware of how I was being transformed into the patient like my father had been right after his stroke. I’d gone from helpless observer of his struggles with the IV drip and oxygen tube in his nose to being “it,” with all the same monitors and attachments. I tried calming breaths while others discussed party details.

“If you want to stick around or come back for the potluck you’re welcome to join us,” someone said, “The hospital retirement party is tomorrow.” Then they lifted the side rails of the bed and wheeled me to another room very smoothly. The last thing I remember was Dr. Torelli’s blue eyes and noticing his tie.
It was when I woke up again that things got weird. A different nurse offered me a drink and said, “You wrote about my aunt Joyce, the Braille teacher.” Then I must have gotten dressed because on the way out a nurse said, “Zita wants to say hello.”

That would be Zita Niemeyer, Manager of Surgical Services who I wrote about her when she was honored for (then) 45 years of service. Zita told me that she had thought of someone else I should interview, Pam Barber in Administration, because, “She is just so amazing.”

I also remember remarking that it was honor to be Dr. Torelli’s next to last that day, but that I hadn’t seen the hot dog etiquette posters mentioned earlier. Every counter surface in the break room was filled with covered dishes plus a big pink Simply Desserts box. I peeked inside: carrot cake.

In the circular drive, where a nurse once helped buckle the car seat for Emily’s first ride home, it was Emily waiting to drive me home. I moved through the rest of the long, long day, almost buoyant with relief that anxiety about the procedure was past, not to mention the procedure. Just before bed more memories surfaced, like delayed messages, most of them future column ideas bestowed on me along with heated blankets. I didn’t make it to the noon potluck (Dr. Torelli was himself delayed) so the next day I decided to crash the official retirement party at the hospital.

The spotlight was on Dr. Torelli in a large conference with another, larger, carrot cake on the table but those in the know realized that the end of his solo practice in the Tallman Medical Building was also a farewell of sorts to his entire family. Many reminisced about the holiday treat bags delivered by Karen and their four children in strollers, at varying ages. Patients of thirty-plus years talked about watching the Torelli children grow up. Karen admitted the last weeks had been draining, “Patients come in to say goodbye, then start to cry. He has patients who have known him longer than I have.”

A retirement party for someone who has been in the community for thirty-seven years is also a reunion of sorts, as doctors and nurses arrived from other locations. Almost everyone asked Dr. Torelli his plans and he uniformly answered, “Travel.”

His youngest daughter Kathleen wasn’t convinced. As the child still at home I asked if she worried what her parents would do without the 24-hour a day/seven days a week demands of a solo practice. “He tells everyone ‘travel,’” she said, “But I am kind of worried. I hope they get a dog or something.”

Karen Torelli told me they’ll be around a few more weeks, packing up almost four decades in one office. “But now Peter won’t be on call. He can have a beer on a weeknight if he wants. Well, make that half a beer.”

As the party wound down I asked a woman if she’d worked with Dr. Torelli. Beaming, she replied, “I was one of his first patients.”

“I was one of his last!” Then I finally accomplished what took me two hours. I managed to get Peter and Karen Torelli into one place for a picture. “I have a wonderful wife and children,” Dr. Torelli had told me, after we had discussed the relative merits of fruit pies and cakes from Simply Desserts.

Then he overheard the proposed title of this column and the serious, soft-spoken man gave a warm, spontaneous laugh. That’s the sound I hope his family gets to hear more and more; and that his colleagues will just have to miss.