In the lonely evening hours, feeling lethargic and coming down with a sore throat after enduring two months of insomnia and nightmares, I pulled down my DVD collection and discovered I had the entire second season of Grey’s Anatomy, a show I gave up on after the third season as it spiraled into absolutely ridiculous plot lines and incestuous hospital politics. I remembered fondly when that second season first ran in 2005, and I thought of it as my absolute favorite show, waiting anxiously each week for the narration of Meredith Grey and the opening and close of each episode that pierced through my heart like a lance. I put on the last episode, a decade after I first watched this episode, prepared to cry buckets, wishing the show had not become so bad, wishing it had concluded before it’s 3057th season of lunacy, and suddenly remembered him saying to me, “I think that we lasted too long.” And maybe that is true about some things. If I were to say that I love Grey’s Anatomy today, most people would roll their eyes and cringe to think that I indulge in this prime time excuse for a Days of Our Lives spin off, which is all that is left of it, the superficial shell of what it once was. But the season finale of season 2 was a truly beautiful piece of television history.
It should have just stopped there.