Who's idea was it to start having people stand on the sides of roads twirling signs for businesses? Like, what is UP with these grown people dancing like nobody is watching while dressed like the Statue of Liberty and holding a sign for a tax company? Like, what?
"Hey! On second thought maybe I DO want an apartment in that building! Thanks, Mr. Poplocking Sign Dancer Man!"
Said no one EVER.
#9
Zachary made a touchdown Saturday! Which is a huge deal on the travel team. He was so, so proud of himself. And the minute he saw me, he immediately started the inquisition about whether or not I saw it.
Duh! Yes!
#8
I need a haircut. Yet I've been too busy to go to the hair salon. This will be rectified this week. Which means a fun post from the hair salon just might come from it.
#7
Am I the only one who is feeling depressed by the news lately? Man. What is up with all of this. . .sigh. I won't even go there. Nope. Not right now. Too depressing.
#6
I'm so sad about Robin Williams. Like really, truly sad. I know he must have felt lonely and like there was no way out.
I heard a pastor talking recently about how dangerous success is. It isolates you. People are meant to be in community. I wonder if he felt isolated? I don't know.
Depression is so, so complicated. So very. I'm mad at it right now for taking so many special people away.
#5
Isaiah and I are joining a carpool starting tomorrow. He is ridiculously nervous about it. Think happy thoughts for him, okay? He'll be the youngest guy in the crew.
#4
My husband is the hardest working man I know. Seriously. He's even the hardest working man a lot of the men we know say they know. And they are men.
Wait. Does that even make sense?
Oh well. The brother works hard. But he loves hard, too. I dig that about him. He's the least lazy person I know. And the most unselfish. I haven't been on any BHE tirades lately, but know that I am madly in love with him and crushing on him something ferocious this week. He's a good guy.
#3
We've been going to another church lately. It's my first time attending a church that isn't predominantly black. It's a very different experience. But interestingly, it's the same experience. Same songs, different musical arrangement. No one does the happy dance and they don't even know the happy dance music (black folks are all nodding their heads because they know it.) But that's okay. My soul feels convicted. I'm learning. I'm thinking. I'm growing. So that's all that matters.
Oh, and as for my old church? I loved it. It was just becoming too difficult for me to get there since it was far. And popular. Megachurches like that one can be very, very, very hard to get in and out of. That would make me talk myself out of going and hit up Minister MacBook and Evangelist iPad to just watch on line. I think my former pastor would encourage me to go where I can go instead of continuing to miss his church. So that's what I'm doing.
So far so good.
#2
My ward team was awesome for the first two weeks of August. Such a great bunch of learners. They taught me a ton and we took excellent care of patients. Loved it.
#1
They accepted my essay about Deanna. Remember the one I wrote for her birthday and submitted on the day before her birthday? The one I tortured my dad with a snot-filled narration of over the phone at 2:33 a.m.? Yes. That one. I employed Deanna's recommended method of going into it thinking I'd win. And not even three days later, I got an email from the Editor-in-Chief of the journal saying he loved it. So that means I won. I highly recommend that approach to life's little challenges.
You know what else?
It's getting published in the special Cardiovascular Disease issue of this journal. That means way more people will read it than just the usual subscribers. And you know what else? It comes out in mid-November--just a few days after the two year mark since she left us.
I'm proud that the world will be introduced to one of the hearts worth fighting for when we fight cardiovascular disease. She was extraordinary. And now a whole bunch of other people will know that, too.
When I first returned to Grady after my wedding and honeymoon back in 2004, quite a few people were surprised when I announced that I had a new last name.
"Dr. Manning," I said without flinching. Not hyphenated. Not optional. This was my new name.
And let me be clear: I think taking your husband's name is a highly personal choice. I do not knock those who don't one single bit. Especially because the vast majority of these individuals are grown women who should be able to do whatever the heck they want to do with their last names.
But me? I chose to become Kimberly Manning. Harry said he hoped we could all just be "Team Manning."
Maaaaan, please. That brother had me at "team."
Ha.
So I'll never forget it. I walked into Grady that Monday and one of the first people I saw was one of my favorite senior faculty members, Dr. Michael L. He scowled at me and said, "What's this I hear about you changing your name? You've been here for three years! My brain is too old for new names."
"You'll adjust."
"Draper. That's it for me. I'm calling you Draper when I see you and that's that!" And if you know Michael L. you can hear his voice saying this full of super-surly cantankerous-ness.
"And I will not answer you since that is no longer my name. I still have Draper genes in me but I am now a part of 'Team Manning.'"
Michael took his index finger and feigned a (quite warranted) gag and wretch. "Draper!"
We faced off. I held up my new badge in his face and shook my head. "You'll adjust, sir. You will."
And you know what? Despite his attempts otherwise, eventually he did. He adjusted. As did everyone else around me.
For whatever reason, it was important to me for those around me to respect my decision to take a new name enough to use it. Just as it's equally important to respect those who choose to keep their maiden names and NOT assign them the name of "Mrs. So-and-So." I was firm on that. So that meant that I quickly corrected accidental hyphenations and even those who persistently got it wrong. Never did I give in and simply say, "No big deal, Draper is fine." And for that reason and that reason alone, I feel sure that everyone began to see me as Kimberly Manning.
You know? It wasn't as much work as you'd imagine. Outside of Michael L., it didn't require much redirecting. So I learned something. I learned that people will first do what is easiest for them. But if you let them know your preference. . . it doesn't take long at all for them to get it.
So that brings me to today. Today I was in clinic working with two wonderful residents. Both speak Arabic as their first language although one hails from Syria and the other Libya. Mahmoud, who always works with me in Monday clinic, taught me how to say his name properly after I watched people referring to him using a different pronunciation than the one he used himself.
"How does your mama say it?" I asked.
"It's okay, MAH-MOOD is okay."
"But how does your mama say it? Does your mama say MAH-MOOD? In Libya?"
And Mahmoud laughed loud and hearty which told me my answer. "I want to say it how you say it. And how your mama says it. Teach me."
So he took his time and taught me. "Say MAH."
"MAH."
"Then make a tiny little sigh like this--'hah'."
"hah."
"Then say MOOD."
"MOOD."
"Now. Put it all together fast like this-- MAH-hah-MOOD."
So I practiced in front of him. "MAH-hah-MOOD."
"The 'hah' needs to be smaller. And not guttural or else it becomes a different name."
"MAH-hah-MOOD."
"YES! Good, Dr. Manning! Good, good!" Mahmoud exclaimed.
And exclaimed was the verb I meant to use because that is really what happened. So every time I see him, I try my best to honor the name his mama and his daddy and his culture gave him enough to say it right.
Mahmoud.
I see you.
The Syrian woman working with us today is also of native Arabic tongue and has a rather intimidating (to Westerners) last name when you first see it-- Dr. Abed Alwahab. I don't work with her often so usually her first name suffices. But in clinic, I always address the doctor as a colleague in front of the patients so I needed to get the proper pronunciation of her name.
"Pronounce your last name?"
"A-BED is fine," she replied.
"What do you prefer? Do you prefer to be called 'Dr. Abed?'"
She shrugged. "It's fine. I'm okay with that. It's hard for people to say my name, so it's okay."
And Mahmoud shot me a glance because he knew what was about to happen next (and because I'm ridiculously predictable.)
"Tell me how YOU say it. Teach me how to say it."
So she smiled for a moment and then sweetly answered. "A-bed Al-wa-hab is the whole thing."
"Dr. Abed Alwahab?" I repeated. "That's totally phonetic."
She nodded her head and chuckled. "Uuuuhhh . .. I guess it is." She seemed more than anything to be glad of the time I took to ask and that was enough for her.
But Mahmoud knew that I wanted to really know how to say it. Like she says it. Like the way it's really pronounced. So he chimed in. "Dr. Manning if you want to say it like it's pronounced in Arabic, it's more like AB-DAL-WA-HAB. But you say it fast. All together."
"Dr. AB-DAL-WA-HAB," I proudly copied him.
And don't you know they both squealed with glee and clapping? So I showed off and repeated it like ten more times until I had it mastered. I saw her pale face flushing. I could tell how much she appreciated the gesture--this simple gesture of respecting her culture and her name.
Abed Alwahab.
I see you.
I have a colleague at Grady who is of Nigerian descent. Her name is rather intimidating on paper, too, but honestly? When you get past what it looks like, you recognize that it, too, is also pretty much phonetic. So most who see my friend, Ugochi (OOH-GO-CHEE) butcher that part (which is her first name) and then -- perhaps unknowingly -- refuse to even TRY her last name.
Ohuabunwa.
I guess they are just too exhausted from trying to say her phonetic first name? Uh, yeah . . .okay. Ohuabunwa. They see it and cringe. Or instead of cringing they just laugh and say, "Dr. O."
Ha ha hell.
But here's the thing--she doesn't refer to herself that way. I'm pretty sure that much like I wanted to be called "Manning", it would likely be her first choice to be called by her name, too. So just like those residents, I asked her to teach it to me.
And she did. "OH-HWAH-BOON-WAH."
Phonetic. Ohuabunwa. Ohuabunwa. Ohuabunwa. I practiced it until I got it right. And vowed to never call her or refer to her as "Dr. O" ever again.
Yeah, Dr. Ugochi Ohuabunwa. I see you, too.
Sure do.
As you can guess by now, this whole ethnic name dismissal thing -- and married name whatever-ness -- is a bit of a pet peeve of mine. I think it's kind of disrespectful to not even attempt someone's name just because it looks foreign or different to you.
Which reminds me. Our clinic staff used to annihilate one of our former Grady chief resident's last name each week in clinic. Oh Lawd, it was comical. His last name, ACHTCHI (AAHSHT-CHEE), is of Persian origin -- which, okay, does involve an awful lot of consonants. And maaaaan . . . the clinic staff called him all sorts of things. . . such as:
Dr. ATTACHE Dr. ATARI Dr. APACHE Dr. CHACHI (as in "Joanie loves.. . ") (and my personal favorite) Dr. A-CHOO-CHOO
But you have to give them credit for one thing--at least they tried. They saw all those consonants and still took a crack at it. An amusing crack but a crack no less. They didn't just look at it and decide to say "pass."
In my opinion we shouldn't be able to just "pass" on people's names. We owe it to their mamas and their daddies and their grandmamas and their granddaddies to try to learn and use the one they prefer. And not just our lazy English default. In fact I think saying someone's name the right way is kind of like the nod. . . .it's your way of saying, "I see you."
Because really. . . how smug is that? How smug is it to look at a person's name and then size it up as not worth your brain power to properly say? Especially if you work with the person repeatedly? I don't care if you don't have bad intentions, either. Indifference--especially to cultural things--can sting. Trust me on that.
Man, I'm just saying.
In case you're wondering. . . you don't need an "ethnic" name to have a preference. Here's mine:
My first name is Kimberly. You can call me "Kimberly" or "Kim" if you're a friend or an adult who isn't my student or my resident. In that case, "Dr. Manning" or "Dr. M" is cool. I don't like little kids calling me by my first name--unless it's got a "Miss" in front of it. Just call me old school *shrugs* That's my preference. And don't worry--if you're grown, my kids won't be rolling up on you with a fist bump calling you by your first name either. Even if you insist.
No, ma'am, they will not and no, sir, I don't think so.
Yeah. So if things are super informal and we're pals, "K.D." is fine--which a lot of friends from college and med school still call me exclusively--in casual settings. (My middle name still starts with a "D" so it worked even after marriage.)
And speaking of more preferences. . . . when my name is printed somewhere, I strongly prefer "Kimberly" and not "Kim." Yep. And yes. It makes me happy when folks acknowledge this wish--especially the Kim-in-print thing.
You know why? It's simple. My mama has always preferred "Kimberly." Always. Not one time has my mother ever referred to me as "Kim" or written my name that way anywhere. Ever. So out of respect for my mama, I introduce myself as such and like to see it printed that way, too.
Yep. That's my preference. Which tells me that everybody has one. Even a grandmama who wants to be called "Grandy" instead of "Grandma." Yup.
No, I won't taze you or scream at you if you slip up or you don't know my preference. I'm not so self-important that I run around obnoxiously shutting people down for improperly using my (hello? common!) name.
But.
My point is this: Don't hear someone introduce themselves as something and then just create something that you find easier. Especially in a formal setting. Don't just reach into the sky and opt out of the name that their loved ones chose when they were born. Don't.
At least don't with me.
With me? When you see me, say my name. My name. Or one I'm cool with--and not just one I've given up and decided to be cool with just to save you a few syllables. Yeah. Say my name.
And I promise --- if you teach me how --- that I'll do my very best to always say yours.
Mahmoud. Abed Alwahab. Achtchi. Ugochi Ohuabunwa.
See? It's not hard to learn it all . . . . that is, once you decide.
***
Happy Monsoon Monday Night.
What are your thoughts on this? Weigh in, y'all.
Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . . some old school Beyonce and her crew. . .
It's time for this week's top ten and I'm feeling full of randoms right about now. That always makes me want to pay homage to the king of random observations, Andy Rooney. Though I'm not curmudgeonly like Mr. Rooney, I've always dug his out-of-the-blue thoughts.
Here's my top ten Andy Rooney-isms of the week.
#10 Food glorious food!
Things have changed a lot since I was a med student and a resident. Back in the day when I was a youngster in the game, we all fended for ourselves when it came to vittles. Lunch was something you either packed or bought in the cafeteria when I was a student. In residency, we received a schedule that told us which two days lunch would be included. That lunch was always, without fail, some kind of giant hoagie that, if you were lucky, you got one little inch of with a handful of crunched up Ruffles. The only time you could be guaranteed a square meal on the house was during interview season. This was why I made it my business to be at all interview days. Yeah, yeah. Come to our program. Now pass the hummus and the falafel.
Anyways. That has nothing to do with the point I was going to make. I was just thinking about how now our residents have lunch served just about every day for the learning conferences. But because there's a lot of mouths to feed, that's costly so the food isn't exactly gourmet. So I'm just wondering. . . .isn't there something inherently wrong with learning about guidelines for management of hypertension while eating a sandwich from Chick-Fil-A? Or heart failure therapies over lo mein?
Hmmm.
I'm just sayin'.
#9 Nomenclature
Hey. Here's a random thing I thought of while stuck in traffic one day:
Why do you park in a driveway and drive on a parkway? These are the important things I ponder when I leave Grady Hospital. I'm just deep like that.
#8 There was a little girl. . .who had a little curl. . .
Make a pact.
Right in the middle of her chin. Hey! What's with not plucking the long curly chin hair? I was talking to this Grady employee in the gift shop the other day. This woman is an absolutely lovely lady but I could barely concentrate on our conversation because my eyes could NOT stop focusing on these two loooong curly hairs on her chin. And what's extra crazy? She kept rubbing them while she was talking to me. . .unraveling it and then letting it quickly recoil back onto her chin.
Eeew.
Seriously? Can I tell you how badly I wanted to accost her with some needle nose tweezers? So badly. I felt like just standing there looking at her was breaking some kind of woman code.
Anyways.
Girls in your twenties, be forewarned: When you reach your forties, or maybe even your mid to late thirties, no matter WHO you are, you WILL develop at least one renegade terminal hair that grows on your chin. Pay attention, ladies! Because if you don't, they can get out of hand. For real. My suggestion is that you get some sort of agreement going with a friend or your spouse to both alert you to such renegade hairs but much more importantly, to keep them in check should you ever find yourself unable to do so yourself.
I won't say who my renegade hair police is, but just know that this person is named in my living will. And I'm saying, if you don't have a renegade hair officer named and you are approaching thirty, I'd suggest you do so.
This is important people.Woman code, even.
#7 Hungry for Hunger Games
Have y'all read these books? They are so addictive! Turns out that the "Hunger Games" trilogy by Suzanne Collins is really for "tweens and young adults." Oh well. Now it's for grown ass women, too.
Who else is caught up in this wacky creep-tacular story?
#6 Hablo ingles solamente.
Me with Doctora Higgins.
Have I told you about how enamored I am by people who speak Spanish and English fluently? I went to Mexico City with my friend and fellow Grady doctor Stacy H. last year and she speaks Spanish big time. Not that b.s. kind of "I speak Spanish" either. You know, the kind where you can tell somebody how to get to the Grady cafeteria and that's it? No. She speaks for real Spanish. Like laughs at jokes and everything.
So that brings me to the random on this: Am I the only one annoyed by people saying they are bilingual when they are totally unilingual with the exception of their ability to get a Spanish-speaking only family to the cafeteria? "Segundo piso?" Chile please. Even I can do that. This is not Spanish, people. This is not.
Me and Doctora Zimmer, who also hablas for real Espanol.
Did I tell you that in my dreams I have mad Spanish skills? I'm crazy fluent. I even have some other languages in my arsenal (in my dreams, of course.) Last week I dreamed I was rounding with my team and one patient spoke Spanish, one spoke Mandarin and another spoke Haitian Kreyol and I could speak them all fluently. My Mandarin and Kreyol were a little broken, but my Spanish? Maaaaan, all I'm gonna say is I was getting folks to waaaay more than just the cafeteria. . . I was getting folks to the promised land (in Spanish, of course.)
#5 Double trouble.
Hey, here's something random. So did y'all know that when you type on a computer, you only need one space at the end of a sentence instead of two? Okay, so habitually, those of us (who are older) place two spaces after finishing every sentence. Those who learned to type in a typing class on a old school TYPEWRITER learned the two spaces after every period rule, right? But check it--that doesn't go for computers!
Crazy, right?
I figured this out when I wrote a manuscript for a journal and they corrected all my double spaces. There was crazy tracked-changes all over my write-up and the majority were double space corrections. I wasn't sure why until TODAY when I heard my girl Terry Gross on NPR's Fresh Air grilling this dude about this very thing. She was old school and all about the two space rule. This dude had a lot of chutzpah because he hit Terry G. with some elaborate explanation about the whole thing which I can't remember fully in detail, but that sounded good enough to make her stop asking questions. And if you get your NPR on like I do, you know that Terry is never short on queries. At. All.
No double space? Are you sure, dude?
So yeah. If you're double spacing at the end of your sentences on a computer? You need to get with the program. Because single spacing is so three thousand and eight and double spacing is so very two thousand and late.
(This just made me chuckle because exactly how hip can you be if every night at 7pm you're hanging out not at some swanky new restaurant, but with National Public Radio instead? Ha.)
#4 How low can you go?
How low is too low on a neckline at work in the hospital? A few years ago I was rounding and resident working with me had a plunging sweater on. We leaned over the patient to examine him and seriously? I could see directly down her shirt and clear into her brassiere. Not one thing was left to the imagination. Not a one. I hoped so badly that the patient didn't get the same peep show. My guess is that he did. And if he didn't? Somebody, somewhere did.
I broke down and told her, but she didn't seem too keen on my feedback. But she was such a good resident and she needed to hear this before somebody groped her, for real.
What do y'all think about telling learners these kinds of things? Is that outside of my lane? Tell me the truth, y'all.
#2 Pencil me in.
A student told one of my colleagues who happens to be senior faculty that they couldn't make a learning session and lecture because it conflicted with some travel plans. Travel plans for leisure. Plans that this student made that conflicted with the pre-scheduled curriculum. And somehow this became my colleague-friends's problem. Imagine that.
But those travel plans weren't exactly the issue. The issue is the audacity of this person nonchalantly dropping this little nugget of info on my friend like she was throwing a keg party on her back porch. Like, "I'm sorry, girlfriend! Raincheck?"
News flash: Lectures and medical student curricula are a crapload of work. A crapload. One lecture easily equals ten to twelve hours of preparation if it's new. Imagine spending twelve hours preparing for something that 50% of the intended attendees were going to blow off? Would that hurt your feelings?
I've asked groups of students about class attendance and why they do or don't go sometimes. Most explain that some lectures are good and worth their while and others aren't really worth the time.
That got me to thinking.
What if the faculty all decided to start blowing off the students who weren't A+ caliber and only taught the ones who they thought were "worth their while?" Like what if we completely ignored anyone with a single quirk, blemish, or imperfection. . . . . or walked off any time a student gave a monotonous oral presentation or chose to talk about something we either knew already or didn't find particularly appealing? What if WE voted with our feet, too? What if WE chucked you guys "the deuces"--of course, only if you weren't stellar and dynamic and 100% worth getting out of bed for?
"This is wack. I'm outta here."
Wouldn't that be sort of the faculty equivalent of blowing off someone's lecture or entire curriculum?
Hmmm.
Yeah. That's all I'll say on that.
#1 Intentional remembering.
When you're a doctor, you know that people die every day. Some after full, rich, good lives and some prematurely. There was this friend of ours who'd attended college with us who passed away before he turned 40. Left three daughters and a wife behind and at his funeral, his mother looked my brother straight in his eye and asked him: "Please don't let anyone forget my son."
We lost a colleague in our division in September. We all loved him and many of us were close to him. But after he passed away, there was something about the everyday-ness of how we all carried on with our hustle bustle that didn't seem right. Almost like his entire existence in our division was like some kind of vapor that disappeared without a trace. I don't know. One of my fellow Grady doctors sat in my office a few weeks ago and said she felt conflicted by that very thing. And we agreed that it was odd and that maybe it should have been heavier around there for a little while longer than it was. We also agreed that no one had ever died in our division before. Not a peer. Not on our watch. Then we kind of just sat there feeling weird but not knowing what to say. So we said nothing.
Later that evening I thought of him and it dawned on me that he wouldn't have wanted things to be heavy. No, not him. But I do think he'd want to be remembered. So I put a picture on my office door of him. With very simple words written with a marker:
"I will remember you."
That day I decided that I would intentionally remember him every time I walked into my office. Simple enough. Not in a heavy way either. But more . . . .in a deliberate way that fights through my to-do lists and grabs my attention, if only for a few moments.
So Ildefonso, I will remember you. I will remember you daily. Enough to bring you up in idle conversation because no, you weren't a vapor, you were someone special. Very special and very much here.
And you know what? It feels good to do this. And something about it feels right, too.
That's all I've got today.
***
Happy Friday.
Now playing on my mental iPod. . . "Funny the way it is" by DMB. All about the pendulum of life. . . .
Andy Rooney's final broadcast was shown on CBS' 60 Minutes last Sunday. The curmudgeonly king of the random observation and the guy who, if you ask me, is the original blogger, made his living by simply speaking his mind. Matter of fact, Jerry Seinfeld should probably credit ol' Andy for giving him the idea to make a show about nothing. Because Andy Rooney taught us that talking about nothing is really something. Imagine that.
Paying homage to the great Andy Rooney, I bring you this week's top ten. . . .which is nothing but my random questions, observations and thoughts about things going on around me. Or as my classmate in med school used to say, "A whole bunch of nothin'."
I added Mr. Rooney's final segment at the end of this post. This really speaks to my thoughts as a writer. It's hard to believe he is 92 years old. Take a moment if you can to watch it--especially if you do anything creative. I bet you his message will resonate with you, too.
Thanks for showing us how to do it, Mr. Rooney. (And we promise not to bother you in public should we run into you.)
*By the way, this post was inspired by my dad who turns 68 today. He's always been a huge fan of Rooney and was the one who turned me onto the segment back in the day. Happy Birthday, Poopdeck!
***
#10 No Pundit Intended.
Pundit. The pundits said this and the pundits did that. Pundits. Pundits? This word is one I don't get. I always have to look it up. Turns out that it means "authority or expert" on some topic that "shares their opinion with the masses through media, etc." Every time I hear this word I feel like it's unnecessary. Kind of like "insurgents." Seriously.
#9 Show me the money
What is UP with little kids and money? My children have recently taken to liking money. Why? I do not know. I mean. . .I am a poor righteous teacher in a public hospital so LORD KNOWS they aren't getting it from me.
They find it on the floor of my car, in the couch cushions, and on our nightstands and seriously? They hoard it. Like for real. Is this a phase? I am told it is. Especially Zachary. And he's not even five!
My kids don't buy things yet. They can count money but other than that they just like having it. It slightly disturbs me. Tell me this is a phase.
What's that about?
#8 Taking turns.
What is the deal with four year old amoeba soccer? This is where eight four year-olds run in a giant pack after the soccer ball for one hour while the parents sit there clapping all giddy-like. There is this crazy culture where you cheer and clap for everything that every person does, even if it includes picking their nose or pulling out a wedgie while someone flies by them with the ball. Hold up. Tell me, y'all. At what point do we get to stop cheering for the opposing team? And what is REALLY up with somebody telling the kids to "hold off for a minute" so somebody could have a turn at getting a goal? Get a turn?
0_o
Aww hell naw! Today they rolled the ball dang near into the goal for the other team. But here's the problem. Zachary and another kid on his team have older sibs. They've been watching and waiting, and begging "put me in coach!" So now that they're in? Oh baby, they're in. And in it to win it. No amoeba soccer for them.
So yeah. They roll the ball right at the goal in front of this kid on the other team who'd been blowing spit bubbles and making grass angels. She was supposed to make a goal. I mean, it was her turn and all. But Zachary missed that memo and promptly bent it just like Beckham, kicking that sucker right over her head. Directly to his teammate who got his full Pele on--- scoring for the white team!
Yeaaaaaahhhh Babbbeeeeeeee!!!!!!
Yes, Harry and I are the obnoxious parents cheering waaaay too loud for this to be 4 year old soccer.
(Is it normal that they're only four but they were doing the backwards victory jog complete with a high five while setting up for the next ball?)
Hmmph. Whaaaat-ever.
#7 Crumbsnatchers.
Here is something fascinating I learned at work. I discovered that there is this universal dictionary/wikipedia that black folks are privy to. It includes (for those over thirty-five) the lyrics to "Rapper's Delight", "La Di Da Di", and all of the songs in the movie "Sparkle." (If you have no idea what I'm talking about, this can only mean one thing--you are not a thirty-plus year-old black person born and raised by black people in the U.S. ) Now those things I just named are generation-specific. But some things? It doesn't matter how old you are or young you are--if you're black, you'll know it.
Case in point: "Crumbsnatcher." The universal dictionary also includes the word "crumbsnatcher." I mentioned this in clinic to someone who had no idea what I was talking about. "You know, crumbsnatcher!" I said. I couldn't believe it. Everyone knows what a crumbsnatcher is. Well, apparently not.
I asked some black folks in and around the clinic--100% knew exactly what I meant. In fact, I have yet to meet any sho nuff and bona fide African-American person who hasn't heard and used this word. Do you know I asked nearly thirty non-black folks if they knew what a "crumbsnatcher" was and they all said no?
Wait, I take that back. One person said, "Isn't it that thing they use in restaurants to clear the table?"
And I was like, "Uuuuh, that would be a crumb-CATCHER."
0_0
Okay. If you are black, you already know what a crumbsnatcher is. I would love to hear your two cents. But for real? Somebody non-black please (without using urban dictionary) prove this theory wrong by telling me you'd know how to use "crumbsnatcher" in a sentence. . . . .
Come on. . . .what you got?
Disclaimer: Non-black people who are married to an African-American person or who have worked at Grady for more than fifteen years are disqualified. Conversely, black people over thirty-five who have never heard of the movies "Sparkle", "Mahogany", or who have never had their hair braided on a porch are also disqualified as well as questionable--unless they can answer yes to the question below.*
*Did your daddy have one of these parked in his hair while barbecue-ing on one of those half barrel trashcan grills during your upbringing? Okay, then you get an automatic reactivation of your membership card as this trumps all of the aforementioned.
#6 Expecting the Unexpected
What the heck is up with people asking people if they are pregnant? What the. . . .?
One of my friends (who is NOT pregnant) was asked if she was pregnant by one of the nurses last week. This woman is NOT overweight and she does NOT look pregnant! But any of us who are thirty and up know that if you aren't properly focusing on your abs, any one of us can be one exhalation away from looking three months preggers.
New rule: Unless you see the BABY CROWNING, don't ask. Matter of fact? Don't ask then either.
#5 No shame in the game.
If you eat McDonald's and smoke Marlboro's, do you carry your Marlboro's in your front pocket and eat your Mickey Dee's in the clinic room while waiting for your doctor?
Damn.
#4 Problem solved.
"Doctor, when I take my finger and press it real, real hard right here, it hurts really, really bad."
"What made you press there real, real hard in the first place?"
"I 'on't know. I just did one day. And it hurt really, really bad.
"Alright. So here's what I want you to do. Don't press there. And if you must, just don't do it real, real hard."
"Okay then, doc."
(Thank you very muuuuch! I'll be here all week.)
#3 Bad ass.
Harry and I were at Fellini's Pizza with the kids on Friday. There was this little boy running all over the spot and climbing up on the booths. He eventually climbed up onto the narrow strip at the top of the bench between two booths. Standing. Up there. Treacherously teetering on this wooden seat back and scaring us all to death while his parents laughed and ate pizza.
Harry looks over at me and says, "Now, tell me what happens when that little bad ass boy falls on his head?"
*WHAM!*
Wait no more, Harry.
#2 Port-a-party
What is it about little kids needing to use port-a-potties? Today we were at soccer and Zachary, of course, announces that he has to go to the potty. But he says it with a straight face and without the dance so I froze in terror.
I held up my fingers-- l or V? (one or two)
Two fingers. "Boo-boo, Mommy. I need to go boo-boo!"
L--awd.*wretching* (sorry, just threw up in my mouth a little bit.)
Please. Tell me what in the entire world is grosser than a.) taking your kid to a port-a-potty, b.) hoisting them into the air so their bottom doesn't touch the port-a-potty, and c.) the sound of number two plunging three feet downward into the big sea of port-a-sewage? Answer: NOTHING.
(thump)
Me fainting at the thought of it. Eeeeew. Ewww. Eeeeew!!
#1 Hey Kool-Aid!
On the Grady elevator last week. A baby starts crying and her mama tells who appears to be her friend this:
"Reach in that bag and hand me that bottle with that red Kool Aid in it."
0_0
Friend does not flinch and hands said Kool-Aid bottle to the baby. Who, of course, laps it up.
"She like that Kool-Aid!" friend exclaims.
"Yeah, girl. That's all she ever wants."
0_o
I was swerving out of my lane so bad it was unreal. I tried. I tried so hard to mind my own business. But I did this thing Harry really can't stand--where I start with the b.s. question to open the door to get to what I really want to say.
"How old his she?" I asked.
"She nine months."
"First baby?" I continue.
"Yes, ma'am."
As Harry would say, Here we go.
"Oh . . .okay. Well. . .be careful with that Kool-Aid. It has a lot of sugar in it, you know. And at nine months, all you need to really give her is either formula, breast milk or water to drink."
I could see Harry shaking his head now.
"I don't put all that sugar up in my Kool-Aid like some people do. I always use the measuring cup and only put in one cup."
>_<
"Okay, then. She's a really cute baby."
Back to my lane.
***
Bonus one:
Awww, ma'am!
This young guy is walking over the bridge from the med school in front of me last week. He keeps looking back at me and walking, like he knew me. He appeared to be a student somewhere at Emory and he was of color, but I didn't recognize him at all. Finally at the end of the bridge, he looks back at me and speaks.
"Excuse me, ma'am? Ma'am, I just had to tell you-- you are absolutely stunning. That's all I wanted to say. You're just. . . . a really striking woman, ma'am."
I kind of blushed and mumbled a thank you. And added a little pep to my swagga-docious step.
Then, a few moments later, I replayed that whole thing to myself.
three "ma'ams"
one "stunning"
one woman
one "striking"
Hmmm.
What does this mean? I am thinking this means I was like a hot mom. (Not to be confused with a "hot mama.") Which I am unsure how to feel about. Oh well. At least he didn't call me "jazzy"--which is Harry's term for older women who were probably, and I quote, "really hot back in the day."
Honestly? I write this blog to share the human aspects of medicine + teaching + work/life balance with others and myself -- and to honor the public hospital and her patients--but never at the expense of patient privacy or dignity.
Thanks for stopping by! :)
"One writes out of one thing only--one's own experience. Everything depends of how relentlessly one forces from this experience the last drop, sweet or bitter, it can possibly give."
~ James Baldwin (1924 - 1987)
"Do it for the story." ~ Antoinette Nguyen, MD, MPH
Details, names, time frames, etc. are always changed to protect anonymity. This may or may not be an amalgamation of true,quasi-true, or completely fictional events. But the lessons? They are always real and never, ever fictional. Got that?
