Repost inspired by Elizabeth and Oliver.

"I'm just saying, you could do better."

~ Drake

Read this beautiful post yesterday by my friend and fellow blogger Elizabeth and felt my toe crunch. I needed that message.  I heard some teenagers and tweens that I know saying that word--"retarded"--repeatedly under my earshot just recently. "OMG, that's so retarded!" and "Dude, stop acting like a retard!" One even mimicked what they thought that looked and sounded like just in case no one was clear on it. I knew them. And all of them, for certain, are great, kind young people. They are. But. They're kids. And to them, it's just simple slang, you know? Sigh. 

Yeah. 

See, what's worse is, I was totally in a position to say something but I shrunk because the mood was light and I talked myself out of it. Those teenagers all respect me and totally would have listened to me, too. Sure, it bothered me the second I heard it but I didn't say anything. And what's funny--or rather not funny--is had they been dropping f-bombs over and over again instead, I am 100% sure that I would have immediately shut that down. Even though the f-bomb is far less hurtful albeit less socially acceptable. 

Yeah.

It was as if she wrote that post for me to read. And then my other friend Angella linked to it just to affirm that YES, I needed that message. To use the word properly, a teachable moment was retarded by my lack of vigilance and resolve to stick to my guns.

Yeah.

Hey. Thanks, Elizabeth, and especially Oliver, for reminding me to refuse to shrink and also to use my influence and power for good. It may seem first world to someone reading this. But I think if any of us still ourselves long enough to feel the sting of whatever word or words hurt us the most, it won't be for long. That's what Elizabeth and Oliver's message has done for me.

Here's a challenge: 

Let's all commit to not using "retarded" or "retard" as a slang word. And even more, to speak up and let those who do use it know that it's not cool (just like Oliver does and Zachary did here.)  That word is hurtful to many people even if it isn't meant that way. We can right this wrong. I know I'm recommitting myself today to doing better.  Who else is in?

Read the post below and make your mark if you want to be down with the movement:   

X______________________________________

Hey Elizabeth? Next time I vow to say, "F-that."

*************************************

Because "love" should be a verb and "retard" should never be a noun. 

The room was filled with people. Seats all forward and facing the hanging screen that displayed the image from the LCD player. A youngish man stood at the front of the room, white coat starched to perfection, a tie that most certainly had the name of some fancy designer on the back, and shoes that appeared to be spit shined. Even though he lacked the grey hair of the endowed professors, he had the look that holds the attention of medical colleagues. Professionalism personified.

But beyond that, he knew what he was talking about, too. His slides were well done and cited all of the resources for the topic of discussion. For the majority of the presentation he wasn't even looking at the screen at all; he knew his stuff that well. And he was cool. No shaking hands or nervous throat clearing. Just one youngish doctor-dude standing at the front of the room with closely clipped nails gripped around a laser pointer. And this doctor-dude? He knew his stuff.

I, being a person who is enamored by excellent public speakers, felt myself wavering between actually listening to what he was teaching and how he was doing it. The clean slides with the clear diagrams. The cadence of his voice and the way he interacted with the audience. And then there was his chosen topic--an area that happened to be his expertise as well as one that is high yield for all of us. Not only was I learning something, I was enjoying it at the same time.

But then something happened. He turned a slide and things weren't configured as he'd expected. Of course, he was still cool as a fan. After trying to talk through the disjointed words and images any way, finally he stopped and knitted his brow in frustration. Then he said this:

"Sorry about that, guys. I prepared this on a Mac and these PCs can be so retarded when it comes to going between PowerPoint for Mac and Windows."

A few people chuckled in acknowledgment. The talk had been so good up until that point that no one seemed bothered.

"I'll move past that slide," he said with a shrug of his shoulders, "Sorry -- I should have checked compatibility before. I'm such a retard sometimes."

A ripple of gentle chuckles went through the room. And that was that.

The rest of his slides were fine, I guess, because I don't remember much else. Everything after that for me was just white noise.

In 2009, I helped lead a writing workshop with a group of colleagues at the Society of General Internal Medicine (SGIM) national meeting. The session was called "Writing and the Art of Medicine: From Personal Reflection to Publication" and included a breakout session where we actually spent time writing narratives. It was really well attended and I remember being pleasantly surprised by the number of people sitting at the round table with me during our breakout.

The task was simple. "I will give you a sheet of paper. You will write -- longhand -- for ten minutes about a pivotal moment or critical incident you've experienced that has taught you, moved you, or simply made you think. We will then share a few of the ones you've written." Straightforward enough, yes?

I recall that there were many beautifully written pieces. Important topics that we all, as physicians and medical students, could feel resonating in our souls. But there is only one narrative that I remember in full detail. Only one. The story was simple, really. It was written by a young woman who was a resident at the time and she'd spent her ten minutes describing two very clear images.

The first was her interactions with her nephew, to whom she appeared to be very, very close. As it turns out, he was born with an additional copy of chromosome #21 which most people recognize when they see. That's because trisomy 21 is the chromosomal abnormality responsible for Down Syndrome. Yes. Her nephew had some developmental delays and some mild to moderate mental retardation. But that's not what she described. Instead she painted a picture for us of him running recklessly on the front lawn chasing bubbles. Of him tackling her and covering her with his sloppy kisses. And of how much he loved classical music. So much so that whenever he heard it, he'd stop, close his eyes, and wave his fingers like a maestro.

Then she went to another scenario. Her in the hospital working on a ward team. The lab system had gone down for the day and her resident declared the system "retarded." Her co-intern had left his stethoscope on another floor and dubbed himself "a retard" for doing so. And the list went on. According to her, it had become the slang word of the month for that team. Anything imperfect or dysfunctional was referred to as "retarded." And the funny medical student with his perfect comic timing? He was "such a retard." But in the nicest, most endearing way, of course.

So she read her words in her quiet voice and I swear to you that you could have heard a pin drop. And at the end she simply told us that she never got around to saying how much that word stung each time she heard it from their mouths. How awful it made her feel to know that her nephew's life would be just a little bit harder because of that word. I never, ever forgot that.

I will admit that before that fateful moment in 2009, I'd never really "heard" that word. Surely I'd heard it at some point, but it had never created a nails-on-chalkboard effect for me or a visceral response in me either. But her words? They opened my eyes to something that I'd never thought about. An aspect of "the other side" that our patients and their families and their friends experience that even the ones that are supposed to be allies have completely overlooked.

Sigh.

So that man with his perfect PowerPoint presentation and his spectacularly white coat should have been an ally. But he hadn't heard that word either. And from the response he got from everyone in the room, it was business as usual. Which tells me that the majority sitting under his voice hadn't really learned to "hear" the word "retard" like that young resident writer had taught our breakout group to hear it that day.

(photo courtesy of Elizabeth Aquino)

My friend Elizabeth recently posted a photograph of her son, Oliver, speaking at "No Name-Calling Week" in 2010 at his school. I have posted that image above because seeing his young face holding that sign immediately brought me to tears. Just look at him. So brave. . .with that microphone in his face educating what was probably the entire student body. His sister, Sophie, has some special needs and also a severe form of epilepsy. But just like that sweet boy who was chasing bubbles, conducting music with this two index fingers, and freely giving out juicy kisses, there is more to Sophie than her disabilities. So, so much more.

See? Oliver knows that for sure. He lives it and breathes it. So he held that sign and shared his testimony because, for him and Sophie and his brother and his mother and every person who knows and loves Sophie, those words hit like a fist. I am thankful for him and for that picture because now, it hits like a fist for me, too.

Maybe from now on, it will for you, too.

I would make this a jumping point to reference that woman Ann Coulter who sent that tweet during the last presidential debate. You know -- the one that commended Governor Romney for going easy on "the retard." Or being polite or whatever the hell she said. Yeah. I would start unpacking about all of that, but some part of me wants to believe that perhaps she had not yet "heard" this word either.

That or I just don't have the energy to waste on that.

After that lecture, I pulled that colleague aside. I told him about the little boy with the bubbles and paid that story forward on behalf of his aunt. Even though I didn't know Elizabeth and her family back then, I suppose I paid it forward for them, too. In my least judging voice, I shared how that story had opened my eyes. I told him how much I had enjoyed his talk but that his use of the word "retarded" and then "retard" was hurtful and probably not the very best choice.

And you know what? That highly professional physician speaker put his hand on his chest and apologized. He didn't even realize that he'd said that word. And especially felt mortified that he'd said it not once but twice. And I said, "I totally understand because I hadn't really heard that word like that either but now that I do, it hurts to hear." He got it and thanked me. And I thanked him right back for being so understanding.

Today, I say thank you to that young woman whose first name -- Thalia -- I still remember. I have no idea where she is, but she changed me that day. I also say thank you to Oliver and Elizabeth, too. I am grateful to them for helping me to see that if we are going to commit ourselves to making love a verb, then retard should never be a noun.

Or a joke.

From here forward, I hope you'll hear that word differently, too.

That's all I've got for today.

***
Happy Tuesday. (Originally posted on 10/30/2012)

Well. Google is an amazing thing, y'all. I found a piece of Thalia's writing from an essay contest she won as a medical student in 2003. Read it here. It also turns out that Google can also help you find out where someone is now.  This remarkable young woman is now a clinician educator on the Internal Medicine faculty at one of the Harvard hospitals. No surprise to hear that! I hope she's still telling that story. . . 

Because "love" should be a verb and "retard" should never be a noun.

The room was filled with people. Seats all forward and facing the hanging screen that displayed the image from the LCD player. A youngish man stood at the front of the room, white coat starched to perfection, a tie that most certainly had the name of some fancy designer on the back, and shoes that appeared to be spit shined. Even though he lacked the grey hair of the endowed professors, he had the look that holds the attention of medical colleagues. Professionalism personified.

But beyond that, he knew what he was talking about, too. His slides were well done and cited all of the resources for the topic of discussion. For the majority of the presentation he wasn't even looking at the screen at all; he knew his stuff that well. And he was cool. No shaking hands or nervous throat clearing. Just one youngish doctor-dude standing at the front of the room with closely clipped nails gripped around a laser pointer. And this doctor-dude? He knew his stuff.

I, being a person who is enamored by excellent public speakers, felt myself wavering between actually listening to what he was teaching and how he was doing it. The clean slides with the clear diagrams. The cadence of his voice and the way he interacted with the audience. And then there was his chosen topic--an area that happened to be his expertise as well as one that is high yield for all of us. Not only was I learning something, I was enjoying it at the same time.

But then something happened. He turned a slide and things weren't configured as he'd expected. Of course, he was still cool as a fan. After trying to talk through the disjointed words and images any way, finally he stopped and knitted his brow in frustration. Then he said this:

"Sorry about that, guys. I prepared this on a Mac and these PCs can be so retarded when it comes to going between PowerPoint for Mac and Windows."

A few people chuckled in acknowledgment. The talk had been so good up until that point that no one seemed bothered.

"I'll move past that slide," he said with a shrug of his shoulders, "Sorry -- I should have checked compatibility before. I'm such a retard sometimes."

A ripple of gentle chuckles went through the room. And that was that.

The rest of his slides were fine, I guess, because I don't remember much else. Everything after that for me was just white noise.

In 2009, I helped lead a writing workshop with a group of colleagues at the Society of General Internal Medicine (SGIM) national meeting. The session was called "Writing and the Art of Medicine: From Personal Reflection to Publication" and included a breakout session where we actually spent time writing narratives. It was really well attended and I remember being pleasantly surprised by the number of people sitting at the round table with me during our breakout.

The task was simple. "I will give you a sheet of paper. You will write -- longhand -- for ten minutes about a pivotal moment or critical incident you've experienced that has taught you, moved you, or simply made you think. We will then share a few of the ones you've written." Straightforward enough, yes?

I recall that there were many beautifully written pieces. Important topics that we all, as physicians and medical students, could feel resonating in our souls. But there is only one narrative that I remember in full detail. Only one. The story was simple, really. It was written by a young woman who was a resident at the time and she'd spent her ten minutes describing two very clear images.

The first was her interactions with her nephew, to whom she appeared to be very, very close. As it turns out, he was born with an additional copy of chromosome #21 which most people recognize when they see. That's because trisomy 21 is the chromosomal abnormality responsible for Down Syndrome. Yes. Her nephew had some developmental delays and some mild to moderate mental retardation. But that's not what she described. Instead she painted a picture for us of him running recklessly on the front lawn chasing bubbles. Of him tackling her and covering her with his sloppy kisses. And of how much he loved classical music. So much so that whenever he heard it, he'd stop, close his eyes, and wave his fingers like a maestro.

Then she went to another scenario. Her in the hospital working on a ward team. The lab system had gone down for the day and her resident declared the system "retarded." Her co-intern had left his stethoscope on another floor and dubbed himself "a retard" for doing so. And the list went on. According to her, it had become the slang word of the month for that team. Anything imperfect or dysfunctional was referred to as "retarded." And the funny medical student with his perfect comic timing? He was "such a retard." But in the nicest, most endearing way, of course.

So she read her words in her quiet voice and I swear to you that you could have heard a pin drop. And at the end she simply told us that she never got around to saying how much that word stung each time she heard it from their mouths. How awful it made her feel to know that her nephew's life would be just a little bit harder because of that word. I never, ever forgot that.

I will admit that before that fateful moment in 2009, I'd never really "heard" that word. Surely I'd heard it at some point, but it had never created a nails-on-chalkboard effect for me or a visceral response in me either. But her words? They opened my eyes to something that I'd never thought about. An aspect of "the other side" that our patients and their families and their friends experience that even the ones that are supposed to be allies have completely overlooked.

Sigh.

So that man with his perfect PowerPoint presentation and his spectacularly white coat should have been an ally. But he hadn't heard that word either. And from the response he got from everyone in the room, it was business as usual. Which tells me that the majority sitting under his voice hadn't really learned to "hear" the word "retard" like that young resident writer had taught our breakout group to hear it that day.

(photo courtesy of Elizabeth Aquino)

My friend Elizabeth recently posted a photograph of her son, Oliver, speaking at "No Name-Calling Week" in 2010 at his school. I have posted that image above because seeing his young face holding that sign immediately brought me to tears. Just look at him. So brave. . .with that microphone in his face educating what was probably the entire student body. His sister, Sophie, has some special needs and also a severe form of epilepsy. But just like that sweet boy who was chasing bubbles, conducting music with this two index fingers, and freely giving out juicy kisses, there is more to Sophie than her disabilities. So, so much more.

See? Oliver knows that for sure. He lives it and breathes it. So he held that sign and shared his testimony because, for him and Sophie and his brother and his mother and every person who knows and loves Sophie, those words hit like a fist. I am thankful for him and for that picture because now, it hits like a fist for me, too.

Maybe from now on, it will for you, too.

I would make this a jumping point to reference that woman Ann Coulter who sent that tweet during the last presidential debate. You know -- the one that commended Governor Romney for going easy on "the retard." Or being polite or whatever the hell she said. Yeah. I would start unpacking about all of that, but some part of me wants to believe that perhaps she had not yet "heard" this word either.

That or I just don't have the energy to waste on that.

After that lecture, I pulled that colleague aside. I told him about the little boy with the bubbles and paid that story forward on behalf of his aunt. Even though I didn't know Elizabeth and her family back then, I suppose I paid it forward for them, too. In my least judging voice, I shared how that story had opened my eyes. I told him how much I had enjoyed his talk but that his use of the word "retarded" and then "retard" was hurtful and probably not the very best choice.

And you know what? That highly professional physician speaker put his hand on his chest and apologized. He didn't even realize that he'd said that word. And especially felt mortified that he'd said it not once but twice. And I said, "I totally understand because I hadn't really heard that word like that either but now that I do, it hurts to hear." He got it and thanked me. And I thanked him right back for being so understanding.

Today, I say thank you to that young woman whose first name -- Thalia -- I still remember. I have no idea where she is, but she changed me that day. I also say thank you to Oliver and Elizabeth, too. I am grateful to them for helping me to see that if we are going to commit ourselves to making love a verb, then retard should never be a noun.

Or a joke.

From here forward, I hope you'll hear that word differently, too.

That's all I've got for today.

***
Happy Tuesday.

Well. Google is an amazing thing, y'all. I found a piece of Thalia's writing from an essay contest she won as a medical student in 2003. Read it here. It also turns out that Google can also help you find out where someone is now.  This remarkable young woman is now a clinician educator on the Internal Medicine faculty at one of the Harvard hospitals. No surprise to hear that! I hope she's still telling that story. . . 

The other side.

*

As doctors, we see patients, hear their stories and carry them inside of our hearts. We do. But the truth is that, no matter how much we care, we go home and carry on with our lives. And our patients take their realities home with them and live with them until the next time they see us again.

They sure do.

Like today, I laughed out loud with a patient very close to my age who was just diagnosed with insulin dependent diabetes. Recovered from life threatening diabetic ketoacidosis and was now doing his best to get used to this new diagnosis. He's a runner and a biker. Not a bicycle-biker but like the Harley Davidson hog kind of biker that rides cross country in a tasseled vest with all of his friends.

He asked me yesterday if I thought that being diabetic would put the kibosh on all of that and I simply said, "My guess is that there is a person on insulin who has successfully rolled out on a Harley onto open highways." He seemed to like that.

Today he was showing me this app that he'd downloaded to his smartphone. It's called "Diabetes Buddy." So when I came in, he said, "Hey! Have you seen my little buddy?" And I looked totally puzzled until he showed me how it all worked on his iPhone.  So I started clapping and so did he.

A few moments later he said, "I wonder how this will affect my long runs? I carb load usually when I do those. This is going to be kind of a buzz-kill. Damn."

And I looked at him and said, "You know what? Serious health stuff can be a buzz-kill." I sighed and went on. "I want to say something really encouraging right now but the truth is that you're going to have to make some major adjustments. But eventually it will be second nature."

He looked at me and smiled. "You know? I appreciate that, doc. That diabetes educator lady was in here earlier and when she left, I just sort of sat there by myself with all that information. Finally, I was just like, 'Damn. This is kind of f--ked up.'" Then he chuckled which made me chuckle, too.

I twisted my mouth and sat on the edge of his bed. "Yeah. But it kind of is messed up."

"Excuse me, I said f--ked up."

"That too." We laughed again.

"It's kind of funny. People waltz in and tell you all this stuff that's about to change your whole damn life like it ain't nothing. 'Here! Shoot yourself with needles! Hey! Track all your carbohydrates!' It's a trip."

"Yeah. It sounds like a trip."

"I like that you basically called it for what it is. This shit is a big deal. And some times it is gonna be a buzz-kill, for real. But I will be okay. I know I will."

"I know you will, too."

And after that we shook hands and I showed him two other cool apps that he might also like. A running one and a food log one. Then he asked me if I am a runner and I admitted that I am totally Alyson Felix but only in my warped imagination. Otherwise, no, I'm simply a wanna-be runner.

He seemed to like that, too.

So that visit was good because it made me think. And I pretty much like anything that makes me think.

My patient was showing me something that I rarely think about. The other side. The things that happen when the clinic wraps up and the discharge papers get signed. The hard knocks and realities that get forgotten. By me, too.

This morning I shared photos of a little girl named Ella who was diagnosed with acute lymphoblastic leukemia two years ago. I engaged in a little bit of that discussion that makes us all squeamish because seeing that and hearing that means it's no longer hypothetical. I call that the other side. The side we don't like to think of and that we fear that, when assigned to someone real, could somehow make it. . . .I don't know. . .  contagious?

Yes. I said it. Contagious. Like, if I say something or think something or ask something or do something with them, the universe might throw a bulls-eye onto my back just for doing it.

Crazy, I know.

Anyways. It's funny that this is on my mind today because just as I got home with the boys, I sat at my computer to read a few of my favorite blogs. One of those belongs to my amazing friend Elizabeth who writes such raw and beautiful words about her real-life walk on the other side that I go back to reread her posts just to make myself a better doctor. She's just that fantastic.

Interestingly, Elizabeth is an Atlanta native that now lives in the Los Angeles area--the direct opposite of me, the L.A. girl now living in her old stomping grounds. She is the mother to three amazing children--Sophie, Henry and Oliver. She writes about many things, but among those things she writes about their life with her daughter who has a severe seizure disorder. It is brave and eye-opening. Especially to read it as a doctor. Because even the most well-meaning of us struggle with truly seeing the other side--the side that talks about what to do when your child has seizures at the dinner table or when your other children are crying because someone used the word "retard" to describe any and everything.

And see, that? That is the other side. Elizabeth takes us there. Grips our hands and pulls us into the reality of it even if it makes us squirm. Ella's mother Katie does the same thing.

Anywho.

Today on Elizabeth's blog she shared a video project that she'd been working on that just knocked the wind from my chest. It is the other side in high definition . . . . and in their own words.

See it. Feel it. Share it.

Repeat.



 Now.

Fellow health care providers and medical students, try this exercise:

Allow yourself to imagine what will happen in the twenty four hours after you discharge your patient from the hospital or clinic. Think of everything from the car ride home to how they will manage to get into the pharmacy to pick up the medicines you just prescribed to what they will tell the loved one whose birthday party they missed because of a minor setback.

Because all of that is the other side. It sure is.

***
Happy Friday. Again.

Top Ten: Small Stones.

One of my writer-mommy-friends, Elizabeth, has been doing this thing on her blog this month called "small stones." Every day she makes some kind of observation about something and then jots down a few words about it. It can be just about anything. Something in her house. On a photograph. An action observed in one of her children. Or even just some everyday object like a chair. That's it.

So Elizabeth got this idea from this writers' blog and linked over to it when she started this. Here's what they say about the whole "small stone" thing:


1. Notice something properly everyday in January.
2. Write it down.

Hmmm. I admit I was a wee bit intrigued. (And seeing as Elizabeth often intrigues me, this was not unusual.)

Seeing as I was feeling all intrigued and such, I linked over to that writers' blog and read this part of their spiel:

"Pay more attention and fall in love with the world." 

Now that I can get with.

Don't get too excited. I'm not nearly as organized as Elizabeth. But I do believe in paying attention and falling in love with ordinary things through careful observation.

And so. . . since I don't have my act together enough to do one per day for the whole month of January, I thought I'd do the next best thing--a top ten!

Ladies and gentleman, damas y caballeros! I bring you this week's really introspective top ten. . . . .inspired by Elizabeth. . . .

TEN SMALL STONES FROM THE START OF 2012! 


Technically, it isn't a top ten but a list of ten. . . but you get the picture. Also, Elizabeth effortlessly uses words like bougainvillea which aren't really in my vernacular . . . but that's okay. (She'll be proud of me anyway.) 

Hey! Stop by and read some of hers if you want some of those delicious words because they are delicious and . . . intriguing, for real. Any writing that makes me want to read more or write more is my kind of writing, man.

Here's my crack at it.



Small Stone 10

Hands held high, fingers splayed like so. Playing defense or hoping for an offensive rebound. High tops squeaking on slick wooden floors. My hands clapping, splayed like so -- I didn't realize you knew how to dribble with one hand! My heart swells with pride but also a hint of melancholia, remembering those same hands once tiny and reaching for me to lift you. . . .fingers splayed like so.


Small Stone 9

I showed this photograph I took with my iPhone to Isaiah and he saw what I saw immediately.

"ROY G. BIV," I told him. Then I smiled my smart-mommy smile anticipating his little-boy question surely to follow my cryptic statement.

"Mom? What is the 'I' for again?" he asked nose wrinkled. 

"Indigo."

"Oh yeah. Indigo."

Not what I expected, but maybe I should have.


Small Stone 8

"Are those special shoes?" you asked me while pointing at my feet. I look down at them and realize that perhaps a shoe with such a thick rubber sole and outwardly visible staples might warrant some explanation. "They look a little bit like the orthotic shoes," you add, "You know what I'm talkin' about?"

And in response to this I smile at you, then chuckle and nod. Partly because I do know exactly what you are talking about. But mostly because you are a Grady elder who didn't think twice about letting me know this fact.

And me? I love every minute of it.


Small Stone 7

Hands over hearts, mouths moving in synchrony and voices ringing out in unison. Your faces full of first grade mischief, fingertips drumming on your chests and eyes trained on the Lego table. You say this part the loudest:


"Indivisible, with liberty and justice for all!"

I walk away laughing, wondering if you think this pertains to the United States or the Lego table.



Small Stone 6

Time blocked out to talk about career guidance and all things academic and future-related. A sharp turn takes it somewhere else. First one tear and then many more. Fast, furious, hot, necessary. I scoot the box of Kleenex closer to you. You talk. I listen. That's it. That's all.

I want you to feel safe and whole and not alone. Before you leave, a hug instead of a handshake. You cry some more because you can.




Small Stone 5

You unlock the door and I hear your feet strong and sure on hardwood floors. The next sound is of keys splashing on the table--and even with kids sitting at the kitchen table, you greet me first.

Eyes on eyes. Smiles on smiles. It doesn't matter how your day was or mine was. Now? It's already better than it was before. My arms encircle your neck and then, my lips press firmly against yours. You kiss me back, eyes closed. Then, you open them and look at my face, the same as always.

"Eeeeeewww!" Zachary squeals.

"Disgusting!" Isaiah chimes in.

Decidedly I tighten my embrace and kiss you once more. . .intentionally. . .deliberately. Knowing that this can and will become a teachable moment for our sons on how to make love a bidirectional verb.



Small Stone 4

In between emails and work and more, eyes quickly scanning to see. Do you like me? Do you really like me? This day there is a paucity of comments. Very few reactions, responses, replies or epiphanies. Is anyone even reading?

Oh please, I tell myself, Don't tell me you're disappointed.

Then I do what always provides the affirmation I am looking for--read my own words. Clicking and reading. Reflecting and feeling. And then I am there again. In those moments, those lessons, and all inside of those words. Yes, I am.

This is why you are doing this, I tell myself,  Remember? This is why.

Ironically, that night I click the stats bar. 1,034. The most unique visits ever in a single day.

Lesson there: Sometimes when you don't feel like a hit, you are still getting hits. But the real lesson there: You need to be a hit with yourself first.

Ah hah.

Small Stone 3

I study your face to make certain you are okay. . . inspecting your eyes for some hidden exhaustion and watching your smile to see it quivers from being forced. Instead I find you relaxed and whole and more than okay--you are great. Us? We go waaaay back like car seats . . .way back to your very first day of medical school when you didn't even know the difference between words like distal and proximal.

Now those early days seem distal; here you are an intern with two capital letters behind your name that you earned fair and square.

But on this rainy Wednesday morning we laugh and catch up over hotcakes and hot coffee. You are passing through town and in all that hustle bustle thought to call me. Me, of all people. And so I study your face and hear your laughter again . . .remembering that through those shared moments our hearts remain proximal for good.


Small Stone 2

Retro-green and busy with fuzzy wool that pills and catches on any and everything. But so what. You are like my tomato red pants or my leopard print kitten heel pumps; when I put you on, I feel good. And even if I already felt good to begin with, when I slide you over my shoulders I feel better. Even on my glasses days.

Stuff you put on can do that to you sometimes. At least for me they can.


Small Stone 1

Behemoth and burgeoning, the worse off business gets for this country, the more business seems to come your way. And just how your business comes to you--a lost job, a lost insurance plan--it doesn't matter. You don't make it your business to dissect or judge or turn away. Instead you remain steadfast--standing tall, mighty and welcoming to all. To all.

You accept broken English and broken lives. You also accept the criticism that comes with opening your doors to the least of these. To the least of these.

I am proud to be a part of you; you heal more than just patients. More than just patients.


***
Happy Thursday.