Potty meat.

*Names and details changed to protect anonymity . . . . .you know what's up!

Low in salt. Just not sodium.

"What questions do you have for us?" my intern asked his patient diligently one morning on rounds. Mr. Purifoy immediately craned his neck over to his wife who sat next to his bed.

"You gon' ask about what you was sayin' earlier? About my legs?" he asked her.

Mrs. Purifoy did all the talking. No matter how many times we tried to get him to ask his own questions, he preferred to have his wife take care of such formalities.  Which reminds me. Tonight Harry was trying to add a new "app" to his iPod Touch and for whatever reason "needs" me to assist him with all things Apple. Seeing as I love him and don't mind pushing the two to three (super easy) buttons on the device to get him what he needs, I just go ahead and help the brother out. And Harry always turns my car around in the car port and also gets rid of any scary/non-ladybug insects in my sight. Even if I was the one who did the honors of squashing it with my Ugg boot (which yes, I do wear in my house even though it's summertime.) Sigh. . . yes, I digress. But, see,  the point of me telling you this is that I get Mr. Purifoy leaning on his wife for certain things that he technically could do himself.

Antywho.

So Mrs. Purifoy, who had just sat down to the bedside tray table with a full meal/snack that she'd just brought in, looks over in our direction with her mouth a-watering and her eyes half-mast. She then looks back at her husband. "You talkin' 'bout the water pills?" She shifted back to us. "His legs was swelling sometimes. Tha's why we was wondering does he need more Lasix pills in case they swell again."

I looked down and inspected his legs once more. He had very trace amounts of swelling, and he had no signs of volume overload.  Before I could say anything, my intern chimed in. "Your legs look fantastic, Mr. P. We've had you on a low salt diet, and I think that's helped a lot."

"See, I told him don't be eatin' all that salt!" Mrs. Purifoy announced with a curl of her lips. She picked her teeth with her thumb nail and nodded. "Ummm hmmmm. I told him. See me? I don't use no salt.  I mean, I know it can hide up in stuff but I don't eat that stuff."

I looked at the tray table and surveyed her bounty.  The entire meal was from the hospital gift shop--which couldn't possibly be low on salt since everything needed to have a decent shelf life.

Here is an inventory of what she had:

• A jumbo bag of Ruffles potato chips.
• A big, dill pickle.
• Some kind of sandwich wrapped up in foil, from where--I do not know.
• And. Wait for it. . . . wait for it. . . .
• Yes. A can of Vienna Sausages.

Vienna Sausages?Seriously?

0_0 ----> look on my face

My little Harry buzzy-bee/guardian angel (whose sole purpose is to get me to mind my own business) began furiously swirling around my head. "Watch your own lane!" he hissed. "Don't even START with this lady! She is NOT your patient!"

"But how is she just gonna bust on his salt intake when she has VIENNA-freakin'-SAUSAGES at the bedside? That's, like being a TOTAL hypocrite, man!" I subconsciously replied.

"STILL!" the little imaginary drill sergeant hollered. "It AIN'T your lane, nosy girl! Drive in YOUR lane!"

And for two seconds I did drive in my lane. But then she started situating herself to eat what might has well have been a salt lick and I could. not. take. it.

"So. . . .uhhhh. . . .do y'all know how much salt you should stay under for the day?"

I directed this right at Mrs. P since she seemed to be the speaker of the house. And she lit right back at me, calm as could be. "Oh yeaaaaahhh.  I checks all the labels for saturated fat and all that."

"Okay. . .let's just go over it again to make sure it's fresh on your mind, okay?"

She nodded--while still getting her food ready.

"Mind if I use this for example?"

The Harry buzzy-bee was in my ear again.  "You KNOW you are wrong if you pick up those Vienna Sausages. You are TOTALLY being an a-hole if you do because you know how salty they are."

"Go right on ahead," she said. "Bay? Make sure you pay attention 'cause you be the one eatin' all that salt.  See me?  I got sugar diabetes and I don't eat no salt. Tha's him. See bay? No salt."  She bit the pickle.

Lawd, Lawd, Lawd.

Could. Not. Take. It.

"Okay, so here is where the sodium is. You know this already, but  the sodium is the salt. You both want to keep it under 2000 milligrams of sodium. So you have to count it up. . . ."  I looked at the label of the can. "If you eat this can. . .it has 2.5 servings total. . . . . and if you eat the whole can. . .that's like a third of what you can have for the day in terms of salt.  And let's check the chips. . . . okay. . .so 590 milligrams in this bag. . . . and you're already well over half of what you can have for the day.  See? Watching salt is really, really hard to do."

"He eats potty-meat. Tha's waaaay worse than Vi-ennas. Tell him, doctor."

0_o

"Potty-meat?"

"POTTED meat!" a voice of another patient clarified from the neighboring bed.

On second thought, "potty" meat may have been more accurate.

"Aaaaahhhh," I said.  "Is potted meat pretty salty?"

"Horrible!" exclaimed Mrs. Purifoy. "Jest HORRIBLE!"

I stood there for a few beats watching Mrs. Purifoy as she popped the airseal on the bag of chips and peeled open her can of Vi-ennas.

"Mrs. Purifoy?  You both really need to watch the salt. If you have diabetes you probably should avoid this stuff, too."

"I told you. I don't be eatin' salt like he do."  Again she bites the pickle.

Killing me.

I glanced up at the clock and then at my interns. They were shifting on their feet and obviously wondering how long I would let this go on.  Much to my disappointment, I knew I would be forced to do the unthinkable--get in my own lane.

"Do you think we can get you both to come see us at the Primary Care center?"

"Oh yeaaaaah. He definitely need to see y'all."

"Okay. But. . .what about you, Mrs. P? Will you see us, too?"

"I could probably see y'all, too."

"And can you do me one more favor, Mrs. Purifoy?"

She raised her eyebrows.

"Can you make this your last can of Vienna Sausages after today?"

She looked down at the can and back up at me. "It's that bad?"

I nodded slowly (knowing that if Harry were there he'd be shaking his head and giving me the hairiest eyeball ever.)

"Okay then," she conceded.  "But Dr. Manning?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Make sure you tell HIM about that potty-meat, okay? 'Cause I just know tha's waaay worse than Vi-ennas."



Ummm, yeah.

If this makes you dry heave, that makes two of us.

Confession: I read this post to Harry who had this to say:

Harry: "You never had some potty meat on crackers? Shoooot! You trippin'!"

Me: 0_0

Harry: (laughing hard) "With some crackers, Babe? Some Saltines? Shooooot!"

Me:  x_x   eeeww.

*sorry, just threw up in my mouth a little bit*

Seriously?  Never. Kissing. Him. Again. Ever.

***
Happy Tuesday, y'all.

Random recap: Celebrations and Sucker Punches.

Homegoings = Celebrations of Life.

Here's a glimpse into a few random parts of my day yesterday. . .


It was a great day. First, I went to a really special patient's homegoing celebration. (Most who read this blog already know what I mean by "homegoing"--but click the link in case you're drawing a blank.)

Okay. So I know it seems like I am constantly saying this, but this patient was totally an F.P. All-Star. She was awesome.  . . .and I loved being involved in her care. Man, we had the best time. She was the one who I used to download and play music for on my iPod.

The last song I downloaded and played for her was Nat King Cole singing O Tannenbaum--it made her so happy (which made me so happy.) She wasn't even on my team during that hospitalization, but of course I had to come and see her.

Yesterday after the funeral her daughter reminded me of something from that last time with  O Tannenbaum. We were standing around talking to a group of her family members when she grabbed my arm and said, "Remember when Mama patted the bed and asked you to sit next to her that day?" She chuckled and told them, "Dr. Manning jumped right in next to Mama in that bed!" Everyone laughed, and I did, too. But only for a few moments because I'm pretty sure I saw tears forming in her daughter's eyes right after that.

To break up the mounting emotion, I reminded her of something else from that day--something funny that her mother said.

"Hey. . .Remember what your mom said about Nat King Cole that day?" She covered her mouth and gave a knowing nod. I looked at the family and went on. "Y'all. . . She said, 'That ol' Nat sho' had the voice but he ain't have much of a face, did he? Bless his little ugly heart!'"

Bless his heart.

This time everyone broke up in laughter. Her daughter hugged me tight and genuine, and I hugged her back, glad that I knew just a little piece of her mother. Yes. Her mama  was a beautiful person inside and out . . . and so. . . . the homegoing celebration reflected that---it was beautiful. 

Me and my colleague/fellow Grady doctor Shelly-Ann F. were asked to say a few words.  Okay, here's the thing. Y'all know that I'm not shy, so that wasn't the issue. The issue was that the last time I "said a few words" at a patient's funeral, I went into a full on ugly cry. Full on. 

But how do you say no to this? Answer--you don't. 

That last time? It was bad, y'all. Real bad. Although one part did get rather comical because this lady (who I'm assuming worked for the funeral home or church or whatever) made it her job to wipe snot off of my face as I was talking. Like the whole time I was talking. Which made me cry even more. It was really, really weirdly intrusive (but mostly weird.)  The only thing that helped me to stop crying was when I looked at a friend who was there who was, literally, stifling a laugh at how ridiculous it looked -- me chest heaving and dragging the heel of my hand across my snot-exploding nose while this woman with a lop-sided wig accosted me with a giant ball of Kleenex every five seconds.

Okay, so that's why I felt nervous about speaking yesterday. The good news is that I didn't cry when I spoke, and I kept it well under the "2 to 3 minutes, please" that black folks always request but no one adheres to. So nope. No crying and no ugly crying.

At least while I was speaking there wasn't. I made it through the whole ceremony with a few dainty eye pats, and then the organist started playing music and someone started singing. . . .

"Soon ah will be done. . . .with the trouble of this world. . . "

That did it. First I started sniffling a little. . . trying hard to be cool about it. . . but then I just said "bump it" and went on ahead let loose. "Boo-hoo crying" as my best friend Lisa calls it. See, I was tripping because I had just posted Mahalia singing that song on my blogpost not even two or three hours before. Literally. That very song on that very day. And the soloist was singing it all Mahalia-Jackson-like in that throaty, low octave. Bananas.

Whew. It was a lot.

Anyways. All that celebrating and crying made me hungry, so I stopped in a restaurant to have lunch. Shortly after I got there I notice this woman staring at me. Hard. She narrowed her eyes and finally says (kind of loud-like) from across the room, "Excuse me! Excuse me, can you come over here for a minute?"  With her index finger she pointed at me and then turned over hand to summon me with a come hither wag.

As a side bar, I have to admit that I am absolutely amazed at how many people recognize me from Fox 5. I mean, I am on for like two seconds once per week yet nearly everywhere I go (in Atlanta) I am approached by people who say, "Aren't you Dr. Kimberly from Channel 5?" And honestly? No matter how many times it happens, I'm touched, because it's flattering to know that somebody not only watched but remembered.

Anywho.

That's what I thought was about to go down. So over I go. I run my tongue over my teeth hoping there's nothing trapped in them, and try to turn a wee bit of--ah hem--swagger on as I approach.

"Yes, ma'am?"  I say in a decidedly welcoming and non-snobby way ('cause you know--being a quasi-local-celebritoid and all, that kind of thing is important.) 

Alright, so check it. So much for me getting recognized. This lady didn't know me from Adam. For people who don't know this phrase, all it means is that she didn't know me from a can of paint. Still confused? Look. She didn't know me, y'all. At all. I wasn't no parts of a quasi-local-celebritoid to her.

"I need to see yo' necklace," she said pointing at my neck with her fork. Through a mouthful of food she continued. "Yeaaahhhh, I like that necklace! Tha's a beautiful necklace!"

I patted my neck with my special, sparkly necklace on it and thanked her. She was right. It is a great necklace and every time I've worn it I've gotten compliments out the wazoo. My patient was special so I wore my special, sparkly necklace in her honor.  Anyways, I bought it from this super cute yet super affordable boutique in Atlanta's old fourth ward. I like the boutique owner and also liked the idea of getting her some business so I prepared to share the wealth.

But first I had to gush (because any time I get a good deal on something, I have to gush.)

"Would you believe that this necklace wasn't even that expensive? Oh my gosh! It didn't cost a lot at all."

Guess what that lady said to me? Just guess--no, don't. I'll tell you:

"Oh. I could tell it wasn't expensive. Mmmm hmmm."  She sucked her teeth and leaned in to look a little closer.

No she di'in't!

Um. Yes. She actually did.


"Uuhhh, okay," I responded with a nervous laugh. That's all I could think to say about that sucker punch.

"Yeah. I could tell it's cheap." (STILL CHEWING) "It's probably from the Apparel Mart."

I quickly hit her with a rebuttal. "Well, actually, I got it from a boutique here in Atlanta and not from there at all."

"Oh. Well, I'm sure they got it from the Apparel Mart. Mmm hmmm. They got all that cheap stuff. But it do look cute on you. It do."

Seriously? Seriously.

Still staring at my neck, she sucked her tongue on her teeth again and went on. "See, I makes jewelry. Tha's why I know all about jewelry. Here. Take my card. My stuff ain't from the Apparel Mart."

"Uuuuhhh. . . . thanks?"

What's extra crazy is that she was dining with a friend who didn't seem to think this was the least bit odd. 

Yes. This is what happened. So I took her card and off I went to sit down and eat my lunch.

Me and my cheap ass necklace.



What else?

Oh yeah. I flew home to Los Angeles to visit the fam and also to retrieve the boys from Camp Papa. Sad. . .I know. The flight was pretty uneventful, but when I got to L.A.X. and walked down the hall toward baggage claim, I saw this:

The actual setting of the ultimate Aww Hell Naww.

Don't know what this is? Y'all! This is the hall where that super, ultra, horrible long line was the last time I here. Remember? The one when the people were running late and asked if they could go ahead of everyone? When the lady shut them down?

I was so psyched to get a picture of it with my iPhone so that you could have the full picture.  If you get a chance, go back and reread that post---I did last night and it's even funnier when you have this picture in mind. New to this blog? You've got to read that one--sure it has absolutely zero to do with medicine, but it's a great story. For real.

Whelp. That's all I've got today. Nothing deep.

Oh, and if I haven't told you lately? I sure appreciate you reading. I appreciate every click on your Google reader and on your favorites and on whatever way you get here. I love seeing your comments waiting and knowing which things made you smile or laugh and which posts you were feelin' too. So thank you. Because your time is precious and I appreciate you spending it with me. Seriously, y'all. I really, really do.

***
Happy Wednesday.