There was a code blue on the ground floor. Weird considering no code blue is ever called there. I mean, not that they don't happen there. But it never reaches the overhead sirens since almost always it is happening in the emergency department where everyone is already there and ready.
Weird.
I was on the tenth floor when I heard it. Typically those nearby run to get there. In case they are the first responders, the rule is to try. I wasn't near. But I did wonder what it was all about. Grady is busy, though. There's lots that I wonder about. And then I go on to thinking of something else.
Yeah.
A few hours passed and I was up in a patient's room. He was an elder and I'd come back to check on him one more time. The patient in the bed next to him was talking about what he thought had happened. "Somebody got shot in front of Grady," the roommate said.
"Really?" I replied. "Oh my goodness. I didn't hear that."
A nurse in the room turned away from what she was doing and chimed in. "No. That's not true. Some young brothers pulled up with somebody who'd been shot. Dumped him right on the curb in front of Grady like some luggage and pulled off." She shook her head with hard disapproval. "That's a damn shame, right?"
"Wow." That was all I could think to say. I wondered if my family and friends had heard this on the news and were worried. "So . . .no one was actually shot in front of Grady?"
"No, I don't think so, But isn't that awful? Just throwing somebody on the ground not caring if they live or die? And pulling off before you could see what happened?" She sucked her teeth. Hard.
"You said 'brothers,'" my patient said. The nurse paused, balled up her espresso-colored fist on her hip and curled her lips at him in response. She didn't speak--instead she just cocked her head for emphasis. My patient turned back toward the television and said nothing else.
"That's just TERRIBLE." That's what the neighbor-patient said. Then he said it like five more times in case we didn't hear the first time.
"Wow," I mumbled. Again, because I still couldn't think of what else to say.
After that it was silent for a few moments. That nurse wiped my patient's fingertip pad with an alcohol wipe and pricked it with a lancet. He winced. She rubbed it in this tender way that showed that she cared about his discomfort. I liked that.
"Man. I hope the guy who got shot did okay," I finally said.
The nurse kept shaking her head angrily. Then she moved on to flushing my patient's IV line. "Me, too. Such a damn shame," she said. "Who does that?" The roommate made a few more comments about "not knowing where this world is coming to" and "letting our ancestors down."
No one disagreed.
Finally, my patient, a Grady elder, spoke:
"Look to me like them kids who dropped him off cared a whole bunch about whether he live or die. Bet you they somewhere distraught about they friend."
"Friend?" the nurse said. Her face looked disgusted and her lip jutted out. "FRIEND? With friends like that, who needs enemies?"
The Grady elder turned his head in her direction and looked at her; his face impassive. "If you didn't give a damn about somebody, would you bring them someplace where you KNOW they'd do everythang to save they life if they got shot?"
He kept his eyes trained on the nurse. We all stayed quiet. He raised his eyebrows and went on.
"Look to me like that was they man. Somebody they really cared about and hoped would be okay if you ask me." He shrugged and started fishing around in the sheets for his remote control.
I stared at him, taking in every word. I didn't want to miss a thing. The nurse was frozen in her tracks and the neighbor had (finally) stopped talking. All eyes were on the elder.
"The real question is this: Ask yourself WHY would some young brothers in a city like Atlanta feel scared to bring they friend into Grady after he got shot? WHY would they not be willing to stay long enough to make sure they friend don't bleed to death? You really thank it's 'cause they don't care?"
When nobody had a reply, he let out a chuckle and shook his head. His expression suggested how naïve we sounded.
After that, he turned his television back up and settled into The Steve Harvey Show. And didn't say another word. But you know what? He didn't have to.
Him: "Them shoes you wearing is some a your favorite shoes?"
Me: *looking down* "My shoes?"
Him: "Yeah. Your shoes. They your favorites?"
Me: *squinting eyes and thinking* "Ummm. . . I guess I like them. They're good work shoes for the most part. And this color goes with a lot of stuff."
Him: "You mean it's a good work shoe for YOU."
Me: "Huh?"
*silence*
Him: "Look here. If them ain't your favorite shoes--hell, your ONLY shoes, then you need to go on and retire 'em."
Me: *looking down at my shoes again*
Him: "Miss Manning you woke me up two different times this week with that damn squeaky shoe. And today it was both of 'em squawking? Lord Jesus! Unh uh!"
Me: *laughing*
Him: "Them shoes got to GO. Or you gon' need to kick 'em off for you get on my hall so folk can get some rest."
Me: *still laughing*
Nurse: "Tell her how you really feel."
Me: "I was in denial."
Him: "Well you need to get out of denial. Or out my room in that shoe."
*laughter*
He's right. I do love the shoes. And I have no idea why or when they started squeaking like this and how to fix it. Wait--I take that back. It was after getting caught in the rain last week. I guess I just hoped it wasn't as bad as I knew it was.
Ha.
That got me thinking about all of the things that we totally notice but that we act like people don't see. Like the skirt that used to fit but is now too tight. Or that stomach or thigh you bared that reeeeally wasn't ready for sunshine or for going un-Spanxed. Or that very odd weave or hairdo that leaves people speechless (to your face.) Or the reeeally wrinkled shirt that you know you should have taken a moment to iron. Or even the funny smelling shirt that you hope only you've noticed. Man. . .If you noticed? Oh, someone else noticed.
Totally.
And this? This is just one more thing to love about Grady. You'll immediately know if you've gained weight, if your decision to go grey is questionable and even if you need some gum since your breath smells like garlic and onions after lunch. Folk will tell you, do you hear me?
By the way--that same patient told me that I shouldn't button too many buttons on my white coat because it makes me look like I'm. . . wait for it. . . ."with child."
Their voices escalated from down the hall. I sunk my face into my hand and groaned. I wasn't in the mood.
"Mom!" I took a big drag of air and tried to ignore it. It was repeated with more urgency. "MOM!
Next came a cacophony of clattering plastic. I'd attempted to sit at my kitchen table doing nothing enough times to know the exact sound of a PlayStation video hand control device falling to a hardwood floor. I squeezed my eyes tight and pressed my lips together. Next came the feet stomping in my direction.
"Mom? Isaiah was supposed to --"
"No. No, he's exaggerating," Isaiah protested before his brother could finish his sentence.
I swung my head from side to side between them. Zachary was now blinking back mad tears and fuming. Isaiah held the plastic controller behind his back so that Zack couldn't reach it. They were at a stand still. And I hadn't even uttered a word of mediation.
And wasn't going to.
Clasping my hands in front of my face, I looked straight ahead into the space between them. "Listen," I said. "You will argue sometimes. You'll frustrate one another, too. But no matter what, I just need you to always remember what I say about brothers." Both boys stared at the floor, still fuming. I cleared my throat hard, "What do brothers do?"
The answer came as a mumble. They'd uttered that response so many times that me asking to have their words repeated had far more to do with me just wanting them to speak up than not hearing. I pressed them in a firm voice. "What do brothers do?"
"Stick together," they replied in low unison.
"Solve this. You solve it. And if you don't, nobody gets to play." I turned back to my computer and let them know I was done. Because I was.
Last week at Grady, I took care of a man with an advanced cancer. He was up in age. His parents had passed several years back. The ex-wife he'd had remotely was no longer in is life and they'd never had children. He'd had a few strokes that left him with labile cognitive function. And his health issues were significant and active enough to warrant somebody thinking about him and advocating for him.
Yeah. That's what he needed.
Again--there was no spouse. No common law boo wringing hands at the bedside in woeful misery. No parents filled with that unconditional parental love and no aunties or uncles who'd doted on him since he was a child. All there was was one person: His brother.
Now. This man's brother was a grown man with a full life. He had a wife and adult kids and grandkids, too. He had a business that he ran and a church where he deaconed and a square of lawn in front of both his house and his church that called for him to mow it on a weekly basis. But the other thing he had was a brother.
Sure did.
He'd come in with a work uniform on. Soiled with a full day's work and with this little hint of masculine mustiness that would waft into my nostrils whenever he moved. Sometimes he'd wipe his forehead with handkerchief or just the back of his hand. Or rub his eyes with the heels of his palm. But no matter what, you could count on him seeing about his brother.
Yep.
Brother was only the next-of-kin for my patient. And since some days my patient was with it but on most other days he wasn't, we needed someone to step in. We did. And let me tell you--Brother was there.
"I'm sorry to keep putting so much on you," I said to him the other day.
"It's okay. I just hate I can't get up here no sooner. My wife would've come for me but 'cept she got some hip troubles and ain't driving right now. So I can't get here 'til I get off."
"I understand."
"He look a little better to me today." Now he was dabbing that same hankie on his brother's brow.
"He always seems to perk up when you come in." I realized that may have sounded negative so I corrected myself. "He does look to be a little better."
We sat and talked some more. Brother asked hard questions and I answered to the best of my ability. We discussed next steps and what he thought would best honor his brother's wishes. This was a day that my patient wasn't flying on both wings mentally. That was happening more and more frequently.
Brother signed a few papers and placed the pen down in front of him. A big yawn escaped his lips, causing his body to let out a tiny shudder at the end.
"I can tell you're tired."
"It's okay. That's my brother."
I squinted my eyes at him and twisted my mouth. "I have sons."
"Yeah?"
"Yes, sir. Two of them. Sixteen months apart."
"They fight?" Brother laughed at his question. "I know they do. You always do when you close in age like that."
I laughed. "Pretty much."
"See, our mama always told us this: 'Take care of your family, take care of your mama and your daddy, and take care of each other. I don't care what you got going on. You stay connected to your peoples.' So I hear my mama straight in my ear sometimes. I be tired but I come on down here."
"I love that."
"I'm all he got."
I didn't know what to say do that so I said nothing. Then I finally said, "He's blessed."
"We both blessed."
We sat in silence for a few moments. Brother stood up and put his soiled trucker's hat back on his head. This time he addressed my patient. "Okay then, Junior. We'll see you tomorrow, okay?"
"Okay," my patient replied. Brother reached down to give him a tiny hug in the bed. Then he gave one more of those big yawns. He waved goodbye to me and before I knew it he was gone.
The whole way home I thought about them. I thought about a mother infusing this idea into her children of staying united. Letting no weapon formed against them as siblings prosper.
Ever.
That night over dinner, I shared with my boys about this story. With privacy protected, I explained that my sick patient had no one to look out for him in this whole world except his brother. And that his brother worked all day long and came anyway.
"I'd come for you." Zack looked at his brother. His face was serious.
"Me, too. I'd come for you, too."
And that was that.
I felt a tiny heave in my chest. Followed by a shiver like the one Brother had. Something about my boys saying those affirmations to one another had given me chills.
Yeah.
I've probably had to ask that same rhetorical question about what brothers do some fifty times since then. But after watching those two men fulfill that duty to one another, I knew that it was an important seed to keep on planting.
I'm learning day by day that connectedness requires intention. It involves forgiveness and redemption and resilience and commitment. And it especially calls for us to fight for the relationships we value the most.
The mama who raised those two men did something right. She made love and loyalty a rule. And no--sometimes it doesn't work. But what I do know is that the kind of sacrifice I witnessed between those two brothers didn't just happen overnight.
No it did not.
Do brothers fight? Sure. And will brothers get on one another's nerves? For sure. But as for me and my house? They will stick together--and stay connected. If I can help it, at least. "I don't care what you got going on. You stay connected to your peoples."
Her: "You a extrovert, ain't you?"
Me: *pointed at my chest* "Me? Extrovert? Hmmm. I definitely think of myself as a lover of people. But I'm not so sure I'm a true extrovert."
Her: "Chile please. Extroverts feel at their best with people around. That's where they get all their energy. That's you."
Me: *shifting in my seat* "I'm not so sure that's what I am."
Her: "No?"
Me: "Nope."
Her: *eyes squinted*
Me: "I'm serious. Like. . .I like being alone with myself and my thoughts . . .like. . .a lot, actually. After that, I like the people parts. Because I like thinking with other people and hearing their thoughts on certain ideas, too."
Her: "So what's that make you? An introvert? You AIN'T no introvert. I don't care what you say."
Me: "Sometimes I think I'm an introvert with very good social skills. But I become an extrovert when I feel very, very comfortable and safe."
Her: *nodding head* "That make sense."
I crossed my legs and leaned back in the bedside chair. This interaction felt comfortable and safe. Maybe that's why she accused me of being an extrovert. That made the corner of my mouth turn up.. I propped my foot on a pulled down hand rail on the bed, slid on my reading glasses and pulled my patient list out of my pocket.
Her: "Miss Manning?"
Me: "Ma'am?"
Her: "Do you ever. . . get lonely?"
Lonely?
I bit the inside of my cheek and gave her question real, true thought. I closed my eyes and took an inventory of my feelings to see if "lonely" would bubble up to the top.
It did not. I realized that that was a blessing that I'd not thought of before then. Not feeling particularly lonely.
Me: "No. I don't really think so."
Her: "Even when you by yourself?"
Me: "Especially when I'm by myself. I crack myself up."
Her: "Ha ha ha . . .that's good."
The room filled again with the ambient noise of the hospital ward and the overhead television.
Her: "I ain't never been lonely a day in my life. My whole life."
Me: "Wow. Do you think it's because you're an introvert?"
Her: "Naaaaw. It's 'cause I'm a GEMINI."
I swung my head towards her and looked confused. In response, she held up two fingers at me and winked.
Her: "That's 'cause it's TWO of us. And both of us like each other."
We both laughed out loud. I gave her hand a squeeze and headed to the door.
Me: "I'll see y'all later."
Her: "You know where to find us."
"The opposite of love is not hate, it's indifference.
The opposite of art is not ugliness, it's indifference.
The opposite of faith is not heresy, it's indifference.
And the opposite of life is not death, it's indifference."
- Elie Wiesel
I was sitting in the bedside chair talking to a Grady elder. I'd finished rounding and had come back by to spend some time in the late afternoon. This was a practice I've had since my intern year, taught to me by one of my favorite attending physicians. "Just pick one person or two every day. And go and sit with them. That's it."
Best advice ever.
The television was on over our heads and was on "The Jerry Springer Show." I realized then that, were it not for moments such as this one, I'd not even know the show still aired. Two women were fighting. Allegedly, the same gentleman had fathered their children within like 2 weeks. Instead of being mad at him, they were mad at each other. The crowd was screaming and roared even louder when one person lost a clip on pony tail.
Me: "This is a mess."
Her: "Bless they hearts. Poor chil'ren."
Another woman came flying out of the audience like superman. Her arms were swinging like windmills and legs kicking in the direction of the woman holding the pony tail. The security dude on the show feigned some deep interest in holding her back. The only thing less believable was the quasi-alarmed and stunned look on Jerry Springer's face sitting in the chair across from them.
Poor chil'ren indeed.
Her: "You know what Dr. Manning?"
Me: "What's that?"
Her: "There's three kinds of people in this world."
Me: *turning my head toward her and readying myself for this good word*
Her: "There's the ones who wish you WELL, see. Then there's the ones who wish you HELL."
Me: *silence*
Her: *silence*
Me: *turning my head from the TV to her* "That was only two."
Her: "Two what?"
Me: "Two types. What's the third type?"
Her: ""Oh the last one? Those the ones who don't even see you. They the worse ones of all."
Me: "Hmmm."
Her: "See, they the ones that don't give a damn if you live, die, or fall off in a ditch never to be heard from or seen again."
Me: "Dang."
Her: "Worse than that. They don't even know you there. And they don't even know that they don't know, neither."
Me: *raising eyebrows* "Wow."
*silence*
Things on the television got calm for a moment. But then another guy came from back stage as some kind of surprise. He was reportedly the boyfriend of the two-baby daddy. The crowd went berserk again. And, once more, Jerry Springer looked fake-stunned.
Her: "You know what? I'll take a person who wish me hell over the one who don't see me any day. I'd rather you come at me fighting, kicking and trying to punch me than just walk by me altogether. 'Cause at least THEN I know you feel something."
Me: *silence, just listening*
Her: "If you hateful to me, it just say something about how you feel about your own self. So those folks I just feel sorry for and steer clear of, you know? But them ones who don't even acknowledge you?" *shakes her head* "They do the most damage 'cause you can't even change they heart. They cold as ice."
This time I moved my whole body in the bedside chair to face her. I thought about all that she'd seen in her nearly 8 decades and all of the people she'd experienced. She knew what she was talking about.
Her: "Just 'cause you look in somebody direction don't mean you see."
Me: "Wow. I have to remember that. 'Some people wish you well and some people wish you hell.'"
*pause*
Her: "And the rest you can't tell. . . . 'cause you so invisible that they don't give a shit."
That's what my patient asked just before I got ready to leave the room. Instead of answering right away, I squinted my eyes and puffed my cheeks out.
Uggh.
Were we about to unpack the NFL controversy? I mean, I could. But honestly? It had been a late night yesterday and I didn't have the bandwidth.
Fortunately, I wouldn't need it. My patient clarified that query: "Not that spangled one, neither. I'm talking 'bout the negro national anthem. Do you know it?"
I sat a little taller and smiled. "Yes, ma'am. As a matter of fact, I do."
Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "ALL the verses?"
"Not by heart. But I know them mostly."
"You need to learn 'em by heart. 'Specially that last one. That's the one that remind you of who you are."
"The 'God of our weary years' part?"
"Oooooo weeeee!" She slapped the blanket in front of her and sighed. "Yes indeed!"
"I actually do know that one." I stared upward and tried to make sure. Then I had to be honest. "Well--I take that back. I mostly do." We both laughed.
"See that first verse tell you to make a joyful noise from how far you come. Then the second one help you not forget the past. The last one is my favorite 'cause it tell you to give Him the glory for helping you make it over."
I sat for a moment sifting through the words and realized I was drawing a few blanks. So I did what I always do in situations like that. I pulled out my iPhone and punched in "Lift Ev'ry Voice and Sing Lyrics" into a Google search. Then I turned the screen to show her the words. "Want me to read it?"
She nodded. "Read it, not sing it, hear?" We both laughed again, me a little louder than she.
Then I slipped on my reading glasses and read. Speaking each stanza slowly and carefully, not caring who else in earshot could hear:
"Lift ev’ry voice and sing,
Till earth and heaven ring,
Ring with the harmonies of Liberty;
Let our rejoicing rise
High as the list’ning skies,
Let it resound loud as the rolling sea.
Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us,
Sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us;
Facing the rising sun of our new day begun,
Let us march on till victory is won.
Stony the road we trod,
Bitter the chast’ning rod,
Felt in the days when hope unborn had died;
Yet with a steady beat,
Have not our weary feet
Come to the place for which our fathers sighed?
We have come over a way that with tears has been watered,
We have come, treading our path through the blood of the slaughtered,
Out from the gloomy past,
Till now we stand at last
Where the white gleam of our bright star is cast.
God of our weary years,
God of our silent tears,
Thou who has brought us thus far on the way;
Thou who has by Thy might,
Led us into the light,
Keep us forever in the path, we pray.
Lest our feet stray from the places, our God, where we met Thee,
Lest our hearts, drunk with the wine of the world, we forget Thee;
Shadowed beneath Thy hand,
May we forever stand.
True to our God,
True to our native land."
"That make me want to CRY!" a voice said from the other side of the curtain. It was the patient in the next bed. After that I heard a moist sniffle. My eyes were stinging, too.
"Not me," my patient said. "Make ME want to shout."
Whew.
Damn, I love this job.
***
Happy Tuesday. Now playing on my mental iPod--my favorite version of this song arranged by Roland Carter . . all three verses. Always gives me chills.
“Not too heavy-handed, hear?” she told her great-grandson. “You know Mama tenderheaded.” She turned to look him in his eye and he froze with the comb in his hand and nodded.
Up until then, he’d been sitting in a chair, looking bored—typical of any middle school kid asked to sit in a hospital room. He had, as the Grady elders say, “good home training.” So he knew to ready himself to speak when I walked in on my afternoon rounds. His mom glanced at him and, on cue, he stood, looked into my eyes, and shook my hand. Then he sat back down, returning to his tweenaged thoughts.
I examined the patient and then sat on the edge of the bed to speak her and the family. At some point in the discussion, my patient said, “My hair is a mess.” And again, as if prompted, that same great-grandson rose from his chair.
Yep.
A woman once told me that I needed to have a daughter since boys don’t see about their elders once they become men. As a boy mom, that used to worry me. It doesn’t any more. Because now I’ve seen enough to know that children do what they see. Boys included.
“Don’t worry, Mama,” her great-grandson replied as he resumed stroking her silver hair with a comb, “I’m tenderhanded.”
Live while you got all your rhythm in your hips still, okay?"
~ Mrs. Sanders
If you looked at Mrs. Sanders' life, you'd count it a success. Five children, all of whom were mostly healthy and all of whom grew up to be gainfully employed with families of their own. More grandbabies than the fingers on two hands could count. And a marriage that had lasted more than fifty years. Yes. If you looked at her life, you'd use those spiritual words spoke often by the Grady elders for lives like hers--"blessed and highly favored." Descriptors for lives filled with the things that matter the most.
Her health was good. Beyond some degenerative arthritis in her knees and some very mildly elevated blood pressure, Mrs. Sanders had very few medical problems. She could do for herself and was even still driving. Again, the kind of thing we all envision when wishing upon stars for our futures as senior citizens.
Mr. Sanders had passed on a few years before. Not necessarily suddenly, but it wasn't drawn out either. Just enough time to get things in order and to allow people to get to him and love on him. His death was surrounded by family and the aftermath of it all was mostly okay since it fit into the natural order of the rhythm of life. And, yes, losing him broke Mrs. Sanders' heart. But honestly, it didn't seem to break her.
Nope.
So the point of telling you all of this is to say that this woman seemed to have a pretty peaceful life. It seemed to have followed the narrative that little girls act out with their Barbie dolls, you know? But every time I saw her, there was this sadness about her. Nothing overly somber or extraordinarily awful. Just this undercurrent of melancholia that cloaked the room whenever I was in her presence. And honestly I'd assumed it was all related to missing her husband. After all, they had been married for over fifty years. But truthfully, I'd known her before his passing and even before he'd gotten ill. And even then, I'd felt the same way.
"How are you?" I asked her toward the end of our visit.
"Am I?" Mrs. Sanders pointed at her chest to make sure she understood the question. I nodded. She released this weak chuckle and said, "I'm here."
"Just here?"
"Well, naw. Ain't nothing wrong, if that's what you mean. Guess I ain't sure what you mean, Miss Manning."
I pressed my lips together and kept my eyes on hers for a beat. In that split second, I reflected on the time last year that I'd screened her for depression with a series of questions. She caught on to what I was doing and interrupted me. "I ain't depressed or nothing like that if that's what you gettin' at." And after I completed those questions, it became pretty apparent to me that she wasn't.
But still. Each time I felt it. And even if it didn't mean there was some pathology there, I really wanted to understand it.
"You know what, Mrs. Sanders? Sometimes when I see you, you seem like. . .I don't know. . .kind of sad-like." Sad-like? I cringed at my own language. I sighed. "I don't know. It's hard for me to put my finger on."
Mrs. Sanders offered me a warm smile and then reached out to touch my hand. "I 'preciate your concern. I'm okay, baby."
"You sure?"
This time she squinted her eyes and smiled. The expression seemed to suggest I was naïve. I wasn't sure how to feel about that. Straightening up my spine, I trained my eyes on hers, making certain not to crack a smile in return. Her face became serious and pensive. Finally, she spoke.
"Miss Manning? How many kids you got?"
"Two."
"And how long you been married?"
"Twelve years."
"How old your kids is?"
"Ma'am? Oh. Nine and ten. Boys."
She pursed her lips when I said that last part. "Wheeewwwweeeee. Boys is something. Something indeed. They keep you busy, too." Mrs. Sanders shook her head and then paused. It looked like she was trying to decide what to say next. Or whether what she wanted to say was worth saying to me. She blinked her eyes slowly, glanced down at her pocket book and then back at me again. Mrs. Sanders leaned her head sideways and asked me this: "What you do for fun?"
She caught me off guard with that. "For fun?" I let out a nervous chuckle.
"Better yet, for you. For your own self."
"Umm. Well. I . . I actually do lots of stuff for myself. I mean. . .I do a lot for my family, too. But I do stuff for myself."
"Good," Mrs. Sanders replied quickly. "Good."
I waited. I could tell she had more to say.
"My life been good, you know? But honestly, Miss Manning? I spent my whole life doing for everybody but me. Like, we got married when I was young and started having babies. And I stayed home with them and was near my sisters so we all saw 'bout each others' kids, too. And my kids grew up to make me real, real proud. They good people. They got to do a lot of good things and I'm glad. But I guess the more time go by the more I realize I ain't never get no chance at nothing."
"Tell me what you mean by that."
"I mean. . .I 'on't know. Guess I jest mean I ain't never been able to choose something that I wanted to do just 'cause. Just 'cause it's what I wanted to do or where I wanted to go. Seem like every decision was connected to somebody else needs or wants. And now I find myself wishing I had done some more stuff for me. For me."
Mrs. Sanders eyes glistened with tears. She swallowed hard and cleared her throat after saying that. Then she looked slightly embarrassed for disclosing those thoughts. Or perhaps ashamed of uttering them aloud. That said, I could tell she was serious. And honestly? There wasn't much I could say to any of that. This woman was nearly eighty and had thought about this long and hard. I certainly didn't want to trivialize it all with some Pollyanna statement, particularly one that came across canned and void of empathy.
"I'm sorry." That's all I could think to say. And I said that because I was sorry. Not sorry in that way I was when her husband of fifty two years went on to glory. But sorry nonetheless.
I could see how things had ended up this way. I mean, like her, I'm a mom and a wife, too. And in my mind I've always noted that those mothers and wives set on the highest pedestals are the most selfless. What's also weird is that it's hard to even realize that something is being denied of you, you know? Because everything you hear and see tells you that your definition of joy gets revised the day you become a mother and/or a spouse. And that this is what you were made to do and that this idea alone should be enough.
Right?
So yeah. I got it. I got what she was saying. I did. "It's not too late, Mrs. Sanders," I finally said. "Your health is good. There are definitely things you could still do."
"I know," Mrs. Sanders replied. "I know. And I don't want to seem like some ol' charity case that stay sad. I'm not. I do some stuff. But, see, what I can't have back is doing it as a younger woman. With curves and in high heels and with young woman sass. Young enough for people hold the door for you because they think they got a chance to court you, not jest 'cause they got enough home training to respect their elders." She gently laughed at her wittiness. I did, too.
"I get it," I finally said.
"Do stuff, Miss Manning. See 'bout them men of yours. But do stuff for you, too. Live while you got all your rhythm in your hips still, okay? I tells my daughters that. I do. Wish somebody had'a told me the same."
"Yes, ma'am," I whispered. Then I stuck it on a post-it note in my head for later.
Last week, I went to Paris, France. Despite my 45 years on earth, I'd never been. A college sorority sister took a job there this summer and inboxed me on Facebook a few months back urging me to come for the Semi de Paris--that is, the Paris Half Marathon. She explained that it sells out pretty quickly and encouraged me to "just sign up" and figure out the logistics later.
And so I did. Register, that is.
But honestly? I never truly considered going. I mean, not really. Sure, I'd registered for the race, but still. Could I really see myself going all the way to Europe for a race? One that wasn't connected to my kids or work? That answer was a solid no. It wasn't because I don't have support. Harry loved the idea of me running strong through cobblestoned streets and past historic landmarks. Especially in Paris, a city to which I'd never been. And I did, too.
But.
I think I purchased that race number because I liked the idea of it more than anything else. Buying that registration would be affirmation that I really did consider going. Which, in a lot of ways, was nearly as significant to me.
Nearly.
A few weeks after I'd submitted my payment for the race, I was casually talking to my colleague-friend Ira S. With my feet kicked up on a chair in his office, I mentioned this opportunity to do this race in Paris and my friend living in France. He immediately began speaking as if there was no question about whether or not I planned to go. But Ira is different than me. He speaks other languages, has lived in other countries and is, in my mind, more worldly than me. Of course doing this would be a no brainer to him. But to me, it was simply a pie-in-the-sky notion. So I told him the truth. That there was no way I'd go thorough the hassle of getting all the way to Paris just for me to go and run some race. That is, one just for me and the experience.
Ira immediately began listing the litany of reasons that I should go. That life was for living and that if I tried as hard as I could and it didn't work out, that was one thing. But automatically counting myself out would be something I'd regret later. And you know? I inherently knew he was right.
Of course, I can't say that I never do anything. I've had some amazing experiences as an adult woman that called for an understanding and supportive spouse and some hands on deck from others. But nearly all of those things have been either local or stateside. Which means they could occur over a three day (or two and a half day) weekend. Nothing calling for a passport or acquaintance with another language. And I can't say that it was because of lack of opportunities. I think it was more lack of consideration, you know?
Yeah.
And so. I went. And from the moment those wheels went up and that plane rose into the heavens, I knew. I knew that it would be a pivotal experience and one that would enrich my life. And you know? It was amazing. Just. . . . . yeah.
Another of our college sorority sisters routed a business trip from Barcelona through Paris to join us. And, in the end, we became three girls about town together. Feeling the pulse of the city, testing out our rudimentary French in cafes and on trains, window shopping and laughing so hard that we could hardly breathe. I'm so glad that I went.
So very glad.
For nearly the entire time, I thought of my family. But I also thought of me.
And you know what? I thought of Mrs. Sanders, too. I went a little harder, laughed a little louder, imagining myself as an octogenarian reflecting on this time. I sure did.
Look. I don't know all the answers. But what I do know is that my trip to Paris taught me that I really should push a bit outside of my pragmatic mom-work-wife life box some more. To put my own life experiences on the table for discussion. Especially the outlandish ones that require jumping through a bunch of hoops like this one did.
Yeah.
I hate that Mrs. Sanders has regrets. Because regrets suck. Even the little twinge-y ones that niggle at you when you know you should otherwise be happy with the hand you've been dealt. My guess is that Mrs. Sanders' narrative is one to which many women can relate. I feel honored that she trusted me with those feelings. I'm also grateful to Ira for helping me to picture myself as worthy of that experience in Paris.
When I see Mrs. Sanders again, I'll tell her of how she inspired me. And hopefully she can take solace in knowing that she helped another woman do at least one thing that she otherwise wouldn't have . . . . and perhaps shielded her from some potential regret.
"Live while you got all your rhythm in your hips still, okay?"
~ Mrs. Sanders, Grady elder.
Words to live by. And to live it up by, too.
***
Happy Saturday. Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . please give it a listen and listen to the lyrics.
It was all matter of fact; the way such things are always mentioned on rounds with those frail elders who've slipped into the cognitive abyss. And I didn't know all the details. I mean, not enough to go arguing and pushing back on a plan that had been rolling forward for this hospitalized patient for the last week. So I responded with a simple word. "Why?"
"Dementia," I heard them say in response. "Like, she's delirious one minute and then sort of inappropriate the next. It's weird. And honestly, it's mild but the problem is that she lives alone and doesn't really have anyone to help."
"Why is she delirious?"
"Part of it is adherence to what she needs for her health. The other part, we think, is some underlying dementia. She does have someone to make decisions for her, though. Even though they can't really take care of her like we'd like."
"No one around to see about her?"
"Well. No family that can give her what she needs. So we're pursuing nursing home placement but it's drama since she's majorly pushing back on it."
"Dang. So she's aware enough to let you know she's not feeling that plan, huh?"
"Yeah. We just want to safely discharge her, Dr. M. So her durable power of attorney will have to sign her in against what will she has remaining."
Eek.
Now that? That punched me in the gut and made me gasp a bit. "What will she has remaining" felt like we were playground bullies. Something about that grabbed me hard and said, "Pay attention. Go and talk to her. Think."
Yeah.
Oh, and let me be clear: The team that was caring for this patient before was thoughtful and empathic. I know I had the luxury of being the Monday morning quarterback. The delirium portion was mostly resolved so I was looking at her through fresh lenses. Fresh enough to feel unsure about sending her to a nursing home.
Yeah.
And so. When we went in there, I listened to her speaking. This woman was older than my mother and stated proudly that she was a "Grady baby"--meaning she'd been born in this very hospital. That always resonates differently with me when I hear it from my Grady elders. In a city of transplants, the true-blue natives enamor me. She was true-blue.
Yes indeed.
And so. Admittedly, there isn't some really elaborate story that follows. I'd imagine the preamble of it all serves as a bit of a spoiler alert that she was, indeed, as sharp as the proverbial tack. And while I can't say that there weren't a few wrinkles in the fabric of her cognition, I can say that none of it was substantial enough to rip her away from the place she'd called home for the last fifty years.
Nope.
And that? That's the thing. That is the piece I put my kickstand on when thinking of her, discussing her and laying out plans with my team. This notion of uprooting people with very, very deep roots and recognizing that it's a big fucking deal.
Pardon the f-bomb.
In 2006, Harry and I had a young toddler, Isaiah, and were expecting our second child, Zachary. Harry, who has a background in real estate investment, had found this amazing home in a wonderful in-town Atlanta neighborhood--literally walking distance from my employer, Emory University. The schools in the area had great reputations and the entire environment was everything we'd dreamed of having. It certainly had some "fixer upper" necessities, but that didn't deter my husband at all. And his faith in the potential this house had was enough to get me on board.
Yep.
The home we were in at the time was lovely, for sure. That said, it was significantly further from all that we do both professionally and personally. Getting closer in would be game changing for our family. And no, we didn't need more space or anything. But this? This house was uniquely special. An opportunity just presented itself and, even better, involved my better half utilizing the skills that he'd been fine tuning for the last several years--negotiation and renovation. We didn't look back.
No one knows what the future holds--economically or otherwise. But barring any major changes, we came into that home--now our current home--believing that, God willing, we'd grow old there. I imagine myself slowing down and easing out to that same mailbox someday. Asking Harry if he fed the dog or picked up eggs or even if he wants a cup of herbal tea. And us sitting in our sunroom where the kids watch television now, shaking the hand of some young woman that one of our boys desires to marry. Then later, holding the hand of the grandchild or grandchildren that come from that union, walking through this very neighborhood to do the things that I'd been doing since I was a pregnant thirty-something.
Yeah.
So after that, I picture my mind getting foggy. Not full on foggy, but foggy enough to cause some people to do a double take. Still okay enough to take a shower and make some grits and sweep the porch and feed the dog. Fine enough to wave at the mailman and grab the bills and even get on line and pay them one mouse click at a time. But maybe just off some. Not able to remember which Bush or which Clinton is president or even how to stay on track with every day conversation. Then, I pray, that there is someone who is ready to step in and see about me, you know? To be a go between in the gap of what I can still do but the fog of what I can't.
But.
If, for some reason, that person or those people aren't readily presenting themselves, I think about someone having me in a cold, sterile hospital bed that some 911 call sent me over to on a whim because I'd fallen and couldn't get up. And then I think that, kind of like when people were put on ships and taken to the western world against their will, it must be awful to suddenly be told that you are never, ever going back to live at what has become the only home you really, truly know. Especially if my wits were still about me enough to feel that loss.
So yeah. I think of that and hope like hell that my doctor or doctors or nurse or nurses or social worker or social workers come busting in that room with their hands all splayed out screaming to every one to WAIT, WAIT, WAIT and THINK, THINK, THINK before just signing that form to send me off and away from the home I spent my whole life building. I want them to look hard, go find someone--anyone or some kind of resource to help me. Or at least try, man. At least fucking try.
Because thirty years from now, if you take me up out of my house without warning, I won't want to go either. And I swear on my sister's life that I will fight you tooth and nail with what will I have remaining. Yes. What will I have remaining. Damn right I will.
My patient said she wanted to go home. Her insight wasn't poor and, as it turns out, there are some people around who could see about her. She was a bit forgetful and tangential but she still knew that Cam Newton was going to the Super Bowl and that he was a hometown hero, straight out of southwest Atlanta where she'd lived her entire life. And she wanted to be home to watch that game on her own damn couch where she could clap her leathery hands and drink a light beer.
And you know what? If I have any say in the matter--and I do--that's exactly what she's going to do.
The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time.
Any fool can do it, there ain't nothing to it.
Nobody knows how we got to the top of the hill.
But since we're on our way down, we might as well enjoy the ride.
~ James Taylor
____________________________
"What's the key to making eighty-nine and still looking as good as you?" I asked. The resident working with me smiled knowingly since this is one of the most predictable questions they hear me ask of the spryest of our Grady elders.
I never miss the chance to unlock whatever secrets my patients might have for longevity in life and marriage. So I always ask. And every time, I get an answer that makes me smile. Some short and sweet. Others long and elaborate. But somewhere nestled in every response is something for me to stick on a post-it note inside of my head for safekeeping.
And so. At the end of our visit, I asked that same question in that same way I generally do when addressing my Grady elders. I use their lingo, too. After hearing it enough times, I decided that I liked the idea of "making" some golden age. "Making" eighty-nine sounds like climbing the rough side of a ragged mountain--and now reaching those elevations that few have achieved. And interestingly, years don't seem to be referenced as being "made" until you get over a certain hump in the birthday game.
Yep.
"You know I'm gon' make ninety in one month!" she announced with a proud slap of her knee.
I clapped my hands and nodded. "I saw that on your chart, Mrs. Calhoun! That's so great!"
"Sho' is." And from the look on her face, I could tell she meant it.
"So no secrets? You know I'm trying to find out how to make ninety and have it look like it looks on you, Mrs. Calhoun."
"Oh, baby it's simple. First, you gots to get on up in the mornings. Get on out the bed and move your body. I ain't saying you got to go crazy or nothin'. Jest get on out your door and walk some place. Work in your garden. Walk on over to see about a neighbor or to the store. But you can't jest stay holed up in the house watching the television."
"I like that advice."
"Mmmm hmmm. See, folk get up in age and stop moving they body. And now, I understand that ol' Arthur set in on some folk bones and they can't move. But even with my arthritis, I makes myself get on up and move. Every day."
"That's good stuff, Mrs. C. What else? You know we're taking notes." I winked at her and pretended to position my pen to write down her next words.
"Well, now another one is minding your own business, you know?"
I laughed when she said that. "My husband tells me I need work in this area, but yes, ma'am. I hear you."
"See, when you gets up in age, folk get to thinking they got the green light to weigh in on whatever they see fit. Like telling young folk what all they s'posed to be doing and how they s'posed to do it. Saying stuff about how folk run they house and who they decide to be with. And see, me, I figured out that staying worried 'bout stuff that ain't your business 'specially when it come to your kin as they start coming of age make you old. So, I jest mind my own business, you know? Even when folk used to try to get me to chime on in on something, if it ain't my business I jest shrug my shoulders and say, 'Ain't my business.'" Mrs. Calhoun shrugged for emphasis.
My resident nodded slowly and looked over at me. "That's great advice, actually."
"I never thought about the part about growing older and giving your opinion on something. That's a really good word."
"It's true, Miss Manning. Look like people excuse they elders for saying crazy stuff that ain't none of they business. So I think that make people judge folk and get to talking about a whole bunch of stuff that jest make everybody uncomfortable, you know? And I still got my thoughts on stuff but if it don't affect me and mine, I don't really fret about it. Saying a whole bunch on people's lives lead to arguments and hurt feelings and all that. Plus it make people not want to be around you. All that make you old."
"I really should have been writing this all down, ma'am." I squinted an eye and went on. "I can tell you mean what you're saying, too."
"I sho' do."
"Okay. So move my body and mind my business. Got it. Anything else we need to do?"
It's funny. Mrs. Calhoun was genuinely entertaining my questions about living to be an octogenarian. Though most of my patients answered me, few were so thoughtful in their replies. Her lip jutted out and she rolled her eyes skyward as if sifting carefully through her words. Finally, she lifted a long crooked index finger and looked straight into my eyes. "One more," she said in her gravelly voice.
I scooted my chair forward and leaned in. She didn't speak immediately. Instead, she held my gaze with narrowed eyes for a few beats, curled in that finger and brought it to her lips. I stayed silent, waiting for what I knew would be worth the time.
Her finger extended again to point at me and then the resident physician beside me. "This probably the most important thang. You got to see about yourself. I mean look out for your own happiness and don't let nobody treat you bad, you know? Like, when you a kid or a even a young person, it ain't always easy. But once you grown, you got to love yourself enough to not let nobody get away with being ugly to you. And that include you-yourself, too."
"Okay. . . " I lulled her to go on, leaning even closer.
"Put on some clothes every day. Brush your hair and care 'bout how you look. That's all a part of seeing about yourself."
"Got it."
She paused for a second and then patted her hand on the desk. "Oh! And I almost forgot. Make sure you got you a good stick a red lipstick in your bathroom drawer. And that you wear it sometime."
"Red lipstick?" My resident glanced over at me raised her eyebrows. We both returned our attention to Mrs. Calhoun, intrigued with this unexpected statement.
"Yes, sugar. A good one, too. One that make you feel like a woman. Not no gloss or tint neither. I'm talking 'bout a R-E-D red that can't nobody mistake. You keep it there for when you need to feel strong and good. Or sometime jest for no reason at all. Paint it right on your mouth and look yourself in the face."
Damn. I was taking this all in in giant gulps. I wanted her to go on and, lucky for us, she did.
"See, putting on some red lipstick--that's saying something to yourself. You telling yourself you worth noticing. But then you got to walk in that. Wit' your head all the way up like you know something they don't."
Whew. This woman was preaching, do you hear me?
My resident feigned a frown and groaned. "But Mrs. C, what if you look terrible in red lipstick? I can't even imagine myself with red lipstick." She laughed when she said that but Mrs. Calhoun didn't.
"Every woman can look good in red lipstick once she find the one that suit her. But the key is jest that she just got to make up her mind that she deserve the attention it brang, see. It ain't never the color. It's that part that hold women back from it."
And that? That I knew I wouldn't want to forget. Like, ever.
No, I would not.
A little later, I saw Mrs. Calhoun in the hallway, cane in one hand and discharge papers in the other. I stood there watching her and reflecting on her words as she took those short deliberate steps toward the exit. At the last minute, I decided to sprint up to her to hold the door--but mostly to tell her goodbye.
"It was so good talking to you, Mrs. Calhoun. Thanks, hear?"
'Oh, Miss Manning, you know I love talking to you young people." I beamed at her reference of forty-five year-old me as a "young person." She nodded in acknowledgement of me propping open the door for her and headed into the lobby.
Just as she was right in front of me, I spoke. "Mrs. Calhoun? I'm just wondering. . . do you still have a red lipstick?"
She turned to look me in the eye and smiled wide. "Sho' do, baby."
"I love it. Think you'll wear it next month when you make ninety?"
"Maybe. But it ain't got to be no special occasion, do it?" Mrs. Calhoun reached out and patted my shoulder when she said that. Without saying a word, I dragged in a deep breath and nodded hard to let her know I received her good word.
Because I did.
Move your body. Mind your business. See about yourself. Oh, and have a good red lipstick.
Words to live by. Like, literally.
*names, details changed to protect anonymity. . . . duh.
"It was a gift I ain't never seen coming. But as special and precious to me as being raised by her."
~ Ms. Ables
I saw this Grady elder one day in clinic on an ordinary weekday. It was a simple follow up for diabetes and hight blood pressure and high cholesterol and not much more. She was adherent to her medication regimen, kept appointments, and was up to date on all of her age-appropriate cancer screening. It seemed that she was in good shape.
Even though Ms. Ables was in her seventies, from looking at her smooth brown skin you couldn't tell. Her crop of silver curls was the only tell-tale sign that she probably earned a senior discount in Publix and Kroger. She had a beautiful smile, too. It was big and vibrant; so wide that you could see the gold edges of the partials she wore. But somehow it all just made her more pleasant to the eye. I liked her immediately.
"Is there anything you're particularly concerned about today?" I asked. Of course, the resident physician seeing her with me had already asked her this same question but I thought I would ask again for good measure.
"Well. . . hmmm." She twisted her mouth for a moment and chose her words carefully. "I feel like I lost a lot of weight over the last three years. And I guess it's good for my medical conditions but I just thought I'd mention it since I ain't been doing nothin' to lose that much weight."
As soon as she said that, I clicked into the weight flowsheets in her chart. The last three visits appeared to be pretty much two to three pounds in the same range. She saw me doing that and added, "It's been gradual. Nothin' real, real obvious. It's only when I run into somebody who ain't seen me and they say, 'Dang! You lost a lot of weight!' or 'Girl, you look good! What you do?' I don't even have the heart to tell them that I ain't done nothing."
I nodded at her and, following that prompt, moved back a few years to see what she'd previously weighed. Sure enough, I saw what she meant. Three years ago, she was 228 pounds. And now? She was a solid 180 soaking wet. "Wow. You have lost weight."
"Told you."
I looked up at her and pressed my mouth into a straight line. I mean, her screenings were all without evidence of cancer. Her blood work was pristine, too. Her address hadn't changed nor had her medication list. This was weird. "Have you been on any diets? Or given anything up since then?"
"No, ma'am."
I leaned my chin into my hand and squinted an eye. "Well, you're definitely right that it's been gradual. And it obviously started somewhere around 2012. Can you think of anything that has happened since then that could explain this?"
"In '12? Hmmm. No. Not as I know of."
"Okay," I responded. And honestly, I wasn't sure what else to say. I mean, anything life threatening that would cause weight loss of this amount would have fully been declared by now. But more than 40 pounds was a lot of weight to be losing without trying.
A whole lot.
Her mood and affect were light and normal. She definitely didn't strike my resident or me as depressed, but I've paid enough attention to some very strong people affected by depression and anxiety to know that this means nothing. Out of necessity people find their best "game face" and strap it on for moments such as this. And so. I went ahead and did a simple screen for depression which, for the most part, came up negative.
For the most part.
When asked her the question about changes in her appetite, she said, "It's there, but I just don't eat as much these days."
I didn't beat around the bush and came right out and asked. "Why is that?"
I needed to know. I mean, was it a money thing? Or an access thing like living in a food desert or not having transportation? Was it a dental issue--which is super common in indigent populations--requiring her to get a tooth pulled or to be fit for dentures? I wanted to know.
Turns out, it was none of those things.
"I eat to live now and that's it. But I used to live to eat." The side of her mouth turned up and some inexplicable emotion washed over her face. She cleared her throat and went on. "My mother and I used to have dinner together every night. She was a great cook and taught me all she knew."
I just stayed silent, nudging her to go on. She did.
"When Daddy passed on about fifteen years back, Mother came to live with me. Not 'cause she couldn't do for herself or nothing. Just because she liked being with people and such. Mother was like that. She liked people and company."
"That's great."
"Yeah, it was good for both of us. My kids' dad and I split a long time back and my kids were all grown and on they own. I was glad to have her move on in."
"Sounds special."
"You know? It was. It sho' was. And Mother? Whew-weee, she loved food." Ms. Ables shook her head then swallowed hard. "Jest loved it. Everythang about it. And nawww, she ain't never got real heavy or anything. But food was her thing. And a good meal with everybody together enjoying it? Now that was her favorite." Her eyes had already begun welling up with tears that she blinked back as hard as she could.
I decided not not to overthink it and bit with the obvious question. "Did your mother pass?"
"Yes, ma'am. She went home jest before Christmas in leb'm." I liked the way she and many of my Grady elders pronounced the word eleven as leb'm. And I also liked the way death was described as "going home."
"I'm sorry."
Ms. Ables sighed hard. "Yeah, baby. Me, too. Once Mother moved in, it was just us for some time. We was both up in age so look like we was jest two peas in a pod, me and her. And since she loved food and cooking so much, we made dinner side by side in the kitchen and ate together every night."
"Wow," I said. At this point Ms. Ables was sweeping tears off of her cheeks. I pushed a box a hospital-grade Kleenex in her direction. Watching her cry made me feel this dichotomous mixture of sorry I'd asked about her mom and yearning to hear more about her. Now that I know how good it feels to talk about someone you love--especially when they're no longer alive--I stuck with embracing the latter. "What kinds of things did your mom like to eat?"
Ms. Ables placed her hand on her bosom and laughed hard and deep at that question. Immediately I felt glad I'd asked. "Chile," she sucked in a big drag of air and chuckled again. "Mother liked it all. And see, since she was one of them old school cooks, she knew how to make everything from scratch. But the reason I'm laughing is 'cause later on she got into them cooking channels. And I tell you she'd have me in the store and down by that curb market with her looking for all sorts of stuff. I mean anythang you name, Mother and me tried it out. Right there in my kitchen."
Shit. This is the kind of thing that always makes me want to cry. I mean, I can't even type it well without crying so you can only imagine what I was like when I was there. But surprisingly, I held it together. That is, until she said this:
"And no matter what, Mother had me set that table jest like I did as a girl. And you know? I would. I set it just like she taught me every single ev'nin. And Mother believed in eating on your good plates. We ain't never had no china or nothing. But we had some nice stuff and we used it every day, me and Mother. We sure did."
And that? That did me in. Man. I tried my best to smile at her as the fat tears rolling down my cheeks mirrored the ones that had been sliding down hers. Because now? Now, I got it. I got why this woman, who used to live to eat now only eats to live.
"I'm sorry," I finally whispered while patting my eyes with tissues from the same box I'd just handed to her a few moments before. And I said that because I was sorry. "It's just . . . that. . .it's just a beautiful image, Ms. Ables. You and your mother dining together like that. I can see it."
She froze and closed her eyes for a moment. Her breath hitched briefly, then she gave her throat a clearing. Ms. Ables' eyes were somber when she opened them to look at me again. "So guess it do make sense why my weight fell off, don't it? 'Cause now I just eats to live and that's it. I mean. . . " Her voice faded off and crackled a bit. I could tell these words hurt but she pressed on. "Now I just like to get meals on over with, you know? I picks something real simple to make, too. 'Cause a real complicated recipe make me miss my mother too much." She looked frustrated when the tears started to return.
All I could do is sit there. Sit there with my eyes on her and not flinching as she honored her mother and told her story.
Ms. Ables looked skyward and then dropped her head. "Lord Jesus. Mother, I miss you so much. I mean every single day, Lord knows I do."
Now she was weeping. And let me tell you, it broke my heart into a thousand tiny pieces. I reached for her hand and she let me hold it. "Take your time, Ms. Ables."
And you know what? She did.
"You know? I still eat on the good plates, you know? Jest 'cause I know Mother would want that. And my life a good life. I go places and do stuff and enjoy my life, too. But it's just that meal time. Something about sitting down to a meal that I believe is probably gon' hurt my heart until I take my last breath. 'Cause that? That I associate with Mother. And I doubt I'll ever reach a point where I don't feel that way. And that's okay with me."
I decided it was okay with me, too.
So there you had it. This is why my patient had lost more than forty pounds in three years without trying. And you know? I'm realizing more and more how much you can learn about people by asking the right question and then--the real key part--by actually listening to what they say in response.
More discussion revealed that Ms. Ables was indeed enjoying a very good quality of life outside of meal time. We completed a PHQ-9 depression assessment, too, and she didn't meet criteria for depression with that one either. Ms. Ables just missed her mother. Plain and simple.
We wrapped up the end of the visit and tied up the loose ends. I reached over and gave Ms. Ables a big hug and she hugged me right back. And all of it was authentic and good. Truly it was.
I thanked her for introducing me to her mom and that made her smile. Then, one of the last things she said before I left was this:
"This probably sound silly to a lot of folk. I mean, look at me--seventy-four years old and crying over losing my mama like she ain't never get a chance to grow old. Mother made ninety-four. Ninety-four! And she was in her right mind that whole time, even up until her last days when she just fell on asleep one day in her chair and didn't wake up." I stepped away from the door and sat back on the edge of the chair when she said that part. Then Ms. Ables rested her eyes on mine and finished. "But here's the thing: Mother wasn't just my mama. She was my friend. And I loved growing old with her. It was a gift I ain't never seen coming. But as special and precious to me as being raised by her."
And that? That I knew I'd have to place on a post-it note in my heart to come back to later. Because until then the idea of living long enough to become an elder with your parent was something I'd never even thought of. I guess because it calls for planets and birthdays to be aligned just so, but still. I now know that hearing that will surely change the way I view loss in those who get the chance to experience that uniquely special phase together.
Sigh.
See this? This is Grady. A world of people and lives and lessons and love. Of Ms. Ables and Mothers and so much more. And me? I'm just glad to be here, man. So, so glad.
Yeah. ***
Happy Wednesday. And thank you, Ms. Ables, for showing me yet another dimension of love between mother and child.
This reminded me of this poignant word that Billy Bob Thornton shared on the show "Master Class." Some piece of me relates to this, too.
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?
