Come together. Right now.

"Come together right now. . .over me." - The Beatles

Partner: "Can I speak with you in private for a moment?"
Parents: "Can we speak with you in private for a moment?"
Partner: "Don't mention anything to his parents about this but. . ."
Parents: "Don't mention anything about this to his girlfriend but. . ."
Me: 😬

One person expressed one thing. Somebody else expressed something altogether different. Everybody loves him. But the messed up part is that those people that all agree on loving him, agree on very little else.

Nope.

Are they rude? Nope. Screaming and hollering? Not so much. But mostly, the room is just filled with this icy coolness when I walk in. If everyone is there at the same time, count on it to be filled to the brim with passive-aggressive nice-nastiness.

Yup.

Partner: "I just don't even try with them anymore. They think they know what he wants and needs but they don't. They barely know him."
Me: "How long have you all been together?"
Partner: "Oh goodness. Easily ten years. We might as well be married.”
Me: "Gotcha."
Partner: "Essentially, they don't like me and I don't like them. So we never talk. I mean, he talks to them, but I don't. I steer clear of them as much as I can."
Me: "I see."

*silence*

Partner: "Well I know they're saying they want to do one thing when he leaves here. But that's not what I want to do. I want something else and I think he'd want me to make that decision."
Me: "Have y'all talked about it? You and his parents?"
Partner: "I tried to be polite. But they always thought he could do better than me. Like they wanted him to get married and have a wife who was skinny and went to college somewhere and who don't got any kind of background."
Me: "Hmmm."
Partner: "That ain't me. So far as I was concerned they could kiss my ass."
Me: "Dang."
Partner: "Now since he can't speak for himself, they all high on they horse. That's some bullshit."

*later in the same day*

Parents: "Thanks for talking to us."
Me: "No problem."
Parents: "We plan to take him home with us after this. We have a lot of good things to assist him on getting back on his feet."
Me: "I see. I know he has a live-in partner. Have you all talked to her?"
Parents: *eyeroll* "No. And we don't need to either."
Me: "Umm. . okay. Well I know he can't speak for himself right now. But what do you think would be his preference?"
Parents: "Well. Seeing as he has no insurance and not much else? I hope his preference would be to go with whatever is best for him."
Me: *silence*

Damn.
Damn damn damn.

There was drama later. Major drama. Those hushed voices began to escalate. In the hallway. In the room. Near the elevator. And probably some other places that I don't even know about. But it was sticky and yucky and contentious and just. . .yeah. I did my best to stay out of it. But it isn't as easy to do that as it sounds.

Sigh.

*steps onto soapbox*

Look here, man:

Everything--and I do mean EVERYTHING--is about relationships. Working at them. Clarifying them. Solidifying them. And, when possible, taking necessary actions to seal them as legal.

For real.

Those almost in-laws you don't mess with? That estranged spouse that "might as well be divorced" from someone? Those siblings with whom you're at war? That parent that you don't talk to at all anymore over some kind of petty disagreement or even some major disagreement? Look man. I implore you to do whatever it takes to get on the other side of that complicated.

Yep.

If you fall ill and can't speak for yourself? Guess who gets to call the shots? Your legal power of attorney. Married? Your spouse. Not married but without a power of attorney? Your parents. Or your siblings. Would you be cool with the person who would legally get to be the shot-caller for you as of this very moment doing so? If not, I suggest you do something about it. Stat.

And even if you DO have the legal parts all copasetic and such? Still work at the relationships. Because if illness falls, it WILL call for y'all to interact. A lot. Grown siblings. Grown grandkids. Long-term boo-thangs. Those folks want to have a say. And even if you make up your mind that they can't have one, you might lose a few years of your life through angst and worry just trying to stiff-arm the ones who want a seat at the table.

Yup.

The good news is that I see lots of long term partners who navigate life-threatening illnesses well with families. But that is always when it is anchored in some kind of respectful understanding of their position. With this patient? That wasn't the case.

And that? That sucks, man.

*steps off of soapbox*

Come together. Right now.

Or else.

***

You are not.

You looked at me with this bored expression. You yawned, folded one elbow behind your head and scratched your ashy torso with the other. "I'm a lost cause," you said. "Some people just like to get high. Me? I'm worse than those kinds of people. I LOVE to get high." When I didn't say anything, you laughed out loud. Hard.

I did not.

"I just keep shit one hun-ned." You shrugged. Then you laughed again. This time harder.

I did not.

There was such unapologetic resignation in your face. You meant what you said, believed it even. You spoke of all the people who had come in front of you, trying to convince you to quit.
"Sobriety is for who want it, man. I don't want it. I want to get high. As much as I can."
"I appreciate your honesty," I said.
"I'm always gon' be that. You can call me a junkie. You can call me a addict. But what you ain't never gon' call me is a lie, though." You chuckled once more.

I did not.

It started with some pills after an injury. You broke a bone and they gave you Percocet. Then they gave you more. At some point, you felt sick without it. And lucky you, you were down with somebody who knew how to help you not feel sick.
"You scared of needles? It involve a needle," your friend told you. You said, "I just don't want to feel sick." After that, it was a wrap.

Over and over again, you called yourself a junkie. Such an old school word coming from someone so young.

"I'm a lost cause, man. Don't waste your energy." You laughed every single time you said that. And every single time you did, I made up my mind to not join you.

So you kept talking. And I kept listening. You kept laughing, too. The whole time you did. I did not.
At some point, I reached out and touched your hand. You jumped a little. Then, for the first time, you looked into my eyes. You were genuinely surprised by my gesture. I closed my fingers tighter in response, ignoring the confetti constellation of needle marks and scarring. I was stunned that you let me.

Me: "You keep saying you're a junkie. And a lost cause. That's not what I see."
You: "Oh yeah?"
Me: "No. I see a smart, beautiful, black son."
You: *holding my gaze*
Me: "I know you like to get high. But little brother . .you are so much more than that."
You: "No I'm not."
Me: "Yes, you are."
You: *silence*
Me: "YES, YOU ARE. You ARE."

What happened next surprised us both. You started crying. Hard. And as soon as you did, I couldn't hold it in. I cried, too. Right then and right there. And the whole time I was squeezing your hand and you were squeezing your eyes as tight as you could to hold back those tears.

They came anyway.

This didn't end with you promising to never get high again. Or with me safely delivering you to a rehab center and all of us rejoicing in the hallways singing mumma-say mumma-sah mu mah koosah either. But you did let me hold your hand way longer than I thought you would.

After I left your room, I stood in the hallway weeping. My shoulders were shaking and my fist was balled up and held to my mouth. I shook my head and kept saying out loud, "I am so, so sorry, little brother. I am so, so sorry." My whole team was standing right there for all of it, too. And I didn't care. The part inside of your room and the part outside in the hallway, too.

"Do you think this could get him to stop?" my student asked.

“I don’t know," I said. "But I do think just like mean stacks up so does kind. So I keep trying, you know?"

She nodded in response. I meant every word.
***

Dear little brother,

You are not a lost cause. 
You are not a lost cause.
You are not a lost cause. 
You are not.

Okay?

***

Barriers to caring.

"She doesn't speak English," my resident said.
"Okay," I replied. "Let's call the interpreter and then go see another patient until they are ready for us."
"We can use the phone line or the video chat interpreters."

That's what the med student said. And honestly, it was a very good suggestion considering how busy we were that morning.

But.

See, I had never met this patient. And though I am deeply appreciative of the technology that affords us easy, prompt ways to close language barriers, whenever I can help it, I like everybody talking on that first meeting to have a pulse that I can feel.

Our Grady interpreters are so amazing. They have this way of melting away during a discussion and allowing you and your patient to really, truly connect. And again--sometimes I have no choice but to use the phone or video interpreter. On this day, though? I had a choice, man. I did.

Yep.

And so. With the help of Maria, one of our exceptional Spanish interpreters, I listened to the story of this patient. And not just the story of her present illness. The story of her life outside of the hospital. Of her six children who make her very, very proud. Of the tiny details of her symptoms that only come out when feeling unhurried. I also loved that her fluent-in-English son and daughter didn't have to interpret but instead got to sit there and just do what every single other family with a matriarch in the hospital l gets to do: Love their mama, ask their questions, and worry as only they can.

Yup.

The next day she felt better. And, again, I called that human-being interpreter even though the technology and bilingual family member options were readily available. And since she didn't feel sick anymore, this time I learned even more about my patient.

Here's what I learned:

We both have a spoiled labradoodle.
We both have danced all night at a wedding in Mexico City.
We both wish we'd worked harder in school to learn the native tongue of the other.
Neither of us like cheese. (Yuck.)

She's never been to my hometown so I told her all about southern California. I've never been to or even heard of hers so I listened to her paint a vibrant picture of her hometown in Mexico--a place with breathtaking waterfalls and rivers so blue they make you want to cry. "Agua turquesa!" she said with closed eyes for emphasis. Her kids nodded in agreement. Then her English-speaking son insisted that me and his mom Google image it right then and there. Which we did. And she was right--words didn't do those turquoise waters justice. No, they did not.

And I want you to know that that human-being interpreter shared everything we said word-for-word. And none of it took long but all of it made my patient feel better. Which made me feel better, too.

Here's what I know for sure:

Barriers to care can create barriers to caring. Every single time I call and wait for an interpreter to come, it honors my patient. Now more than ever, I want to do that. And though I (always) feel slightly annoyed with myself for being a Los Angelino who doesn't hablás español and though I'm (always) impatient with the time (no matter how short) I have to wait for the human-being interpreter to come, not one single time have I ever regretted it after the fact.

Nunca.


I'm really thankful for our interpreters at Grady.
***
#mejortrabajodelahistoria #elamoresloque #bestjobever #loveisthewhat #amazinggrady #iwanttogotosanluispotosinow #herhometownisdope #nowaterfallsininglewood

From from.

“Where are your people from? Maybe Mississippi or an island?” 

- India.Arie, “Brown Skin”

Grady elevator, July 4.

Him: “Hey doc.”
Me: “Hey there, sir.”
*silence*
Him: “Hey doc? Where you from?”
Me: “Me? I’m from California.”
Him: “No I meant like, where you FROM FROM.”
Me: “Ummmm. Born in Compton. Raised in Inglewood.” *holds up hand gesture* “West syeeeeeed.”

*laughter*

Him: *squints eyes* “But where your peoples from?”
Me: “Alabama.”
Him: “Alabama? So you just regular black? I was thinking you was something else.”

Me: *shrugs and smiles* “Nope.”
Him: *still pondering my ancestry*

*silence*

Me: “So tell me, friend. Where’re you from?”
Him: “Straight out the A. Vine City.”
Me: “Gotcha. Is that where you’re FROM FROM? Like, your peoples, too?”
Him: “Yep. I’m just a regular ass n*** from Atlanta.”

*silence*

Me: “So, why are you at Grady today on Firecracker day?”
Him: “To see my grandmama. She been real sick.”
Me: “I’m sorry to hear that. Are y’all close?”
Him: “She my heart.” *eyes glistening so looks down* “I see her every day.”
Me: “I bet she’s so glad to see you everyday.”
Him *nods and keeps looking down*

After that, I asked his name and told him mine. I told him that I thought his grandmama was a very lucky woman to have a special grandson who came to see her every single day. And then I reached my floor and the doors opened. I stepped out but then turned back to face him with my hand on the door.

Me: “Hey grandson? Can you do me and your grandmama a favor?”
Him: *looks up* “Yes, ma’am.”
Me: “Please don’t ever, ever refer to yourself as a ‘regular ass n***’ again, okay? Like, ever. Because you’re not.”
Him: *staring at me while I stand in the doorway as elevator buzzer starts going off*
Me: “Alright then, grandson. Go see ‘bout your heart. She waiting on you.”
Him: “Alright then, doc.”

Me: *smiling*
Him: *smiling back*

Both of us: *fist bump*

I love this place.❤️🏥

***
#slowtojudge #hewasspecial #peopleoftenaskwhereimfromfrom #butonlymyownpeopleask #itscooltho #totallycoolwithme #dialoguestarter #amazinggrady #loveisthewhat #alwaysandinallways