*Names and details changed to protect anonymity. . . .you know what's up.
Tell me more! Tell me more!
Grady Wards Fall 2011:
Finished up my history and physical exam of this ninety-something year old Grady elder and decided to make a little small talk.
"Mrs. Porter, are you from Atlanta?"
"Sho' is. Born and raised right here. Well, really more like Avondale, but you know tha's still Atlanta."
"Definitely."
"Been comin' to Gradys all my life. You know, back then Avondale was all colored."
"Is that right?"
"Sho' was. But it always was nice, you know?"
"Yes, ma'am. Avondale is still a pretty cool neighborhood if you ask me."
"Mmm hmmm. It do pretty good."
"Children? Did you have any children?"
"All my kids they dead."
Thought about the fact that people who live to see their ninth decade may have to face the dreadful possibility of outliving their kinfolk. Put that on a post-it in my head to revisit later.
"I'm sorry to hear that, Mrs. Porter. So. . .how many children did you have, ma'am?"
"Well. . .outta my own womb I had seb'm. But then there was two more that I raised like they was mine so altogether tha's nine."
Took down the post-it and tried hard to get my head around outliving nine children. Realized I couldn't so put it back on the wall in my head for later.
"Wow. That's amazing. Were the other two nieces or nephews? Or younger brothers and sisters maybe?"
"Oh, naw. They was from my husband. See, he had to chil'ren that wadn't with me in between them seb'm we had."
Wait, huh?
"Your husband had two children while. . . .uhh. . .okay."
Wasn't sure what to say next.
"Yeah. Two of our kids less than six months apart." She laughed out loud like this was real, real funny.
At this point just sitting there confused. She kept on talking.
"See, when he was in the army, he had one baby by one lady and after the service he had another from this ol' nasty woman. You know them mamas wadn't no count so I went on and raised them myself. Sho' did. See, back then, womenfolk didn't get all bent outta shape 'bout stuff like that. Fightin' over they men and such. Naw. We jest welcomed 'em on in and took care of 'em like they was ours."
Please believe it--she was 100% serious. Do you hear me?
"You know 'cause a man got needs. And you know, depending on wha's goin' on with you and yo' body and such. . you know, like if you with-child and feelin' sick or still got the baby on the ninny a' somethin' like that you know? You ain't always up for no rompin' round. But what can you do? A man got needs, baby." Said this with a nonchalant shrug.
Loving. This. Story.
0_0
"Mmmm hmmm. They was some good kids, them two. Even if they didn't come out my own womb they was mine jest like all the other ones was. But they mamas? Now tha's another story."
"So . . . you didn't really mind that your husband had babies with someone else even though you were married?"
"What you gon' do? Once the baby on the way what you gon' do but love it?"
I wasn't thinking about what I could do to the baby. Instead I thought of choice places to squarely stick my foot on said husband's body. Tried to get with what she said. Hmmm. Okay, awww hell naw. Next I fixed my facial expression once it dawned on me that I was giving Mrs. P the hairy eyeball.
-_0
"Mmm hmmm. 'Cause see, a man got needs. And if you ain't up to meetin' his needs then tha's what happened 'fore they had all these ways to stop you from getting with-child. Nowadays I guess it ain't such an issue."
0_o
"Mmmm hmm. What other questions you won't to know?"
Smiling big and wide. "That's all I really wanted to know for now."
"Okay, baby. Now get on out my room so I can get me some sleep, hear?"
"Yes, ma'am."
And that was the end of that.
Sandy got that memo.
Moral of the story:
Ladies! Quit your belly-achin'! A man has needs.Needs, I tell you!
*Uuuhhh, be right back.*
***
Happy Tuesday.
I have a feeling Sandy wasn't leaving her situation up to chance. . . I'm just sayin'.
This was the start of an exchange I had with one of my patients on rounds last week. A man in his ninth decade with a weathered face like dark tan leather but eyes with the innocent twinkle of an infant. He had just been hospitalized for worsening of his long-standing heart failure. His complaints included the standard drill of a weak left ventricle--shortness of breath upon exertion, a "drowning sensation" when trying to lie flat, and ankles that looked exactly like they'd been padded with Play-dough.
"Too much salt. That's what happened, I know. Too much salt."
"Wow. I appreciate your honesty," I replied while still holding the hand he'd used to greet me. "Were you taking all of your medicines?"
"Yes, ma'am. I tekks my medicines like clockwork. But see I been moving a little more slow and with my arth-er-itis my hands get to aching when I try to prepare a meal, see."
"Okay."
"Yeah, so I ain't been mekk-ing my own meals like usual, see. See, normally? I cuts up and cleans my own greens, snaps my own peas, all that. All fresh. But I can't do all that so I been going over to the senior center. They got meals for the seniors over there, see. Jest three dollars."
"Hmmm."
"But, see, since they gots to mekk all that food for so many folk they gets it all from cans and such. They collards come out a can. They give you some soup, too. You know, 'cawse some of the seniors they can't chew so well."
"So you've been eating there a lot?"
"Every day. Tha's all I can do. 'Cawse my chil'ren don't live nearby. I mean, they see about me when they can, but not ev'ry day. So thank God for that senior center or else I'd be goin' hungry."
"Hmmm, I hear you, sir. Sounds like they've been a big help." I pressed my lips together for a moment and looked down at his hands. "Your hands. Tell me about your hands hurting you."
"Oh, well I was tekkin' some Aleves. But then my doctor say don't tekk no Aleves if you got heart failure 'cawse it can mekk your heart flare up. And look like she was right 'cawse my heart was backing up fluid when I was tekkin' them Aleves."
"Uh huh."
"But, see, them Aleves? They sho' knock that ol' Arthur back and put him in his place." He cackled and shook his head. "She, you know--my doctor--she said go on and tekk some Tylenol. But you know Tylenol don't do nothin'."
"So your hands started hurting you more?"
"Yes, ma'am. I tried some salve, too. That salve work on my knees but for the hands it ain't no count."
"I hear you."
"Yep. So my hands can't prepare my food. And the food I can get don't agree with my heart 'cawse is all salty. Not salt-shekker salty. Jest that salt that hide in it from the can, see. That's why this happened."
"I think you are right, sir. I really think you have it exactly right."
And after that I just stood there for a few beats holding his hand in some kind of trance. Wondering what the hell I could do to help with this vicious cycle. I rubbed my thumb over the lumpy and swollen joints of his fingers. His knuckles rose and fell like the Rocky mountains and each finger sunk inward like a swaybacked horse. I thought about his insight about what had happened and why he was hospitalized and marveled at how spot on he was.
"Is it okay if I examine you now?"
"Go right ahead, baby."
I smiled at him calling me "baby." It was the kind of "baby" that floats perfectly out of the mouths of elders and immediately wraps you in a cocoon of safety and love. Not that "baby" that's often preceded by "hey" that spews from the mouths of slimy dudes holding toothpicks between their teeth.
And so I carefully palpated his heart. I felt it leaping beneath my palm, pushing it back like some kind of bully in the lunch line. I lay my stethoscope down and heard the rhythmic galloping of the blood passing through his stiffened and dilated heart muscle. I inspected his neck veins and wasn't the least bit surprised to find them swollen like stuffed sausages--visible clear up to his earlobe. All of this done with him sitting almost fully upright, which wasn't exactly ideal but was the most comfortable position for him.
He took deep breaths for me as my scope traveled across his octogenarian back. I tried not to notice a large blackhead that beckoned me to squeeze it; I quickly shook my head, closed my eyes and focused on listening to his lungs. With each inspiration it sounded like bubbles being blown through a straw; this was why he couldn't lie flat and this was exactly what happens when a body that is sensitive to fluid gets too much salt.
"What is it about salt anyways?" he finally asked as I mashed my finger into his doughy ankles.
"Salt is a bossy little leader and water is a total follower," I told him. "Wherever salt goes, water follows behind it. So if you get a bunch of salt in your body, the water wants to follow right behind it."
"Into your lungs and into your legs, right?" he added.
"Yep."
"And you might not know this, but into your scrotum-sack, too."
I chuckled out loud at that and nodded. "The water follows gravity. If you are walking around and it's only a little extra fluid, it's just in your ankles. If you lie in bed then it could be on your backside or yes, even your scrotum-sack."
"Wheeeewwww-weeee. Whatchoo talkin' bout!" he exclaimed with a playful wince.
I found myself pausing again. Just standing there puffing one of my cheeks out like a child and not knowing what to do. I knew what to do in the short term, just not the long term. Like, I could give him more diuretic to get some more fluid off of him, I could restrict his diet of salt in the hospital, and control his blood pressure--I knew that part. But as far as a longterm solution? That wasn't so easy.
The simple fact was that he had it right on. Food for masses almost always involves more sodium than somebody on a two-gram-per-day diet should have. And when that's the food that's keeping you from "goin' hungry" then honestly? What choice do you have?
Those knots and lumps on his eighty-something year-old hands had been earned. And he was right. No salve or over-the-counter pill was going to make them less stiff or less eighty-something years-old.
Damn.
"Sir?"
"Yes, baby?"
"Have you ever thought about. . . not living by yourself?"
"No, ma'am. Not really. I likes to do for myself. Always have."
"Oh, okay."
Of course, he did. Who doesn't like (mostly) doing for themself that's full-grown? I wasn't sure what to say next, so I didn't say anything.
"Doctor?" I looked up and noticed that sweet twinkle in his eyes again.
"Sir?"
"Don't worry. I'm 'on be okay, baby. Alright?"
I nodded while looking at him. Marveling still at his initial insight, but even more at this insight especially.
"I been through way harder than this, baby. Way harder."
I ran my hands over those pecan-colored Rocky mountains again wondering where they had toiled. Next I caught a glimpse of his date of birth stamped on the wrist identification band--the early 1920's. I thought about what all his hands have had had to fight since that decade and gave that hand a squeeze. When I looked up again he was closing his eyes to catch a few winks.
"Alright then, sir," I said softly. "I'll be back to see about you, okay?"
He didn't speak. He just squeezed my hand back and drifted to sleep.
*** Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . . by the great Bill Withers--"Grandma's Hands."
Here are things I saw while walking to my car from the hospital on Friday evening:
A man with a backpack on doing "the running man" on the corner.
Two medical students sitting on a bench eating packed lunches at dinner time
A very young boy holding the door for a woman who appeared to be nearing her 80th year.
A colleague interpreting Spanish for a family that appeared to be lost
Them looking relieved that she really hablas-ed Espanol for real, not Spanglish or that quasi-Spanish where people talk louder and make weird hand gestures
A man smoking a cigarette while leaning his elbow on the "NON-SMOKING ZONE" sign.
Another man asking him if he "got another square?"
That smoking man handing him a cigarette and me learning what a "square" is.
Two teenagers arguing while walking down the street.
One of the teenagers holding (read:lugging) an infant carrier up the street. With a very young infant being carried in it.
The boy (who clearly didn't do the infant carrying in utero) also wasn't the one doing the infant carrying now either.
Him not noticing my hairy eyeball because he was too busy dropping F-bombs.
A woman sitting straddle-legged behind a man on the steps of our Glenn Medical Education Building. . . . lovingly placing cornrows in his hair like they were at home.
That hair-braiding woman asking me for "some money for food because we homeless" which let me know that, actually, they were at home.
Me looking at my tapping foot as she spoke and hoping that if I gave them money it would not be spent on the terrible habit controlling nearly half of my inpatients this week.
That hair-braiding woman shaking her head no when I told her my concern about giving money.
The Glenn Building at Grady
Three residents waving at me from across the street
One security officer teasing me about the fact that I often forget my badge
A senior faculty member passing me on the way to their ground level "senior faculty level" parking space
My iPhone with two text messages across the front: One from the fourth year medical student who had been on my team all month asking about "his patient." All the way from San Francisco where he was at the time. Felt my heart swell at the reference of this person as "his patient" and the fact that from his vacation he was still concerned enough to reach out about him.
Quickly punched a reply: "Your patient--just saw him and is recovering from his surgery well. Asked about you and would be happy to know you asked about him, too!"
The other text? One from the B.H.E. . .very simple and very Harry: "Love you."
Before pulling out of the garage, tapped back our favorite reply: "Me too."
Totally wanted to yell, "Do the running man! Do the running man!" (Click the image if you don't know what "the running man" is.)
I was really tired when I woke up yesterday morning. Atlanta has one of the highest pollen counts in the U.S. and it's been a rough spring for me. I've been spraying my nose with steroid spray like a good patient and taking my antihistamine, too. The itchy nose and eyes are somewhat better, but like clock work, that post nasal drip always gets me in the middle of the night. From about three that morning until the alarm went off, I hacked and hacked. This dry-ish, annoying hack. My only solace was sitting almost fully erect to keep the phlegm from rolling down my throat and triggering my cough reflex.
Gross, I know.
Anyways. Isaiah made it out to the bus in good time. He was in high spirits and he shook my hand hard telling me that "it was going to be a great day and you can bet on it!" right before he stepping onto the big yellow kid-mobile. He gave the busdriver an effusive "Good morning!" without me even having to tell him to do so through a clenched smile. Maybe it was going to be a good day.
I came inside and made some coffee. Daydreamed for a few minutes. Wrote a three line blog post, the kind that makes my dad say, "Hey, did I miss something?" To which I say, "It's haiku, Dad!" To which he retorts, "Hai-what?" "Haiku!" I say. "Uh. . .okay," he says. And then we both just laugh.
I got a bit behind the eight ball once I came back inside. I'm not sure what I did to waste so much time (I mean that blog post was only seventeen syllables!) but next thing I knew I had ten minutes to get myself dressed for clinic and make certain Zachary was ready to leave with Harry. Zachy was standing by the door and "ready to rock and roll" as he puts it, and I had three minutes to spare.
Not too bad.
"My backpack is not heavy today, Mommy!" Zachary proclaimed, which reminded me that, "Damn!" I had forgotten to pack him a lunch. Into the kitchen I scurry; quickly putting something together that would not lead to a text message from his teacher. (Have I mentioned that Zachary's pre-school mandates that the lunch is healthy? Send a bag of Doritos, and you can count on getting them right back.) Anyways. Get the dude's lunch packed and run to my room to finish getting myself together.
At this point, officially will be late. But not late-late so I put as much pep in my step as I can. Try to put my contacts in three times, and they feel itchy. Very annoying considering I am convinced that my vision is better in my contacts than my glasses. I refuse to admit it is because my left eye is so bad that my left lens for my frames is super thick and that this is really just vanity.
Anyways.
A few moments later, I'm arming the house and preparing to leave. . . and what do I see on my bed? Aww, hell no! Zachary's LUNCHBOX. Ugghhh!
Harry and Zachary were long gone, which meant one thing and one thing only. I would have to take the lunch to Zachary's school. Which is technically very, very close to Grady Hospital, but considering the fact that I was already late, stopping anywhere would be sure to cross me from late into late-late.
Arrggghh.
For no purpose whatsoever, I call Harry to alert him of how inconvenienced I was about to be to which he calmly replied, "You want me to just order him a pizza?" Which made me say, "A pizza isn't healthy!" I decide then that I am annoyed by this "healthy lunch" clause that seemed so rad when I was enrolling him there, and, again, for no purpose whatsoever, tell Harry that this is what I am feeling about this stipulation. He just kind of holds the phone and says, "Tell you what? How 'bout I meet you on Dekalb Avenue and Boulevard to grab it, okay?" I smile and tell him that he is the B.H.E. which is my text message speak for "best husband ever" but I say the three letters any way, kind of like people say "LOL" or "OMG."
Wait, where was I? Oh yeah. On my way to work.
I was now teetering on late-late. The lights were in my favor and after our quick hand-off, in a snap I was pulling into the Grady parking garage. I had fairly decent parking lot karma this day, and the minute I parked (4th level!) I sent a quick text to my colleague in the clinic to let her know that I was minutes away. Like in the parking lot even. Fortunately, she was cool about it which this particular colleague generally is.
I power walk across the street and finally into the hospital. Arms pumping, bag on my shoulder, super hurried head nods and "hey theres" to people along the way, but giving off body language that clearly, clearly lets them know: "No time for small talk." Even my friend from the gift shop, Ms. Renee, who I always stop and talk to didn't act annoyed when I waved at her and then said, "You doin' alright?" while walking backwards.
I needed to hurry up. No time for my normal chit-chat and blogworthy moments. Down the hall, through the atrium and into the clinic corridor. 8:43 a.m. Late, yes. Two minutes shy of late-late.
I start jogging toward the stairwell in the clinic hall. Finally I reach for the handle, panting from all of the rushing. As I pull back on the heavy door, I hear:
"Ex-ex-excuse me! Excuse me, do-doctor!"
A heavy set woman wearing a bright orange shirt with a matching necklace is scuffling toward me. She seems out of breath, her buxom chest moving up and down as she caught her breath. "I-I-I knnn-ow you are in a," she paused to find her words carefully, "hur-hur-hurry."
She was right. I was in a hurry. Like a big hurry.
"Yes, ma'am, I am in a huge, huge hurry. . . are you looking for something in the hospital?" I offered. Her language was that slow and careful speech often seen in people who have suffered strokes. I needed to give her a yes/no option since I had less than 90 seconds before the late-late bell tolled.
"N-n-n-no. I-I-I am n-n-not lost."
Ugghh. So much for that. I parted my lips to tell her that unfortunately, I had to go. But. Something told me to just stop and listen. This woman was walking with a slight limp, and despite not appearing that old, had obviously suffered some kind of a neurological event. I had no idea what could be of such urgency that she would need to chase me down, even with her residual weakness and obvious expressive aphasia.
Something told me. To stop.
I remembered the last time I'd received such a nudge and didn't listen. It felt like that. I looked at my cell phone--8:45. Then I looked at her, eyes glistening, face genuine. I let go of the door. And of my chance of making it into the Green Clinic before being deemed late-late. This time, I would listen.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Y-y-y-you saved. . .my-my. . .l-l-life," she spoke.
Wait, huh?
I remember people. In fact, one thing that Isaiah inherited from his mother is an excellent memory. He always says, "We have good brains for remembering things, right Mom?" And I always say, "We sure do, me and you." I do have a good brain for remembering. I remember names. Details. Places. Numbers. But especially, I remember people. I had never seen this woman in my entire life. I had no idea what she was talking about.
Even if it sounded good.
"Have we met?" I asked her. "That's such a kind thing to say, but I am wondering are you thinking of another doctor maybe?"
I combed my mind for another physician in our hospital that she could have mistaken for me. I could think of many with my complexion, but not a single person with such short hair or oddball personality. And seeing as I and most of my friends of all races don't believe in that old saying of "all black folks looking alike"--this is just that much more odd.
"N-n-no. I. . . .s-s-saw you . . . . on Fox 5. . a-a-and," she exhaled at the exhaustion of having to work hard to find her words,"y-y-you said. . . to. . t-t-take care of YOU first. . . b-b-because if . . you. . .p-put . . .YOU last a-and lose Y-YOUR health. . . you. . . you. . .are no g-good to a-nyone. Y-YOU first is l-like putting th-them first."
Was she for real?
I cocked my head sideways at her incredulously. Wait, did I even say that? Okay, here's the thing. Once per week, I scoot over to this local TV station to do a two to three minute health segment live on the air with an anchor. I've been coming over there for a few years now, and admittedly get pretty relaxed during the segments. I couldn't then and still can't remember saying those exact words, but it definitely sounds like the kind of thing I would say. Hell, I say all kinds of things.
I reached out and grabbed her hand and squeezed it, feeling slightly ashamed for trying to ditch her.
"I'm sorry that I was rushing away from you. I really appreciate you stopping me to say that. . .really."
She went on with her testimony. "I-I am a s-s-single mo-ther of three k-k-kids. A-a-and I was n-n-not tak-ing care of m-m-me only th-them. Then I h-had a str-stroke. My blood p-pressure was s-s-so high and I even h-h-had dia-betes and d-d-didn't know."
I kept gripping her hand, hanging on her every word. The moment felt divine. I was so glad I stayed to listen.
"Th-th-this s-side of my b-b-body was not e-even work-ing," she went on as she gestured to her right side, "I w-was feeling s-so sorry for m-m-my-self. That's when I sss-saw you on the t-t v that day. I knew I h-had to d-d-do something."
"Wow," I replied.
She refused to let the speech impediment stop her from finishing. "And at-at first I couldn't e-e-even talk, either. But I fought. F-for ME. I h-have lost almost forty p-pounds, doctor. Fff-forty pounds! And I keep a-a-all my doctor's appointments. I am t-taking care of M-ME so I can t-take care of them." She patted her chest emphatically. "Ff-for ME."
Wow.
I wanted to cry so bad. I know. I'm always wanting to cry so bad at Grady. But the thing is. . . I had started that day off feeling sleep deprived and then by blogging these words at 7:07 a.m. :
"Another Monday Another chance to become the me I strive for."
See? All morning, I had been asking myself who that was. Like who is the me I strive for, even? Like what did that mean even? I'm still not sure. But I am thinking the me I strive for would be one who stops and listens to someone. And this moment is making me think that just maybe the me I strive for is doing something really close to what she is supposed to be doing in this life. . including encouraging someone along the way, even when she doesn't know it. That plus this woman standing in front of me telling me her story is why I wanted to cry so bad.
Man, oh man.
"Thank you. Thank you so much for telling me this. You have no idea what it means to me," I told her. "No idea."
"Th-thank you for saving m-my life," she responded, her eyes now fresh with lacrimation.
I shook my head. "No. You saved your own life."
She smiled at me wide and kind and like she meant it. And I did the same back.
We hugged tight, almost like we knew each other. I asked her permission to tell this story and take her picture. She obliged. I told her that maybe her story might save someone else's life. Or one day, even mine.
Thank you for sharing.
Isaiah was right. This was going to be a great day. You could bet on it.
***
Happy Tuesday.
***
My take on medical media. . . .guess you never know who's really listening. . . .
I was riding a full elevator shortly after lunch today at Grady, and a cafeteria worker stepped on holding a tray of food. She wasn't pushing that giant hot cart that forces everyone riding along into a tight corner. This seemed to be a special meal being brought to one person. Most notable were the two pieces of cake balanced on top of the rest of the food.
I made a bit of small talk as I often do in the Grady lift. "Somebody missed the trays getting passed?" I asked. "Looks like they lucked out and got two pieces of cake for their patience."
The other people on the elevator all politely offered smiles.
The food services lady just beamed and replied, "No, ma'am. She didn't miss her tray. I just been bringing her food in the whole time she been here, and it seems like it ain't never nobody there to visit her or nothing. Today was something I know she don't eat. I know what she like, so I went on ahead and got her something else."
Wow. How nice, I thought to myself. The softened eyes and approving expressions of the other passengers let me know that they felt the same way, too. The woman holding the tray offered the sweetest, most endearing smile and added in a quiet voice,"I saw on her arm band that today her birthday. I know it ain't much, but it seem like everybody should have something at least a little bit special 'bout they birthday, don't you think? She probably gon' be like, 'If you don't get outta here with that cake!' " She chuckled, amused with herself.
Read her armband? Noticed her birthday? While passing hospital food trays?Seriously?
Wow.
She lightweight choked me up with that one. I shook my head and sighed. "That is so kind of you. For real."
"She just don't seem like she have nobody," she answered, now looking slightly embarrassed. "I tried to find a candle for her to blow out. . . " she laughed nervously, "but since I couldn't find n'an I just put some white frosting on what I had and give her two pieces instead of one."
The whole cabin fell silent as we all took in the thoughtfulness of this simple gesture. The doors parted and she stepped forward with the celebratory tray. She looked back at us, shrugged her narrow shoulders and said, "Guess I'm gon' sing Happy Birthday to her, too."
Sigh.
See y'all? This is why I love Grady. It is moments just like these that I am reminded of exactly what is so special about this place that is so often poorly understood. Are we short on some things that some other fancier and better-funded hospitals may have? Sure. But one thing this place isn't short on at all is heart. And, trust me, heart is a sho' nuff part of healing.
Today I was reminded that "heart" comes from more than just the doctors and the nurses. Sometimes it comes on a Formica platter with a singing telegram.
"This patient will never forget you doing this for her, ma'am," I told her firmly. I touched her arm when I said this, and I'm not sure why. I just felt the need to touch her. Others on the elevator seemed equally moved. It kind of felt like we were having a bit of church up in that elevator. Or better yet, like the Grady elders say, "God is in this place."
Silence fell again as she stepped off onto her floor.
"Thank you," a nurse standing in the back corner finally blurted just before the doors met and sealed. The nurse then muttered under her breath, "Y'all can say what y'all want about Grady. . . ."
I looked over my shoulder and let my eyes quickly meet those of that nurse. She had taken the words right out of my mouth.
Kicking up my feet on Saturday post rounds in my office. (Yep, I wear jeans on weekends.)
I was rounding with my team post call on rounds today and one of my interns, Tyler, asked me a very reasonable question:
"What in the world is a 'risin'?"
Let me put this into context for you. We'd seen a patient with multiple soft tissue abscesses on her arms, legs and abdomen, likely pus collections from a germ we commonly see in the hospital called staphylococcus aureus (or "staph" for short.) While the whole team was at the bedside, I asked the patient, "When did you first start getting these risins on your body?" (What can I say? I'm one to cut to the chase.)
That launched us into a glorious discussion of "Grady-isms," or words and phrases that you probably should know if you want to navigate the waters of this fire-breathing dragon of a county hospital called Grady. Oh, I should mention that a lot of these "Grady-isms" do reach beyond the doors of my dear old Grady. It's probably fair to say that a lot of this language is indigenous to folks in the southern United States, and some of the terms tend to be more common amongst African-Americans. (FYI: As a sho' nuff African-American, I can authorize this statement.)
Terminology one must know for survival and effective communication in Grady Hospital:* *(NOTE: Use care with YOUR personal use of these words unless you are are culturally competent enough to do so-- otherwise, it comes out all WRONG. . and can border on offensive. Trust me on this, people.)
"Risin"' - an abscess or a boil or an alleged spider bite. "I'm here because I got a risin on my behind."
"Nature"- anything referring to a man's ability to gain an erection "I ain't taking that medicine 'cause it messes with my nature."
"Running off" - having diarrhea "I started running off last night."
"Fell out" - fainted "One minute I was standing there, then I just fell out."
"The Gouch" - gout "My toe swoll up and somebody told me I had the gouch one time."
"Arthur" - arthritis (as in Arthur-itis) "How you doing, sir?" "Well, ol' Arthur is messing with me today."
"Minute" - a really, really long time. "Hey there, Miss Manning! I ain't seen you in a minute!"
"Hot minute" - a really short time "My chest has only been hurting for a hot minute."
"Straight" - fine, well, okay. "Sir, are you okay?" "Yeah, I'm straight."
"Straight" - really? seriously? "Obama won the Nobel Peace Prize today." "Straight?" (can also be "straight up")
"Straight "- really, really awesome. "How did you like Dr. Malebranche when I referred you to him?" "Aww man, Miss Manning! He was straight!"
"Black n' Milds"- Pipe tobacco cigarillos
"Pack-a-last" - how much a person smokes. "Sir, how much do you smoke?" "Awww, Miss Manning, a pack-a-last me 2 days." "Oh, so you smoke half a pack per day?" "Naww. A pack-a-last me 2 days." "Gotcha."
"Peoples" - family "Wher're your peoples?" "They all over Atlanta, but I don't never talk to them."
"Church-home" - your church "Ma'am, do you have a church-home?" "Yes, I go to Berean Christian Church on Panola."
"Stay" - live"Where do you stay?" "I stay off of Bankhead with my cousin and his son right now."
"See about" - check on, visit, take care of. "You said you live by yourself?" "Yeah, but my son lives around the corner and he sees about me 'bout once, twice a week."
"Toot" - snorting cocaine
"Shoot" - injecting any kind of illicit substance. "Do you shoot?" "Aww, heck no. I'll toot sometimes, but I don't never shoot."
"Dip"- putting smokeless tobacco in your cheek or lip "Do you smoke, ma'am?" "No. But I do dip."
"Billy Dee" - Colt 45 beer(disclaimer: only heard this one once, but think it's hilarious!See my post from 9/4/09)
"Deuce Deuce" - 22 oz beer, usually malt liquor
"The Shakes" - Alcohol withdrawal tremors
"Crumbsnatchers" - little kids"Hey there, Miss Manning! How them crumbsnatchers doin'?" "Oh they're great, thanks so much for asking!"
"High blood" - hypertension
"Low blood" - anemia
"Testes" - tests "I'm only here to get the results of my testes."
"Mash" - push"What floor, ma'am?" "Can you mash twelve please?"
"Miss" - Doctor "Hi there, my name is Dr. Manning." "It's nice to meet you, Miss Manning."
Okay, for real. . .what is there NOT to love about this job? I'm sure that I am blanking on some really important ones, but this is definitely a start. (If I forgot a whopper, hit me in comments.) Like I said, a lot of these terms are not unique to Grady and Atlanta only, but understanding these words sure does help with caring for folks at Grady!
Gotta run. . . Harry and the crumbsnatchers have been gone for a minute and will be getting back soon! :)
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?
