Heavy on my soul.

"I don't know no love songs

and I can't sing the blues any more

but I can sing this song 

and you can sing this song

when I'm gone."

- James Taylor

"You okay?"

I pointed at my chest. "Who me?" 

"Yeah, you. Look like something heavy on your soul."

That's what my patient said to me on rounds the other day. It was late in the afternoon and visiting him was the last thing on my to-do list before heading out of Grady. He'd had some tests and I'd come back to check in on him and explain results. He'd need a minor procedure the following day and I wanted to be sure he was okay with it all. He was. After we'd gone through all of the business parts, I realized I had some time. Instead of walking out to chat with friends or my team, I pulled up the bedside chair and made up my mind to spend that window chatting with him. And honestly? Nothing about it was heavy. If anything, it was light.

Quite light.

A woman was on the television talking about a myriad of unimportant things and repeatedly kept using the word "slay" to describe any and everything. Her outfit. Her friend's hair. Michelle Obama's entire time in the White House. And even the person interviewing her. It was "slay" this and "slay" that.

Yeah, man. So, really, we were talking about whether or not the word "slay" had been officially beat to death or not. Me with my arm leaning on the bed rail and him narrowing his eyes and tapping his chin to give this topic far more thought than both of us knew it deserved.

It was perfect.

See, it had been a bit of a rough week. And with all the sandpaper rubbing against my heart over those last few days, this mundane chat with my young (but sick) patient was like a balm for my emotionally  weary soul. Plus, I really liked this patient. His energy spoke to my own from the moment I first shook his hand on rounds a few days before.  So, on this day in particular, I was really thankful to sit with him.

Yeah.

"I blame Beyoncé," I said.

"The Queen Bey? Honey, she is never at fault." He let out a moist cough into his fist and then slapped his chest a few times. I started to stand up to check on him and he stopped me. "I'm okay. Stay put."

I nodded and sat back down. Then went back to our conversation. "But you have to admit the word has been beat to death."

"Slay? Beat to death? Hmm. I don't think so. But it can't be the only thing you say, you know? Like, you have to mix it up. Everybody and everything can't slay." Right when he said that, the lady said it again. We both laughed.

We sat in silence for a few beats. And then I spoke. "Confession: I still say 'legit.' And 'epic.'"

"Whoa. You legit say legit still? And epic?" He widened his eyes playfully and raised his eyebrows. "And you seemed so cool at first."

"My niece asked me if I knew that wasn't really a thing people say any more. She legit said that to me." That made me snort out loud because it was so funny to me. He laughed, too. Followed by another cough.

After that the room fell silent again. The TV kept going and, other than my patient clearing his throat or coughing here and there, we weren't moving or talking. So there I sat. Chin in my palm and mostly just enjoying that moment. Which was good.

Really good.

A few more seconds passed and that's when he said it. Swung his head  in my direction and rested his brown eyes on me. Even though I was facing the television, I could still tell he we was looking at me.

"You okay, doc?" he said.

"Who me?" I pointed at my chest.

"Yeah, you."

I turned my head away from the television and back toward him. I poked out my lip and furrowed my brow.

"Look like you got something heavy on your soul."

Heavy on my soul.

I didn't say anything. Instead I just stared at him, surprised at how warm my face was becoming and embarrassed at how my eyes were stinging with tears.

"I'm okay," I finally said, speaking quietly. "But yes. That's a good way to put it. Something is heavy on my soul these days. But I'm okay."

"I hate hearing that. And here you are having to see about everybody else."

"No, it's okay. In fact, it's more than okay. Really."

I didn't talk because I didn't want to start crying, you know? But really, he was right. Something was heavy on my soul.

I wanted to tell him, too. I wanted to tell my patient--this patient who embodied every single thing I love about patient care and patient caring -- all about what was weighing me down. I wanted to talk about it with someone less connected to it, someone who didn't really know me. This way I could just hear the words or see the expressions in response unfiltered. Or, just maybe, I could wrinkle my nose like a little child and cry into balled up fists without any expectations or pressure. Empathy uncut.

But I didn't when he asked. I was his doctor. Though my sitting in his room that afternoon dissecting the social relevance of slang terms didn't exactly fall into the physician playbook I'd been shown in medical school or residency, I knew for sure that flipping the script in this way wasn't even in the same library.

So when he asked, I just stayed silent.

Yeah.

Just about 24 hours before that moment in his room, I was down in the emergency department seeing newly admitted patients with my team. My phone had buzzed twice in my pocket with text messages followed by two or three sustained vibrations from incoming calls. A few seconds later, I felt it happen again and that time, I fished into my white coat to see who it was.

Call me when you can. Alanna is not well. She wanted me to update you.

That was what the text read. It was from my colleague Danielle J. in reference to our friend and colleague Alanna. I walked straight out of that patient room and called immediately. That's when I learned that Alanna, who'd been fighting a ruthless cancer, was now intubated and in intensive care.

Wait, what?

The wind was knocked so hard out of my chest that I had to get out of the ER and away from my team immediately to catch my breath. This wasn't supposed to be happening.

As soon as I got out of there I felt the tears filling up my eyes. Once they began falling, I abruptly stopped. Then I turned my forehead into the nearest wall and let myself cry. And I could feel the people looking at me as they walked by, their feet slowing down and wondering what could be going on with this doctor and the muffled, guttural sounds she was making. No one said anything though. They, too, must have read the doctor-patient playbook and decided not ask.

Maybe.

Maybe my actions spoke enough. I mean, whatever it was had to be awful. A doctor facing a wall with shoulders shaking and body heaving in a stiff white coat said plenty. I guess it did.

Here's the backstory:

I met this remarkable woman named Alanna in July of 2007. I met her on her very first day of medical school when she came and sat in a room with several other medical students. And then, I really, truly met her when that big group was whittled down to just seven individuals--the seven that would go on to become my first small group.

Yeah.

I would get to watch her evolve into a doctor--literally bookending the experience from that very first day with placing a doctoral hood over her shoulders at commencement on her very last. I jumped for joy with her on residency match day and again jumped for joy when, after her residency training, she took a job back at Grady Memorial Hospital and Emory where we first met. This time, though, it would be different. Now we would be colleagues--both of us Grady doctor attendings.

Yeah.

One year into coming back to Grady, she was diagnosed with breast cancer. It was aggressive, but they caught it early. And that Alanna. That tough girl slugged it out. She came to work and taught the residents and rallied on. Finally that final treatment day came and our whole division celebrated by wearing pink in honor of Alanna and every person affected by breast cancer. It was super awesome.

Things seemed to be getting back to normal. Alanna was getting on great as a Grady doctor and showing everyone the very things I got to see as early as July 2007. The accolades poured in and so did the opportunities. And she was over the moon. She was.

Last April she wasn't feeling good. I remember sitting outside having lunch with her between lectures at a medical conference we were both attending in Washington D.C. "I'm feeling a little under the weather," she said. And that was about it.

A week later, she would find out why. Acute leukemia. Yes, after licking breast cancer, she now had a new cross to bear.

"Are they sure?" I asked her.

"They are," she replied.

"I'm so sorry." My voice was a whisper.

"Me, too."

Up until the moment Danielle called me during my rounds that day, it never occurred to me that she wouldn't get through this. Our last chat on the phone was upbeat, hopeful even about the bone marrow donor match that she'd located and the road ahead. "I'm nervous but I'm ready," she told me. "Just ready to get on with my life."

"That's great," I told her. "So great." And then, like usual, I started crying. Crying these complicated tears about how much I hated knowing that her dreams were having these horrific speed breakers thrown before them. I'd think about her adoring husband and their precious son with his head of blonde curls. I could hear her telling me that she wanted more children and how she'd chuckle and refer to the timing of her breast cancer as "super annoying." All of that would make me cry when trying to talk to her. I guess it was because of the nature of how our relationship began. As her formal small group advisor, even when she joined the faculty, my role always felt more familial, maternal-ish and big-sisterly than anything else. And in that role I'd always prided myself in protecting my students. From any and everything I could.

Yeah, so not being able to do that made me cry.

Yeah.

She was super kind with my crying. Patient and super kind like she was with everyone. Because of that, even though we talked sometimes, mostly, we texted. And I'm grateful to this day that she permitted me to do that. So very grateful.

Just a few hours after I got that call about her being in the intensive care unit, another call came in. It was Danielle. And as soon as I saw the phone ringing, I knew.

"She's gone." That's all Danielle could eke out. I slumped to my kitchen floor and dropped the phone. And then we both erupted into tears. And the same thing happened a few more times that same evening.

It sucked.

I was on the hospital service when all of this happened. And, since I'd spent the entire night crying in the fetal position on my bed, I knew that next day would be hard. The faces of some people made me cry even more. Then the text messages from that first small group amplified how out of order this all was. This wasn't supposed to be happening.

So all of this is what was going on that late afternoon when I came to sit with my patient. And he was right--all of this was weighing heavy on my soul. So heavy that I couldn't lift it.

Even still, I wasn't forthcoming when my patient asked. I just stayed silent. Even though the heavy was palpable and suffocating to more than just me.

"I'm okay," I said.

"Okay." That was all my patient said. Except for a few moments later when he repeated it. "Okay."

I tried to take things back to where they were. Light, airy and easy. But it didn't work. That heaviness on my soul was now out of hiding and cloaking the room. It was about time for me to go anyway so I arose from my seat and told him so.

"I'll see you tomorrow, okay?" I said. I tried my best not to sound as somber as I felt. "Don't forget--nothing to eat after midnight, okay?"

"Okey dokey." He held up a thumbs up. I returned the gesture.

I stepped toward the door and stopped short to pump some hand sanitizer foam into my hand. Just as I grabbed the door, he spoke one more time.

"Hey, Dr. Manning? I hope it gets better. Whatever is heavy on your soul, okay?"

I forced a smile and nodded. I pulled the handle of the door and then stopped. But then something clicked in me like a light switch. I spun on my heel and faced his bed from the door.

"Um. One of the doctors I work with here at Grady? Um. Well, she passed away yesterday. And she was young. And I knew her since, like, her first day of medical school." I cleared my throat and pressed my back against the door to keep from crying. "So, today was hard. Because she was really great. Really, really great."

"Was she nice?" he asked.

I smiled at the simplicity of that question. "Nice? She was more than nice. She was the kind of nice that you don't see all the time. Like . . . epic nice. . . genuine and for real, you know?"

"Yeah. I think I do know. What was her name?"

"Her name was Dr. Alanna Stone."

He mouthed out her name and squinted one eye as if he was trying to determine if he knew her. Realizing he didn't, he first shook his head then switched to a nod instead. "Well. Something tell me Dr. Alanna Stone would be happy you was in here spending time with a patient like me on a day like this. It seem like she would like that. Plus sometimes y'all need people to see about y'all, too."

He was right. That thought made the corner of my mouth turn upward on one side. I thought of how someone had told me about how, even in her ICU bed, she checked on the well-being of the physicians involved in her care. She even graciously told them that she trusted and appreciated them--even in her last moments.

"You know what? I think she would." Then something came to me so I went on. "Now that Dr. Alanna Stone? She slayed, man. At everything she did. As a doctor and as a person she did. She really slayed."

My patient gave me a playful smirk. "She legit did?"

"She legit did!"

We both chuckled at that and pretended to give a high five through the air since I was nearly out the door. And just that quick the heavy returned. Pressing upon the room once again and sliding around my chest like a boa constrictor.

"Okay then, sir."

"Hey--Dr. Manning? Thanks for telling me that, okay?"

"Thanks for asking. For real."

We stood there looking at each other. Me at the door, him in his bed.

"I wish I'd met her."

"I wish you had, too."

I think he could feel the emotion mounting again and wanted to let me off the hook. He smiled the warmest, dearest smile ever and waved. "See you tomorrow, Dr. Manning."

"See you tomorrow, sir."

I slipped out of the door and let it quietly close behind me. And then I walked out of the unit as fast as I could. . .through the automatic doors, down the hall. . . and then into the quietest Grady stairwell I could find so that I could lean my head into a wall once more to cry and cry.

Crying because I would miss seeing the life of this beautiful woman continuing to unfold. Crying because thirty four is too young to die. Crying because a little boy had lost his mother and a husband had lost his wife. Crying because one of the most legit epic students-turned-doctors that I have ever witnessed has had her career cut short and that patients like the one I'd just left would never get to meet her. Crying because she slayed which was ironic because that's not a word she would have ever used to describe herself or anything else. But also crying because of that moment with that man and how Alanna herself understood more than anyone that patients take care of doctors, too. That patients save their doctors' lives every single day.

I will miss Dr. Alanna Stone.

Yeah.

***

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . one of my favorite songs of all time.

For Linda.

Let our hearts align in joy and pain

Let our eyes find fleeting solace when we pass in the hallways

Let our minds be willing to remember more than what they must

Or even believe that they must remember one another

Let our hands clap loudly for each triumph

Let our voices rise to the heavens for more than just our own sake

Let us all be aware, no matter how much it hurts . . . .

Since you are here and I am here, too

let us shoulder the sweet burden of love and life together

~ K.M. 

  2/4/2015

____________________________________

She said good bye to her sweet boy 25 years ago today. A truck struck his bicycle. And just like that, her only child was gone. He was only 13 years old. 

He loved to write and laugh and hug. He loved his mother and his life, too. His name was Damien. And her name is Linda. And she is his mother. 

Is.

I work with Linda. Not directly. But I pass her cubicle every single day in our faculty building on the way to my office and always say something like,"Good morning! How are you?" And usually she says, "Wonderful!" or "Great!" But today she didn't say that. Instead she told me that she wasn't good. Her eyes looked sad and they were glistening with tears. And then she explained why. 

Yeah.

I hugged her tight and cried with her right then and there. I told her how sorry I was and how badly I wish that she didn't have to live through this. And I meant that, too. 

Then I asked her to tell me some things about him. About Damien. And to show me his photo. Which is exactly what she did. That made us both smile.

When my life aligns with that of another person, I find myself wondering why. There are people we see each day who are going through all sorts of things. And no, we don't get every detail nor should we. But sometimes. . .I don't know. I'm realizing that I can open myself up to receive something as important as what Linda shared today.

Yeah.

 I'm asking you to keep Linda in your thoughts today. And if you are a pray-er, pray for her, too, okay? Thanks, y'all.

***

Happy Thursday.

I remember.

Dear You,

I remember. I know that you are feeling sad today and missing your boy. I know that you will be sad on December 20 which was the day he was born. Remembering must be active. It must. And so no matter how busy I am, I pause. And I remember.

Holding your hand and remembering. I think remembering is an act of love. I do. I hope you do, too.

xo,

Kimberly

Reposting these two posts and thinking of you. So much love. That's all.

Smelling the roses

Slip sliding away


***
Happy Friday again. Who needs you to remember? Reach out to them. Give them a space to let their love be a verb and not suffocated by awkwardness, apologies or fear. Especially this time of year, okay?

The King's English.

I was thinking about my colleague George yesterday and something popped into my head. This remote memory of a piece of writing that George had sent me a few years ago. When I saw him the day before he sent it, I recall him saying,"I decided I'd channel my inner Kim Manning and write down my reflections." That last part was laced with sarcasm.  Full emphasis on the word reflections. Ha. I could tell from his crooked smile and the twinkle in his eyes when he said it that he was poking fun at me. But I could also tell he was serious, too. "It's just a few thoughts I've been having," he went on. "Like you, I love working at Grady. So I knew you'd appreciate it."

He was right.

Now. The big joke with me and many of my colleagues is that I'm such a tremendous electronic hoarder. I save emails upon emails and constantly appall people by the number of items in my inbox. (Greater than one thousand on any given day--gasp.)  I replayed that exchange with George and, being the electronic hoarder that I am, subsequently began hunting through my giant email hoard piles for that original message--fully believing I would find it.

Mmmm hmmmm.

Did I mention that it was sent roughly four to five years ago? In like 2009 or 2010? Um yeah. Well. Believe it or not, it wasn't out of the question for me to think I'd have it. (Don't judge me, please.) 

Man. Imagine how sad I was to find that, probably in one of my massive vow-to-do-better in-basket sweeps, (usually prompted by someone judging my in-basket number) I must have deleted it.

Booo.

That said, being the multi-level electronic hoarder that I am, I had one other Hail Mary idea still in my back pocket. Yes people. My electronic hoarding exceeds the confines of Emory Outlook.

Mmmm hmmmm.

And so. My Hail Mary plan was to search for the piece in my random hard drive files, fingers crossed that it had been sent as a separate Word attachment.

And guess what? It was sent as a separate Word document. And guess what? That document was in the hoard pile. (Next to a residency recommendation letter for a medical student who is probably a full professor by now.)

Ha.

Imagine the gift it was to me to read these words. Ah! Words my colleague had shared with me way back when. Words that now serve as a haunting opus. . .so defining of his commitment to Grady Hospital, to our underserved patients, to our learners and to the purpose-driven life George tried to live. It gave me chills to read them again.

As I did, I could hear his silky accent saying each line. Using, as we used to joke in clinic, "The King's English." All of this--these words, this melodic use of our language--represented his international background built by living everywhere from India to Kenya to Indiana to Atlanta.

"In Africa," he used to say, "when you learn English, you learn it in its purest form, Kim. It is the King's English. Full strength. Like heavy cream, not this skim milk you hear elsewhere, Kim." When he said that, his eyes were probably twinkling with that same serious-sarcasm and he was likely crookedly smiling once again.

Ha. That makes me chuckle because I can see it. And those who knew him, I'm sure, can too.

Ha.

The original Grady. George would like this photo and would likely know some random fact about it. Ha.

The version I found had minor edits that I'd made out of habit more than anything else. I think George had written this "just because" and don't recall him saying he intended to submit it to a journal for publication. After finding it, I considered sending it off to one, but didn't want to be forced to edit his words too much. I do recall him complimenting this blog several times so have taken license to share his words here.

My honest guess is that George would have been honored to have others read his reflections. I'm proud that he trusted me with them and that he'd taken a moment to "channel his inner Kim Manning."

Ha.

Perhaps after reading this, you will be as compelled as I was to channel more of your inner George Mathew. To find your sense of purpose and then walk into it boldly. Just like he did.

George in his element, with colleagues and learners caring for patients at Grady.

(And if all that sounds too heavy for you, just try using the King's English. He'd like that.)


Enjoy. And thank you for sharing, George. This and yourself.

Your colleague,

Kimberly

_______________________________________________

A Sense of Purpose


I saw him at the hospital curb waiting to cross the road on his way to clinic. He waved at me and after exchanging a few pleasantries, went on his way to the clinic. Watching him stride away, I saw in his steps a sense of purpose.

Pushing through the doors of the hospital, I ran into another of my colleagues. She chattered about the weather, the weekend and while walking with her to the clinic, I could sense she was looking forward to spending the day with her colleagues, residents and taking care of indigent patients, that she called  “a wonderful population."

Combined they had spent over 25 years at the county hospital and had no plans to leave. Every day, every year they had a renewed sense of purpose that only got stronger. A sense of purpose that they were going to be there for the care of society’s most vulnerable.

I count it fortunate to have worked in the county hospital environment. For the academic clinical internist, a county hospital is a satisfying mix of patient care, education and research. Bereft of a strong subspecialty presence, internists tend to thrive in that particular microcosm, whose environment tends to nourish the physician’s soul. Where one physician may see frustration and despair, the county hospital internist sees opportunities for improvement and hope.

Certain specialties have their own favored clinical setting .For the cardiologist and the cardiac surgeon there is the Heart Hospital, for the Orthopedic Surgeon an orthopedic hospital but for the academic clinical internist it is the teaching hospital--often a county hospital. A natural fit.

One of my favorite professors had such a strong sense of purpose, that after serving many years in a county hospital, he went to Africa to create one of Africa’s largest HIV networks. Some of his fellow colleagues followed him there, knowing that a common sense of purpose would unite them as they tackled one of mankind’s deadliest scourges.

Which brings me back to the topic -- "a sense of purpose." For the physician it is the sixth sense, a sense that guides and defines us as we try to take care of our fellow human beings. If ones sense of purpose is followed and not ignored, it can lead the physician down a path where the reward is not monetary or power but one of accomplishment and contentment.

Sadly, in today’s world, many physicians tend to lose this sense of purpose due to a variety of reasons. Most of the time it is the environment in which they choose to practice.  An environment that does not nurture one's sense of purpose will only dull it over time.

But when that sense of purpose is incubated in the right environment, the result is uplifting. A renewal of youth occurs on a periodic basis and the physician continues to enjoy medicine as much as he or she did when they started their first year of medical school. And when others with a similar sense of purpose work together in that same environment, spontaneous chemistry develops. It is highly contagious and results in a deeper and richer environment that most people and professions aspire to but few will ever attain. It is in the county hospital that the academic clinical internist can best hope to create that magic.

~ George Mathew, MD

Written by George Mathew, MD  (1971 - 2014)
Emory University School of Medicine
Grady Memorial Hospital
(Shared in 2010 with Dr. K. Manning and posted with very minor grammatical edits)

***

Happy Monday. Again. And shout out to all the electronic hoarders.  #validation

With Kelly A., one of George's small group students. We promise to take good care of them, George.

What gives YOU a sense of purpose? 

Are you doing it? If not, why?

Stay Gold, George.

Isaiah helped me edit this picture. He said, "Add a happy face because I can tell he made people smile."

Seize upon that moment long ago

One breath away and there you will be

So young and carefree

Again you will see

That place in time. . . .so gold

Steal away into that way back when

You thought that all would last forever

But like the weather

Nothing can ever. . . and be in time

Stay gold

But can it be?

When we can see

So vividly

A memory

And yes you say

So must the day

Too, fade away

And leave a ray of sun

So gold

Life is but a twinkling of an eye

Yet filled with sorrow and compassion

Though not imagined

All things that happen

Will age to old

Though gold

~ Stevie Wonder

_____________________________

I listened to this song tonight and quietly wept. Especially the stanza that says:

Life is but a twinkling of an eye
Yet filled with sorrow and compassion
Though not imagined
All things that happen
Will age to old
Though gold


Life truly is just that. But a twinkling of an eye. Today I sat on a hard pew in a church. Along with throngs of colleagues, medical students, residents and others, we paid respect to a dear colleague--a golden colleague--who, unfortunately, left us long before his golden years.

Yep.

A team on call couldn't get their attending on the phone. An attending physician who took great pride in caring for his patients at Grady Hospital and who would never leave them high and dry without some good explanation.

When Deanna didn't pick up our kids from after school care on November 15, 2012, I remember uttering aloud to Harry over the phone: "Over her dead body would she leave those kids without calling us." Well. Unfortunately, this was a nearly identical situation. Over his dead body would he leave those patients at Grady.

Sigh.

He was young. Presumably healthy. Cherished by many. And now, in the twinkling of an eye, he has made his transition. Some kind of natural cause, although the timing seems horrifically unnatural. This wasn't supposed to be what I was doing today. No, it was not.

Last week I sat in a meeting with him. Last Thursday evening to be exact. We were about to start a project together with a group of others. The meeting was going over and I whispered to him that I needed to get my kids. He calmly said, "Don't stress it, Kim. You should go to your children. I'll fill you in on the details later."

And you know what? He did.

I guess you'd think that something like this--a young colleague in his 40's having some kind of sudden death after what seemed like an ordinary day--would take me to a dark place. Or at least rip the scab off of my own wound. Particularly since the last time most of my colleagues saw him in the hospital was on November 15--coincidentally the day we said good bye to Deanna. But you know what? It didn't. It broke my heart, yes. But somehow I felt my heels digging down into the ground of my life and the people in it. Reminded, yet again, of that truth Stevie Wonder sings of so hauntingly:

Life is but a twinkling of an eye.

My colleague, George? He lived life like it was golden. He did things with zeal, marched to his own drum, and didn't waste a lot of time worrying about what everyone else thought. He was a dedicated teacher, mentor and friend. A Grady doctor through and through and also a small group advisor who will be survived by four doting small groups of former and current medical students--all broken hearted and reeling from this tragic loss.

But.

Life is but a twinkling of an eye. And somehow George must have known that, too. He left it all on the field. And man. You should have heard the words spoken about him today. I heard someone wise once say, "The value of a man's life is measured in how much of it he gives away." Listening to his family, students and colleagues talking about him today was a clear affirmation of how rich of a life he lived.

I hated seeing his small group students crying. I just hated that part. It also hurt to hear the restrained pain that kept eking out between the words his young niece spoke on behalf of their family. That part felt like deja vu.

Anyways.

Here is yet another charge to us all to live life like it's golden. To love like you mean it. To try the things that seem out of your reach. And to be as intentional as possible. And to not bog yourself down in what other people might think. My friend George did all of these things.

This evening I was running in silence (and actually darkness.) I love stillness like that because in it I can hear and see things that normally I'd miss. This time, I could hear George with his silky accent saying something wise about all that transpired today. Shrugging and saying in his relaxed way,"You know, Kim? Here's the thing: Death brings life. Like, a seed is planted and grows. But only after it has fallen from the tree. You know?" And I smiled and even laughed while I was running because this is the kind of thing that he'd totally say. Something deep, cryptic and Yoda-ish like that-- and words that would make you think for a moment and then say, "Aaaaaaah" -- like 45 minutes later. Ha.

That was George.

He wasn't a father or a husband and his parents preceded him in death. That said, he was a true family man. A doting uncle and so open and giving to all of us. He understood the importance of family and I know that first hand. He always, always helped me out when I asked for a colleague to cover me or when I needed to get out early to get to my children. "That's important, Kim," he'd say. "Go ahead. Get to Isaiah and Zachary." He'd call them by name, too. Funny how the little things become the big things, right?

Sigh.

Again. . .life is but a twinkling of an eye. Tonight I'm reflecting on those words and the life of my colleague and friend, George Mathew. And feeling glad that I had the chance to know him.

And yes you say

So must the day

Too,  fade away

And leave a ray of sun

So gold

***
Stay gold, Georgie.

Now playing on mental iPod. . .and on my real one tonight. . . Stevie singing "Stay Gold." When I see a ray of sun, I will think of you, George.

The Ides of November.

Yesterday was November 15. Two years to the day after we entered the new normal of life without Deanna. At least, life without her in the flesh. I'd say that's a good segue actually. It's been hard not being able to call her up or see her face or hear her hearty laughter. But the truth is this: It isn't "life without Deanna."

And, if it's up to us, it never will be.

This year it fell on a Saturday. The "it" being ides of November, that fateful marker of it all. And since the family's motto has been "more glad than sad," we all did things that were meaningful in her memory. See, Deanna always believed in punctuating important moments with fellowship and loving gestures. For her, the love was always in the details. A day of moping about alone, fielding text messages and emails by responding with nondescript emoticons wasn't an option.

Nope.

My day started out exactly as I wanted. The sun rising slowly into the sky of  a crisp autumnal day and a quiet house. I sat on my couch alone, closed my eyes, and prayed. Mostly, it was a prayer of thanks for having the chance to know and love Deanna and for not just surviving, but thriving in ways that I believe would have made her very, very proud. I prayed for my parents and for every parent who knows what it feels like to lay their own child to rest. I recognize the unnatural order of that, and how the grieving process of a parent who has lost a child is so exponentially different than that of losing a sibling. In that quiet time alone, I vow to remember that and I petition God to give my parents as much peace as is possible.

I asked some of my sorority sisters who pledged in the same collegiate chapter as me if they'd join me for an early morning run. I knew I wanted to get my heart pumping early on November 15, but also that  doing so in the fellowship of Delta girls would please my sister. She loved seeing people united and the sentiment of something like a "Tuskegee Delta Girl" group run would never have been lost on her. And you know what? Despite me asking for them to join me at an oppressively early time on an even more oppressively cold morning, they did.

They did.

And so. Tamika W., Ishan M., Valencia M., and Natalie K. all bundled up and flanked my sides as we did this kindness for our cardiovascular systems and our souls. We laughed. We talked. And, at one point, there were a few tears. Mostly from me when I thanked them for being with me  and how much I needed them that day. I appreciated them and I needed them to know it.

Yes.

We had such fun. It was exactly what the doctor ordered and felt like the most perfect chicken soup for my soul. Yes, it did.

I channeled my inner Deanna and ordered a little souvenir to give them commemorating our run that morning. Yes. Ordered it--which is usually the kind of thing I'd never have my act together enough to do. But Deanna? She would have been all over that.

Yep.

In our chapter, especially as pledges, we sing lots of songs and make many references to ducks. It's not necessarily unique to Tuskegee, but is something I've noticed we emphasize a bit more than others. And so. A run with my fellow Gamma Tau chapter initiates seemed fitting for the little token I found--a little red ducky covered in hearts. Yes, hearts.

I cried when I gave it to them. The symbolism of it, the sacrifice they'd made, and just the whole idea of it all. What could be more important in a sisterhood than this? Being there when a sister needs you. This? This made me feel so  . . so. . .full in side. And probably always will.

I'm so glad we did that together. Tamika suggested we do an annual Gamma Tau Deltas Duck Run from here forward. I told her it's a date.

After that was football. Zack's team was in the semifinals and fought hard in a very painful loss in overtime. It hurt my heart to see him crying so hard, but some part of me loved the passion it represented. Deanna would have been the loudest of all at that game.

I thought of her a lot this season. Her energy, her zeal for supporting family at sports events. I cheered for us both this season. (My alter ego, Kimmy T., is really a hybrid of Deanna and me. LOL.)

Harry let Zachary know that he'd left it all on the field and that he was proud of how hard he'd tried. And how much of himself he'd given. I told him that if he hears thunder later, it's because his auntie is applauding from the heavens. He'd given his best effort -- his very best effort -- and that was all anyone could ask for. I even felt like I'd made a better effort to support him, too. As Deanna would--through those loving details like ordering green mini megaphones for the moms, getting the whole crowd going, and never, ever missing a game.

That's a good metaphor, now that I think of it. Leaving it all on the field, you know? I think that's why Deanna affected so many people. She lived her life so big and bold. She loved hard and intentionally and never left people guessing about where they stood with her. When you asked her to do something, if she could, she did it. And she did it with such enthusiasm, such attentiveness and love. How exquisite is it to have lived a life where others can say that you left it all on the field?

Of course, it feels so abbreviated, her life. We imagine what more she could have done and mourn that loss. But when I think about how well she played her life, I can't be mad. With her love, there was never any pass interference. Her aim was always spot on.

Yeah, man.

The rest of the family did special things, too. Will and Fran had the "Auntie Dee's Lemon Drop" martini at Rivals, the restaurant Will owns. Earlier that day, he and his son David played their "First Annual Auntie Deanna Father-Son Golf Outing." Which, as you can see, was perfect.

JoLai and Poopdeck went on a hellacious hike up in Baldwin Hills yesterday. Dad sent this pic of them with the caption: "At the top of the hill and still lovin' Plinko!"  We all smiled when we saw it since Plinko was his pet name for her. It also made me happy to see their hearts pumping, too.

Mom was exactly where she needed to be. At the place that gives her the most solace--the ocean. A group of her good friends joined her down at Siesta Key and when I spoke to her she sounded peaceful and happy. Which made me happy.

And so. Yes. It's been two years since Deanna made her transition. But I'm happy to report that the kids are still alright. Love doesn't die. It doesn't. And since we know that, we are all still more glad than sad. And pressing on to live our lives with purpose and especially, when it comes the legacy of love when have to give. . . . leaving it all on the field. Just like she did.

Yeah.

***
Happy Sunday. Are you leaving it all on the field? If not, why?

The Volkswagen Chronicles, Part I: Spring Brake.

Spring 1989


"What you doing in here? I don't know if I've ever seen you in the Engineering building!"

That's what Horatious, one of my older sister Deanna's study buddies said when he saw me wandering aimlessly through those vacuous halls. Even though I, too, was a student at Tuskegee University, he was right. As a Biology/Pre-Med major, I had no reason to ever set foot in that building. That is, until that day.

"Um," I replied while looking around nervously, "um. . . I'm trying to find. . .um. . . "

"Who? Deanna?"

All I could do was nod my head.

"We had our midterm for Math 461 and she finished it already. I think she left." I raised my eyebrows and began to shuffle out the door. "You finish all of your exams?"

"Uh, yeah. Yesterday." I was still whipping my head all around, partly because I wanted to find my sister but equally because I didn't. Of course, I know I needed to find her to tell her what had just happened. But the new asshole that she would subsequently tear me once I did had me scared.

For real.

See, here's the thing: That day started off beautifully. Lord knows it did. The sky was painstakingly blue and it seemed like God himself had reached out and painted each leaf on each tree with an extra stroke of green. Hearts were light all week, especially on this--the Friday punctuating midterms and serving as the green light to that glorious week that we'd all been waiting for--Spring Break.

No question, Mechanical Engineering was a harder major than Biology. My midterms ended that Thursday with a rather whopping chemistry exam but otherwise they'd been a cake walk compared to the massive amounts of calculus, physics and chemistry that Deanna had to muddle through before the week's end.

Deanna and I were roommates at the time in a little off campus house on the main thoroughfare into our  college town. Just steps away on a near side street, our brother Will stayed in another quaint house nestled at the top of a street on a steep hill. Will was still in Veterinary Medicine School, so it a really magical time for all of us (especially the following year when JoLai joined us as a freshman!)

But I digress.

There is a point to all of this which I will get to if you stay with me. So check it. That morning, since I'd already finished my exams, Deanna had a friend pick her up and take her to campus. She was kind enough to leave the car at home just in case I needed to go anywhere. And mostly, I didn't have anywhere to go, but I did appreciate the gesture.

Mmm hmmmm.

Okay, so I need to mention that this VW Beetle had a couple of issues that I laugh out loud about now because, for whatever reason, they didn't seem like a big deal to us back then. Okay, so one of the quirks of this Bug at the time was that it had some starter issues. The only way to start it was park it on a hill and let it get a rolling start. And I swear to you, we managed to deal with that for several months like it was no problemo whatsoever.

Enter the big A hill on Reed Avenue where Will lived.

Well. That hill was awesome because not only was it right across the street from our driveway, it was our brother's block, too. Every day, we'd park right by Will's place and roll out to school. . . like literally.

Ha.

Anybody who's ever driven any old five speed knows exactly what I'm talking about. Ha.

Okay, so back to that morning. Did I mention that I had nothing to do or no real place to go? Well. I did need to make a quick run to Walmart to get some toiletries for our planned jaunt over to Atlanta for Spring Break. We were too broke for any of those super shmancy get aways like you see on MTV. But we were pretty excited about breaking out of what would surely be a ghost town in a matter of hours with what little money we had. Plus Atlanta was hilly so we'd be able to start the VW Beetle with no problems, right?

Right.

So off I went to WalMart and was back home in no time. Like always, I parked the bug on the hill, grabbed my bag off of the seat, and headed back in to start packing my duffle bag. Deanna's exam was slated to be over in another hour, so I wanted to have everything done before I swooped over to campus to pick her up. And all was good in the 'hood.

That is, until the phone started ringing. And ringing. And ringing.

Now. This was in the pre-cell phone/pre-caller ID era, so phones were like Russian Roulette when they rang. You could either answer or let them talk for a bit into your answering machine. Otherwise, no way. But three times? In 1989? I figured I'd better pick up.

"Dude."

That was all I heard on the other end of the phone.

"Hello?"

"Kimberly? Is this Kimberly?"

"Yes. It's me."

"Dude. Oh man. Dude."

I finally made out the voice. It was Will's roommate Jody. And Jody like never in the everest of evers called us for any reason. So this? This was weird.

"What's up, Jody?" I asked.

"Dude. Is Deanna there?"

"No. She had an exam. I was just about to go get her."

"Awww damn. Dude. Duuuuude."

Now he was scaring me. "What? What is it?"

"Did you hear a noise?" he asked.

Funny. I had actually heard something about five minutes before but had no idea what it was. I'd even peeked out of the window to see if someone had been in a fender bender in front of our house.  "I might have, " I said. "What was it?"

"Dude."

"What?!?"

"Did you park Deanna's bug at the top of the hill earlier?"

"Yes. Why?" I thought for a moment and then repeated myself. "Why!?"

"Awww damn. Dude."

"Jody!"

"Dude. You didn't pull up the parking brake."

"Huh?"

"Dude. The car. It rolled down that big A hill. And that loud sound you heard was when it hit a big ass oak tree."

All of the color washed out of my face and pooled into a puddle at my feet. "What?"

"The car. It's wrapped around a tree. You won't be picking Deanna up in that car."

Before he could say another word, I'd hung up the phone and tore out of the door. Without even looking I sprinted across Old Montgomery Road towards Reed Avenue where I'd left the car.

Sure enough. . .it wasn't there.

But down that hill? Wrapped perfectly around a big ass tree was my sister's VW bug. Obviously a casualty of the hill gone terribly wrong. All I could do is stare at it, smack my forehead, and yell out f-bombs over and over again.

Our other roommate was kind enough to take me to campus so that I could break the bad news. Which, for the most part, would read as follows:

Hey sis! No spring break, no car, no nothing. I wrecked your bug. So we can't go anywhere. 

That script needed major revision. That is, if I wanted to live.

And so. Even when Horatious told me she wasn't there more I still tried my hand at the rest of the classrooms in that massive E building. Something about the courage and energy it took for me to come up there seemed like it would be good for at least a little bit of compassion.

Well. Turns out she had left. In fact, at least five people had already let her know that her little sister was looking all over for her in the Engineering building and that she "looked like she'd burnt down the house."

Yes. Someone said that to her.

As the story goes, I hitched a ride back home where I found Deanna already waiting for me. She had this look on her face like Liam Neeson in, like, every vigilante movie he's ever been in. Smoke rising from her nostrils with every breath. Teeth making gnashing sounds for no reason. Yes. It was as terrifying as it sounds.

As soon as I saw her, I jumped from being so startled. I thought I'd at least have a few more moments to gather my wits. No such luck.

"Um. Hey thitha!"

Ha. "Thitha." Dang. I haven't thought about that in years. "Thitha" was our whimsical way of saying "sister" to each other. We said it when feeling the most loving toward one another with this silly little lisp we'd infused. But "thitha" wouldn't do it. Not this time it wouldn't.

"Where is my car?"

Oh snap. She didn't even know yet? Yikes. 

My pulse immediately quickened and I swallowed super hard. When I opened my mouth to speak, I'm pretty sure it hinged open like a rusty door and nothing came out but squeaks. "Umm. . . "

"Kimberly! Where is my car?!"

And so. Instead of trying to really explain it, I just walked to the front door and had her follow me. Outside and across the street where she could see her car doing a sultry slow dance with a mature oak tree.

Man. She was so mad at me that she didn't even speak. Matter of fact, she just marched up the hill, went in the house, and slammed the door. For at least three of the four days of our "stranded in Tuskegee" Spring Break, that is pretty much how it was. Me looking goofy and sad and her completely ignoring my existence.

To this day, I have no idea how we got that car off of that tree. I know that somehow we did and that it eventually got fixed. Fortunately on VW Beetles, the trunk is in the front and the engine is in the back.

Man. That was the longest. blandest Spring Break ever in the history of college students. I've never been happier to see a bunch of folks return from a week away in my whole life. Especially after being imprisoned with your older sister who is so pissed off at you that she can't even look in your direction.

Yikes.

The good news is that she eventually forgave me and we'd go on to have many more fun times beyond that fateful week. But I can't help but chuckle at the comedy of it all.

Yeah man.

It's November. I'm missing my sister more than usual because I'm in the days that preceded her last on the calendar. I've allowed myself time to just sit and reflect on the many, many times we had. This one popped into my head the other day and made me laugh loud and hearty. It felt so good, too. I then remembered a few more funny things involving us and those VW Beetles and smiled again. Then, for just a few moments, I cried. But that felt good, too.


So what was I doing in the Engineering Building on a Friday? Trying to find my sister. Why? Because I sort of wrecked her car. But not really me. Well, yes me. But I wasn't in it. But still it was me.

Ha ha ha.

But she forgave me. She did. And even called me "thitha" again by the end of that crappy little week.

So all of this just brings me back to something I have kept on a post it note in my head for the last several days:

The days are long, but the years are short. 

Oh yes. Yes, they are.

Thitha? I miss you. So, so much.

***
Happy Friday. And hold on tight, okay?

If I can't see your face, I will remember your smile.

You bring me joy
Don't go too far away
If I can't see your face, I will remember your smile

But can this be right?
Always said we'd be friends
I get lonely sometimes and all mixed up again
'Cause you're the finest thing I've seen in all my life
You bring me joy

My joy, my joy
Oh baby, this is gonna be what you want it to be
I just love you, I just love you, can't you see?
That you're the finest I've seen in all my life
You bring me joy

My joy... you're my joy
My joy... my, my joy

Thank you, baby, thank you, baby
I just love you, baby
I . . just love you, baby

Oohh. . .I just love you. . .you

When I lose my way, your love comes smiling on me.


 ~  from Anita Baker's "You Bring Me Joy"



________________

I heard this song playing on my mental iPod today. A song we both loved and one that now has more meaning to me since you've left your earthly body. So simple, right? You bring me joy. Yes.

I especially like the part that says:

"This is going to be what you want it to be."

Because I think you would have wanted us to all be more glad than sad. So you know what? This is going to be what you want it to be.

But I just love you. Can't you see?

So on days like today, the day that you would have turned 46, it's kind of hard to not be reminded of how much I miss you. You would've been somewhere dancing and laughing and celebrating. Your voice would be down to a tiny squeak because whenever you had a good time, you'd lose your voice. And that part, not hearing and seeing that part? It gets a little hard sometimes.

But this is going to be what you want it to be. It is. More glad than sad. And a day of joy. Even if it's periodically dampened by my sunshowers.

Here's what I either did, will do, or am doing for your birthday:

• Sent the boys off for their first day of school. Reminded them that it is special that the first day of school is on Auntie's birthday and to keep that in a pocket in their hearts all year long. 
• Smiled when Isaiah said, "I know it's going to be a good year. How could it not be if I'm starting on the day Auntie was born?"
• Wore red and white today which I know you would love. And when I get to work, I'm going to pin a violet to my lapel, too. When people ask about it, I am going to tell them. 
•  Wrote an essay dedicated to you and submitted it to a journal yesterday. Signed, sealed and delivered. Cried the whole way through it, but it felt important and right. As soon as I finished it, I called Daddy at 2 o'clock in the morning and read it to him. I cried all the way through reading it to him, too. Even if they don't accept it for publication, it felt good to write it and I think you would have liked it. And now that I think of it, you would say this to me in response to that last statement: "Go into all things thinking you will win and planning on winning. Deal with losing only if it happens. The less you consider losing, the less you'll have to." So maybe I will think like it will get published, okay?
• Going to go for a run. No matter what, I'm going to get one in and I'm going to listen to a playlist of songs you'd love.
•  Going to make sure the people that I love know it. Going to tell Harry how wonderful he is and tell him again a few hours later. Then tell JoLai and Will and Fran the same thing. Again and again.
• Going to take excellent care of my patients. And not be afraid to help them make good choices.
• Going to teach somebody something and be patient when I do.
• Going to encourage somebody and remind them about what you said about thinking like a winner. That advice really helped me.
• Going to let my eyes light up when I see the kids after school. 
• Going to think about you.
• Going to celebrate you.
• And just maybe, I'll scream and shout until I lose my voice.

Thank you, baby. You still bring me joy.

I miss you so much. Especially today.

***
Happy birthday, Sissy.

This is for you. 

VENI, VIDI, VICI: CELEBRATING DEANNA! from Kimberly Manning on Vimeo.

And this, too. Because all who knew you know that you wrote a song for love.

Centennial - A song for love from Kimberly Manning on Vimeo.