The Ides of November, Year 4.

I only have to miss her. No, my heart doesn't compete with feelings of inadequacy or the "if I coulda-woulda-shouldas" that plague many people after a loved one has been snatched like a thief in the night. Me and my sister Deanna? We were good. I only have to miss her.

But missing her is no small thing. Like, everything beautiful and funny and of good report, I want to tell her. Not just the pivotal days and moments. The smallest, most inconsequential things are where I ache for her the most. I want to text her and ask if she saw Michelle Obama's hair with the new weave tracks or binge watch an entire season of Orange is the New Black while talking shit with her. (Crazy Eyes would have been her favorite for sure.) I want to get on my hands and knees and paint posters for youth football games with her and listen to her reaction when we found out that Idris Elba smokes cigarettes. Was Beyonce's last album #teamtoomuch or would Deanna have been in formation? Was the Breaking Bad series sublime or way too dark and creepy instead? I want to know her input on my next idea for a Jack and Jill fundraiser or get her reaction to something I've written to publish. She's the person I want to show my teaching awards to first and the one I want to text a funny selfie after a really, really sweet elder talked my head off in the hospital. It's that stuff. It's the most ordinary things that are the hardest, you know?

But the blessing is that I only have to miss her. I never saw her suffer nor do I have some apology left dangling in a word bubble out of reach forever. There were no stinging misunderstandings or lumps under the covers of our relationship. We were close. So close that many times I just close my eyes and have all of those aforementioned exchanges with her. In my own heart and head, I do. I hear her saying that "Smoking don't got nothing do do with how fine Idris is" or "Michelle Obama is one bad bee-eye-tee-cee-aytch." or "Lemonade is like Eve's Bayou or the Blair Witch Project put to music. Scary, creepy, confusing and probably the result of some mood altering substance."

Ha.

Yeah. Today marks the 4th year since I lost my big sister. And I will say it, tell it, and share it until the day I die: My sister was like the sun. A force, a light and capable of igniting any space she entered. And especially . . . . I want people to know that she was fucking awesome, man. So fucking awesome. And when you have a fucking awesome ball of fire in your world one day and not the next, it can be hard sometimes.  It can.

But it's okay. Because we were good. Solid as a rock, man.

Yeah. So today sucks. Mostly because it punctuates what happened. Not because I feel lost or conflicted or disconnected from her essence. Because me?  I only have to miss her. And I don't need November 15 to remind me of that. I do that I do every single moment of every single day.

Yeah.

Thanks for listening.

***

What's your Whitney Houston?

"The greatest love of all is easy to achieve. 

Learning to love yourself is the greatest love of all." 

~ Whitney Houston 

(yeah, yeah and George Benson, too.)

I remember it like it was yesterday. A pianist began tickling the ivory for the introductory bars of a song. A woman tapped the top of the microphone and cleared her throat into it to be certain it was on. It was.

The music grew louder and readier for her accompaniment and, right on cue, she pulled her shoulders back, lifted her head up and began to sing. Up, up, up into the rafters went her voice. Loud, strong, deliberate. And dare I say it? Shrill. Periodically she'd take both hands and grip the microphone stand for emphasis and flutter her eye lids rhythmically. The song she was singing was a popular one, well known to most in the room. And I say that to say that we all had our own idea of how that song sounded on the radio or playing into our canals through iPhone ear jacks.

Yeah.

The reprise came and folks sort of shifted from glancing at each other to singing  along with her. That encouraged her more which, to me, was kind of sweet. Once the final note came she was probably twice as loud as she was at the beginning, squeezing that pole even tighter and her eyes even tighter than that. She freed her right hand and threw it to the heavens and left it there when the song ended.

The crowd began to cheer and clap. Her eyes opened and a big smile spread across her face. "Thank you," she said in a throaty voice straight into that mic before spinning on her heel to walk back across the stage.

People can be so polite sometimes.

We both knew her and she was really likable so we clapped, too. More applause. A few people, mostly her friends, stood up even. And all of it was really sweet and everyone seemed pretty pleased with her performance.

Wait. I take that back. Everyone except Deanna.

"Yikes." After whispering that under her breath to me, Deanna raised her eyebrows and gave her nose a subtle wrinkle.

"Yikes?" I mouthed back. People were still applauding.

"Did that sound good to you?"

I swung my head from side to side and then behind myself. Deanna was a horrible whisperer. "I mean. I don't know. I thought it was pretty decent, didn't you?" And honestly, it didn't sound so good. But we both knew this woman and were friendly-ish with her. Though my sister and I always gave each other permission to speak freely, I'd taken the high road on this C+ ballad rendition.

"Um. She needs to sing her babies to sleep and that's it. That's my girl, too. But singing? Uhh, yeah. That ain't her gift, man. If we were closer, I'd let her know, too. Long before she got up there."

"Damn, that's cold, Dee."

"No, it's not!" she hissed. "Everybody's got some gifts. Singing just ain't her gift, man. That's real talk."

I shook my head and wiped my face. No one was more transparent than my sister.

"Kimberly, be honest. That's a lullaby voice. Not horrible but not nothing I need to hear over a whole room either." And any who knew Deanna can hear her saying this. Eyes twinkling with mischief and arms folded unapologetically. I kept looking around to make sure everyone couldn't hear our conversation. "Somebody need to tell that girl one day--'That ain't cha gift, pookie.' I'm for real."

We both laughed out loud and quickly covered our mouths in case people were listening. It was so true.

And so Deanna.

I revisited that conversation with her a few weeks later at my kitchen table. Her position hadn't changed. "See, me? My gift is creative shit. I'll crochet you a three piece suit, make you a quilt and help your kid blow everybody in his class out on a project like it ain't nothing. 'Cause that's my gift, man. That's my shit." I'm almost 99.9% sure that she was twirling a crochet needle in some yarn as she spoke those words. She was right. This was her thing.

Her shit even.

"I hear you, sis."

"I'm just sayin'. . . . I mean. . . I can do some other things pretty good. And that's cool. But my thing is. . . .why don't people use the gifts that are theirs? Why they insist on forcing something else and leaving the thing they're good at thrown to the side?"

"You're a nut."

"I'm serious. That song ol' girl sang that day was tolerable. Like, yeah, she could carry a tune. But she didn't need to carry it nowhere outside of her house. Unnhh uh. No ma'am." She curled her lips and gave me a side eye.

I tried to keep a straight face but then we both erupted into the big fluffy laughs that we always shared at times like this. Man, how I miss our kitchen table chats. And it's funny because embedded inside of some of our lightest conversations were such meaningful lessons, man. Like this one.

Yeah.

So that? That was something I've always held onto that I learned from my sister. She encouraged people to find their gifts and use them. Especially me and anyone who was close to her. And she never pulled punches it came time to let you know that something "ain't your gift, pookie." 

Ha. "Pookie" was such a Deanna word.

I think I started writing more after Deanna began nudging me. "Writing is your shit," she'd say. And she'd always throw out expletives whether you liked it or not. I was used to it and actually found it rather endearing.

"I do love writing."

"You're a kick ass writer. You write well and you write fast. And what you write fast is the shit. See, that's because it's your gift. That and public speaking. That's your shit, too. Sometimes I'm like, 'How did she even think to say that?'"

I chuckled and recalled the time that she was chairing a retreat for our alumnae sorority chapter. Deanna had this bright idea that Kimberly would deliver the message at the ecumenical service. As in Kimberly, her sister. And for those who don't exactly know what that means, just know that it's like someone asking you to preach a sermon. When you don't preach. No where never.

Um, yeah.

"Say what?" I pushed back. "You sound crazy."

"Why not? It's public speaking and encouraging people. That's your shit. You'll be awesome." And I could tell that she was 100% serious. She sure was.

I gave that message that morning and it went well.  As a matter of fact, it went more than well. Deanna was right. I settled into my gifts and used them. Instead of talking myself out of it, I leaned in. And it was good. It truly was.

A few years before that, I was asked to give the "charge" to a large group of debutantes at this enormous black tie event. There were over 500 people there not even counting the debutantes and I was sitting on the dais in a formal gown waiting for my part. And somewhere in the midst of the program,  I could hear this metaphorical drumroll to my part. It became apparent to me that the "charge" was more like a keynote address. So, naaaaw, I wasn't the appetizer but more like the main doggone course. Which posed a substantial problem seeing as I had no key, no note, nor any address to give.

Holy shit.

Hallelujah they paused the program for dinner to be served. And as soon as they laid that chicken a la something or other in front of me, I leaped up from that stage and ran to the bathroom with a napkin, my cell phone and an ink pen. I kid you not--I hid in a bathroom stall, literally sitting on the back of the commode so no one could see my feet and ball gown. Seeing as I was the big time speaker and all. 

And then called Deanna freaking out.

"What am I gonna dooooo!" I moaned.

"This is your shit. Think about all of your experiences speaking. You got this, Pookie."

I was shaking and tearful. "This is just awful. It's formal and people have spent a lot of time and money to be here. I don't have a speech. I don't have anything. I don't. I thought I was just supposed to say good luck and that's it. This is so embarrassing. I'm so, so scared."

"Don't be, Kimberly. Just think of a quote or a central idea that's meaningful to you. Then build around it. You know how to do that.This is your shit."

And that was that. I slipped out of that ladies room and shortly after, was up at that podium. That keynote address was, quite possibly, one of the most memorable and well-received public speaking moments I've ever had in my adult life.

Yep. Because, as Deanna reminded me, that's my shit.

on the dais at the debutante ball

So the lesson I got from those experiences is that sometimes we have to pause and inventory our gifts. And especially align ourselves with the people who will push us out into the spotlight when we feel afraid to use them.

Yeah.

So I've actually applied this wisdom to many aspects of my life. And see, making a list of your gifts is an audacious task that can make you uncomfortable at first. But see, Deanna? She helped me shake that. And the beautiful thing is that once I really, really began to recognize what things God put in me to be able to do, her nudge gave me the courage to be intentional about it.

Yep.

Something really cool happens when you do that. You feel more confident. You get better at those things that you already had a knack for doing. And you feel more like you are walking in your purpose. Yeah. That.  Because Deanna thought that being the best version of you was like handing the world a big old gift with a shiny red bow on top.

Yup.

That brings me to Whitney Houston. Yeah. Her.

Okay. So it turns out that when Whitney first hit the scene, she was a model. Like a really successful print model in magazines like Seventeen and other high volume periodicals. But all along, she used to sing in church or with her mom and her auntie. And any and all who heard young Whitney were mesmerized by her voice. Why? Because her singing voice was undeniably one of her greatest gifts.

Stay with me. I'm going somewhere, okay?

Okay, so check it. Later on, Whitney gets signed and becomes THE Whitney Houston that we all know and love. The one who took Dolly Parton's little snoozer song and made it iconic and the one who refuted the belief that rail thin girls couldn't SANG.

But. Later on, Whitney tried her hand at acting. She was in a few movies and even starred in one with Denzel doggone Washington. And honestly? It was mostly tolerable. Especially because every movie she signed up for had a component of her singing. And the singing? See, that's the thing we needed. Because that was her shit.

Yeah, it was.

So imagine if Whitney showed up at a talent show. A talent show for the whole world that would treat them to her talents. Perhaps she could model. I mean, that is how she broke into the big times. Or maybe she could do a dramatic monologue--I mean, she did do a movie with Angela Bassett and Denzel at some point. So yeah. What if Whitney showed up and did those two things and left the singing on the back burner. What if she put all of her energy into that because it seemed cooler and better than singing. You know. Because she didn't quite realize how important it was that she share her singing gift with the world. Yeah. Imagine that.

It'd be a shame, right?

I think what happens is that we see other people and their gifts and suddenly downplay our own. Or revise our own because perhaps it doesn't seem as shiny and bright as the one of someone else. And even worse--some have no idea what their gifts are because they're too afraid or too self deprecating to take that inventory.

But just think--what if you are showing up every day modeling and acting when your Whitney Houston singing voice is the thing the world craves the most? And needs most from you?

And so. This advice from Deanna that started as something silly ended up changing my life. I mean that. And I'm thankful to have had her crocheting right in front of me on a whole lot of days when I was in the process of trying to figure out my Whitney Houston singing voice, man.

"What if someone doesn't know? Like how does someone know when something is their gift?" I asked her.

"You feel it. You know it. Just pay attention."

And that makes even more sense now in the context of Whitney Houston. From the moment we first heard her sing, we all knew. Which means she did, too.

As a clinician educator, this has been game changing. Instead of trying to mimic what I think a great teaching physician is supposed to be like, I do me. I make 100% sure to bring my Whitney Houston to every learner I encounter while continuing to work and grow in other areas. I sure do. In the hospital setting, that thing is patient communication and pushing others to be great. So I frame much of what I do around just that. I go to the bedside with my learners to talk to patients. I give my all to those I mentor. I run to the most difficult patient encounters like a heat seeking missile. I think hard about my learners and come up with tailor made ways to help them go from good to great. Or great to hella-great. And especially to find their own Whitney Houston singing voice and then provide a space for them to sing every chance they can.

And you know what? Everyone has a better experience because of it. Me. Them. Plus, I'm so much better at being me than someone else, you know?

Yep.

So yeah. I don't apologize for knowing who I am or for trying as hard as hell to use my gifts while I'm here. Since my sister left me, I do so with even greater urgency.

I'm good with people. I'm an effective communicator. I'm a good great writer. I'm not afraid of public speaking and can usually find my voice. Just like Deanna, I'm innovative as hell and come up with ideas others haven't thought about. And then I come up with some more ideas after that. And more after that. I'm persuasive and a good leader. I'm emotionally intelligent and notice things. I notice people. I notice everything. And I remember shit long after others have forgotten the fine details. These are some of my gifts and I'm not afraid of them. And I go hard at using them every chance I get.

Deanna helped me with that.

So here's the question: What's your Whitney Houston? 

I dare you to be so bold as to take a pen to paper and list your gifts. And I double-dog dare you to walk into your day like a boss with that list on a post it note in your head and in your heart checking off those boxes every chance you get to bless the world with one of them.

Because that's your shit. And when something is your shit, you shortchange the world when you don't share it.

And yeah, yeah people can acquire new skills and talents. They can. But like Deanna said, you feel it when you've stumbled upon one of your gifts. That is, if you pay attention.

Today is November 3, 2016. And I'm proud to say that today I sang like Whitney at the Superbowl. Head back and arms wide open. Sure did.

I just did it my way. And I know for sure that my sissy would be proud.

Yeah.

"And if by chance that special place that you've been dreaming of leads you to a lonely place, find your strength in love."  

***

Happy Thursday

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . the lyrics to this song make me think a lot about life with my sister.

Call it what it is.

When my sister passed away, people were so unbelievably kind. They sent notes and text messages and voice mails and letters and flowers and food and probably some things I can't seem to recollect. It came from everywhere, too. From the close, close friends. From the acquaintances. And even from the people that I didn't even realize knew much about my family at all. It was pretty amazing.

All of that kindness will always stand out for me. Like, in the midst of all of that sorrow, it showed me that there is a whole lot of good and compassion in this world. There truly is.

But that's not the point of this post.

The point of this post is something else that I distinctly remember that happened during that time. And it holds such a memorable place because it so sharply detoured from everything I was hearing.

Yeah.

So this friend of mine who knew of my sister and how close we all were heard the news. And when she did, she picked up the phone and called me up. Yup.

"Kim!"

"Hey, lady."

"Is it true? Say it's not true."

"Man. I wish it weren't."

"Deanna died? She passed away?"

"It sounds crazy even saying it. But yes. She did."

"Kim! You are shitting me!

"Nope."

"Fuck!"

*silence*

"Damn. Deanna died. Deanna. Cool ass Deanna. That's fucked up, man!" Then she paused for a moment and repeated herself. "Damn! Deanna? That's SO FUCKED UP!"

And okay. I get it. That's a ton of expletives. But I need you to hear it because that's pretty much verbatim what she said.

Now.

Some might think that was an insensitive thing to say. But not me. Something about her pointing out the obvious -- that thing that no one else had actually said to me yet -- felt good. Cathartic even.

I laughed out loud. "You know what? It IS fucked up."

"She picked your kids up everyday, man. And y'all are a tight knit family. I hate hearing that shit, man. That's so fucked up."

Not "I'm sorry for your loss" or "I'm praying for you." But instead, this raw, true statement. One that described what it felt like to lose Deanna perfectly. It was fucked up.

Yeah.

I can't say the F-bomb is always my go-to expletive, but on this day, it was so soothing for my soul to hear. This unfiltered description of what was right there in front of us. No profession of how it is darkest before the dawn or how the Lord knows what He's doing--all of which may be true. But what was truest of all for me was that having my sister with me on a Wednesday and then not having her on a Thursday was . . .well. . .fucked up.

Yeah. That.

So I remembered that. This person making a choice to simply call it what is was instead of finding the prettiest shiniest words she could find.

I told a patient she needed dialysis today. A young patient, too. Looked her straight in the eye and explained that her kidneys had weakened to a point of needing a machine to do their job. Three days per week.

Yeah.

And she asked me questions and I gave her answers. She wanted to know all of the logistics of going to a dialysis center and the cosmetic appearance of an AV graft. And so. I answered. I told her all those answers and a little more on top of it. And she just took it all in and listened.

But then I remembered. I remembered how good it felt when someone kept it 100% real with me.

"I'm sorry about all this."

"Me too."'

"I won't even lie. This is messed up. Like, being young and having to go to dialysis three times a week is a crappy hand to have been dealt."

She just stared at me for a few beats and then turned her head sideways. One edge of her mouth turned upward and then, for the first time since we'd been talking, she smiled. "You know what, doc? That's real talk right there."

I took a breath and gave a subtle shrug of my shoulders to convey that I agreed. There was no sugar coating it. Being of child bearing age but having kidneys that don't work is. . .well. . .messed up. And fucked up, too.

Now.

Let me be clear. I do believe that people rise out of the ashes of unfortunate situations. In fact, I know they do because I see it every day. And what I do for a living is help them do just that, you know? But I guess what I'm realizing is that sometimes you just have to call something what it is to form your strategy. Like, look it square in the eye and say, "I see you for what you are. And now, I'm gonna fight like hell." Nope. No sucker punches. No pirouettes around it. Just straight up, hand-to-hand combat. But you have to see the target to do that, man.

At least that's what I think.

It's November. And this month will mark four years since one of my favorite people in the whole wide world left for good. The air is crisp and fresh and so is the harsh reality of my sister being gone. And you know? I walk into it eyes wide open, fully recognizing that a life without Deanna in it will always be kind of . . .well, fucked up. And it just is what it is.

But you call it what it is. And when you do, some piece of it feels just a little more manageable. No. You aren't a victim. Or maybe you are. But either way you're aware and not hiding. You give yourself permission to keep going.

Then you shadow box in the corner. And you come out fighting.

Yeah.

***
Happy Hump Day.

Let it burn.

It's all right to cry

Crying gets the sad out of you

It's all right to cry

It might make you feel better

Raindrops from your eyes

Washing all the mad out of you

Raindrops from your eyes

It's gonna make you feel better

It's all right to feel things

Though the feelings may be strange

Feelings are such real things

And they change and change and change

Sad 'n' grumpy, down in the dumpy

Snuggly, hugly, mean 'n' ugly

Sloppy, slappy, hoppy, happy

Change and change and change

It's all right to know

Feelings come and feelings go

It's all right to cry

It might make you feel better

~ Rosey Grier, Free to Be You and Me

My outlook on life is almost always sunny. I prefer smiling to frowning and laughing to crying. Which is generally where I'm at.

But.

I don't like numbness. I mean, unless it's helping me while pushing out a 9 pound baby or something. Otherwise I like to feel things. It makes me feel alive and connected to what's happening around me.

Yeah.

Today is August 11. My sister, Deanna, would have turned 47 today. And just typing that makes me smile because she loved her birthday. She never let it just slide on by without any sort of pomp or circumstance--which to her was simply defined as being surrounded by friends and love. Deanna was all about acknowledging people and lives and milestones. Herself included.

That woman knew how to live.

So that--thoughts of how she lived her life so big and full--always make me laugh. But conversely, it stirs inside of me these complicated emotions. Like, anything that I live through or witness that is impossibly beautiful or wonderful, I imagine her enjoying it. And again, the smile comes followed by that wave of emotion pushing against my eyeballs for a fleeting second. Then, almost always, it quickly washes over.

But today is kind of different. Her birthday makes me ache to speak to her. So, so badly.

Yeah.

Another thing: I wasn't on Facebook when my sister was alive. And, as silly as it sounds, I came unglued today when trying to tag her in my post today. I simply wanted to say that I loved her and when I typed her name and it didn't pop up on a pull down page, I was reminded that there wasn't really a way to reconcile that. Because that would require her to be here to click that lonely little "accept request" button. But she never will.

And that? That did it. So instead of countering it with a phone call to a friend or some warm and fuzzy thoughts, I decided to just let it burn. To let myself cry the ugliest of cries and miss her in the rawest, most primal way. To speak out loud that I'm super sad that she's not here and how every single perfect moment or funny event is bittersweet without her. And I told her all of that. I did.

I am okay. I am. But that doesn't mean that I don't deeply miss my sister every single day. But especially today. Because this was her day.

Today, I decided to just let it burn. Let the hurt remind me of how fortunate I am to have known her. Isaiah cried a few times today, too. And I just held him tight and told him the same thing: "Let it burn, son. It's okay." Because it was.

And it is.

I'm rambling, I know. But really, I just wanted to take a moment to reflect on my sister's life. Because her life was awesome. And so was she.

Yeah.

That's all I've got. Thank you for listening, okay?

***

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . .

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?

Haiku on a Thursday morning while missing my sister.

Autumn reminds me

The chill like a clanging gong

This really happened

***

Happy Thursday. Fall is beginning to fall here.  So bittersweet, you know? How is it there? How are you today?

Ray of Light.

Halfway through my 10K on this past Saturday

Zephyr in the sky at night I wonder
Do my tears of mourning sink beneath the sun?
She's got herself a universe gone quickly
For the call of thunder threatens everyone


And I feel like I just got home
And I feel
And I feel like I just got home
And I feel

Faster than the speeding light she's flying
Trying to remember where it all began
She's got herself a little piece of heaven
Waiting for the time when Earth shall be as one

And I feel like I just got home
And I feel
And I feel like I just got home
And I feel

Quicker than a ray of light
Quicker than a ray of light
Quicker than a ray of light

~ Madonna

______________________________________

I cried my eyes out while running to this song this morning. My legs felt strong and able and my wind was good. My mind was in a perfect place and even the humidity that couldn't be escaped by rising to run early didn't bother me. 

Nope.

I'm toward the end of training for another half marathon and this morning was my last long run before the race next weekend. I'm not quite on schedule but, for whatever reason, I'm not terribly worried about that. I'm just not. Because this year of running has shown me what my body can do. And what beautiful things can rise out of the ashes of our deepest pain. 

Got a medal and a PR this weekend. Who knew?

Right before this song shuffled into my playlist, something dawned on me. This will be my third half marathon in 2014. That's significant because three was Deanna's lucky number. The other thing is that the race will take place on the day before my 44th birthday. And that also has meaning because Deanna was 44 when she departed. 

Yeah.

So then this song comes on right after I'd had that thought. And though I've heard that song a million times and have loved it mostly for its psychedelic trippiness, this time it moved me in a completely different way. Every single word. 

No, I'm no fast runner by any stretch of the word. So, to me, being "quicker than a ray of light" speaks not to how many miles I can run in a certain number of minutes but instead to this life. The days fly by quicker than a ray of light, right? So fast that if you aren't very careful and intentional about it all, you can miss so much. I guess it also makes me think of how, during that time, I just want to be a ray of light, you know? Like, letting my light shine so that this zephyr called life doesn't just blow by me. 

Sigh. What am I even talking about? 

I guess what I'm really saying is that even though the call of thunder threatens everyone, I still feel more glad than sad. With every single step that I run, every mile, every finish line, and every beat of my heart that ticks up when I do. . .I feel so. . .I don't know  . .connected and virile. Connected. . . .like I'm holding Deanna's hand and also giving JoLai and Will and, of course, Harry, the kids and my parents a gift every time I do. No, not the gift of guaranteed longevity. But just the gift of knowing that I'm trying. I am.

Man. I'm so rambling. Forgive me.

Mid-longrun pitstop this morning for water at my brother Will's clinic in Decatur. 

My tears were complicated. They were mostly happy tears mixed with that deep ache I feel when I'm missing Deanna. I also shed some tears reflecting on something I heard in church yesterday about the unforeseen things that can emerge from our most painful experiences. And while I'd give anything to have my sister here in the flesh, I also am letting myself embrace what God has done in this time. 

With Jill, originally a virtual friend from this blog and now a true Ruth in real life.

Yeah. 

I realize that, even on the most painful days, I've got myself a little piece of heaven. And I am going to celebrate it, dance in it, run in it, and sprinkle it all around me like tiny pieces of confetti. Then I'm going to dance in it some more and pull you in to join me. Because you never know, man. You just don't. 

And so. As I run faster than the speed of light into age 44, I hope to do so with my eyes and heart wide open. Just like they were on my run today. Sometimes with tears, which is fine with me. That just means I'm alive and feeling, man. Which is what I want.

So today? I feel good. I feel strong, I feel able and I feel cherished. In other words, I feel . . . like I just got home. Yeah.

***

Happy Labor Day. And thank you for always listening. I mean it. 

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . I absolutely LOVE this song. Always have but now I do more than ever. Thank you, Madonna, for speaking to my heart today.

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.

Stand and Deliver.

 "Got my hands doin' 

things like they s'posed to
Showing my heart 

to the folks that I'm close to

I got my eyes 

though they don't see as far now
They see more 

'bout how things really are now. . ."

~ from The Color Purple (on Broadway)

 _______________________________________________

 Sigh.

I'm so grateful, man. I get to do what I love for a living. And. I get to do it in a place that is gracious and welcoming and accepting, too. I do.

I get to work with amazing people every day. I get to laugh out loud and sometimes cry, too. I get to examine patients and I especially get to examine myself. Through these relationships and moments, I get to uncover layers of who I am to get closer to the most authentic version of me. 

I get to build relationships inside, outside and even down the street from the hospital.

I get to be a little silly and to be a lot serious, too.

And as I do, I come here to deconstruct it all and put it back together again. To help myself to get the lessons and see the beauty in all of it. And to, just maybe, help you do the same. 

But especially, in my professional life I get to teach. I get to do what I love in a setting that feels like a ministry. . . filled with rabid learners who want to get it right, too. Who want to be better and who want to connect with patients on the most humanistic level possible. And that's totally awesome.

Totally.

Outside of work, a lot happened this year for me. Death hitting your immediate family is one of those things you just can't get your mind around until it happens. My family has been walking through a pain so mind-numbing that it's hard to even explain. Learning to get used to a life that doesn't include my sister Deanna in three dimensions has been hard. So trying to do the things that we need to do and have to do in our professional lives while our hearts fly on one wing has been challenging.

It hasn't been easy. It hasn't. But in some ways, I think it's made me even more aware and more intentional in both my personal and professional life. Kind of like I don't want to squander anything. Some days at work have felt really, really rich and really, really right. And others? Well, let's just say they weren't. Suffice it to say I'm thankful for bathroom doors on wards that lock. And for the tissue boxes issued by the hospital.

Yeah.

Considering this year and all that it entailed--more than ever--I'm just glad to be here. Still standing. And somehow able to deliver on what I'm supposed to be doing.

At least, on most days.

I know this is cryptic and kind of rambly. I apologize for that. I guess I'm just missing my sister deeply tonight. So, so deeply but in the purest and most beautiful way.

Does that make sense?

She was so proud of me. She was. People always told me that but I knew it already. Because she showed me through her actions. And she told me. It always brought her such joy to see me succeed even in the tiniest way professionally. I'm realizing right now how much I loved that about her. How much I loved sharing every little Grady triumph with her because her reaction always made me feel so . . .I don't know. . .special. 

Okay. So I'll go ahead and get it out. Last week, I received a teaching award. One that I would have immediately come home and told Deanna about first because she would have been the one keeping my kids so that I could attend the award program. And this one was a big one.

Deanna would have asked me to explain to her exactly what it was and then would have data-mined on her own in case I wasn't effusive enough. (This is what my sisters do.) And here's what she would have found when she did:

The Juha P. Kokko Award:

This award is presented to the faculty member who is voted by the residents as the best overall teaching attending in the residency program.  The Kokko Award is the highest teaching award given by the residency program.

Then she would have started asking me things like, "Is this for all of Grady or what? Has another underrepresented minority or black person ever won this award? Has another woman ever won this award?"

And I would have answered her quickly before she turned to Google. "No, it's for overall between the hospitals. Umm. . .no to the minority part. And as for the woman part, yes, once. Last year when my friend Joyce D. who was super-deserving won it." Then I'd have to listen to her tell me all about how much bigger this is than me and how she can't wait to tell any and every person who'd listen.

Because she was so, so genuinely proud of me.

And yeah. Our entire family is very good at the proud-of-each other thing. And, in all fairness, JoLai actually trumps Deanna in the spreading-the-word-of-whatever-it-is-someone-has-achieved contest when it comes to us or any of the kids. But I guess it just hit me on the way home from that program last Tuesday how much I wished she'd be there when I arrived. So that I could tell her first like always.

Now. Considering all of that, I am so deeply moved to have been recognized in this of all academic years. It goes without saying that first and foremost I'm just surrounded by so many amazingly talented clinician-educators. But I'm especially appreciative for this to have happened in the midst of me getting acclimated to my family's new normal.

And you know as soon as they called my name, that the little voice jumped right on me like gangbusters. Quick, fast, and in a hurry. Saying things like, "You sure charmed them, didn't you, Manning?" or "Um . . .do you really know enough to get the Kokko Award? Hmmm." And I swear to you, I had to chant in my head over and over again for the rest of that program:

Enough already. Already enough.

That kind of helped. But what really helped was having such wonderful friends that I could trust with these insecure thoughts. Because yes, they do creep up in us all.

And now I accept that what is uniquely my own style of teaching works for someone. I'm excited to do more and think more and try more things, too.  And, no, this isn't the first teaching award I've received or even told you all about, but for some reason this particular award was never one that I ever perceived myself to be "in the running" for. I'm glad to be in an environment that values many different teaching approaches and one that is filled with collaborative colleagues and gracious learners.

A friend of mine heard about this award on JoLai's Facebook feed. She reads this blog and asked why I hadn't immediately shared it here and I told her that I didn't know how or even if I should. Her reply was, "But we are a part of your community. And we want to be a part of this, too." I mumbled a few things back about not wanting to seem self-important or whatever and she reminded me that I'd worried about that at other times, too--and was wrong. Not to mention the fact that this is the same place I turned to on the very night I learned of Deanna's death. . . because I needed you all to know.

Funny. That night it never even crossed my mind not to immediately tell this community about that. Yet with personal triumphs it's always this weird dialogue that goes on in my head. Who to tell and how? Or at all?

Hmmmm.

I guess I'm just grateful on so many levels. Grateful for a career that I love. Grateful for my learners, my patients, and the gifts we give to one another. Grateful for meaningful friendships, an amazing professional mentor, and an institution that values what I can do. Grateful for a family that is yet holding on despite having a little piece of all of our hearts that keeps breaking over and over and over again. Grateful for this blog and the community of hearts that have been opened up to me. Grateful, man. Grateful for it all. 

Yeah. I'm still here. In fact, I'm even more than here. I'm present. I'm grateful for that, too.

I've got my sister

I can't feel her now
She may not be here, 

but she's still mine 

and I know

she still loves me

~ Miss Celie in The Color Purple

My sister was proud of me. That I knew for sure. And when people are proud of you and expect you to succeed, you rise. You stand. You deliver.

You do. And I want to do that for someone else. Push them to be better through expectation that they can. Just like she did for me. Just like my whole family continues to do for me.

Yep. Deanna was proud of me. And you know what? Right now? I think I kind of am, too.

***
Happy Saturday.

 Now playing on my mental iPod. . .