The Mandolin.

Me and Isaiah this morning

That's me in the corner. 

That's me in the spotlight.

- R.E.M. , Losing My Religion

Today I was sitting in church by myself. Isaiah had joined me this morning but he'd gone on to his middle school service and I to the adult one.

Which was fine with me.

Summer is weird for schedules. At least it is in my family. So a lot of our regular routine relaxes a bit. Harry had a late evening so was breathing heavily and not stirring even though I was moving all around the room. I decided to let sleeping husbands lie. Zachary was as still as a statue--not even the fake, smirking one that appears on most school days--when I tried to rouse him from sleep. I left him be as well. Isaiah was up and said he wanted to come with. "Wait for me," he said quickly pulling on his sneakers. "I'm gonna come, too."

Which was also fine with me.

He's getting older. Twelve now. Full of his own ideas, some of which are still adolescent half-baked, but still very good ones. Views and attitudes. Somewhere along the way he has decided that he likes attending church. Which feels really good since it's of his own volition. The fact that we can wear whatever we want, bring a cup of coffee or a water bottle right into the sanctuary, or even chew a stick of gum without admonishment doesn't hurt either.

Anyway.

I was sitting in church this morning. I'd chosen a corner seat, the first on the aisle. The kind of seat that makes you swing your legs to the side or stand up every time someone comes up. And probably, it's one of those things that, if you really, truly were to ponder it, is kind of selfish. But I just kind of felt like sitting on the end this morning. Which, as it turns out, was fine, too. Summer-schedule weirdness apparently isn't just limited to the Manning family. The church services are generally less full this time of year so no smiling usher-person came over to wave gently in my direction asking that I slide down.

I was glad.

So, I guess all of that had me in a peaceful place. The week had been full. I wanted a peaceful moment of fellowship. And, while I know that not everyone is a believer in God or a follower of any organized religion, I do think we can all agree to knowing that feeling of just wanting a peaceful moment. One not tainted by someone moving you from the place where you want to sit or forcing you awake and guilting you into doing something that, just maybe, you kind of aren't in the mood to do. So yeah. That's where I was.

Peaceful.

That's when I heard it. Hauntingly beautiful. Painstakingly tender. Like a rub on the shoulder when you feel sad or a very, very tight hug when you feel super happy. The room had fallen quiet, as often churches do when lights go down and doors close. But instead of someone talking or singing, it was just this sound, this melody.

I looked up from my corner seat. And there was this light falling upon this one man, head down and eyes closed, playing a mandolin. His head was waving rhythmically, almost choreiform and trancelike. Lost in the sound of his instrument.

Yeah.

I could see the other musicians on the stage, too, but that soft, bluish spotlight was on him. Eventually the rest of the lights filled in to reveal the rest of the band and they began singing. But for some reason, I couldn't hear them. All I could hear was him. And that mandolin.

Hauntingly beautiful. Painstakingly tender.

Like the flash of lightning, my eyes filled with gigantic pools of tears. They spilled over my lashes and onto my cheeks. It all caught me off guard. It did.

But that mandolin. So tender, so beautiful . . . it reached straight into my chest and clutched at my heart. Squeezing it tight and bursting from it every single moment of my week, of my life. And let me be clear: Life is good, it is. But it is, like always, full and complex. It is.

The more he played that mandolin, the more I cried. Tear after tear. Eventually, I just stopped wiping them away and just surrendered to it. All of it.

I'm taking care some very sick people at Grady right now. Sick in ways that I cannot really fix. And all of that feels so dark, you know? But then, right in the middle of all of that, are these enormous bursts of light that shine like sunbeams. People saying and doing unexpectedly amazing things. Some of them patients. Some of them not patients at all but just a part of the teams who signed up to care for them.

This one lady on my team was so sick that she could barely catch her breath when we came to see her. We were seeing her as a team and I felt guilty asking her to answer my questions or even sit up with such short wind and pain. But she did and I was able to assess what was happening with her from that. So I talked to her about the plans and answered our questions. And that was that.

Then, just as we prepared to go, she pointed at my medical student Joav and said to him, "Hey, you're the only guy on this team. How's it feel being surrounded by all of these ladies?" And we all just sort of chuckled as Joav made a small talk comment back. So we left the room and that was that.

But that wasn't really just that. See, on this team, I am working with a med student who is a transgender woman. She, along with all of us, is navigating a territory that is, to put it mildly, new to a lot of people around her. And with new or unknown things, people say and do things that catch you off guard. Some of them extremely hurtful. But some hauntingly beautiful. Painstakingly tender.

Kind of like that man randomly playing a mandolin in my church today.

Or like a lady gasping for air who points out the obvious. The obvious being that there was only one man on our team.

Yeah, that.

So I saw my student Holly's eyes when listening to that mandolin. That flicker that went across them when that patient spoke those words. And, to quote Holly, a lot of trans women will never look like Laverne Cox. They won't have the "pretty" advantage or mysterious ambiguity that some others enjoy. But still. That woman--that woman who pulled her oxygen mask to the side to say what she said--didn't seem to care about all of that. Yeah, so that was part of what made me cry.

And then there was my patient who, while fighting for her life, shared on rounds with me that her biggest concern was getting some diapers to her auntie's house for her baby. That was her big, big worry. She said her baby probably has a washcloth on her. And then she started crying because, honestly, there just wasn't any sort of solution.

To get diapers, that is.

And me, I was just thinking about her medical problems, you know? How serious and life threatening they were and just how totally first world, in comparison, that getting a box of pampers was.

Except that it wasn't first world to her. It wasn't. To her, it was just her world.

So I thought of that, too. With each cord of that mandolin wailing into the heavens, I did. That brought more tears.

This week, at least three different nights, I woke up and felt something right in front of me in my bed. It was my youngest son, Zachary--ten and a half years old and up to my shoulder, no less. But somehow finding himself under his mama's bosom just like when he was a little toddler. So savvy that he even figured out how to do it without even waking me up.

Yeah.

And so I asked him, "What's up with you coming into my bed, son? Big ol' boy in my bed!" And mostly I laugh about it since it was as unusual as it was funny.

"I don't know, Mom," he replied. "Something just told me that you needed to feel my love this week. Plus I just sort of wanted my mom. So I got in your bed."

And he was right. So very right. Which was also something I thought about as that mandolin played.

Hauntingly beautiful. Painstakingly tender. My growing, athletic and outwardly tough baby boy. Who somehow hasn't lost that inner compass to his mama's heart.

When he was about five or six, he tried to get in bed with me late one night. It had been a long time since that had happened so it startled me. I lifted up my blanket for him, and he started crying when I let him under the comforter next to me. I asked him why he was weeping and he said, "I'm getting big so I thought you'd say no. But sometimes I just want my mom."

To which I replied, "Remember this: Your mom always wants you, too."

Sigh.

I decided right then and there that I love the mandolin. Which probably I should have already known since one of my favorite songs of all time is "Losing My Religion" by R.E.M.  The irony of that song, to me, is that listening to it is always a bit of a religious experience for me.

Yeah.

The rest of the service was amazing. I learned some stuff and was given some good ideas to reflect upon from the sermon. Nobody sat directly beside me or coughed or smacked gum or kicked the back of my seat. They didn't try hugging me when I was crying or intrude upon my mandolin-induced emotional outburst with words of consolation or inquiry. And I'm super glad, too, because I wanted none of that. I just wanted peace on the corner seat. Which was exactly what I got.

On the way out of church, I chatted with Isaiah about a whole bunch of nothing. He told me about what they did in middle school church and I did my best to explain the mandolin making me cry. "I love the sound of the mandolin," I told him. "It makes my heart fill up when I hear it." And since Isaiah said he didn't know what a mandolin was, when we got into the car, I immediately played R.E.M. for him from my iPhone and pointed out the mandolin parts.

He just sort of shrugged and said, "Uh, okay, Mom." Then looked at his phone.

Which was also fine with me.

So yeah. Today, that was me in the corner. Not necessarily in the spotlight. But  as filled with emotion as that man in the spotlight playing that mandolin.

Hauntingly beautiful. Painstakingly tender. Like darkness and light existing together. The light always wins.

"Hey, Isaiah, get that paper and that empty bag off of the back seat for me," I said as we got out of car at home. He did as I asked of him and then walked toward the garbage can to toss the stuff in the trash.

"What'd you get from Target yesterday?"

"Some diapers," I replied. "And some wipes."

The garage door went up and Isaiah just sort of scowled at me. Then he just shook his head, deciding not to bite. "Diapers and wipes. . . . Uh, okay, Mom."

That was all he said before trotting up the stairs two by two and out of sight.

And you know what? That was fine with me, too.

Yeah.

***
Happy Sunday.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . the song that me and my friend Mary Moon have connected over and that, just maybe, had something to do with her own baby playing a mandolin. (That might be in my own head, though.)

Boy mama.

"Is that your first baby?"

That's what the elderly lady said to me who'd just stepped onto the crowded Grady elevator to slide in right next to me. Even though the small space was filled with passengers standing shoulder to shoulder, my very pregnant silhouette was pretty hard to miss--even under my white coat.  "No, ma'am," I responded cheerfully. "This is number two."

"Boy, ain't it?"

I chuckled at her accurate assessment--one I'd heard constantly throughout my pregnancy. "Yes, ma'am. Boy number two." The elder curled her lips downward and gave her head a smug nod.

The other people riding with us turned in my direction. I could feel everyone surveying the position of my belly to see if they agreed. Another woman looked me up and down and then chimed in. "Oh yeah. That's a boy all day and all night." A few others mumbled in agreement.

And you know? Nothing about this felt intrusive to me. All of it was Grady. So very Grady.

"It's because he's sitting high, right?" I patted the side of my stomach when I said that.

"Yeah. And 'cause your face ain't all splotched up and swoll up neither. Them girls rob your beauty every time." The crowd laughed at the Grady elder's unfiltered honesty even though she didn't mean it to be funny. "But you know you gon' have to turn right back around and try for that girl, don't you? Can't leave it at two boys."

I squinted one eye playfully in her direction. "Look at you already planning the next pregnancy! But no, ma'am. I don't think a girl is in my future. I'm pretty sure we might be done after this little boy joins us."

Her face became surprisingly serious. "Oh, now you need a girl. You got to have one."

"Uhhhh. . ." I let out a nervous laugh. Then I decided to break it up with a joke. "Can't you see I cut all my own hair off so I wouldn't have to comb any heads in the morning? God knew what He was doing. He knew I needed boys."

She still wasn't smiling. "Well. You gon' get old one day. It ain't got nothin' to do with buying baby dolls or combing hair. It's your girls that grow up to be the ones that see about you when you old. Even the boys that love they mama ain't no count when you get up in age and need 'em."

Yikes.

The rest of the passengers seemed to conveniently become silent. Even though I didn't want to do it, I started sifting through my head to see if her statement held any truth. Immediately, I imagined my brother, the one who lives only four houses away from his mother--and before that was only separated from her by two houses. "My brother sees about my mother. That's not always true."

"Yo' brother married?"

I swallowed hard and wished the elevator ride would end. Her sustained gaze over the top of her wire glasses was intimidating.  I couldn't think of any witty comeback so just answered her question. "He is."

"And I bet she be the one seeing 'bout your mama. I bet."

Just then I was relieved to hear the elevator ping on my floor and the doors fling open. "Well. I hope that's not true of my boys." I offered a tight-lipped smile and eased my protuberant tummy around the crowd. "Have a good day, everybody!"

That Grady elder touched my arm and looked into my eyes. Her entire hand was splayed over my the shoulder of my white coat in that way church folks do when laying hands. "God bless you and your baby, sugar. Speaking health and wellness over you and a easy delivery. In the name of Jesus!" Others in earshot joined in as an amen choir. Just when I started feel a sweet wave of emotion, she added a sucker punch. "And go on have you that girl after this one, hear? For when you get to be a old woman like me. You gon' be glad you listened to me."

I tried to respond with a polite nonverbal expression of gratitude. Mostly I felt this weird mixture of moved, awkward and lightweight offended. Even though I knew she didn't mean it as anything but endearing.

Yeah.

I always remembered what that Grady elder said on that elevator ride. Just as I'd predicted, we were done after Zachary and didn't attempt to have more children. And honestly, I've never really felt much regret about my two boy/no girl household. From the rough and tumble play to the stinky socks to the never-let-down toilet seats, I've loved it all. Truly I have. And sure. I can totally see what is special and amazing about having daughters--especially considering that I am one. But being a boy mama hasn't felt like a mistake or a regret to me. I guess it's just always felt sort of meant to be.

But.

Something about that statement of boys growing into inattentive men who "don't see about their elders" would occasionally niggle at me.  Just occasionally. I'd find myself lying in bed cuddling one of the boys and saying things like, "Are you going to forget your mama when you grow up?" Only to feel my heart nearly explode when hearing the heartfelt elementary school declarations otherwise.

I'd still wonder though. In the back of my head, I would.

As silly as it sounds, subconsciously I've kept score ever since. Looking to find as many exceptions to that rule as possible in the family members accompanying in clinic or waiting at the bedsides of my patients. Eyes peeled back looking for those caring, doting, exemplary sons. And yes. There have been sons for sure. But a lot of times there were sisters and wives, too. In fact, nearly all of the times.

So me, the mom of boys, is always hoping, you know? Hoping this isn't how it is. Or, at least, hoping some wonderful women marry my manchildren by the time Harry and I get as old as that woman in the elevator.

Not even kidding.

But, see, that was before I met Mr. Moreland.

I met him in the emergency department one day when my team was on call. He was sitting in the corner with his feet crossed and resting on the edge of the stretcher like it was some kind of ottoman. He was holding on to a folded piece of the Atlanta Journal Constitution and had reading glasses on top of his head. Mr. Moreland stood up the minute I stepped over the threshold into the room. "Frank Moreland," he said shaking my hand. "I'm Mrs. Eloise Moreland's son."

"Nice to meet you, sir. I'm Dr. Manning and I'll be one of the senior doctors taking care of your mother while she's in the hospital, okay?"

"Yes, ma'am," he replied. The "ma'am" felt funny coming from him given that he was easily ten or fifteen years my senior.

Mrs. Eloise had a high fever and a urinary tract infection. Her nearly ninety year old body wasn't much of a match for it, either. She'd been brought to the emergency department confused and moaning. This was a huge change from how she'd been described at baseline.

"Does your mother live alone?"

"No, she live with me." I felt my heart leap a little and scolded myself internally for getting off focus. "She fully self sufficient, though. Real, real independent. She just prefer to not be alone, you know? So she been in my house for quite some time."

"I see. Who else is in the home?"

"It's just me and her. My wife passed a few years back and my kids all grown. But all our family all around so everybody be over there all the time. She got a lot of people looking in on her and coming to see about her."

"That's great."

"Yeah. I'm one of eight. And everybody still living 'cept my oldest sister who passed in '13. I'm the only boy, though." Again an internal pirouette for team boy-mamas.

"Did they used to call you 'brother?'"

"You know it. Still do." He took off his weathered cap and tucked it under his arm with the newspaper. Rubbing his balding head,  he yawned. "All them girls and just one boy. That sho' is something, ain't it?"

It was clear that he was exhausted. But interestingly he didn't seem the least bit bitter or bothered by it. And for that, I liked him immediately. I sure did.

For several days I watched Mr. Moreland come and go. One day he'd have a fluffy fleece blanket and another day would be a hot water bottle to put under her neck. And right along with him were those sisters and grandchildren and some great-grandchildren, too. All surrounding their Big Mama with the love and attention she needed to get better. They brought in balloons and cards and rubbed her feet with salve. And all of it was awesome. It was.

But let me be clear. That manchild of hers? He was the one in charge. And Brother was anything but "no count" as my elevator companion suggested. He was conscientious, devoted and there. And it was all so natural. I loved every second of it.

On the day that Mother was discharged from the hospital, I was sitting at the nurses' station writing a note. Mr. Moreland walked up and made some small talk then clarified a few disposition concerns. Just as he prepared to step away, I spoke his name. "Mr. Moreland?"

He turned around with the discharge folder in his hand and raised his eyebrows. "Ma'am?" He never stopped calling me that.

"Can I ask you something? Or rather tell you and ask you something?" He stepped back over to the counter and positioned himself to let me know I had his full attention. And so. I went ahead and told him what was on my mind. I shared with him what that lady said to me ten years before and how seeing him with his mother had given me hope. Then I asked, "What did your mother do? I need to know her secret." I chuckled when I said it although I was only partially joking.

Mr. Moreland narrowed his eyes and sighed. "Oh now it take a village, that's for sure. But my mama loved hard on all of us. Every last one. And I was just the one in the position to move her in with me, you know? I feel sure my sisters woulda done the same. But I had more room and mama got on well with my wife. I guess I ain't never thought about it as strange."

"That lady said I needed a daughter because boys grow up to be no count when it comes to seeing about their elders."

He laughed out loud at that. "I think folk that's no count when it come to their kinfolk is no count everywhere. You ain't got to wait 'til somebody grow old to see that."

"Good point."

"I say just love 'em. Sacrifice for 'em and show them they matter to you. Like they ain't never no afterthought. When they grow up? It won't even call for no arm twisting. It'll just feel like what they 'posed to do. Like it's in order. You mark my words."

"I hope you're right. Because I'm too old to have a daughter now."

"Daughters can be no count, too."

We both laughed. "I loved watching you love on your mama." I felt my eyes starting to sting a little and rolled them skyward. "Ugh. I'm such a mush ball."

Mr. Moreland grinned wide showing the metal dental work along the sides of his back teeth. His face washed over with warmth. "Something tell me those boys of yours gon' be just fine. Don't you worry."

"You think?"

"I'm a son. And I know what it look like when a mama got love in her eyes."

After that, he tipped his cap, turned around and headed back to his mother's room to retrieve the bouquets of flowers, cards and clusters of mylar balloons. I'm super glad he did, too, because I was on the tippy-tip edge of crying. One or two even slid out.

Yeah.

I hope to grow old with Harry and need only love from my children someday. I want them to have full lives of their own. It is also my wish to forge meaningful adult relationships with them and the people with whom they partner. And now, after listening to and watching Mr. Moreland, I recognize that it isn't so much that I want them to move me in with them or deny others for me. I think it's more that I want them to evolve into the kind of empathic human beings that nurture out of love instead of burdensome obligation. And no. Not just toward aging me. But to people in general.

Yeah. That.

Something in my heart tells me that they will.

I'm a mother of boys. And you know? I'm cool with that.

Yeah.

***
Happy Friday.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . .



*Names and details changed to protect anonymity. You know the deal.

Go hard or go home.

*name and details changed to protect anonymity

"We strutting hard and serving side eyes and slaying it. .  . "

Ms. Nika 

"My grandmother swears up and down that somehow I got dropped on my head." She laughed and shook her head. "Like it had to be some kind of explanation for me being like this."

Since she'd chuckled first, she gave me the green light to laugh, too. "When did you first know?" I asked.

"I don't remember ever not knowing. And if they'd just stopped ignoring what was right in front of them, my granny and them woulda known, too."

She pushed down hard on the bed and scooched her bottom back. Then she reached for her cell phone on the tray table, turned on the camera and changed the direction so that she could use it as a mirror. The minute she saw her face, she shook her head and shuddered.

"I look a hot ass mess."

"You've been sick."

"Still, chile. I look crazy."

I leaned back in the chair and watched as she pulled the screen close to her face to study her eyes. The false eyelashes she'd been wearing when she arrived at the hospital were half on and half off. First she tried pressing them back down with her thumb a few times, then groaned. "Uggggh!"

Her biceps bulged out when she lifted her slight arms. That and her voice were probably the only immediate signs that she was born with a Y chromosome. And yes, perhaps her square jaw could be a clue, but mostly she was delicate and feminine. Perhaps more so than many genotypic females I know.

"Your lashes lasted a whole lot longer than the ones I've had before. I just wore some recently and they made me crazy."

"You got to use the right glue and get 'em in the right place. Honey, but these here? These thangs can't be saved." With both hands she gripped the edges of each lash between her thumb and index finger and zipped them off of her eye lids simultaneously. "Oh well! I'm still cute!" She threw her head back and let out a raspy laugh and coughed a bit. I nodded my head in affirmation.

After that, we both just sat there for a beat, saying nothing. My eyes rested on the almost cartoonish eyelashes that lay on the blanket before her. They were so big, bold and unmistakable. A clear declaration saying, "I am here. And screw you if you don't like it." I decided that I liked that. My eyes came back up and met hers. We both smiled.

"You know. . . .you're doing so much better, Ms. Nika. I think we can probably discharge you this morning if your labs look good."

"Hmmm. Okay. Let me work on some things then."

"Do you have a place to go?"

"Me? I mean, not exactly yet. But I always make it happen. I always do what I got to do to survive."

I paused when she said that, not knowing what to say. Instead I just twisted my mouth and waited to see if she had more to add. Instead of expounding on her living situation, she yawned with both arms outstretched and went back to our original conversation.

"I used to have this little backpack when I was like four or five. It was light blue and it had trucks on it. My granny got it for me to take to pre-school or kindergarten or something like that. And you know? I used to hold it on my forearm like a pocket book. And I had some vaseline and chapstick and would pretend like it was make up."

"When you were five?"

"Or younger. I just always was like this. Not just a girl. A lady, you know? From even when I was little. So I spent my whole life just trying my hardest to do me. And be me."

"Makes sense. That's bold."

"Bold? Meh. Mostly it's just fucked up. Because you get kicked out of the house and then you find people who act like they accept you. Some, I mean a few, really do. Some just think you're funny and interesting like some kind of movie when it's your life."

I swallowed hard on that part because I wondered where I fell.  Immediately I felt bad for saying such a cookie-cutter statement about being "bold." Even though I believed she was.

"That's deep." That's what I said since that's all I could think to say.

"I see, like, regular females walking around sometimes and think, 'You don't even appreciate it. Like you don't appreciate being a lady.' You know what I'm saying? Walking around in sweatpants and t-shirts. Or clothes that don't fit good. I saw this one girl who I could tell had a great body and felt mad. She looked all frumpy and crazy. Like, how this chick get to be a girl from the start and treat it like this?"

I'd never even thought of that. Quickly I imagined the sweats and Ugg boots I'd worn to run errands the day before. This was a new perspective, even if I wasn't sure what to do with it. Either way, I love it when my patients give me new things to think about.

Ms. Nika went on. "People think they know but they don't. Like, they see me with my girlfriends and we all laughing and ki-ki-ing with our heels on and our lashes. We strutting hard and serving side eyes and slaying it and the people who ain't in our world they just stand by and stare. Like we some kind of aliens. But, see, when this is your world? Like, when you make your mind up to dress like who you know you been in your heart since you was little and be like what you feel inside? You go all the way. At least, I see it like that."

"I get it."

"Like, go hard or go the fuck home, you know? And then when folks looking all hard at you and saying dumb shit like, 'THAT'S REALLY A DUDE'--I just sashay even harder. 'Cause they don't even know that me still looking like a boy but dressed like a girl STILL look and feel a million times better to me than dressing like a boy and feeling like a girl. Even when I can't get meds, you know, hormones and you can see a little bit of hair on my face, that's better than . . .it's better than. . "

"The alternative?" I interjected.

"Yes. THAT. Anything is better than that. So it's not that it's so brave or so bold or whatever. It's just what I have to do to live and feel alive. Do that even make sense?"

I felt my eyes welling up. Partly because I felt so tremendously grateful for her transparency. But mostly because it did make sense. Being authentic was like oxygen for her. And the more I thought about what parts of my life I love the most, I realized that being my true self was always a part of it.

Always.

"Now, Dr. Mannings. What you up in here crying for?"

She reached for my hand and I let her. Right away I noticed her long acrylic nails and how they contrasted my short, square unpolished manicure. It made my eyes sting more.

I tried to say something but nothing came out. So I just shrugged. Finally, I eked out a few words. "You're beautiful."

And that? That made her cry. Which made me cry for real.

Yep.

And so we just sat there holding hands, sniffling and not saying much else. Not even fully sure why we both felt so emotional but deciding to just roll with it (like ladies often do.)

Sigh.


You know? I'm not even sure why I felt the need to write about this today. But you know? I'm just so astounded by the many facets of humankind and how much people have to teach one another. I'm so grateful to Ms. Nika for letting me in a little. I will never see a transgender person the same way again.

I won't.

For the rest of that week, I wore a bold red lip. Kind of as an homage to Ms. Nika. And every time someone commented to me about it, I gave a knowing smile. But really in my head I was saying:

"Go hard or go the f--k  home, you know?"

Yeah.

***
Happy Thursday. And I hope you're going hard.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . Ms. Nika's favorite song to strut to. And mine, too. 

Ten.

Isaiah - Our Beautiful Boy from Kimberly Manning on Vimeo.


May 6. It marked ten years to the day since my beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy Isaiah was born. Thank you, Mr. John Lennon, for saying the words that I've searched to find all day and all week but could not.

Happy tenth birthday, son. And, as you say, happy "mommyversary" and "daddyversary" to us. Always inclusive of others in every celebration and somehow given bionic eyes that see the very best in the world and humankind. You give wings to all around you and perspective to even the most dire situations. This is you. And you are us.

And we are glad.

Yeah.

***
Happy Born-day to us.

The bomb.

I saw a patient who'd had a stroke. His ability to choose his words was ruthlessly robbed from him--and really that's about it. He could understand perfectly but everything he said came out garbled and super hard to understand. Which sucked.

Talking to him was really, really tough. He'd try and try but no one could make out what he was trying to communicate. That is, all but one word. One of his words came out clear as a clanging gong every single time I spoke to him.

What word, you ask? I'll tell you:

The F-bomb.

Yeah, baby.

Here's what I learned from our encounters: Even if you aren't much of a expletive-user, a lot can be expressed through a perfectly placed f-bomb.

Wet bed?
Annoyed by me turning on the overhead light?
Frustrated with being unable to find what you want to say?
Not happy with what's under the cafeteria tray?
Looking for your reading glasses under the covers?
Somebody IS the father on the Maury Povich show?
Need your family to know how you're doing?
Want somebody to know what you think of them?

Turns out that the f-bomb fits the bill. Like 99.2% of the time, man.

Ha.

I told him that his f-bomb was the best I'd ever heard, even better than my daddy's--which is saying a whole, whole lot. I also told him that he'd turned it into a universal word for any and all occasions. A noun, a verb, an adjective and even an adverb, man. Kind of like "smurf." And you know what? He got that dumb joke and just laughed and laughed at that. He tried to tell me I was funny, I think, but all that came out was the universal f-word instead.

Ha.

Then he pointed at me and tried to say something. I couldn't really understand so he tried again. When I still looked puzzled he finally just laughed out loud, shook his head, and threw up his hands.

"Fuck it!" he laughed. I laughed, too.

And all of this made me happy because his nurse told me that it was the first time she'd seen him laugh for his entire hospitalization. The first and only time.

Fuck yeah.

***
Happy Tuesday.

***

Exactly like peaches.

This picture taken by JoLai captures me feeling like a woman.

Oh, oh, oh I wanna be free
Yeah, to feel the way I feel
Man! I feel like a woman!

~ Shania Twain

I ran into her again. And actually, I shouldn't say it that way since "running into" someone suggests that doing so is rare and unexpected. I think a better thing to say is that I've seen her several times since she made the decision to openly identify as just that. A "she."

The quotations around she just made me bristle a bit. Because usually they mean that something is fake and not real. Or pretend and not legitimate. And since I know how it feels to open my eyes in the morning and really, truly feel like a woman, I guess I'm conflicted by the thought of how I'd feel if every single person I encountered told me otherwise. That is, that I wasn't one.

Of course. There are those feminine things like how freshly shaved legs feel when rubbing together under crisp cotton bed linens or how the hip bones curve out or even how the decolletage holds its mysteries. Yes, those things all make me feel like a woman, but not mostly those things. Mostly it's something inside of me that just knows. When I'm lying on my back looking at the ceiling and thinking my early morning thoughts, I know. And in those times, I do--I feel like a woman.

Does that even make sense? I don't know.

So, yes. I saw her and I see her and she always seems happy when I do. Because she can tell that I've made up my mind to not just try to see her as who she is. But instead to simply do it on instinct. Like I do when I'm lying in my bed knowing who I am. And I see the glares she gets from the people standing in line to get things like chewing gum and cigarettes or toothpaste and mascara. This look of disgust that washes me over with soft ripples of pain on her behalf.

On this day, I just needed some bubble bath. Harry had asked me to get it for him, along with some Chapstick, and I obliged him. When I saw her at the register, I waited in her line instead of going to one of the oft confusing "self checkout" lines.

"Hey, there, doc," she said, "how goes it?"

"It goes. It always goes, my dear."

"Have you smelled this bubble bath?"

"Uhhh, no. It was just on the list of ultra random things to get."

She chuckled. Her stubby fingers came to her lipstick stained mouth when she did. "Well. It smells really good. Exactly like peaches."

"Is that a good thing? To smell exactly like peaches?"

This time we both laughed out loud. And since no one was behind us in line, it was fine.

"I've been taking the soy hormones. You know? Like the ones they give women going through menopause?"

And I just nodded because I did know. I knew that these plant-derived estrogens could sometimes maybe knock the edge off of a hot flash or two but wouldn't come anywhere close to helping her to evolve to her desired phenotypic appearance.

"What do you think so far?"

That answer felt like a bit of a betrayal since I already had a pretty strong opinion. She shrugged. "I'm not sure it's doing much."

"Hmmm. Have you. . .like. . .thought about. . ."

"Prescription strength hormones? Yeah. I have but I can't afford them since I'm not insured. And for whatever reason, especially if you're young, doctors are super funny about it. A lot of people get it, you know, on the streets or underground ways. But I can't afford all that."

"Dang."  I thought for a bit about who I might know of who could help. But then I wondered if it was even appropriate to cross this line and start offering specific things to her. Again--I was conflicted and unsure what to say next. "I take it you've been to Grady."

"Yeah. The person I saw was nice." She paused to hand me my receipt. "But he seemed really confused by me." She let out a soft chuckle before going on. "I've been in touch with some advocacy groups though. You know, for trans people. It's a lot." She seemed so positive. Even though the reality of what she was telling me sounded the complete opposite of that. Suddenly the thought of being trapped and handcuffed into one body when every fiber of my being felt like it belonged in another one punched me in the gut.

Oooph.

"That really sucks." That's all I said. Because honestly, that's how it felt. And she was right. It's a lot. But having a door close in your face when you're trying to be who you are isn't just a lot. It sucks.

Really, really sucks.

So I repeated myself. "That really, really sucks."

She seemed to appreciate that statement. And we just looked at each other across that drug store counter. I could tell that she knew I wished the world for her--her authentic world--but that I wasn't sure what to do.

"It's nice when someone is nice, you know? Like not trying to be. Just nice for no reason." She sort of changed the subject. And since we were talking about her and not me, I let her.

She handed me my oversized bag with the bubble bath and grinned in return. "Whoops, almost forgot to put this in here." She plopped the tube of Chapstick and it quickly got lost in the plastic carrier.

"Thanks."

"Have you smelled that?" She pointed at the bag where she'd just placed the lip balm.

"What? The Chapstick?"

"Yeah. That.  It doesn't smell like anything."

"Oh, it doesn't? Well. I think the husband should be okay with that."

"Not me." She curled her lips, lowered her eyelids half mast and gave her head an exaggerated shake. "I prefer to smell exactly like peaches."

With a lopsided smile, I nodded and gave my reply.

"You know what? Me, too."

***
Happy Wednesday.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . . "Man! I feel like a woman!" by the beautiful Shania Twain--another woman I always find myself always rooting for.

Cozu-mellow.

This picture, taken while I was walking down the street in Cozumel, is being posted expressly for my friend Sister Moon. I know for 100% certain that she will enlarge it and then look at every single nook and cranny of this photograph. Then she will laugh. Then smile. And maybe, depending upon how long she stares at it, perhaps cry a little bit, too.

But good tears, y'all. Don't worry.

Not a bad snapshot for an iPhone, eh? Hope this made you smile, Sister Moon. Wait--what am I even saying? I know it did.

***
Happy Friday.

Not-so-queer as folk.

image credit

I see her all the time, actually. That store is literally walking distance from the medical school and all of the places I frequent so on most days walking there is like walking into "Cheers." The only difference is that nobody yells out "Norm!" And it's a neighborhood pharmacy and not a bar.

In addition to being the place for filling my family's prescriptions it's also the place that we can always count on to grab random staples like bread, milk, and coffee. I would say that there are some weeks that I come in there at least six out of the seven days. Some know me by name but even those who don't at least know me by face. And I the same.

Yesterday I needed some milk for the kids, some bleach and some rubbing alcohol. She was the one ringing me up that day and as I completed the transaction, she chatted me up like usual. I couldn't help but study her heavy application of eyebrow pencil, the blackest-black mascara on her lashes and the pinkish blush on her cheeks. She always wore a little bit of eye makeup which wasn't out of the ordinary but today, something seemed different.

"Uh oh," she said as she finished the sale, "your milk. Looks like this gallon expires tomorrow."

"Eek!" I replied.

She promptly jogged over to the cold area to exchange it for another. When she returned she gave her head a little shake and the playful ponytail on her head shook with it. "They all expire tomorrow. Looks like the Thanksgivingers wiped us out."

"I'd say."

"Sorry about that."

"It's not the end of the world."

"It's not." She smiled really bright after she said that. Her lips were stained with remnants of what was probably an old application of some alleged 24 hour lipstick. Without saying more, she started punching the register in preparation to give me a refund for the milk. Her finger nails were painted a dark shade of burgundy that almost appeared black and each of her fingers were adorned with goth appearing rings. She noticed me looking and smiled. "I love rings. Always have."

"Did you have a good holiday?" I asked.

"It was here at work. But that's okay. I was able to get in on the sales here. Bought some good makeup."

And right when she said that, I noticed what was different. Her badge, which usually had a masculine name, had been replaced with one that was decidedly feminine. There had always been a little bit of eyeliner and black fingernails. But honestly, I'd always attributed it to some kind of rocker style, you know? And honestly, I'd always interacted with her as what her outward phenotypic appearance mostly suggested: That she was a he.

"Your name is beautiful." That's what I said. Partly because it was, but also because I wanted her to know that I noticed. It was brave what she was doing and I could tell that she'd made up her mind to be who she is.

"Yeah, doc. I'm . . . well, mostly I always considered myself queer but who I am inside isn't that."

I squinted my eyes. I wasn't sure what she meant. Like I'd heard people tell me of queer as a term that meant just that. Not a boy, not a girl, not an it, just themselves. Queer. "Who, then are you?"

"A woman. But one who is stuck."

I didn't know what to say. So I just continued to make eye contact with her until she said something else.

"I'm about to graduate from college soon. And I'm going to dedicate myself to doing things to helping people like me belong. Like research and stuff like that."

"That's awesome. How much time do you have left?"

"Just this semester."

"Cool."

She handed me my change and smiled wide and genuine. I could tell that she was glad that she'd said all that and I was glad she felt comfortable enough. I waved goodbye and addressed her by the name now on her badge.

"Thank you," she replied with a big sigh.

I started to leave but then paused for a moment. I turned back to her and spoke carefully. "Just. . . . remember that differences can scare some people when they don't understand. Keep being brave and teaching people so that they learn."

"People aren't nice." That's all she said. And I knew what she meant because the lady to my immediate right who was sifting through the gum selections made enough exaggerated expressions to be mistaken for a mime. 

"Mmmm. Some are mean on purpose. But some just don't know any better."

"I know."

I nodded and prepared to leave. "Alright then."

"See you tomorrow when you forget the hamburger buns." We both laughed.

"Or on Tuesday when I need some Splenda."

"Have a great week."

I smiled at her as I headed out of the door. A crowd of people were now waiting to be checked out -- all of whom looked up when I said back to her in the most matter-of-fact way I could, "You, too, ma'am."

***
Happy Monday. And thank you to every brave person who has been unafraid to teach me about being true to thy own self. Especially this woman who helped me better interact with the one in the pharmacy yesterday.

Now playing. . . .

The Book of Ruths.

"Beware of the woman with no woman-friends. For reals."

~ Kimberly Manning

I will never forget the morning I awoke after Deanna passed away. I just lay there spread eagle on my back and staring at the ceiling. I blinked my eyes and then looked from side to side without even moving my head or my body. The room looked like it always looked in the morning. The sun was hitting the floor in the same places and the socks I'd fallen asleep in had been kicked off and shoved to the bottom of the bed like usual. I wondered if, just maybe, all of this was a bad dream.

Then I heard something buzzing on the nightstand. I rolled toward the sound and spotted my cell phone plugged into the power strip and sitting face down. The clock behind it read 6:23 a.m. I tried to tell myself that a text message this early could be related to a patient. I mean, technically, it could. Which would make perfect sense if Deanna not being here was all a horrible nightmare, right?

Just as I reached for the phone, it vibrated again with another text message. And then again. When I pressed the button to see the screen, it was covered with text messages. Before I could even swipe the front and enter the passcode, it gyrated another two times. It became apparent to me that this wasn't a dream at all. This was my new reality.

Now.

That part isn't so much what I'm reflecting on this morning. Instead I'm thinking of that screen covered with those messages and from whom they came. I will tell you: My women-friends. Okay, now in all fairness to my dear, dear men-friends, I did hear from them, too. But the first ones to reach out to me--to call me, to see me, to hug me? My women-friends.

Yes.

That? That is making me cry this morning. It is because there was nothing I wanted more than to be surrounded by my women-friends. Or, better yet, my sisterfriends as I've always called them. It goes without saying that I wanted to be with my family but my sisterfriends? Damn, I needed them. Damn, I did. I didn't even know how much I did, but I did. And they came through. Physically and virtually, they did.

I've said this here before but it bears repeating. Women need women to survive. They do. And every person who reads this blog knows how much I love my husband and my father and my brother and my boys. They are necessary components to my life being rich and good but for me to be my very best human being, they are not enough. Women need women. In good times and bad times, we do. But let me tell you -- when the darkness falls like it did for me in November of 2012? I cannot even begin to explain to you how glad I was that I had a cadre of really good sisterfriends fully prepared to fly to my side.

I call them my "Ruths."

Let me explain. One of my favorite books, if not my favorite book, in the bible is the Book of Ruth. It tells the story of a woman named Naomi who'd become widowed. She and her husband had two sons and, before her husband's passing, had left their hometown (Bethlehem in Judah) to raise their boys in this country called Moab. Anyways, once her husband passed, Naomi stayed there in Moab with her boys who grew into men. Her sons met and married women who were originally from Moab and everything was cool.

Well, as fickle fate would have it, both of those sons preceded not only their wives but poor Naomi in death, too. So now, here she was with her two daughters-in-law in this land that wasn't actually her original stomping ground.

You with me? Okay, cool.

So check it. The two D-I-Ls were, as the bible tells it, really good to Naomi. Before the sons died, it sounds like it was all good in the Moab hood. They probably cooked, baked and yucked it up together every chance they got. And even though they had their husbands to take care of, those women saw about Naomi since they knew that she was their husbands' mama and that seeing about your husband's mama is the right thing to do.

Yeah, it is.

But Naomi's sons' deaths were untimely. They were young and so were their wives. And Naomi had already had her darkest days so she was ready to get up out of Moab. And since Naomi was a selfless woman and not at all a "monster-in-law" she looked at those two women with the straightest, calmest expression ever and said, "Go on back to your mothers' homes. You're young and you have a whole life ahead of you, okay? Find new husbands, have kids, and all that good stuff. I'm good."

And Naomi meant that. She did. In fact, she loved those two women so much that she referred to them lovingly and repeatedly as "my daughters" and kissed them when she said those words.

Well. Those two women--whose names were Orpah and Ruth--loved Naomi right back. And yes, as a sidebar, I mean to write "Orpah" and not "Oprah." Turns out Oprah Winfrey's parents thought they were naming her after Orpah-in-the-Book-of-Ruth. . . . but they spelled it wrong. Which, you have to admit, is kind of funny.

But I digress.

So yeah. Orpah and Ruth start hysterically crying and insisting that they are going to stay with Naomi and go back to Bethlehem with her. And if this were 2013, I bet they'd say something like, "We're rocking with you, Mama Naomi!"

To which Naomi would give them both windshield wiper index finger and say, "Y'all are tripping. What are y'all gonna do with me? I'm older and ain't trying to get remarried or re-impregnated. So what I'm saying is--go live your lives. I'm gonna be fine."

And the impression I get is that Naomi was beyond childbearing age but young enough where she could mostly care for herself. So it wasn't like she was super needy or anything. That said, she'd had enough of Moab and needed to get back to the hometown.

So what happened next? Well, they kept hysterically crying but eventually Orpah tearfully tears herself away from Naomi probably like Sister did when she was leaving Miss Celie in The Color Purple. But yeah, Orpah eventually took Naomi's words to heart and headed back to her own mama's home.

But that Ruth. She was a hardheaded little thing. She ice-grilled Naomi and told her straight up:

"Where you go, I will go and where you stay, I will stay."

Or, in other words, "Hell no, I won't go."

And no matter what Naomi did, Ruth wouldn't leave her. Her loyalty was so radical that Naomi eventually realized that it was no use even trying to fight her anymore.

So the story goes on where Ruth basically goes to Naomi's hometown and gets a some really tough physical labor gig to keep the lights on. Or rather the oil lamps lit. You get the picture. And what's cool is that everybody kind of looked out for Ruth and opened doors for her since they'd heard about how she'd held down her mother-in-law when, really, nobody could have blamed her for looking out for number one.

There's more to the story but I've covered my favorite parts of it. I always look back at that story and think to myself that Orpah really did nothing wrong. She was loyal and loving and visibly upset by the idea of leaving Naomi. But Ruth's loyalty to Naomi? That was some radical shit right there. That was  I-got-yo-back on a whole 'nother level. Yeah, it was.

So the morning after I woke up on November 16, 2012, I needed some radical support, man. I heard from my Orpahs--I did. But what truly sustained me was my Ruths. Does that even make sense? I hope so.

And no. My Ruths aren't leaving their families for me or anything. But like Naomi could surely attest, my Ruths are the ones that make me feel safest and most secure. The ones that inconvenience themselves sometimes and who love like it was what they were born to do. Who love and protect instinctively without overthinking it or making me feel pressure. They stand behind you and hold you up with both hands, hiding behind your silhouette and not minding that you look strong when you really aren't.

You know what else? They make room for your other Ruths. In fact, they welcome them. And none of it feels heavy or contrived or extra or lumpy. It's not insecure or overanalyzed or uncomfortable. It just is. And that? That is what I needed that day more than anything in the world.

You know why? Because Deanna and JoLai have always been my original Ruths. And even when I haven't deserved it, they have been. I swear that I've been an Orpah more than once to both of them, yet they have always, always been radically supportive and loving. Always. And those women taught me how to be a Ruth to others. They did.

And let's be very clear one something--I am specifically not naming my mother in this -- not because she has not been all of these things to me -- but because a mother's love is otherworldly and should be ultra-radical by definition. Lucky for me, my mother's love always has been. So I guess it makes sense that my original Ruths came from that same woman, right? Yeah.

So my point is . . . losing one of my original Ruths was like losing one of my arms. I didn't even know where to start, man. I would do things that require two arms and forget. I would reach for something and be shocked back into this new harsh one-armed reality.

But that's the thing about your Ruths. They know already. It's in them to be there for you and to make you feel safe. Even when you can't articulate what you need, they are thinking ahead. Or maybe they aren't thinking. They're just being.

Sigh. I'm rambling, I know.

I know I am. But I also know that I am so effing fortunate to be able to wake up knowing that my world is filled with not just one but many Ruths. And when I think of my successes and my survival I know that were I to write it all down and put it in a book it would be just that -- The Book of Ruths. Not just one radical woman but many. And isn't that some really, really wonderful shit when you think about it? I mean, just isn't it?

Yeah, man.

Look. It's November 1, 2013. The leaves are breaking away and the sky is bluer. Green leaves have turned reddish orange and my friends are sending me text messages asking about our Homecoming weekend. Just like that morning last November, their messages remind me that Deanna dying really happened. That bands will still play and alumni will still sing fight songs. The sunlight will hit the same places and my socks will still be crumpled under the comforter. But unlike last year, this November and this Homecoming, Deanna will not be here in the flesh. She won't.

 

And all of it means that -- just like I did then and just like I do every day-- I am going to need my Ruths more than ever. And you know what? They'll be there. That I know for sure.

Yeah.

16 But Ruth replied, “Don’t urge me to leave you or to turn back from you. Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God. 17 Where you die I will die, and there I will be buried. May the Lord deal with me, be it ever so severely, if even death separates you and me.” 18 When Naomi realized that Ruth was determined to go with her, she stopped urging her.   ~ Ruth 1:16 - 18

Shout out to my Ruths. You know who you are.

***
Happy Friday. May you recognize your Ruths. . . and never be Ruth-less. . . yeah.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . the song Isaiah was singing in the car on the way to school right after he said, "Today is November 1 and November is the month that Auntie died."  Somehow hearing his 8 year-old heartfelt rendition of this song made me feel more glad than sad and hearing those lyrics inspired this post.



Sister and Celie being separated by Mister in The Color Purple. How I imagine Ruth and Orpah when they were being separated from Naomi. . . and further underscoring the kind of radical love and loyalty it took for Ruth to remain by her side.