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?

Reflections of an E.N.T. Resident.

Day #1010

2 a.m.

Consciousness waivers.

Confidence cracks.

Resolve thins.

Relationships crumble.

Hunger pains.

And all of these thoughts descend upon me like a sunset

in these precious few moments of silence.

Then the pager blares.

The phone rings.

My legs pump.

The room is crowded.

The blood is on the ceiling.

The machines wail.

My hands move.

The knife slides deep into his neck.

The air escapes from the trachea.

And the room is just a little bit louder. . . .

Because there is one more person breathing in it

than there was 15 seconds ago.

Because I knew what to do with the blade

that I always carry in my back pocket.

Your next breath is not promised.

Love and appreciate each one.

~ Anthony Chin-Quee, Jr., MD, Senior Resident in ENT

Emory University SOM '11, Small Group Alpha

picture in a Michigan call room, Dr Chin-Quee, ENT resident

_______________________________

These are the kinds of messages I get from them sometimes--my current and former students. This poem and the accompanying images (shared with Tony's permission) came to me via text message early this morning from one of my former small group advisees. I've known this young man since his very first day of medical school and had the honor of placing a doctoral hood over his head on that very last day. If we're lucky, those relationships don't end there. 

Nope. 

Man. I'm so moved that, even though he's in the late adolescence of his medical training and even though he's many states away from me now, he chooses to share things like this. And even think things like this.

But how do I mostly feel? Excited. Excited for all of us that there are young physicians like Tony and the many others I know personally. . . . waiting in the wings to save our lives. 

If I haven't told you lately, I'm proud of you, Tony. We all are.

***

Happy Saturday. You can read another poem from Tony here and read a post inspired by him here.

Young bird.

This is Tony. He's one of my former students from my very first small group.

It's hard to believe that he's now a third year resident. Yes. A third year ENT resident no less. Operating. Calling shots. Growing up. It's so hard to get my mind around that. I get pictures and am blown away that one of my little birds is getting so close to becoming a papa bird in his own right.

Man.

So yeah, he's a third year resident now. And for the record--residency is hard. It demands that you grow and sometimes that pace is very, very uncomfortable. The stakes are high -- especially when you're responsible for dissecting open neck structures and cutting their tiny structures.

Um, yeah.

Tony is one of the ones who has regularly reached out to me during this time. In fact, most of them have but him perhaps more than most. He's texted me about the growing pains, asked me my thoughts or, many times, just needed somewhere to talk about his. Sometimes it is a full on conversation. Sometimes it's just a quick email or text. But regularly it is something. Which is pretty awesome.

And no. He is no longer a medical student at Emory University. He's not even in Georgia anymore. But like I said before--these relationships don't fizzle out after graduation. They evolve, yes. But they don't go away.

Residency is hard. It is. But with people behind you, you get even better at being behind yourself. We all need that. Whether you're a medical student, a resident, or a full fledged whatever-it-is-you-are.

I always ask my patients, "Who are your peoples? Who sees about you?" And I ask this because it's important. We all need peoples. And somebody should always be seeing about us. But that only happens when we allow them access.

Although Tony graduated in 2011, I am so happy that he continues to grant me just that. Access, man.

Case in point:

A few days ago, I received this text from Tony.

And this. This is everything. Everything to me. See, even though he already graduated, I was still in on that growth. I don't just see the glory -- I know the story.

This. Getting things like this far exceeds any award that I could ever publicly receive. He's thinking. He's reflecting. He's growing. And he's writing. Writing through it despite being in the epicenter of a grueling surgical subspecialty training. And granting me access to be a part of it.

Yes.

Read these beautiful words and bear witness along with me. I can think of no better way to underscore what is magical about longitudinal mentoring experiences.

Tony wrote this as a reminder to himself of who he is. When we talked about it, though, we realized that it could be many different voices depending upon the circumstances. Us to ourselves. Us to each other. God to us. And just maybe Tony to a young mentee of his own someday.

Thank you, Tony, for allowing me to share your journey with this community of thinkers.

Letter to a Young Bird

Good morning young one

I've watched you

Terrified to breathe

But in your first act of trust,

pulling this world's air into your burning chest

To announce your arrival.

I looked into your eyes that instant

and every moment since, young one.

I have seen your curiosity

I have seen your courage

I have seen your strength

I have seen your capacity for... (all things infinite)

And in your eyes, I have also seen understanding

that you too, just as I have,

have seen all of these things in yourself.

You have grown, young one.

And the world has grown with you.

the troubles have become more crucial

the universe has become far reaching

ideas are everlasting

love is the ever elusive magic---

  you know it exists, you inhale it with each breath

  you've been told it enfolds you

  but you can't touch it.

  you have never seen it.

  and it rings false as soon as you speak its name--
the very mention tumbling the tower on which it was perched.

You look tired, young one.  

  I see past the eyes that you put on display for the world.

  they say that they've seen you fly.

But you and I know better.

You have floated.

You have coasted.

and as magical as that may appear to untrained eyes

  you and I know that you were meant for more than this.

You were meant to soar.

This you have known since

that first magical eruption,

that first burning breath.

But your own expectations 

  have made your wings heavy.

I have seen you look to the sky and wonder -- what are one bird's wing beats against the universe?

What is one brilliant new flame in the world-sustaining light of the sun?

Yet today, in light of the dawn of your rebirth, I say to you that 

the expectations

the fear

the doubt

the limits

are of your own creation.

The weight of the world is an illusion.

It is your canvas

  make it beautiful.

It is your opus

  add your grace notes.

Stare into the sun and shine as you were meant to.

It will not blind you

and your brilliance will not blind those who look to you

but will prism-break into every possibility they have ever known.

and even some that they haven't.

You were meant to fly.  

and fly you will.

But then you will soar

into the everlasting expanse of your dreams.

Don't worry--

  you will breathe just fine up there.  

  and you will look into the sun with wide eyes.

And you will repeat to yourself every moment as you set your course ever upward:

My light was meant to shine.

My soul was born to fly.

And so it is.


~ Anthony Chin-Quee, Jr., M.D.
    EUSOM '11,  July 2013 


***

And so it always shall be, Tony.

Yes. This.

This is. . .

Everything. Everything. Everything.

Yeah.

***
Happy Saturday. Again. (Yes, Mom. I'm so prolific.)

Now y'all show that man some love in the comments, people. 'Preciate you.

Random morning haiku.

I like who I am

Got loving eyes of my own

that say, "You're enough."

Life isn't perfect

but it's more sunshine than rain

and more joy than pain

***

Happy Thursday.

Hurricane Haiku.

Sandy hit Georgia

Blew Obama off my lawn

stormy agenda

Haiku on a Thursday: Have it your way.

In front of Grady

rocking a Burger King crown

('cause that's how he rolls)

***

Happy Thursday.

We are Olympians.

We are Olympians. 

We train hard and long with coaches' voices bellowing in our ears:

Run. Faster. Harder. Again. 

Our minds and bodies are chastened. Hands become more nimble, wits get quicker, and eyes see things that once blended in. It is all a part of our training.

We are Olympians.

And if we want to receive precious metals some day, we must make the sacrifices. The long hours of getting those facts straight and pushing through exhaustion and doubt and pain to get that competitive edge. There are also monetary sacrifices. Sometimes our loved ones chip in. Other times they just wish they could.  

Still. They cheer us on and many times have to be understanding when our rigorous training causes them to be neglected sometimes. We appreciate their support and the snacks they pack for us, too. We need both kinds of nourishment--our eyes are on a lofty prize.

Gold.

No matter how hard we train, adrenaline still runs through our veins with every race. We feel relief when our feet don't slip off of that balance beam and even when our dismounts land us squarely on our behinds, we get back up. If we're fortunate, someone comes to our side to tell us everything will be okay. 

Because it will be. 

So eventually we learn to land on our feet. We never let go of the pounding in our chests and breathlessness we feel when that gun goes off. The hurdles come and we clear them. This is what we trained for. 

Our individual races are important but we also pass batons. Running faster, faster next to our teammates with outstretched arms and eyes with laser focus. We don't let go until it is firmly in their grasp.

And off they go.

We are Olympians. 

We soar through the air from high dives and try our best to land with minimum splash. We shake hands with those from all over the world and share their spaces. We also dive through sand to save the balls that have been dropped, volleying it to our partners and sometimes spiking it. 

Some days we fall to our knees in despair. But on the best days we are celebrating from that position. . . swirling a jersey over our heads and crying tears of joy and relief. 

On other days we simply do a funky little two step on the tennis court. Glad that the set was won.

Talk about "love."

Yes, we are Olympians.

Some may think that all it takes to reach these games is crazy, too much. Maybe they're right.

But. No matter what our chosen sport--from the ones that get all of the attention to the ones that require multiple explanations to help people understand--the victory is just as sweet.

And so we train. We keep good coaches in our corners and we surround ourselves with disciplined teammates. The kind that make us better. And that help us to keep our torches lit.

It only takes one time to step onto that top block. To feel the breeze on your face and let your eyes follow that flag as it gets raised higher and higher. The music swirls around your head--this is your anthem--and in that moment the hairs stand at attention on the back of your neck. 

Gold.

Someone feels better. A patient feels heard. You've come to the right diagnosis as a team. And healing has taken place. 

This is our gold. This is what we've been waiting for.

Yes!

The training has paid off. The reward is great and exactly what we'd hoped it would be. And sometimes that victory lap is nothing more than familiar one-liners on the wards or a hug so tight it takes the wind out of your chest.

The crowd goes wild. And so do we. Our eyes refocus on that prize, fast-forwarding to the games that will follow these. 

Still aiming for gold. And never satisfied with silver or bronze.

Ever.

And so. After the cheers fade and the confetti settles, we lace up our spikes and meet our coaches at the track early that next morning. Or we go there alone but still hear their voices like an unshakable ringing in our ears:

Run. Faster. Harder. Again.

And so we do. Again.

And again. 

And even again.

The flame never dies.

Because we are Olympians. 

And our patients are the gold.

***

Happy Wednesday. And Happy 3rd Anniversary to this blog. It has helped me to see the gold in more people and things than ever before. 'Preciate you for reading, too.

For Shanta Z.

On rounds today: Maureen M., M2, hears her first real, true, certain S3 gallop

Back to the Bedside


Don't say you hear it
if you don't
Don't say you see it
if you can't
Don't say you're with me
if you're not

Don't

Just say
I'm not sure
or even
No, I don't
hear it
see it
get it

Then

We'll go back to the bedside
and listen again
and look again
and ask again
and get it better
and get it right
together

Why?
Because someone is counting on you
somebody's mother
somebody's father
somebody's child
all of them are counting on you
to hear it
to see it
to get it
for sure

Or at least
almost sure

This means
they're also counting on me
to make sure you do

You hear me?
You see me?
You with me?

If not
I'll explain it again
and show you again
and again
and just maybe
again

Not for me
or even for you
but more for them
the ones who are counting on us

So, please--don't

Don't say you're a burden
to teach
because
you're not

Not to me

My only real burden
is when I can't

or worse

when you don't want me to


~ K.M. 6/27/2012

***

Happy Wednesday.

P.S. Maureen really did hear those heart sounds. . . AND she came on her own time during summer break to round with me--because she wanted to.

Ode to the Grady Elders.

 In the good times

and in the bad times

in the happy times

and in the sad times

Having you there

made the difference

Just having you there

~ from The Mississipi Mass Choir 

"Having you there"

Grady Elder
________________

I get to be here
because of you
and I love being here
because of you
and that's the God's-honest truth

yes, ma'am, it is
and no, sir, I ain't just saying that

you hold in your hands
the wisdom of the ages
your knowing eyes
surrounded by tiny skin folds
that, to you, "show your age"
but not to me

I see layers and layers
of been theres
and done thats
of uphill climbs
and intrepid faith
of mountains moved
or torn down altogether

yes, I see it all
and especially
I see love

when you open your mouth to speak
I have learned to close mine
and hear your words
and savor your voice
every part of it
sometimes wobbly like elementary school cursive
or gravelly like tires rolling over old-school asphalt parking lots
or even
perfectly smooth like grandmama's  hand-stirred batter
but always worthwhile
and always worth hearing

always
because you have taught me that
listening to a person's voice
is the best way to give them one
yes, you have
and yes, it is

even when I'm tired
I still know that
it is a privilege
to care for you
to laugh with you
and cry with you
to learn from you
and just be with you

yes, ma'am, it is
and no, sir, I ain't just saying that

you teach me what the books cannot
the things that matter most
and give me pieces of your dreams and struggles
to take with me
to the places you couldn't go

all I really want to do
is make you proud
so proud that your heart takes wings
and begins to fly
believing that your struggles were not in vain
and that my triumphs
are yours, too
because no, they weren't
and yes, they are

yes, they are

thank you
for sharing with me
your been theres
and your done thats
your uphill climbs
your intrepid faith
and
for moving those mountains
or tearing them down
long before I got there

yes
you hold in your hands
the wisdom of the ages
and I get to experience it all
wrapped in knowing nods
tight hugs
physical findings
funny sayings
and easy, unfiltered banter
I get to experience it all

and I 'preciate that
and even more
I 'preciate you

Yes, ma'am I do
and no, sir, I ain't just saying that

***
Happy Saturday.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . .