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.

What kind of ISH is that?

Whenever I'm on wards, I find myself reflecting on my time as a resident. That was a pivotal time of becoming. And like one of my favorite quotes says, "Becoming is better than being." All day every day, it is.

Here's another story of just that. More will follow.

A little too black-ish

When people ask me where I'm from, I generally tell them that I'm from "the Los Angeles area." People that know nothing about the west coast pretty much leave it at that. But, as it turns out, a lot of people seem to know at least a little bit about Southern California. And so they gain clarity with questions like, "Where about in Los Angeles?" or, if they're super savvy, they'll try to throw a little shade at me by accusing me of being from those far away cities that are so far that they don't even count as Los Angelinos. Matter of fact, they even have a name for folks from those far-as-hell areas. I think they call it "the inland empire."

But I digress.

My point in saying all that was just to say that anyone who knows anything about L.A. gets it when I reveal just where in L.A. I was raised. I was raised in Inglewood. Yes, it's the suburbs. But no, it's not Kardashian-esque Calabasas or Superbad Santa Barbara. Nope. It was a place with predominantly underrepresented minorities and gangster graffiti on the sides of cinder block walls. But. For me, it was home and the place that had a hand in shaping me.

From there, I went to two historically black institutions of higher education in a row--Tuskegee and then Meharry. And in those places, I was a minority person by on the U.S. Census, but not in my life. My peers looked like me and so did my teachers. Black culture didn't have to get tucked under my shirt or packed on ice in the back of my freezer. It was the norm and simply the way of that world.

Yup.

I am not exaggerating when I tell you that I never really, truly felt what it was like to be "one of the only black people" for a sustained period of time until I started residency. I was the only African American in my class of residents, and there weren't a whole lot of faculty who looked like me either.

Nope.

People were super nice, though. Super nice. When I arrived in the hospital, it became quickly apparent to me that after all of those years as a minority in the majority, I didn't know how to assimilate. At all. The one week that I tried was so exhausting that I quickly told myself that I simply would not. Sure, I could speak standard English. And I'd been taught at Meharry how to be professional in my interactions. But what I couldn't do was behave in a way that wasn't me. I couldn't ignore things that connected me culturally to patients, colleagues, and  staff members. That just wasn't me. So I settled into something that felt right. Me being me and being cool with everyone else being everyone else.

Yup.

There was this guy who was one class ahead of me in residency. He was also black and had attended a historically black medical school just like I had. But that's pretty much where our similarities ended. He'd made a full time gig out of trying to be accepted through watering himself down. Black folks around the hospital got the virtual stiff arm from him.

When I first arrived, he'd taken it upon himself to look out for me. I can't say that I really wanted that from him since mostly it meant harsh whispers in the hallways about either what some fellow person of color was doing wrong or how each and every occurrence was a diabolical plot to take down the residents and medical students of African descent.

Uggh.

Mostly, I smiled politely while secretly ignoring him. That is until the day that I became his target.

"Hey Dr. Draper! Is this your admission? He needs orders." Sanika, the ward clerk on the hospital ward where I was working, tapped me on the shoulder while I was writing a note. I'd already been up all night admitting patients. I was scribbling down my final note when she said that. Sanika and I were always friendly and I liked her a lot. Our exchanges were usually relaxed and light. This day was no different.

"Naaaaaah, playa. I'm post call."

"Oh, my bad. You gon' do something fun?" she asked. She was patting the top and sides of her head with her hand when she said that. The blonde hair weave she wore seemed to be on it's last leg and, as every sister knows, the "weave pat" is something girls do when they don't want to mess up their weave tracks by scratching.

Duh.

"Who me? I'm probably I'm gonna fall asleep on my couch for a few hours. Then I'll wake up and go kick it with some of my friends later on." I cocked my head and chuckled as she continued tapping her head with her hand. "Dag. Is it that bad?"

"I'm getting this wig split!" Sanika laughed. "The whole shebang, girl. Cut, chemicals, all that!"

I knew right away what she meant. This was slang for going to the hair salon to get her hair done. "Do your thang, girl!" I said while giving her a high five. We both laughed out loud one last time and that was that.

A few moments later my pager went off. Cringing, I called back. I was super relieved to find that it was Albert, the guy in the class ahead of me and not a nurse on one of the floors.

"Do you have a minute?" he asked politely.

"Sure do.What's up."

"I'll just come to you,"

"Okay, Kool and the gang! I'm on the nurses station on 9B."

"Did you just say, 'Kool and the Gang?'"

"Ha ha ha . . .yup."

"Ummm. . . .okay. On that note, I'll see you in a minute."

I wasn't sure what he meant by that response, but soon I would.

A few moments later, Albert was sitting next to me with this really disappointed look on his face. He let out an exaggerated sigh as if whatever it was he had to say was going to hurt him more than it would me. Which made zero sense considering we just didn't have that kind of friendship. Like, at all.

He let out another enormously enormous sigh and this time he perched one of his elbows on a folded arm and rest his cheek in one hand. With his head cocked sideways, he squinted his eyes and finally spoke. "Kim? What's your deal?"

I'm sure I looked mad confused. Because I was. "Huh?"

"I'm just trying to figure out what your deal is. I mean. . .what is it you aspire to achieve in your residency?"

I was still lost. "Uhh. . . . get good training? Be a good doctor? Isn't that what we all want?"

When I said that part, he sighed again. I couldn't stand the way he looked at me. Like he was Mr. Miyagi but without the love and caring that went into the Karate Kid.

"You're kind of scaring me, Al. What is this about?"

"It's about the fact that you ain't in Kansas any more, Dorothy." He sort of curled his lips when he said that dropped his eyelids to half mast for emphasis.

"Say what?"

"You are a physician now. And you are no longer at Meharry. You can't be talking to Sanika about her weave appointments or kiki-ing at the nurses' station with her either."

"What the hell are you even talking about? Sanika is my buddy. What the hell is wrong with me talking to Sanika?"

"I didn't say don't talk to her. I'm saying you don't need to be all "honey chile" and "girl-fren" with her in earshot of other people. It's . . .it's just. . . "

"It's just what?"

"It sounds . . really. . .ignorant, Kim. And, well, n-word-ish."

When he said that--and let me be clear: He said the real n-word with "-ish" tacked on to it--I just sat there with my eyes widely gazing at him. I waiting for a beat to see if he would say he "juuuuuust kidding" but he didn't.

Nope.

And so. I just sort of sat there not knowing what to say. I was only a few months into my internship and the last thing I wanted to do was shoot myself in the foot from the very start. That pretty much was the end of the conversation. He'd cloaked me with a new insecurity that I hadn't quite felt before that moment. And it kind of sucked.

N-word-ish. He'd even tacked an 'r' onto the end of that n-word for emphasis. It was hard to shake. I walked around self conscious for the rest of that week. I second guessed all of my interactions with people in elevators, hallways and the cafeteria. My exchanges with Sanika were decidedly more vanilla. It wasn't a good feeling.

The following week, I was at one of my favorite classes in the gym one night after work. It was a step aerobics class and the instructor played lots of really upbeat music--a lot of which was popular urban music. Some old school song came on that I loved and to which I knew all the words. And you know? I did what I always  I started shaking my hips reciting the lyrics. Waving my hands in the air and laughing. Half of my friends in that class hadn't ever even heard that song before. But they seemed to dig it that I had heard it enough times to chant the lyrics without blinking. Like, dig it where it was fine and no big deal.

But work was different. Or was it?

Eventually I did the thing that I've always done in such situations. I called Poopdeck, my dad. Like always, I described all of the players involved. I painted a picture of Sanika with her unnatural blonde hair weave and dark brown skin, including the elaborate tattoo on her forearm with her son's name in cursive. Next I gave all the details about Albert. His preppy attire and dress pants with suspenders which he insisted we all refer to as "braces." The way he rolled his eyes when I walked up on the ward saying things like, "What you know good?" and using words like "chile."

"How are things going in terms of your job?" Poopdeck asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Your performance. What are the people that matter saying about you?"

I thought about that for a few moments. "Well. Actually, Dad, things are going well so far. I mean, I've gotten some really positive evaluations and feedback on my first rotations."

"That's good." Dad paused for a moment and then spoke again. "Do people seem uncomfortable with you being black?"

"With me being black? Uhh. . .if they do, they don't make it obvious."

"Let me be more clear. Does it seem to be an issue that you aren't ashamed of being black?"

That I'm not ashamed? Damn.

But you know? He was right. He was as right then as he is now. I'm not ashamed of who I am. I'm not. And you know what else? I don't like the idea of anyone else feeling ashamed of who they are either.

Nope.

So that's what we talked about. My father had been in corporate America for several years. Like me, he was okay with himself and proud of his heritage. But lucky for me, he'd navigated those waters long enough to know that sometimes it could be different for African Americans. And you know what? Succeeding seemed to come down to a couple of simple things, that is, according to what I gleaned from that discussion with my dad.

First, it comes down to being authentic about who you are and where you come from. But you have to do it while still leaving room for other people to feel invited to be authentic, too. If a person doesn't like who they are--that should be explored first. But if they do feel happy to be who God made them, that don't hide it divide it. Own it, man. And give others permission to own theirs, too.

It kind of reminds me of a funny thing one of my kids said several years ago:

"Yay ME doesn't mean booooo YOU." 

Yes. That. 

The other thing was pretty much the same thing he's told me over and over again for years. Be excellent. When you work hard and give your best, your differences might be received positively. He also explained that sometimes things just are totally unfair and that, without using these words, pretty much let me know that sometimes the haters are just gon' hate. The best panacea? Sustained excellence.

Yup.

And, of course, my dad also was really awesome about reminding me to appropriately walk the line between "doing me" and being unprofessional. That said, what that meant would be for me to determine.

That was a long time ago. I'm older now and have figured out that being true to myself requires a lot less memory and energy than trying to be what I think everyone else wants. I've also learned that your authenticity draws the same out of others.

Needless to say, I really frustrated Albert a whoooooole lot over the next few years. He pulled me up a few more times during my internship and hissed at me about being too black. It was interesting how worked up he would get over things that outwardly suggested blackness and how hard he'd worked to live true to the "less is more" mantra, but how much he complained behind close doors about "the man" trying to bring a brother down. It got really old after a while. Thank goodness he at least spared me that word "n-word-ish" that he'd used the first time.

That reminds me. Once I got some more time under my belt, I did things just to tick him off. I rolled my neck and talked about what I'd seen on BET the night before. Ha ha ha he hated it.

Anyways.

Here's what I know: When people don't like who they are or are harboring some self hatred, what they resent the most is someone else walking fully and boldly in the very aspect of themselves they despise. Black folks. Gay folks. All folks, man. And look--I'm not saying I have it all sorted out. But I do authorize myself to be who I am. And to not fall under some cloak of drone-like assimilation with whatever the majority is doing.

Yeah.

Albert was wrong. Not only was he wrong, he was disrespectful and hurtful. But now, instead of feeling mad at him, I feel sort of sorry for him. Some piece of me hopes that over these last few years he realized that what the world really wanted was the real him. And that him admitting to tasting chitlins or knowing the words to an old rap song. that is, if he really knew it, isn't "n-word-ish" at all.

Or any kind of -ish for that matter.

I say be who you are. Who you really are. And like my daddy said--what that means is for you to determine.

Yeah.

***
Happy Saturday. You know what? This ramble made me think of this--just in time for Black History Month.

Here is me last week after dropping off carpool. Some old Run DMC had just come on the radio and I STILL knew every single word. And you know what? I'm a girl from inner city L.A. who witnessed the birth of hip hop. Those words are in my head right along with the words to "Lift Ev'ry Voice and Sing." And you know what? Both are a part of me. And I ain't the least bit 'shamed. 

42.

It's my birthday, y'all! And in case you didn't know it--42 is the new 42! I have no issue with my age and don't mind you telling somebody. Yes. 4-2. Not to be confused with 3-2 or whatever other number somebody prefers. I'm glad to be the age I am. Sure am.

42? Bring it!

Testing 1-2-3.

Okay. So I'm trying out this iPad app that Nate G. (my technology guru-friend) recommended to me today after hearing about my pathetic rant over that lost post. So far, so good.

And yes. I do have a technology guru. Well. . . I prefer the title "guru-friend" since the idea of being referred to as a "guru" gives me the creeps. Not to mention the fact that I know Nate will read this and find that mortifying. Me adding his photo from our last coffee catch-up chat would mortify him even more.

But hell, it's a great picture, especially to be from a hand-me-down iPhone 4 (sans the S or Siri). And the point is for me to see how the photo mechanism thingie works for me. So there. Yeah, so Nate G. was easily embedded into this post with no problem. 

Yay!!

Hey. The font thingie is user-friendly, too! Nate was "really excited about this one" and now I see why. See? Aren't I lucky to have a brilliant medical doctor-slash-MBA-slash-tech-savvy-guru-friend in my corner? Yup. When he isn't living his life as a hardworking recent Emory Med School graduate, he moonlights (for no pay) as my go-to guy for all things tech-gadgety-social network-y. Thank goodness he isn't in it for the money.

Hey! He even sent me screen captures of the Twitter feed during our BlogHer '12 panel since he knows how stone age I am with social networking. (The "girl crush" tweet was my favorite! Shout out to the bold and beautiful Erin KV (aka Queen of Spain!) 

Look at me all hyperlink-ing from my iPad! Mmmmm hmmmm.

Hey. Be sure to follow (or whatever y'all do) every last one of these women of excellent taste on Twitter. Nope. Don't know them except for Erin who I just met as a co-panelist but still! If you do the Twitter thing do me a solid and show them some love since they showed me some, okay? Hashtag: #preciateyall.

Oh. The blue toenail adorned barefoot in Jamaica photo has nothing to do with any of this. It just makes me happy and reminds me yet again that iPhones can take some pretty dandy shots.

Verdict: Love this app so far. It's called "Posts for iPad" in case you're curious. Very witty title, I know.

***

Happy Sunday.

Shut. Up. This happy little app can even embed what's playing on my mental iPod! The BHE and I were TOTALLY rocking out to this old b-side Prince song this weekend. Prince has put the kibosh on any and every video with his actual recordings but this cover I found does the guitar riffs justice. The vocals weren't so bad either. (Picture Harry and I playing our meanest air guitars and mean-mugging each other for full effect. It was so romantic, y'all.)

Mantra.

Write it down. Get it out. Out of your head and onto some paper. Or onto a keyboard and then into a computer.  Or something or somewhere. Just out. Out. Whatever it is. However it seems. Good. Bad. Random. Joyful. Painful. Process it. Explore it. Excavate it. Deconstruct it. Reconstruct it. Get it. Learn it. Honor it. Feel it. Master it. Hold it. Release it. Celebrate it. Love it. Forgive it. Be it. Live it.

Or do none of those things.

But whatever you do. Just write.

***
Happy early rainy Monday.

Enough already.

They called her name and everyone jumped to their feet. The applause was thunderous. All of those synchronous hands clapping so loudly that it almost drowned it out.

Almost.

She rose from her seat carefully. Halfway stunned and halfway excited. Someone beside her patted her on the shoulder.  A close friend wrapped her in an affectionate headlock and said in that way that only a true friend can:

"SO proud of you, dude."

Those words from that friend were so sure and affirming. It made her feel like a winner. Like all of this was something that she actually might be worthy of and had earned. But then, there it was again. That tiny naysayer in her ear.

"It's only because you're likable, you know. Nice. Friendly. That's why. There are others who are so much smarter, you know. So much better than you."

That's what that voice was saying. Like it couldn't let her be fully happy about this accomplishment. Or at least think for even two seconds that she was deserving.

When she walked to the podium they handed her a plaque. That made it even more real. She stood there staring at the pressed wooden board with the engraved metal plate.

RESIDENT TEACHER OF THE YEAR 

1999 - 2000

Just below that was her name. Her name. Out of all those people. Her name.Someone turned her shoulders toward a camera and nudged her in between the Chairman and the Program Director.

"Smile everyone . . ."

The photographer pulled her face away from the viewfinder and cocked her head sideways. "Come on, a real smile, doctor!" So she went ahead and smiled. Big and wide and happy and proud. And that felt good.

But then, just like that, there it was again.

"You're actually just more easy to remember than anything else. If you weren't of color and female, they'd not even remember who you were, you know. You do know that don't you? I mean, don't get me wrong. You're pretty good and all. But man, you better hope they don't find out that you're not nearly as great as they all think you are."

And just like that, a wrinkle of worry rippled across her brow again. She fought against it as she returned to her table. Eyes landing on person after person who smiled up at her with twinkling eyes and congratulatory gestures. All the while, fighting an internal war between perception and some distorted idea of reality. What was true?

A chief residency and a couple of years later, she was back in a similar place. This time at a new hospital with new faces and new experiences.  Second year on faculty, standing in the back of a conference room with half of a mouthful of a turkey sandwich, her name got called again.

Wait, huh?

And just like that, she could feel that tiny war trying to start once again. That relentless battle against any and every accolade, compliment, or triumph.

Again. Again? Damn.

Later that evening, she was home alone staring at herself in the bathroom mirror. She felt those words rising up to pick her apart.

"It's all a popularity contest, you know. All of it. It has little to do with your real impact as a teacher or anything like that. It's all popularity."

And she stood there looking back at her reflection and felt tears stinging in her eyes. But no, these tears were not tears of defeat. They were the kind that form when someone is loading up ammo and preparing to fight against an enemy. A giant Goliath.

This time she fought back. Not with audible words or swinging fists, but still, she fought with her conscious thoughts.

"I'm proud of myself."

"You're not what they think."

"I am not what they think. I am more than that."

"It's a popularity contest."

"Maybe something I have done has been popular with a learner."

"It's because you're black and female."

"It's in spite of that."

"So many other people are smarter and better than you."

"There is only one me."

"You aren't so perfect."

"I am quite imperfect. And I'm okay with that."

"You're not all that."

"I am enough."

The real fight started then. And it continues.

Yes it does.

***

image credit

A few years ago, I sat in a room with one of our female chief residents. The day she was asked to be chief, it was a no-brainer to everyone. .  . . except her. The first time I heard her say that with a chuckle to a group, it was met with an immediate barrage of counter-comments. But me, I put it on a post-it note in my head for later. This day during her chief year when I sat in that room with her was that "later."

On this day, I could tell that she was flying on one wing. I asked her what was wrong and she shrugged. So I asked her again, this time in a quiet room.

"I just don't feel as great as everyone thinks I am," she whispered through muffled sobs. "It's like all of it is some kind of fluke. . . some kind of facade, you know? I keep waiting for someone to come along and discover the truth."

"And what is the truth?" I asked.

"The truth? The truth is that people just like me for whatever reason. But otherwise I'm not at all what they think."

"No, you aren't what they think. You're more than they think."

"It's really just a popularity contest."

"Maybe your work product has been popular with our learners."

"But I'm not everything that. . . ."

"You are enough."  

That is quite close to exactly what I said that day. I must have struck a nerve because she just wept and wept.

Those answers came fast because they had become a part of my own war cry. But they can evoke some tears because it stirs up something inside of you when you decide that you're going to believe them.

Initially I worried about sharing that story. The part about me, the part about that chief resident . . all of it. As for the me-part, I felt nervous about revealing that amount of insecurity. But part of me believes that I'm not alone in feeling this way sometimes, so I know that by admitting to it, it helps me--and perhaps someone else--move past it. As for the her-part, I feared she or someone else would know who it was. But then I realized that nearly every female former chief resident I've known or woman for that matter who's reading this has probably felt some version of this. The other thing is that this has not only happened to me one time with one female chief resident. So really? It could have been anyone. Hell, it could have been me.

At one point it was me.

But, for the most part, it's not me any more. Nope.

Lord knows that I'm not perfect. I can be a bit feisty. I procrastinate like crazy. 99.9% of my schedule, my life, and my everything can only be explained by me despite how much administrative and BHE support I have. But you know what? Despite all that, I'm alright with me.

I try hard to do things with intention. Far more than I did or even knew how to do way back as a resident. Now I know more than just those negative things. I know that I'm a creative thinker. I'm a good communicator and I'm good with people. I genuinely care about the people in my life and try to show them I do through my actions. But mostly that's no longer me because I fight. I fight to channel that nervous little middle-schooler inside of me that once coached herself to believe that something she had to offer was special. Uniquely special. And then, with all my might, I try to bring the best version of me available.

And only I can do that.

Yeah.

I read a note from a young female medical student advisee last week. It was so kind and heartfelt that it instantly made me cry something eerily close to the ugly cry. I was so moved. This one person had carefully outlined what she personally felt about the impact I'd had on her. No. It didn't involve anyone else. Just this one student and her own experience and impression. That's it. The part that made me cry was how specific it was; somebody got it. Somebody got what I was trying to do.

Yes! I am enough! Man. That note helped me to fight some more against that pesky enemy. I am enough. Me works. Me is okay.

So (along with some profuse gratitude) I responded to her kind words with a few of my own:

"Remember that you are the only you the world has and you've worked hard to be where you are. I'm so proud of you, and you deserve all that has come your way.You are wonderful and special and enough. I am better for knowing you. Hold on tight--the best is yet to come."

Enough.

No. This isn't only applicable to female physicians or chief residents or medical students. This is a word for every single woman, mother, sister, daughter, wife, friend, girlfriend, ex-wife, teen, or person who has heard that heinous little enemy within spewing those venomous words of self hatred and self loathing in her ear. And sure, such things happen to men, too, but for whatever reason there is some way that women are uniquely wired to tear themselves apart when no one is looking. So yes, my sisters. This is a word for all of y'all. And me, too.

So I say to you what I say to myself in the mirror nearly every single day: 

"Enough already. Enough. Already."

Then, with bare-knuckled intention and butterflies in my stomach, I fight. Dammit, I fight.

And you know what? These days I'm winning.

***

Happy Tuesday-almost-Wednesday. Maybe it's time to retake the "NO SELF HATERATION PLEDGE" again as a reminder not to hate on ourselves and to leave all hating to the professional haters out there. Matter of fact, I think I'll jump on it in May. Or at least a part of May. Who's in?

Oh! And with that suggestion, of course I must play the "NO SELF HATE" anthem. Remember this? Love. This. Song. It is SO going to be playing on my mental iPod all week. (If you see me and I look like I have extra swag, that's why.)

How'd it go?

Okay, y'all!  It's August 31--the last day of the No-Self-Hateration Pledge Campaign.  We had lots of pledges, too!

Give ya'selves a hand! 

Well?  Well?!? How'd you do?  Did you fight the urge to hate on yourself? Did you find it impossible not to call your butt big or your tire spare?  Did you struggle with not insulting that lovely nose with the big bump that you inherited from grandma or cracking jokes on that scary second toe that's curiously longer than your big toe, or pointing out to your best friend that eh, you think you do look good for your age but your hands look old. Don't my hands look old? No? Are you blind? They're horrible.

Or.

Did you discover that it's more fun to be alright with yourself than not?  That your curves are actually kind of like Beyonce's (depending upon who you ask and how much they've had to drink) and that, actually, part of Beyonce's appeal is that no matter what she has going on, she totally OWNS it.

And isn't it funny how that person who is clearly imperfect or dealing with all kinds of everything who just decides to OWN it instead of drinking all that self-haterade . . . .isn't it funny how they always somehow pull it off?

That person could (and should) be you. For reals.

Look. We're all works in progress. But the point is that self hatred/self deprecating behavior/self picking-yourself-apartedness or whatever you want to call it, is like feeding yourself poison and expecting not to feel sick.

I think I'm just going to try to keep rolling with the pledge. I had several close calls--okay, straight up lapses--where I let some negative commentary slip while putting on my clothes. But mostly, I did okay. And I liked the idea of being kind to myself. It felt pretty darn good, actually.

On the way home from school yesterday, Zachary said, "Mom, you know what? I'm smart. You know I'm really, really smart to be only four. When I'm five, I'm going to be able to read inside my head without you hearing me because when you're smart you can do that."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, Mom. And I am good at basketball even though I'm short. When I get taller I'm gonna be SUPER good. SUPER-DUPER good, right Mommy?"

"Fo' sho, Zachary."

I thought about the innocence of this declaration and wondered what I was or wasn't doing to foster him continuing to have that kind of positive self image. I didn't come up with the answer to that, but I do think being loving toward myself is a good start.  Not oblivious to my imperfections or complacent about areas of needed improvement.  Just loving in the meantime and in between time.

That's all I got.

I'd love to hear how it went for y'all or what your thoughts have been during these last two weeks!

Oh yeah--I got this, too.

I'll leave you with two excellent songs playing on my mental iPod today. Both are my go-to jams when I need to be reminded of why it's good to be alright with me. . . .

If you don't know the music of Miss Erykah Badu--fix that problem right here, right now by listening to this little sampling:

First up--"Cleva"  -- one of my favorite songs.  The lyrics are awesome--especially the end where she simply says over and over, "I'm alright with me. . . said I'm alright with me. . ."

"I got a little pot in my belly

and nowadays my figure ain't so fly

My dress ain't cost nothin' but seven dollars

but I made it fly--sh--I'll tell you why

'Cause I'm clever

when I bust a rhyme

I'm clever -- always on your mind

She's clever

and I really want to grow

but why come

I'm the last to know?"

. . . and another favorite from Erykah Badu -- "Bag Lady." Wow. The sista preaches on this one--do you hear me? P-REACHES. The song is essentially about how harboring all that negative energy (read: self-hate, an unforgiving spirit, anger, resentment, envy. . .)  can end up blocking your blessings. . . .whew! Steps on all kinds of toes, man! If you have a minute, watch this artistic video. It's amazing.

"Bag lady

You gon' miss your bus

You can't hurry up

'cause you got too much stuff

When they see you comin'

People take off runnin'

from you--it's true

Oh, yes they do. 

One day

All them bags

gon' get in your way

I said, one day

all them bags

gon' get in your way

so. . .pack light."

***
Have a cleva day. Oh, and pack light.

Hair-raising Tales Part I: The Long and the Short of It.

"Because it was time to change my life

and become the woman that I am inside. . . ."

~ from "I am not my hair" by India.Airie

______________________________________________________

Hair is a funny thing, isn't it? So many things are wrapped into how folks feel about hair. Childhood experiences. Cultural background. Gender and gender-identity. Religious beliefs. Geographic location. Access to competent hair stylists. All that.

Today I am reflecting on the story behind me and my short hair. . . .

May 2001. I remember vividly walking into this fancy salon in Cleveland approximately one month before my big move to Atlanta. In my hand was a picture I'd printed out of Halle Berry from the internet rocking her infamous pixie haircut. I'd always been known for my longish bob and had admired that haircut for a long time. I'd turned thirty earlier that year and had finally worked up the nerve to go for it.

"Cut my hair like this," I said, proudly passing the photo to the stylist.

I had chosen this stylist for two reasons. The first was that I heard that she was a short hair "master stylist" and was allegedly a wiz with shears. But the second was because I'd heard that she wasn't the least bit shy about cutting all of your damn hair off if you asked. Now. Let me clarify a few things for a moment. By now (unless you are visually impaired) you have probably realized that I am a black woman. And let me tell you--as someone who has the authority to say so--getting your hair cut all off (especially) if you are a black woman is kind of a big deal.

Okay.

So back to the big makeover. I hand this woman the picture as she runs her hand through my then shoulder-length bob. "Is your hair chemically treated?" she asked. "No, I just straighten it," I replied. She studied the ends, ran a comb through it, and even looked at my scalp. Then she narrowed her eyes and looked perplexed.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Your hair," she answered while still raking her hand through my thick locks. "Your hair is healthy. And it's so thick and heavy. If I didn't have my hand in it, I'd think it was a weave."

Really? Coming from a "master stylist" (which was what her card said) that sounded like a good thing. "Well, that's good, right?"

"Well. . .I'm just. . .uuhhh. . .so why are you cutting all your hair off if it isn't damaged? I mean. . . .I am happy to cut it. But you have nice hair. I guess I'm just confused."

Of course she was.

This is where the cultural thing comes in. How dare you consider cutting hair that isn't "bad?"  It seems that if you are fortunate enough to have hair that a.) grows long, b.) has not been damaged by chemicals, c.) has not been strained by braids, oh, and d.) that you are planning on tryin' to wack all off, you'd better be ready to do some sho' nuff 'splainin' about why if you also happen to be a black woman up in a black hair salon. For real.

"I just like that hairstyle," I answered her matter-of-factly. Because that was true. I just liked the hairstyle. Simple as that.

"But to wear your hair this short in this style, you'll need to get it chemically relaxed. Your wave pattern would never allow it without getting a relaxer."

Hello? She wasn't the only sista in this conversation.

"I know that." I tried to keep cool but this was frustrating. Mostly because I had thought of all of that before. I had already shadow boxed in the mirror and pulled all of my hair off of my face and even palpated my head for lumps and bumps. I'd surfed the net, called my sisters, imagined what it would be like if I hated it and was forced to grow it back and all that. I had even practiced new makeup techniques and found a few cute pairs of dainty earrings. See? I was ready. Super ready for a new beginning and a new look. I was moving away to a new city with new faces and new adventures awaiting me. "Cut it off," I said emphatically. "Cut it all off."

Instead she just kind of stood there staring at me for a few moments. Then she cocked her head sideways and ran that comb slowly through my hair once more.

"How are things going in your life right now?" she finally asked pausing to fan my hair out under the comb.

Aww hells no! No she di-in't!

"Life is great. No, more than great. It's peachy."

"Gina says you are moving to Atlanta next month?" Yeah. Didn't you hear me say "peachy?" Get it? Peach-y? As in Atlanta?

My roommate, Gina, was the one who had referred me to this therapist, I mean stylist. Unless she had some Delta skymiles she was preparing to give me, I could see no reason for this line of questioning.

"Yep. Life is good. Got a great job in Atlanta. Can't wait. And am so psyched to get my hair cut today."

Take that. I ain't depressed. Just shut up and cut my hair, you "master stylist."

"Well. . . . " she finally said in this way that immediately gave me a sinking feeling. She lifted the comb and watched my hair cascade down toward my neck and shoulders. Like I was one of those Barbie doll heads. "That's a lot of life changes, don't you think?"

Aww, hell naw for real. This b*tch cannot be serious. (Yes. This is exactly what I was thinking.)

"It is and I thought of that. And while I appreciate your concern, I gave this a lot of thought. Do you want to cut me first or relax me first?" I figured I'd make an attempt to get this thing moving along before I ended up cussing her out for trying to psychoanalyze me.

She looked at the picture and then at my Barbie head again. "This is really drastic, sweetie," she finally said with a melodramatic sigh. I immediately considered dropkicking her for calling me "sweetie." I stared at her dryly and waited for the inevitable. "I mean. . . .okay. . .I tell you what, sweetie. If you come back in two weeks and you hand me this same picture and you still want your hair cut all off like this. . . .I will do it. But you need to be absolutely sure, sweetie. Come back in two weeks, okay?"

Grrrr.

But I was absolutely sure. Right then. Right there. She was treating me like that thing on that Google instant messaging system the med students told me about that makes you answer a math question before drunk messaging someone. I was not drunk. I was not depressed. I was not going through a crisis. I was just grown, and dammit, I just wanted a new look.

Where was Tyra Banks and her top model make over team when you needed them?

So . . . .as the story goes . . . .despite my best attempts to convince her to go on and cut my hair anyway, in the end I left there with my tail between my legs and my (healthy) hair upon my shoulders. For two more weeks.

Ugggh.

Two weeks later, you'd better believe that I marched right back in there and slammed down that picture like, "BAM!" Arms all folded, hip jutted out, lips all curled with my eyebrows raised like, Cut my hair, dammit. And that's exactly what the master stylist did.

Oh.

And I'm sure you are wondering, "Why did you even go back to her?" Two words. Cleveland. Ohio. (Beggars can't be choosy, y'all.)

Yep.

So that was the start of me and my short hair. Now, if this post hadn't already gotten kind of long, I would tell you about the elderly woman in the salon that day who threw the dryer hood up, got OUT of her chair and ALL UP in my face with her hair still in the roller set to wag her finger in my face and say, "You jest UNGRATEFUL!" She kept looking at my hair hitting the ground and then back at me with the grandmama version of the hairy eyeball. She poked her lips out, turned her mouth downward and shook her head so hard that I thought her neck would become dislocated. Then she repeated with extra venom and extra fire and brimstone in it--just in case I didn't hear her the first time. "You UN-GRATEFUL!! Jest UNGRATEFUL!!!" Straight up blasphemy, I tell you!

She sounded a lot like those poster-carrying evangelists on the corners of Bourbon Street in New Orleans. You know, the ones screaming at folks during Mardi Gras and informing them that they're going (straight) to hell? Yeah, like them.  As far as she was concerned, cutting all that "good" hair off for any reason other than illness was right up there with taking shots and doing those things folks do for beads. Oh, and that grandmama was serious, do you hear me? Serious as a heart attack.

Yeah. . .I would tell you about that part, but that's a whole 'nother story for a whole 'nother time. . . .

Short hair? That would be me.

"I looked in the mirror

and for the first time I saw that

Hey. . .I am not my hair

I am not this skin
I am the soul that lives within. . . ."

***
________________________________________

Now playing on my internal iPod. . . . .



***

So. . . .what kind of crazy hair sagas have y'all had in your neck of the woods?

Lifesavers.

"And I would have stayed up with you all night
Had I known how to save a life . . ."

~ The Fray "How to Save a Life"

 _______________________________________________________

I was really tired when I woke up yesterday morning. Atlanta has one of the highest pollen counts in the U.S. and it's been a rough spring for me. I've been spraying my nose with steroid spray like a good patient and taking my antihistamine, too. The itchy nose and eyes are somewhat better, but like clock work, that post nasal drip always gets me in the middle of the night. From about three that morning until the alarm went off, I hacked and hacked. This dry-ish, annoying hack. My only solace was sitting almost fully erect to keep the phlegm from rolling down my throat and triggering my cough reflex.

Gross, I know.

Anyways. Isaiah made it out to the bus in good time. He was in high spirits and he shook my hand hard telling me that "it was going to be a great day and you can bet on it!" right before he stepping onto the big yellow kid-mobile. He gave the busdriver an effusive "Good morning!" without me even having to tell him to do so through a clenched smile. Maybe it was going to be a good day.

I came inside and made some coffee. Daydreamed for a few minutes. Wrote a three line blog post, the kind that makes my dad say, "Hey, did I miss something?" To which I say, "It's haiku, Dad!" To which he retorts, "Hai-what?"  "Haiku!" I say. "Uh. . .okay," he says. And then we both just laugh.

I got a bit behind the eight ball once I came back inside. I'm not sure what I did to waste so much time (I mean that blog post was only seventeen syllables!) but next thing I knew I had ten minutes to get myself dressed for clinic and make certain Zachary was ready to leave with Harry. Zachy was standing by the door and "ready to rock and roll" as he puts it, and I had three minutes to spare.

Not too bad.

"My backpack is not heavy today, Mommy!" Zachary proclaimed, which reminded me that, "Damn!" I had forgotten to pack him a lunch. Into the kitchen I scurry; quickly putting something together that would not lead to a text message from his teacher. (Have I mentioned that Zachary's pre-school mandates that the lunch is healthy? Send a bag of Doritos, and you can count on getting them right back.) Anyways. Get the dude's lunch packed and run to my room to finish getting myself together.

At this point, officially will be late. But not late-late so I put as much pep in my step as I can. Try to put my contacts in three times, and they feel itchy. Very annoying considering I am convinced that my vision is better in my contacts than my glasses. I refuse to admit it is because my left eye is so bad that my left lens for my frames is super thick and that this is really just vanity.

Anyways.

A few moments later, I'm arming the house and preparing to leave. . .  and what do I see on my bed? Aww, hell no!  Zachary's LUNCHBOX.  Ugghhh!

Harry and Zachary were long gone, which meant one thing and one thing only. I would have to take the lunch to Zachary's school. Which is technically very, very close to Grady Hospital, but considering the fact that I was already late, stopping anywhere would be sure to cross me from late into late-late.

Arrggghh.

For no purpose whatsoever, I call Harry to alert him of how inconvenienced I was about to be to which  he calmly replied, "You want me to just order him a pizza?"  Which made me say, "A pizza isn't healthy!"  I decide then that I am annoyed by this "healthy lunch" clause that seemed so rad when I was enrolling him there, and, again, for no purpose whatsoever, tell Harry that this is what I am feeling about this stipulation. He just kind of holds the phone and says, "Tell you what? How 'bout I meet you on Dekalb Avenue and Boulevard to grab it, okay?"  I smile and tell him that he is the B.H.E. which is my text message speak for "best husband ever" but I say the three letters any way, kind of like people say "LOL" or "OMG."

Wait, where was I? Oh yeah. On my way to work.

I was now teetering on late-late. The lights were in my favor and after our quick hand-off, in a snap I was pulling into the Grady parking garage.  I had fairly decent parking lot karma this day, and the minute I parked (4th level!) I sent a quick text to my colleague in the clinic to let her know that I was minutes away.  Like in the parking lot even. Fortunately, she was cool about it which this particular colleague generally is.

I power walk across the street and finally into the hospital. Arms pumping, bag on my shoulder, super hurried head nods and "hey theres" to people along the way, but giving off body language that clearly, clearly lets them know: "No time for small talk."  Even my friend from the gift shop, Ms. Renee, who I always stop and talk to didn't act annoyed when I waved at her and then said, "You doin' alright?" while walking backwards.

I needed to hurry up. No time for my normal chit-chat and blogworthy moments.  Down the hall, through the atrium and into the clinic corridor.  8:43 a.m. Late, yes. Two minutes shy of late-late.

I start jogging toward the stairwell in the clinic hall. Finally I reach for the handle, panting from all of the rushing.  As I pull back on the heavy door, I hear:

"Ex-ex-excuse me! Excuse me, do-doctor!"

A heavy set woman wearing a bright orange shirt with a matching necklace is scuffling toward me. She seems out of breath, her buxom chest moving up and down as she caught her breath. "I-I-I knnn-ow you are in a," she paused to find her words carefully, "hur-hur-hurry."

She was right. I was in a hurry. Like a big hurry.

"Yes, ma'am, I am in a huge, huge hurry. . . are you looking for something in the hospital?" I offered. Her language was that slow and careful speech often seen in people who have suffered strokes. I needed to give her a yes/no option since I had less than 90 seconds before the late-late bell tolled.

"N-n-n-no. I-I-I am n-n-not lost."

Ugghh.  So much for that. I parted my lips to tell her that unfortunately, I had to go. But. Something told me to just stop and listen. This woman was walking with a slight limp, and despite not appearing that old, had obviously suffered some kind of a neurological event. I had no idea what could be of such urgency that she would need to chase me down, even with her residual weakness and obvious expressive aphasia.

Something told me. To stop.

I remembered the last time I'd received such a nudge and didn't listen. It felt like that. I looked at my cell phone--8:45.  Then I looked at her, eyes glistening, face genuine. I let go of the door. And of my chance of making it into the Green Clinic before being deemed late-late. This time, I would listen.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Y-y-y-you saved. . .my-my. . .l-l-life," she spoke.

Wait, huh?

I remember people. In fact, one thing that Isaiah inherited from his mother is an excellent memory. He always says, "We have good brains for remembering things, right Mom?" And I always say, "We sure do, me and you." I do have a good brain for remembering. I remember names. Details. Places. Numbers. But especially, I remember people. I had never seen this woman in my entire life. I had no idea what she was talking about.

Even if it sounded good.

"Have we met?" I asked her. "That's such a kind thing to say, but I am wondering are you thinking of another doctor maybe?"

I combed my mind for another physician in our hospital that she could have mistaken for me. I could think of many with my complexion, but not a single person with such short hair or oddball personality.  And seeing as I and most of my friends of all races don't believe in that old saying of "all black folks looking alike"--this is just that much more odd.

"N-n-no. I. . . .s-s-saw you .  . . . on Fox 5. . a-a-and," she exhaled at the exhaustion of having to work hard to find her words,"y-y-you said. . . to. . t-t-take care of YOU first. . . b-b-because if . . you. . .p-put . . .YOU last a-and lose Y-YOUR health. . . you. . . you. . .are no g-good to a-nyone. Y-YOU first is l-like putting th-them first."

Was she for real?

I cocked my head sideways at her incredulously. Wait, did I even say that? Okay, here's the thing. Once per week, I scoot over to this local TV station to do a two to three minute health segment live on the air with an anchor. I've been coming over there for a few years now, and admittedly get pretty relaxed during the segments. I couldn't then and still can't remember saying those exact words, but it definitely sounds like the kind of thing I would say.  Hell, I say all kinds of things.

I reached out and grabbed her hand and squeezed it, feeling slightly ashamed for trying to ditch her.

"I'm sorry that I was rushing away from you. I really appreciate you stopping me to say that. . .really."

She went on with her testimony. "I-I am a s-s-single mo-ther of three k-k-kids. A-a-and I was n-n-not tak-ing care of m-m-me only th-them. Then I h-had a str-stroke. My blood p-pressure was s-s-so high and I even h-h-had dia-betes and d-d-didn't know."

I kept gripping her hand, hanging on her every word. The moment felt divine. I was so glad I stayed to listen.

"Th-th-this s-side of my b-b-body was not e-even work-ing," she went on as she gestured to her right side, "I w-was feeling s-so sorry for m-m-my-self. That's when I sss-saw you on the t-t v that day. I knew I h-had to d-d-do something."

"Wow," I replied.

She refused to let the speech impediment stop her from finishing. "And at-at first I couldn't e-e-even talk, either. But I fought. F-for ME. I h-have lost almost forty p-pounds, doctor. Fff-forty pounds! And I keep a-a-all my doctor's appointments. I am t-taking care of M-ME so I can t-take care of them." She patted her chest emphatically. "Ff-for ME."

Wow.

I wanted to cry so bad.  I know. I'm always wanting to cry so bad at Grady. But the thing is. . . I had started that day off feeling sleep deprived and then by blogging these words at 7:07 a.m. :

"Another Monday
Another chance to become
the me I strive for."

See? All morning, I had been asking myself who that was.  Like who is the me I strive for, even? Like what did that mean even?  I'm still not sure. But I am thinking the me I strive for would be one who stops and listens to someone. And this moment is making me think that just maybe the me I strive for is doing something really close to what she is supposed to be doing in this life. . including encouraging someone along the way, even when she doesn't know it. That plus this woman standing in front of me telling me her story is why I wanted to cry so bad.

Man, oh man.

"Thank you. Thank you so much for telling me this. You have no idea what it means to me," I told her. "No idea."

"Th-thank you for saving m-my life," she responded, her eyes now fresh with lacrimation.

I shook my head. "No. You saved your own life."

She smiled at me wide and kind and like she meant it.  And I did the same back.

We hugged tight, almost like we knew each other. I asked her permission to tell this story and take her picture. She obliged. I told her that maybe her story might save someone else's life.  Or one day, even mine.

Thank you for sharing.

Isaiah was right. This was going to be a great day. You could bet on it.

***

Happy Tuesday.

***

My take on medical media. . . .guess you never know who's really listening. . . .

Housecall: Exercise, Sex, Heart Issues: MyFoxATLANTA.com