That's what I said today to the man in the Subway lunch line who asked me what I thought about the Supreme Court upholding the Obama's signature health care law.
You know. The one that will grant millions of Americans better access to health care and improve overall public health? Yeah. That one.
He said it kind of smug-ish and confrontational-ish. Which annoyed the crap out of me.
Then when I gave him my response he returned it with a snort and a half upturned smirk.
Yeah, he did.
I started to bite and entertain that smirk. I started to go in on him and ask him how much his Brooks Brothers suit cost him and also how many times as a child he'd seen somebody cook up some crack cocaine in the same kitchen his mama cooked dinner in. I wanted to ask him how many grocery stores were in his neighborhood and, if there was one, what was the ratio between it and the liquor stores. I wanted to talk to him about how much money--no wealth--his family or even his friends' families had that went waaaay back to, like, I don't know. . . a time when people worked for free to help with attaining said wealth.
But I didn't.
Instead, I just turned away from him and said, "Hey Marcus! You doin' alright today? I'll have the turkey on wheat--six-inch!"
Because that snort and that smirk were enough for me. Yeah, it was.
Look. I am not trying to get all political on this blog. Not today I'm not. Like him and some others, I make decent money and like keeping my money in my pocket just as much as the next person. And. I'm fortunate enough to have a job with benefits that affords my family health care.
Yet.
I realize that my position in life is only a little bit hard work and a lot of bit being blessed to be born when and where I was to the parents I have. I think poverty and poor health choices are complicated as hell. Way more complicated than just telling somebody not to get the crispy fried chicken sandwich over the grilled one. Or admonishing them to get water instead of sweet tea.
Look. I'm a Grady doctor. And I know that it isn't as simple as some want to make it. I also know that a whole lot about a whole lot in this country is messed up and unfair.
Messed up. And unfair.
And can I just say that I find this image above both disturbing and disappointing on more levels than I can even begin to impart here? Good, because I do.
So what do I think about all of this, Mr. Upturned-Smirk-on-Your-Face-in-Subway?
I think you and the people holding these signs need to come down to Grady Hospital so that you can meet a few people who tried to make good life choices and got sick anyway.
I also think that next time you order that ham sandwich combo in Subway, you should get the baked Lays instead of the regular ones, the six-inch instead of the twelve-inch, the wheat bread instead of white, and that you should go easy on all that mayonnaise and oil.
You should also hope you never lose that job that your badge indicated you are lucky to have--but if you do--and you keep on ordering like you ordered today in the Subway lunch line--things just might work out in your favor, too.
You think you know who I am. But you have no idea.
im·pos·tern.
One who engages in deception under an assumed name or identity.
The Imposter Syndrome ~
A widespread phenomenon first documented by Pauline Rose Clance and
Suzanne Imes in their 1978 study of 150 highly successful professional
women in various fields. “Despite accolades, rank, and salary, these
women felt like phonies. They didn’t believe in their own
accomplishments; they felt they were scamming everyone about their
skills.”
____________________________
Wet eyes. Red noses. Mascara oozing.
Again?
What is it with us women? Why do we do this? This thing where we pick ourselves apart? This thing where we convince ourselves that we are mediocre when we are not? We tip toe through life, wondering how in the heck doors keep opening because all the while we are chanting into our own ears that it's all a sham. All of it. Who we are. Who they think we are. One big facade. And then. One bad thing happens and AH HAH! Told you so! One little shortcoming and now we suck? After all the good things we've done, just one imperfection ripples across and that wipes out everything we've done before?
Really? Really.
Arrrrrrggggghhhh!!!
I swear. It's epidemic. Pandemic even. Thinking we "lucked out." Believing it was just "the right place at the right time." God forbid you actually EARNED it through hard work.
Damn.
I'm tired. I'm rambling because I'm tired. Tired as hell of seeing amazing human beings -- mostly female ones -- with slumped shoulders and troubled eyes over this crazy idea that they aren't good enough. Or worse. Like they're some kind of imposter. Yes. I said it.
IMPOSTER.
Did that resonate with you? Are you reading this and nodding your head hard and saying, "Damn, I've felt that feeling!"
You know. That feeling like everyone has been hoodwinked and bamboozled into thinking you are exponentially more awesome-confident-smart-able-everything than you REALLY are. Because, see, only YOU know the REAL truth. And the truth is that it's all a big hoax. One false move and they will all find out who you REALLY are.
An IMPOSTER.
What we're thinking when things go right for us or when we get accolades:
"Oh, I say it, I say it again! You've been had! You've been took! You've been hoodwinked! Bamboozled! Led astray! Run amuck!"
~ from the movie Malcolm X
HOODWINKED! BAMBOOZLED!
You've been HAD if you think I'm at all the person I seem.
And gentlemen--while I have nothing against you, you have to admit that many of you, not all of you, do not struggle with this imposter thing one bit. You get that big promotion or get asked to be some head of some big thing or get some big-bodacious award and it never even occurs to you that you didn't deserve it. Not-a-once.
Some of you. Not all of you. So don't start going off in the comments because I get that some of you feel like we feel. Even if it isn't necessarily the natural dude-thing to feel.
But us? We are hard-wired to question our successes. To wonder if it was because of this or because of that. To wonder how in the EFF you managed to trick everyone into thinking that you were ALL THAT when you are SO NOT.
I looked into the (tearful) eyes of MORE THAN THREE different women THIS WEEK ALONE and told them:
"Know who you are. Who you are is ENOUGH."
All in the context of this WACKY idea that we are imposters.
One of those women was ME. Looking straight at my own face my mirror.
What the EFF? What in the world must we do to get each other to STOP this crazy practice of convincing ourselves that we are imposters?
Seriously? You knew I declared war on this in the past. But that was just with myself when talking to my own reflection. Now? I'm fighting mad. I am DETERMINED to intentionally take this fight onto the road.
I need some people in my army to help me. I do.
Women? Hear me. We are not imposters. YOU. You are not an imposter. So stop it. You are enough. E-fricking-nough, you got that? So read this and apply it to yourself or whoever around you needs to hear it.
Yes, you deserved to get the recognition that you just got.
No, it was not an accident that they asked you to be chief resident.
Yes, you actually are as smart as people seem to think.
No, it isn't just "luck" that got you this far.
Yes, there are other smart people around.
No, they are not YOU.
Yes, it is kind of weird that you've come this far.
No, it isn't as far as you CAN go.
Yes, you are an amazing mother.
No, you are not horrible since your two year old can't read yet.
Yes, your score on that exam wasn't as high as you would have liked.
No, this isn't "the universe saying that you shouldn't be a doctor."
Yes, you have gained a few pounds.
No, that doesn't mean that you aren't still one hot number.
Yes, you DID make a mistake.
No, that does not get to serve as an affirmation that you're really an imposter.
YES, I am sick of tearing myself up and seeing other women do the same.
NO, I am not going to stand for it any more.
No, I am not.
Brothers, if this applies to you -- please, know I welcome you into my army to fight with me. I see it like the civil rights movement---more than just us were getting oppressed, but the urgency and focus had to be where the issue was greatest. So, NO, I don't mean to leave y'all out. But women are on my radar with this.
Especially a lot of the ones that I know.
I will affirm you.
I will remind you constantly of who you are.
Please do the same for me.
Let's fight the little voice and replace it with a big one that says:
ENOUGH ALREADY.
ALREADY ENOUGH.
Whew.
I'm exhausted now.
Who's down for fighting this with me? Please make your mark on the dotted line below.
Random non-medically related rambling ahead. . . .
The weather was crappy here this weekend. Overcast and dreary. Too wet to really hang out or do much. Too warm to enjoy your cold weather fashion.
Oh--you didn't know? The only good thing about cold weather is cold weather fashion. Mmm hmmm.
What the weekend was good for was snuggling. Zachary and I got some superior snuggling in on Saturday. Isaiah was at a play date and Harry was in and out running errands.
The snuggling was Zachary's idea which made it win-win considering how dog-tired I was. He decided that we'd take a nap together because he "was exhausted after his basketball game."
Oh you didn't know? Five year old full court hoops is exhausting people. Exhausting.
image from the Epic Saturday snugglefest, courtesy of Harry's cell phone
Oh!
You aren't going to BELIEVE this. Wait. Let me say it how I really want to say it. Y'all ain't gon' believe this! Yes. You have to hear this mess that happened right here in the Atlanta area this year. As in 2012-this year. You will think I'm making it up, but I promise you I am not!
Okay, so check it. How 'bout this school in Gwinnett County, Georgia sent some homework home with some third graders that said something like this:
"A tree has 56 oranges on it. If eight slaves pick an equal amount of oranges, how many oranges would each slave pick?"
What-what-whaaaaat????? (insert wrinkled face here)
Oh, and if that wasn't enough. . . . how 'bout this one:
"Frederick gets two beatings per day. How many beatings does Frederick get in a week? Two weeks?"
Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat???????
No, people. I am not making this up. Nor am I exaggerating.
Yeah, Denzel. I thought this was some bulljive, too!
Can I please tell you that this happened last week? As in January of 2012 last week? Can I also tell you that Gwinnett County is less than thirty minutes north of where I live and happens to be where my mother lives? Bananas. Just bananas.
So I know you are wondering what I was wondering--what were they thinking? Oh, well according to the spokesperson for the school, this was an attempt at a "cross-curricular assignment." Oh come on, y'all. . . .don't be so sensitive. You know. . . . a little social studies mixed in with the math. Come on! Isn't that exactly what someone wants their third grader to get in school? A little imagery of somebody's great-great-great granddaddy getting treated worse than cattle in the numerator and somebody's great-great-great grandmama getting impregnated by mas'a against her will in the denominator?
Umm, okay.
That's all I'll say on that. And someone asked why folks still have to give "the nod."
Oh! Quick question--should doctors tell other doctors that they're doctors? I mean, when you go to a hospital or something, should you come right on out and disclose your doctorhood? This is what I am wondering.
I was visiting a friend in the hospital last week and was slightly annoyed by how the doctor explained things to my hospitalized friend. But it's not like I fronted like I was just one of the homies. That guy knew I was a fellow physician because my friend told him so. But still--I was wondering what's the rule on that. What do y'all think? Maybe he gave that crappy explanation because he thought I would fill in the blanks. Maybe.
What else? Oh. Yeah!
I went to the eyebrow threaders today. I was looking a woolly mess and was very sad to learn that my favorite threader-lady had moved to Chicago. Say it ain't so! It gets worse. Lady-next-to-my-lady wasn't there and the only other people there were butcher-brow lady and some lady that I didn't know. Now clearly I wasn't going to butcher-brow lady so I took a deep breath and gambled on new-lady.
Epic FAIL.
Okay, not EPIC. But definitely a fail. In addition to my eyebrows being asymmetric, I also have a slight bit of Curious George action going on. Not quite as bad as the Great Manscaping Debacle, but still. I just should have come back later for a more predictable eyebrow job.
Yeah. So if you see me and I look surprised to see you--it's just the eyebrows, not you.
Is it normal for Target to be a form of therapy? Some people drink when they need to blow off steam. Some work out. Some eat an entire tub of ice cream. Me? I resort to what I like to call the T.T.R. (therapeutic Target run.) This is when you go to Target absolutely needing nothing whatsoever. Just because.
Well today I needed some Target therapy to ease the annoying parts of my week. I even went to Target Greatland which is kind of like making it a double.
Today I walked in through the out door (because that's what you do on a T.T.R.) and hit the dollar bins. Not because I wanted something. Just because I wanted to look at them. Next was the children's clothing. Nothing much there. I scooted over to look at the drug store make-up which I must admit is one of my favorite things of all. Two L'oreal lipsticks later, I headed over to get some snacks because I think I might be snack mom soon for Isaiah's class or Zachary's basketball team. Of course I look at the clothes for women. Miraculously, nothing really caught my eye. In the end, I left with kid snacks, two lipsticks and a pair of gnarly gloves that allow you to use your smartphone while wearing them.
Oh, did I mention? A successful T.T.R. shouldn't exceed $25. It's an art, I tell you.
Oh yeah. When I was looking at the air fresheners and fabric softeners, this woman walked by me and smiled. Her smile was almost flirtatious. Then she stopped, smiled again and then turned around to come back to me.
"Excuse me," she said cheerfully, "Do you mind me asking you a question?"
Now. This woman appeared to be in her late twenties and was dolled up in a trendy little outfit. Her hair was in perfect ringlets and her makeup looked like it had been applied at a department store makeup counter five minutes before. In her hand was a fancy pocket book with some sort of designer scarf tied around it. Her smile was strikingly white and she was grinning so wide that you could see both the top and bottom row of those fluorescent sparklers.
Quick! What do you think happened next?
Do you think she hit on me? Was she lost? Did she mistake me for Halle Berry? (What? It could happen!)
Well, let me tell you. I knew exactly what she was about to say before she even asked that question. Yep, I sure did.
And so, I took a chance and countered, "Only if I can ask you a question first."
And she kept that high watt smile going and replied with a cute little wrinkle of her nose, "Absolutely!"
That's when I knew for certain where she was going with this drive by.
And so I asked her: "Do you work for Mary Kay?"
Yep. That was my million dollar question. And that bottom row of teeth disappeared for the first time as she nodded in the affirmative.
Arrrggghhh! Have I told y'all about how for some reason I'm a Mary Kay Cosmetics Saleslady magnet? It's the craziest thing! They almost always walk by me. Stop. Smile. And then double back and ask the exact same question every time: "Excuse me--do you mind me asking you what you do for a living?"
I am not kidding. This has happened to me in malls. In Targets. In restaurants. And even once next to a lady on a plane. In my head I'm always saying, "Wait for it. . .wait for it. . . ."
Man. I don't know whether to be deeply flattered or deeply offended because clearly I am meeting some sort of Mary Kay Lady criteria. Not kidding.
Anyways. I let homegirl know that I wasn't interested in getting in on the Mary Kay action so she kept it moving. Before she even got to her first pitch. I just hate wasting people's time, that's all.
Maybe I should hold out for that pink cadillac that high sellers from Mary Kay get!
Me and the B.H.E. had a wonderful date night on Friday. We picked up some burgers from this new burger joint in the Morningside area and then came home and watched a movie on demand. The movie was called "Hall Pass" -- have you seen it? Absolutely laugh out loud funny. Kind of naughty at times though. Just saying before somebody rents it from a Red Box and hates me afterwards.
What else? Oh. Last night I was walking out of Barnes and Noble and this woman says to me, "Excuse me are you single? I have a match making service and thought I'd ask you."
Seriously? Seriously.
A matchmaker? Lawd. If it isn't Mary Kay ladies it's a matchmaker. Ay yi yi. . . .I need a makeover.
Hmmm. . .what's next?
Oh. Is it bad that my kids wore their pajamas for the entire day today? Is it even worse that their "pajamas" consisted of soccer shorts and t-shirts so technically those pseudo-peejays became their clothes for the day? Horrible, I know. It was Isaiah who brought this to my attention.
That's all I've got. What's up with y'all?
***
Happy Sunday.
Oh and one more random. . . I love this commercial and all of the ones from Obama's fatherhood initiative. Sure is a lot more positive than math problems about slave beatings. . . um yeah.
"Don't push me 'cause I'm close to the edge, I'm tryin' not to lose my head!"
~ Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five
For those who read this blog often, you probably feel like you know my dad. My wonderful, awesome father. . . . just a couple of years shy of seventy and filled with energy that would rival any seventeen year-old. The guy who is the head counselor and founder of Camp Pa Pa and who spends his west coast afternoons doing Skype vocabulary words with his grandson some two thousand miles away. Full of easygoing wisdom and patience. . . . .yep. That's my dad.
Well.
Although I can say with certainty that my father, Mr. Tony Draper, has always been a good guy. . . .I can't exactly say that he's always been as . . . . how shall I say it. . .zen as he is nowadays. Ha! Back in the day, my pop was known for not only being a firm disciplinarian of his own children--he also was the dude who could and would tear someone a brand new you-know-what if they tried him.
Oh. . . .that 1970's - 1980's version of Tony Draper. . . . .sigh. Man, he had a way with words. And talk about going to bat for you! As long as you didn't mind hearing an f-bomb or two during the defense, he was a good person to have in your corner. Because my father? Oh man. Nobody intimidated him.
Now. It's not that this part has changed. It's just that he has now crossed into the land of the "wise and white-haired." That place that makes the people around you bite their tongues a wee bit more which puts people like Tony Draper at less of a chance of dropping f-bombs and emmer-effer bombs in their direction. Yes. The land of the "wise and white-haired." It's this nirvana where people generally avoid saying or doing things to you that could potentially get them cussed out. They hold their smart-ass remarks a bit more and try to take the high road out of respect. I am convinced that THIS has far more to do with this Y2K upgraded zen-like version of my father than anything else.
Growing up, we called it "pulling a T-Tone." (I'm not sure why we started calling it this--but I know my brother started it and it stuck.) We could always see it coming, too. Kind of like the day that my sister Deanna got a 'B' on her test because she didn't list "Oceania" as a continent. Dad marched right up to that school with his briefcase and three-pieced suit to talk to the teacher after he'd insisted that Deanna had missed that question.
Wait.
I know you are like, "Seriously?" And to that I say, "Yes. Seriously." See, it wasn't so much that the dude was dead wrong about this bootleg geography fact. It was that it resulted in an alteration in my sister's grade and also a smug interaction in front of my sister's class where he tried to take her down a couple of notches.
Awww hell naw!
Mess with Tony Draper's kids? Fuggeddaboudit. He would be up at that school before you could say Rumplestiltskin. So up he goes to Monroe Junior High School where this dude is sitting behind his desk with a half wet-half dried out Jheri curl correcting papers. Seventh grade Deanna is shuffling her feet behind him because she could already smell it in the air. One false word and her daddy was 100% guaranteed to pull a T-Tone up in that classroom.
Now. Let me explain a bit about seeing a full on "T-Tone" getting pulled. It first involves a few rhetorical questions. Next it moves to direct logical questions. And if something comes out wrong. . . . that's the point of no return. Basically, the voice goes up several decibels and somebody gets put directly in their place. Oh, and did I mention? Rarely are those words censored.
So as you might guess, the whole 'B' for Oceania didn't go so well for that quasi-Jheri curl teacher of Deanna's and I think at some point he recorrected all of the tests in that bootleg geography course. All secondary to having had a T-Tone pulled on him.
This explains where a lot of my spunk comes from. I'm not really put off by confrontations, in fact, I'm pretty much a "bring it" kind of girl in most instances. This, I attribute to witnessing many a T-Tone getting pulled in my day. On baseball fields, in PTA meetings, in my front yard, and yes. . .sigh. . .even when he was president of the School Board. My stealthy dad could always be counted upon to be not really a loose cannon per se. . .but a cannon in every sense of the word.
I do realize that my dad grew up in a different time than me. Being born in Birmingham, Alabama in the 1940's is a far cry from Los Angeles in the 70's that's for sure. Maybe that has something to do with his reactions over the years. And maybe not. I'm not sure.
Anyways.
That brings me to the other day. Last week, I was hustling after work to the YMCA for Zachary's basketball practice. I had just left work and grabbed both boys and was pushing it on time. With Zachy's practice gear in a bag, we ran as fast as we could into the locker room so that he could get changed. They whined as usual about going into the Ladies bathroom with me, but expecting a five year old to change his on clothes in the boys bathroom wasn't going to happen--especially when time was of the essence.
Alright. So in we go. Me in that rush-mama way and them dawdling just enough to make me want to punch a wall. Isaiah sits on the bench next to me as I pull open a locker and begin helping Zachary get his shirt over his head. I'm digging into his gym bag looking for his fresh pair of socks when all of a sudden I see this older woman walk by us. She's dripping wet from the swimming pool and has a towel wrapped around her waist. I look up and offer her a quick smile of salutation.
Her response? A steely blue-eyed scowl and these words through gritted teeth:
"What are they doing in here?"
I looked from side to side to make certain she was talking to me. Both boys looked up at her, Zachary with one arm in his shirt and one out, and Isaiah from that bench with my iPhone in his hand.
I assumed she was poking fun at the kids and me so I looked over at them and said, "Yeah, guys. What are you doing in here?" I chuckled and went back to what I was doing.
"No. WHAT. ARE. THEY. DOING. IN. HERE?" she demanded. This time I noticed how her hand with the intricate network of prominent blue veins was gripping the towel on her waist. She was serious. Dead serious.
"Umm, are you, like, serious?"
"I am TOTALLY serious! There are NO BOYS ALLOWED IN HERE! THEY SHOULDN'T BE IN HERE!!"
At this point, she had the full attention of me, my boys and a woman with long dreadlocks standing behind her near the fresh towels. That dreadlocked sister froze and raised her eyebrows in my direction -- sensing a potential T-Tone in the making.
That angry-lady went on. "THE SIGN CLEARLY SAYS 'WOMEN'S LOCKER ROOM'. I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT WOULD MAKE YOU BRING TWO BOYS IN HERE! YOU NEED TO GET THEM OUT OF HERE!!"
I looked down at my kids who were looking at me. See, this was not 1978 and they don't have a track record of seeing their mama cuss people out in such situations. Furthermore, this woman was significantly older than my own father which was something I had to factor into my response -- along with the fact that my kids were watching.
"I think you need to lower you voice," I decided to say. My voice was controlled and firm. Deliberately low. This involved no f-bombs or permutations of the b-word. I was proud of myself and glad for her that this involved me and my kids and not Tony Draper and his.
"I think YOU need to get these boys out of here," she shot back while still ice-grilling me with those beady little eyes of hers.
I swallowed hard and looked back at her with my head cocked to the side. I licked my lips and sighed hard and prepared to open my mouth. Just then I caught that woman at the towel rack looking at me. She was giving me a tiny head shake . . . . telling me to chill. Her expression also affirmed what I was feeling.
I cleared my throat carefully. "I think you need to realize you are speaking to a grown-ass woman and take your tone down about twelve notches." My kids quickly shot their eyes over to me after hearing that word "ass." This was serious. I leaned over and addressed the towel rack dreadlocked woman directly."Do you know if there is a family locker room in here?"
She smiled and replied, "I think there's one further down the hall and around the--"
Angry-lady interrupted, still dripping with water and her nasty attitude. "There's a BOYS LOCKER ROOM for BOYS and a --"
I put up my hand and stopped her. "I'm done talking to you." I felt my voice rising and worked to control it. "Ma'am, you need to move away from me and stop talking to me like this. Especially in front of my children. It's unnecessary for you to be this rude." And then I added again for emphasis, "Especially in front of children."
She didn't give a damn about me or my children. "If you had just READ THE SIGN on the door you would have not brought boys into the WOMEN'S LOCKER ROOM!"
Awww hell naw.
Immediately I imagined myself grabbing her up by her one piece swimsuit and saying, "YOU GOT ME EFFED UP, LADY! YOU BETTA BACK UP 'FORE YOU GET SMACKED UP!"
That certainly crossed my mind, although that's not what happened next.
Surely this steely-blue-eyed woman was banking on the fact that she was now old enough to have crossed into the land of "wise and white-haired." I also think she believed that this made her safe from having a forty-one year black woman go postal on her in that YMCA locker room.
I won't even tell you about how I was at the YMCA that is right in the very neighborhood where they filmed "Driving Miss Daisy"-- and that this woman was the Doppleganger of Miss Daisy herself. Some part of me felt FOR SURE like that whole Miss Daisy thing made her feel like she could talk to me any old kind of way. And to hell with the fact that my kids were right there. That kind of pissed me off more.
You know? In that moment, I sort of understood my dad and his fire a little better. If I lived through things like this all the time, I might be close to the edge a lot, too.
Yeah.
I know. The other possibility is that she was just a cantankerous old lady with bad manners whose cataracts only allowed her to make out the silhouettes of my boys without so much as even a clue of anything else.
Maybe.
Thank goodness for the dread-locked sister at the towel rack. This time she put up one hand and waved it at me. She mouthed, "Not worth it." And she was right. It really wasn't.
I scooped up the kids and headed out of the bathroom.
I sat there seething and tapping my foot on the bleacher for the entire basketball practice. I replayed the scene over and over but inserted escalating versions of my responses to that angry-crazy lady--from me jumping in her face scaring her to death all the way to me catching a case.
Ha.
I guess the only good thing about that situation was that it was blogworthy. And it gave me a context in which to explain the art of pulling a T-Tone. Okay. And yes, I should have been in the boys or family or whatever locker room and not the women's one, I know. But seriously, was it really that serious? I mean really? Jeeze.
Man. So here's my question--what's the rule on these types of situations? Is there a statute of limitations or age limit on getting cussed out? (And yes, I mean to keep saying "cussed out" and not "cursed out" because there is a difference.) What would y'all have done? Should I have pulled an old school T-Tone--complete with expletives--just for old times' sake?
Sigh. Part of me wishes that I had just done it for the story. . . . . and blamed it on my upbringing afterward.
Roberta Flack and Donny Hathaway singing "Where is the Love?"
_____________________________________________
This world is crazy. For real. Like real, real crazy.
I was trying to decide yesterday. Go there? Or not even go there? Meh. I decide to go there.
Here is the there.
You may or may not have heard this in the news, but I'm a nerdy doctor at a public hospital so this grabbed my attention. Alright, so check it. In Pennsylvania, there's this not-for-profit school in Hershey that the chocolate bar mogul started back in the day. Anyways, they have a state of the art facility and bring kids who are academically able yet financially unable into their building for a chance at movin' on up Jefferson's style.
You with me so far? Cool.
Alright. So this school does good things and I am not disputing that. In addition to having all these bells and whistles for these pre-K through twelfth grade kids to partake in, they house them, too. Yep. It's a boarding school. And although I have never considered boarding school for my kids, on one day when I was super bored, I looked up how much they cost--and trust me, they cost a GRIP. So, yeah. The folks behind this school waive that GRIP and bring deserving children there for a first-rate education.
That's cool, right?
Well. Here's what went down recently that got this boarding school in Hershey, Pennsylvania on my radar. This thirteen year-old boy who happens to be a scholar athlete and all around great kid (from what I read) applied to this school. His mama, like a lot of mamas, is a little light in her pockets and surely appreciated the possibility of seeing her hard-working boy have the great fortune of going to this elite boarding school. On paper? He was a good fit. Great student. Even an athlete. And yes, there was need.
But.
One small issue. He is HIV positive. And because of that little inconvenient truth, this chance-giving school ix-nayed his acceptance. They didn't even lie about it either. They flat out kept it real--which you must give them props for--and said that they could not allow him in their school because he posed a "direct threat" to the other 1,800 students in their student population.
Wait, huh?
Yeah. He got denied entry into a school in 2011 because he is HIV positive.
Well. Turns out that's not really a cool (or legal) thing to do. So this kid and his mama decided that they'd sue this school. And they filed their law suit this past Wednesday--just in time for World AIDS Day.
But the school? Oh they stood their ground. Pretty much saying that because they are a boarding school and a "unique learning environment" they can't take the chance, albeit a remote one, of putting others at risk. Yep. The superintendent even got on CNN and stood the school's ground even more. Hell no. He won't go.
Did I mention? This kid takes antiretroviral drugs, too. In other words, he's under a doctor's care and does what he's supposed to do. He's in great health and is just trying to do his thing to get ahead in this world.
But that's just too bad. Because if it's up to them, he ain't gonna be doing his thing there. Not on their watch. Around their kids. God forbid he accidentally bumps one of them in the hallway or the bathroom. Oh helllls naw.
So the potential concern is as follows--at least this is what the superintendent said on CNN. She said that the issue is that there is some chance that at some point this boy might have sex with one of those one thousand eight hundred and something other kids and just maybe when he does, he will not use a condom and in turn infect them with his poisonous bodily fluids. Oh, and I almost forgot. He'd need to say to hell with his HIV medications to make this already remote possibility even worth discussing (and even then it would still sound crazy.)
Can I just state that the chances of one of the eighteen hundred kids in that school getting hurt, disabled or killed in an automobile accident are FAR greater than the individual risk they have of this (hello? responsible!) child exposing them to HIV? And surely--SURELY--they transport those students in cars or buses don't they? Uhhhh, okay. I guess the risk has to be socially acceptable.
Okay.
I at least give them credit for publicly recognizing that sexual intercourse is the most common way people get HIV in the world. Hell, at least they didn't publicly go running from the cafeteria screaming that he might give their forks and knives the cooties.
Sigh.
Now. Let me get on my nerdy soapbox and say just a couple of nerdy academic things that some folks reading this may or may not know:
1. People who take antiretrovirals are less likely to transmit the virus. Yep. A big ol' study proved it. Gave people treatment and turned them loose with their HIV negative partners. The ones who were on meds were NINETY-SIX plus percent less likely to give it to their partners. Yep. The HPTN 052 study, in case you just needed to Google it.
2. People who know they are HIV positive modify their behaviors. Yep. Turns out that if you KNOW you have HIV, you are more likely to protect others. Imagine that.
3. (In case they didn't know.) You can't get HIV from kissing, hugging, sharing forks or any other casual contact. Oh and what about a nosebleed? Well, I guess if he stood over someone with blood pouring from his nose into their openly exposed bleeding wound, then yeah. Perhaps there could be risk.
4. Saliva has no significant amount of HIV in it. This means that when this kid is ready he (and any other HIV positive person) can get their full French-kiss on with no concerns. Yep. Sure can.
5. Oh, and there are, like, 250, 000 plus people in the U.S. who are HIV positive but don't even know it. Which means even if you think you don't know anyone with HIV, chances are you're wrong in that assumption.
Yep. Those are the facts. Straight from a reputable source--a medicine nerd who has worked at a public hospital for over a decade with all sorts of "communicable diseases" -- including HIV. Which also happens to be in the same city as the Center for doggone DISEASE CONTROL and PREVENTION. Yep.
But so much for all of that. This is factual information and obviously this was not a decision made based upon that. Instead, it was based upon fear. I think we have learned over many, many years that facts and logic don't readily overcome fear. At all. And that fear is a powerful driver for some of the stupidest decisions of all time.
Alright (imagine me rolling neck and shadow boxing) I'm getting loose here, y'all.
And since I'm all the way loose (insert knuckle cracking and more shadow boxing here) why don't I just "unpack" another part of this story.
First let me digress and give my friend and fellow Grady doctor David M. credit for me using that term "unpack." He's a qualitative researcher that happens to be an HIV doctor, too--and he tells me that when researchers have a variable that is probably affecting a clinical outcome, that that variable needs to get investigated. . .or "unpacked" . . . .at some point.
Oh, and did I mention? He's young, gifted and black.
Well. Let me just unpack the fact that this 13 year-old HIV infected boy just happens to be African-American.
Gasp!
Yep. I said it. And consider it officially "unpacked."
Now. Let's just all close our eyes and imagine this deserving student as an angelic little doe-eyed thirteen year-old girl with a porcelain complexion and eyes like pools of cerulean water. Do you think this might change how this situation was viewed at all? Might it alter the level of threat from bright red down to a cool shade of yellow?
Or.
Would there have even been a case to be had at all?
Hmmm. Don't answer that. Let's just agree that it sucks that we live in a world where the answer to this is questionable. But since I'm loose, I'll just call it just like I see it. And here's how I see it. I sure do think that the amount of empathy felt for this child is somehow affected by his race. And the belief that he will run all over this campus spewing forth blood and semen everywhere he goes is, I think, somehow shaped by somebody's perception of people--especially male people--who look like him.
Perhaps maybe even unknowingly this is the deal. I don't even want to imagine that it is totally egregious and tied into some warped view of all black males as irresponsible hypersexual animals. Because that is exactly what he'd have to be to cause even a remote amount of plausible risk by having him in that school. Even if he's an honor student.
It's an ugly variable to imagine, isn't it? But a variable that must be unpacked all the same.
Alright, I know that part was getting uncomfortable so I'll pack it up and move on.
Ryan White was this really brave kid who got HIV from a factor 8 blood product transfusion needed for treatment of his hereditary hemophilia. When he was diagnosed in 1984, he was given 6 months to live. He was expelled from his Indiana middle school because he was HIV positive. Ryan was pretty much a courageous bad ass and he fought this decision in a very public legal battle. He even got some high profile people in his corner like Michael Jackson and Elton John. All that press changed him overnight from an unknown Joe Schmoe (literally) from Kokomo to the poster child for HIV and AIDS. Oh and Ryan and his six months? He lived another five years. Mmm hmm. He showed them.
But that was in 1984. And HIV was poorly understood then.
Then, right?
Um, yeah.
See, here's the thing. There are some times when someone having HIV poses a risk. Like, say. . . .you are sexual partners with someone who has HIV and you don't know. Then hells yeah, you need to know and be able to protect yourself because there's a sho' nuff direct threat. But this? This? Come on, man.
What bothers me the most about this is that it almost doesn't seem true. I liken this to those instances when I, a black person, think that most people are cool with black folks and how far they've come--and then something really crazy happens like Kramer from Seinfeld saying the n-word repetitively or someone hanging a noose from a tree in a Louisiana high school that says. . . uhh. . . hello? Or even when Mel Gibson had that cringe-worthy anti-Semitic rant. See? Things like that make me say:
"Damn. And here I was thinking things was cool."
Sorry, kids. Some times you just got to unpack the facts.
Now. I know for certain that there are many, many, many people who don't feel that way. That have no issues or qualms about black folks or Jewish folks or Muslim folks or gay folks or any kind of folks for that matter. And I know for certain that a lot of y'all reading this love all folks. (Unless, of course, you're Ms. Moon and we're referring to that Herman Cain--wink, wink.) Otherwise. . . . I know, I know. Not you.
But.
Everybody isn't you. I made the mistake of reading the ABC and CNN message boards on this topic. Looking to see what other American people had to say about this whole "sitch-i-ay-shun" (as my dad says). And OH, they had PUH-LENTY to say on it. Well. It turns out that a whooooole lot of people were one hundred percent KOOL and the GANG with that school's decision to say no way. So KOOL, in fact, that one of them even sent me a scathing email telling me how wrong I was to "put peoples' children at risk" after I spoke about it on television. (At least I didn't unpack the race variable!) Okay, okay. . . . I'll be the first to admit that it wasn't too hard to see where I stood on the subject. But I really, really wanted to believe that most people think this is as preposterous as I do. (I, at least, know for sure that there is a fully educated lawyer-dude somewhere in Mississippi that officially does not.)
Arrrgggh!
Where's the empathy, man? Where is the love? To hell with the fact that the boy got HIV in utero and not even because of something he accidentally or irresponsibly did. And to hell with the fact that his life expectancy is EXCELLENT. Matter of fact, a lot points to the fact that many with HIV who are under care like he is, live long enough to die from causes other than HIV. It's fine if that's the facts. So long as he ain't in the same boarding school as THEIR kids.
Uhhh, yeah.
Now I bet Ryan White is rolling over in his 1990 grave saying:
"Damn. And here I was thinking things was cool."
Sigh.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011 would have been Ryan White's 40th birthday. Had he been diagnosed in 2011 instead of 1984, he would have lived to celebrate it. Hmmph. Some celebration.
I'm interested to hear your thoughts. Please. Weigh in.
*** Shout out to my friends and fellow Grady peeps who have dedicated their careers to making sure that the Ryan Whites-- and the Ryan Blacks -- of the world live to see as many birthdays as possible. Thank you, thank you, thank you for all that you do.
Grady doctor, friend, and all around wonderful person--Wendy A.
and of course my other fellow Grady doctor, friend, and rock-star, David M.
*** And now playing on my mental iPod. . . .The Last Song. . .written by Bennie Taupin and sung by Elton John in memory of one of the bravest souls that ever lived--Ryan White. . . .
. . .and of course, Donny and Roberta asking the question that I'm still wondering, too.
The unthinkable has happened. My almost six year-old MacBook Pro has died. Okay, maybe not died yet, but it appears to be in some kind of coma that isn't easily reversible.
Yes.
Now, some of you who must write to stay alive (like me) are having a panic attack on my behalf. And to that I say thank you for your empathy.
When, you ask? It was yesterday. Unexpectedly, too. Like some cruel lover who seems fine one day but wakes up the next and says, "It's, like, over." To which you say, "Excuse me? Did I hear you wrong?" (Which, in this instance, was several attempts to force a restart only to be teased with an apple and a swirling spinner then have my hopes dashed by a blink and then the scary gray nothingness you see above.)
So I well up with tears and plead with my lover-slash-MacBook Pro, "After all we've been through? I mean, didn't I, like, refurbish you after that red wine incident? I mean, it's not like that was even my fault, either!"
And the MacDaddy just stares back at me with a gray blank indifference that boils my blood. So then I lose my cool.
"You should have told me you would do this last summer when I was replacing your hard drive, you a--hole!"
Again, nothing.
So yes. My MacBook Pro has done what I thought was only relegated to crappy Dells. It did what would surely make Steve Jobs himself turn over in his grave. It. . . it. . . stopped working. Or at least it faded to black.. . .I mean gray.
Deep breath.
What does this mean to me as a blogger? It means I have spent the last 24 hours trembling in a corner rocking back and forth, that's what it means. It means that I have just tortured myself by blogging on a tablet touch keyboard because that fix. . . oh man. . . I had to have it. Man. It also means that unless I come up with a plan B, I will either be iPhone and iPadding it or not posting much.
Oh, what's that you said? Why not just go buy a new one? Uuuuhhh, because first of all, I am a mother of two small kids and it's almost Christmas and also Mac Books cannot be found in the Target dollar bin. AND. Clearly, (since obviously I can be a little. . . errr. . . thrifty) I fully intend to see if my almost six year-old MacDaddy can be resuscitated before I do anything drastic. Like get another one. Duh! (Unless, of course, my dad gets a new MacBook and let's me get his old one. . . .hint hint.)
Woe is me.
Hey. That reminds me. Are any of y'all old enough to remember when the early generation Mac notebooks would give you the "Sad Mac" face when it had bugs? That's when you knew it was a wrap for sure! At least I didn't get that. (I tried to put a picture of one in this post but couldn't figure out how to do it from this ultra-craptacular iPad Blogger app.)
Woe is me, again.
Okay. So here is the point where you shower me with all sorts of sympathetic commentary. That or a coupon for a new MacBook Pro. (Um, yeah. I'm thinking the comments will cost you less.)
The "Sad Mac" used to literally appear on your screen!
Oh. Guess I did figure the "Sad Mac" picture out on the BlogPress app after all. (I'm still sad, though.)
*Names and details changed to protect anonymity. . . .you know what's up.
Tell me more! Tell me more!
Grady Wards Fall 2011:
Finished up my history and physical exam of this ninety-something year old Grady elder and decided to make a little small talk.
"Mrs. Porter, are you from Atlanta?"
"Sho' is. Born and raised right here. Well, really more like Avondale, but you know tha's still Atlanta."
"Definitely."
"Been comin' to Gradys all my life. You know, back then Avondale was all colored."
"Is that right?"
"Sho' was. But it always was nice, you know?"
"Yes, ma'am. Avondale is still a pretty cool neighborhood if you ask me."
"Mmm hmmm. It do pretty good."
"Children? Did you have any children?"
"All my kids they dead."
Thought about the fact that people who live to see their ninth decade may have to face the dreadful possibility of outliving their kinfolk. Put that on a post-it in my head to revisit later.
"I'm sorry to hear that, Mrs. Porter. So. . .how many children did you have, ma'am?"
"Well. . .outta my own womb I had seb'm. But then there was two more that I raised like they was mine so altogether tha's nine."
Took down the post-it and tried hard to get my head around outliving nine children. Realized I couldn't so put it back on the wall in my head for later.
"Wow. That's amazing. Were the other two nieces or nephews? Or younger brothers and sisters maybe?"
"Oh, naw. They was from my husband. See, he had to chil'ren that wadn't with me in between them seb'm we had."
Wait, huh?
"Your husband had two children while. . . .uhh. . .okay."
Wasn't sure what to say next.
"Yeah. Two of our kids less than six months apart." She laughed out loud like this was real, real funny.
At this point just sitting there confused. She kept on talking.
"See, when he was in the army, he had one baby by one lady and after the service he had another from this ol' nasty woman. You know them mamas wadn't no count so I went on and raised them myself. Sho' did. See, back then, womenfolk didn't get all bent outta shape 'bout stuff like that. Fightin' over they men and such. Naw. We jest welcomed 'em on in and took care of 'em like they was ours."
Please believe it--she was 100% serious. Do you hear me?
"You know 'cause a man got needs. And you know, depending on wha's goin' on with you and yo' body and such. . you know, like if you with-child and feelin' sick or still got the baby on the ninny a' somethin' like that you know? You ain't always up for no rompin' round. But what can you do? A man got needs, baby." Said this with a nonchalant shrug.
Loving. This. Story.
0_0
"Mmmm hmmm. They was some good kids, them two. Even if they didn't come out my own womb they was mine jest like all the other ones was. But they mamas? Now tha's another story."
"So . . . you didn't really mind that your husband had babies with someone else even though you were married?"
"What you gon' do? Once the baby on the way what you gon' do but love it?"
I wasn't thinking about what I could do to the baby. Instead I thought of choice places to squarely stick my foot on said husband's body. Tried to get with what she said. Hmmm. Okay, awww hell naw. Next I fixed my facial expression once it dawned on me that I was giving Mrs. P the hairy eyeball.
-_0
"Mmm hmmm. 'Cause see, a man got needs. And if you ain't up to meetin' his needs then tha's what happened 'fore they had all these ways to stop you from getting with-child. Nowadays I guess it ain't such an issue."
0_o
"Mmmm hmm. What other questions you won't to know?"
Smiling big and wide. "That's all I really wanted to know for now."
"Okay, baby. Now get on out my room so I can get me some sleep, hear?"
"Yes, ma'am."
And that was the end of that.
Sandy got that memo.
Moral of the story:
Ladies! Quit your belly-achin'! A man has needs.Needs, I tell you!
*Uuuhhh, be right back.*
***
Happy Tuesday.
I have a feeling Sandy wasn't leaving her situation up to chance. . . I'm just sayin'.
Resident: "Hey Dr. M, have you been doing anything fun since your kids are in California?"
Me: "As a matter of fact, I went to see Sade on Tuesday! She was awesome!"
Resident: *crickets*
Me: "Wait. Please tell me you aren't looking at me like that because you don't know who Sade is!"
Resident: *crickets*
Me: "You don't know who SADE is? SADE? SHAAAHH- DAAAAYYY???? Seriously?" (but really wanting to say, "AWWW HELL NAAWWW!!!")
Resident: *crickets*
Me: "This will be reflected in your evaluation."
Resident: "SHAH-DAY? Is that what you're saying? Spell that."
Me: "F-I-R-E-D."
Sade, Atlanta Performance July 2011
On Tuesday, the B.H.E. took me to see the wonderfully talented Sade in concert. Her voice was like a perfect piece of dark chocolate--velvety smooth yet textured, uniformly sweet yet peppered with a little bite. The best part of it all was that she sang all of the songs that I like and know the lyrics to. And even better than that? She and her band Sweetback (who is a-freakin'-mazing, by the way) performed each track in the exact arrangement as their original recordings.
That made me super happy because nothing annoys me more than going to a concert to hear one of my favorite artists perform my favorite songs only to find that some wise ass has remixed every slow favorite into some funky, uptempo techno version and reconfigured all the fast tracks into wrist-slashing ballads.
Talk about annoying.
My sister, JoLai, who goes to waaaaay more concerts than me once asked, "Why not just listen to the album if that's all you want anyway?" To which I snarkily remarked, "Come on--everyone wants to sing along. Just give the people what they came for!"
Sade got the memo.
And yes. This is exactly what Miss Sade got on that stage and did, do you hear me? She gave the people what they came for. That and more.
Like chocolate, I felt myself melting into the seat, lulled by her voice and the horns. I closed my eyes as she sang "Smooth Operator" and remembered when my 9th grade Geometry teacher, Mr. C, had this big poster of her on the wall next to a parallelogram. I recalled us asking him who she was, and him smiling all big and giddy-like as he pushed the button on a boombox behind his desk.
That was the very first time I'd ever heard Sade.
"Smooth Operator." Ah yes. That song took me back. And track after track, other songs did the same. We went through my first heartbreak from tenth grade with "Is it a crime" and then the undying love I professed to the same boy at the end of twelfth grade with "Nothing Can Come Between Us."
Of course we'd be together forever and ever--even with me going across the country to college. Because this guy? This guy who was my first love in high school? He was the one. For sure and for definitely. And so I sang Sade all the way from California to Alabama on a forty hour drive--loud--because nothing could come between us. He was the one after all, right?
"It's about faith. . . . it's about trust. . . .yeah, yeah. . "
It's about faith my foot. That same boy had me singing "Love is Stronger Than Pride" just a few months later in the cafeteria. That sucka.
The good news is that reliving this not-so-good memory was fleeting. I was happy just a few tracks later. Yes. Filled with the warm nostalgia of yet another puppy-love when she sang "I Couldn't Love You More."
Lawd.
I played this incessantly while cutting out pictures of diamond rings from fashion magazines and annoying the crap out of my roommate every time I hit "rewind." Yes. Because this dude? The one from my freshman year of medical school? Oh baby. This guy? Now he was absolutely the one. No question.
Uuuhhh, yeah. Thank goodness she had the track "Bullet Proof Soul" on the same LP, 'cause I needed it.
Time marched on and my crappy luck in love continued. I served as a most excellent professional bridesmaid several times over, smiling pretty and accumulating dresses. Although my girlfriends all had "Kiss of Life" on the brain, I was stuck on "Please Send Me Someone to Love."
Good ol' Sade.
I finally finished residency and Sade stayed right with me. After the move to Atlanta, my longing for that "real love" chapter to begin grew stronger than ever. On the days that I felt sorriest for myself, I could count on Sade to have the perfect soundtrack for my doldrums. "King of Sorrow?" Seriously? Most depressing song ever. (Yet perfect background music for the blues, I tell you.)
"I want to cook you a soup that warms your soul but nothing would change, nothing will change at all It's just a day that brings it all about Just another day, nothing's any good."
or better yet
"I'm crying everyone's tears I have already paid for all my future sins. . ."
Damn, Sade. Everyone's tears? Really? (And if that wasn't enough of a downer, I'd just play "Somebody Already Broke My Heart" from the same CD.)
Finally, my heart could rejoice as I relived the first days after I met Harry through her sultry performances of "Lovers Rock" and "By Your Side." She sang it perfectly. No--better than perfectly. She gave the people what they came for.
It brought me to tears.
The show ended with her locking arms with all of the members of her band, walking to the edge of the stage and taking a bow--together. I immediately liked her twenty times more after that gesture.
See, this is what I love about the Sade pendulum . . . .and the music pendulum in general. It takes you through the extremes of emotion. . .running through open orchards with you on the best of days and snuggling under down comforters with you as tear-soaked tissue crumbles in your hand. Music makes you laugh and cry. But best of all, it stirs up memories rich and deep and takes you on a journey through time.
On Tuesday, we took a journey. And I'm so glad we did.
Encore!!
Oh yeah.
Just as everyone was leaving, she re-emerged for an encore performance wearing a stunning scarlet dress with matching ruby lips. The song?
"Cherish the Day."
Perfect.
*** Now playing on my mental iPod--one of many Sade songs that makes me think of Harry (aka the BHE) because of this line. . . "You're the one. . .the one I swim to in a storm. . . like a lovers rock."
and this one, too. . . because it defines who I want to be to those who I love with this line. . ."I will show you. . you're so much better than you know."
and this one because, yes, it is kind of morose. . . but it held my hand when I felt lonely. And sometimes the right song is the only one who can do that for you.
This or a ghost. (Wait-- I don't even have a cat.)
Hey y'all!
Quick question to my fellow bloggers out there. . . .
Have any of y'all ever put up a post and somehow went back to view your blog later. . . only to find it somehow was different than you left it? Almost like a little blogging-ghost had logged onto your "compose" page and remixed all the heartfelt nonsense you'd so diligently typed for the world to not read?
For real?
Well, me too. I promise you. . . I put up my last post and then left my house to go to a cook out. Since this post was my first and only guest post from a fellow Grady doctor and friend, I was kind of picky about making sure it was just right and how I wanted it. Anyways, I get it all prettified and hyperlinkified and off I go.
How happy was I when not long after I'd posted it, a comment came. (Unlike you good people who get twenty seven trillion comments per post, I do a little happy clap for every last comment--for real.) So, yeah, like I said, in comes this comment and I go ahead and publish it.
A few hours later, my friend the guest poster Neil W. (who was equally giddy about this whole thing) texted me and said, "Post looks great! Changed your mind about the commentary at the end?"
And I was like, "Say whaaa?"
So without delay, I pull out my iPhone and go to my blog. . . .only to find. . .HUSH YO' MOUTH. . . that some kind of blog-ghost had hacked into my post. That or I accidentally did it---but personally, I like the idea of a blog-ghost better, don't you?
Anyways. If--and seeing as I checked my stats which suggests that this does not apply to many of you --but IF you by chance already read "Duty Hours Pre-Form 2: No Sleep 'Til (or in) Brooklyn" -- then make sure you go back and read the part that the blog-ghost cut out. Essentially, that's everything after the picture of Neil and Tamara W. now.
'Preciate you!
Just wondering. . . . am I the only victim of the blog-ghost? And also, does the blog-ghost only live on blogger or does he also strike on wordpress? I'm just wondering. . . . .
"Foot on the pedal - never ever false metal
Engine running hotter than a boiling kettle
My job ain't a job - it's a damn good time
City to city - I'm running my rhymes. . .
. . . .NO . . SLEEP. . 'til BROOKLYN!"
from The Beastie Boys
____________________________
Today we continue the saga and fireside tales of life during internship and residency--pre-duty hours reform (aka "back in the day when nobody cared how long you worked," aka "The Other Fight Club").
This is partly to underscore why having some limits on how long young doctors (and hell, old doctors) can work is a good thing. But like any great story, it's also to just a chance to just chronicle it--and then shake our heads while asking, "Dude, what were you THINK-ing?" Anyways. There's just something about hearing something that's cringe-worthy in that Seinfeld-y/Curb-your-enthusiasm-Larry-David-y/trainwreck-y kind of way that intrigues most folks. . . .okay, me.
As promised, in a Reflections of a Grady Doctor first, we bring you this story from another sho' nuff and bona fide Grady doctor. . . . .
Now y'all put your hands together and show some gradydoctor love for Dr. Neil W. . . . (Oh yeah--and just a suggestion--imagine a wonderful New York accent as you read this--makes it much more fun!)
______________________________
No Sleep 'til (or in) Brooklyn: A series of unfortunate events.
The date was February 1st, 1994—my first day in the medical intensive care unit (ICU) at NYU/Bellevue Hospital. Normally I would’ve been a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed intern, ready to get cracking. The problem, however, was that I was tired, like really tired. The night before I’d been on call finishing my month on the medical wards and rolled into bed at 3am. Dragging myself in, I was hoping to suck it up, push through the day and start fresh tomorrow. *
*(Those who read Duty Hours Pre-Form Part 1, already know that this isn't how it always went down.)
Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed: Neil W.'s (pictured on left) first month of internship, July 1993
When I arrived in the ICU, the first order of business was to determine the call schedule. (Normally the chief residents did this, but for some crazy reason we were left to figure it out for ourselves.) The interns rotated overnight every fourth day, and somebody had to be first. I hoped that my haggard appearance would prompt one of my three colleagues to step up and offer to take the that night's call.
The only thing was that all of them looked equally run down. . . .
Houston, we have a problem. . . . .
Turns out that every intern was busting their butt on call the night before! For those less familiar with residency training, the odds of this happening are incredibly small (1 in 256 to be exact--wait, actually even smaller than that now that I think of it.) Rarity or not, someone still had to tackle this first overnight shift, and for whoever it was, it was going to royally suck.
Nowadays a calamity like this would send the residency leadership into a mad scramble to produce a fresh body from the "jeopardy" (emergency backup) schedule. Back then however, you didn’t go crying to the administration with every work hour-related problem (probably becausewe’d be simply told to suck it up)-- you fixed things internally.
So we decided to do it the democratic way and drew straws. As fate would have it I pulled the shortest one. After a brief sulking session (and contemplation of demanding a recount) I rolled up my sleeves and got to work.
gradydoctor commentary:Unlike mine, this double-call was NOT voluntary--OUCH! (image credit)
That first day (and night) was a blur; getting to know the super-sick patients in the unit as well as the ones who were getting admitted rapid fire from the emergency department. Before I knew it the following morning had arrived without me getting even an ounce of sleep. My fellow interns arrived well-rested and were sympathetic to my plight. That said, there were still too many loose ends to tie down, so I plowed ahead into the early afternoon. With my back-to-back calls finally done (50 + hours), I headed out at 2:30 pm.
I walked to the Bellevue parking garage and jumped in my dad’s car, a 1977 Cadillac Coupe De Ville as mine (an 84 Eldorado), was in the shop.
(Yes--the Winawers love late-model Caddys.)
It was the middle of winter in NYC and a snowstorm had blanketed the streets while I had been working. I headed out cautiously on the 30 minute ride back to Brooklyn, and as I neared my apartment house the driving became progressively worse over the unplowed snow. As I pulled into my driveway, towards the backyard parking lot, the wheels began slipping on ice and the Caddy became stuck, blocking several cars. After several minutes of flooring the gas and rocking the car in “drive” & “reverse”, I gave up.
I pushed open the huge coupe’s door and landed in thick snow. Leaving a quick note (to apologize for temporarily blocking anyone who needed to leave) I waded several blocks in my scrubs to a local hardware store. I lugged back bags of rock salt and sand, strategically tossed the mix under the tires and gave it another whirl-- but the Caddy still had no traction. Finally, after several more gear changes and wheel spins, it was clear that this car wasn’t budging. Luckily I saw some friends passing by who graciously took pity and helped push out the car onto the street.
With my tumultuous afternoon finally behind me, I glanced at my Swatch which read 5 pm.
gradydoctor commentary: A SWATCH? Damn, now THAT'S old school, for real!
WARNING: This is where the story gets crazy. . . .
Okay, right then and there I should’ve called it a day and slept til morning, but you see, I had this basketball game back in Manhattan at 8 pm. I know, it sounds so incredibly ridiculous thinking about it now, but like Kim said, during your residency you’ll do anything to make yourself feel human.
For me, it was basketball. I had played in college and breaking a sweat once a week while seeing my former teammates was the only connection I had with the outside world. My plan was to set the alarm for 7 pm and see how I felt. The game was on the Upper East Side, close to my girlfriend (now wife) Tamara's place, so I would just crash (bad omen) there.
I worried that a nap on my bed would turn into a full blown snooze fest, so I sat cross legged on the floor, back against the bed with my head slumped forward. I was trying to drift off, when a realization suddenly overwhelmed me with nausea.
In all the excitement and rush to get some rest, I had locked the keys in my dad’s car.
Now the spot where I lived--though close to the medical school I'd graduated from the year before (SUNY Brooklyn)--was in a very tough neighborhood. A typical Friday or Saturday of studying was always punctuated by gun shots in the distance followed by sirens. But hey, if you were a student they pretty much left you alone and the rent was dirt cheap. So even though I knew I'd be working in Manhattan, I decided (after NYU’s subsidized housing fell through) to commute. In other words what I’m trying to say is that my dad’s car was not safe out on the street--let alone with an inviting set of keys in the ignition. I dragged myself up and proceeded to get a wire hanger out of the closet.
I was no stranger to breaking into cars to retrieve keys so I pretty much had the coat hanger loop trick down. But this Caddy had a metal frame running around the window which made it impossible. After an hour or so of trying, I gave up. I then realized that the security office at my old medical school might have a “Slim-Jim” to help me break in. After walking several blocks and waiting for what seemed like an eternity, the officer emerged and gave me the disappointing news.
“We can’t seem to find our Slim-Jim, but there’s a homeless guy who lives in a car on the corner gas station. I know he’s broken into several students’ cars to get their keys. “ (Not making this up).
I headed out to the gas station and sure enough in an unregistered car was this scraggly looking dude.
“Excuse me, are you the guy that helps break into cars?”
“Yep, that’s me.”
“Can you help me out? I left my keys in the ignition.”
“It’ll cost you 20 bucks.”
“I got 17 in my wallet.”
“Let’s go.”
The guy then pried up the metal frame with a screwdriver (Why didn’t I think of that?) and asked me for my looped hanger (hey don’t I get some additional discount for tool rental?) Before I knew it, he had the door knob hooked and pulled open.
“There you go, my man,” he remarked as he headed back to his car seventeen bucks richer.
Okay, NOW I had the keys back in my hand, but my window of opportunity for sleep AND basketball for that matter had come and gone. It was now 8 pm.
gradydoctor commentary: Am I the only one wondering why Neil's so skilled at car break-ins?
WARNING: This is where the story becomes painful.
Any rational person would’ve then marched their butt right into bed, but I was so aggravated, so frustrated and hyped up, that I knew that it would take a while for me to settle down. I really needed to share my “day from hell” and sadly, I also knew that when I did finally settle down, I would need a mule kick to get me going again. I called Tamara and asked if she'd mind ordering dinner from my favorite pizzeria on 79th and 1st Avenue. I was on my way.
I headed out and crossed over the Brooklyn Bridge onto the FDR parkway with very little fan fare. I exited at 42nd St. and turned right at the United Nations, stopping at a red light. I still remember Beck's "Loser" blaring on the radio as I started accelerating up 1st Ave. . . .
“Soy un prededor,
I’m a loser baby, so why don’t you kill me?”
Darkness suddenly overwhelmed me. I fell away into an absolute calmness and serenity, devoid of any conscious thought. That was until. . . .
BAMMMM!!!!
My flaccid body lunged forward and was catapulted into the steering wheel at high force as the car’s momentum came to an abrupt halt. Parts of the dashboard went flying as I was thrown back into my seat. For a moment I had no idea what happened, let alone where I was. I squinted up at the overhead street light and saw myself to be on the corner of 52nd Street.
People came running out of the nearby restaurant and I heard one concerned patron through my clouded consciousness.
“Hey man, are you alright? It sounded like a bomb went off!”
I motioned I was okay and slowly got out to survey the damage.
What had happened. . . .
Heading north on 1st Ave I had drifted across several lanes of traffic and veered right, eventually running out of real estate and colliding with a parked car along the southeast corner. The first vehicle I hit was a Toyota Corolla, whose trunk was now in the rear seat. Walking further ahead I noted that the Corolla slammed forward into the back of a Renault Alliance, crushing its rear bumper. As I walked even further, I cringed when I saw that the Renault had rocketed into the back of a brand new Benz--with the owner idling inside.
He was no worse for wear, but the car did get pushed into the intersection--luckily with no oncoming pedestrian or automobile traffic. If I hadn’t been stopped by those parked cars, I might’ve drifted further rightward, over the curb and into the window of that busy restaurant. All I can say is thank God no one was hurt.
It wasn’t long before the police were on the scene. I showed them my Bellevue ID and shared my story. (Just for the record, there’s a bond between inner city police officers and inner city doctors--which reminds me of another story that I'd be happy to share upon request. . .)
One of the officers pulled me aside and I never forgot what he told me:
“Listen, we peel people off the side of the road every day. Just feel fortunate you didn’t hurt anyone. This here is property damage (30K + worth to be exact). That’s why you have insurance. Just use better judgment next time.”
I thanked him and called Tamara from a pay phone (no cell phones back then if you can believe it). She hopped in a cab and arrived immediately.
While the Caddy sustained some damage to its grill and front bumper, the car was a tank and was otherwise unscathed. Unfortunately I couldn’t say the same for the other vehicles, as the tow trucks were lined up to whisk them away. With Tamara’s help, the Caddy cruised the final 25 blocks to her apartment.
Took a licking but still was ticking. . . . .
I did immediately notice however, there was a problem with the radio. While it could tune in stations, a tremendous amount of static was ripping through the speakers, even after the car was turned off. Why would the radio still be getting power? I knew the battery would be dead in the morning but I was too spent to deal with it. We went upstairs, finally had that Italian food I’d been looking forward to and slowly calmed down.
After that I slept like a baby, but had to be up early to take my dad’s car on the 50 mile trek back to Long Island. I called the Bellevue ICU and told them the news. My colleagues were amazingly supportive and offered to cover me while I was gone (the only sick day I would take in three years of training).
When I got back in the Caddy, the radio static was still roaring. I expected the car not to start, but surprisingly it turned over. I made it home and together with my dad, brought the car to the owner of a local auto body shop. I told him about the radio problem and looked confused when he asked for the keys and walked to the back of the car.
WTF? Clearly the radio had been damaged from the frontal impact.
He opened the trunk and right there--clear as day--was my brother’s boom box, which had slammed forward from the impact. It was turned on some random AM frequency, and was bellowing static with its speakers face up. I got the hairy eyeball, as he slammed the trunk shut, not even bothering to turn it off. I just looked down in embarrassment; things had to get better from here.
***
Living to tell: Neil and Tamara W. now.
Taking it to the Bridge: Grown Man Commentary
Amid much controversy, the work hour rules for residency finally changed in 2003. Now, as Kim mentioned, they have changed again as of July 1, 2011. First year-fresh outta med schoolers (aka interns) will only be able to work 16 hours straight, whereas upper level residents can work longer. Is this a good thing? Certainly for the well-being of the trainees it is. The harder question is whether physicians will be as well trained and whether patients will be safer. Now I don’t want to be a hardliner and dare say that the hours we worked in training was an acceptable practice—it wasn’t. However, I also want to be clear (from the comments/questions raised in Duty Hours Part I) there are significant differences when comparing medicine to industries like trucking or aviation. When a driver passes over the truck keys or a pilot taxis into a gate there is very little information transfer required. Safety will be determined by the competency/alertness of the driver and a rudimentary checklist of operating systems. In medicine, information transfer is everything.
Getting to know a single patient with all their complexities takes time. When doctors have to leave the hospital they pass on this information in the form of a handoff. During that process as many as 10 patients may be handed over to the on call intern. That on call intern will then receive similar handoffs from 2 other doctors. So you can see that information communicated during this period, if it is vague, poorly detailed or not thoroughly understood can mean all the difference in a patient’s outcome. Now envision that the on call intern who has received these handoffs needs to go home (16 hour rule in effect). That person will now have to handoff his own patients AND the ones he/she knows little about. It’s basically the telephone game with human lives in the balance. That is why critics of work hour restrictions believe we are simply trading one problem for another. They also worry about a “punching the clock mentality” which will erode professionalism.
The old way clearly needed changes but the pendulum may have just shifted too far in the other direction. It will be up to all of us in the medical community to design innovative strategies that maintain the rigorous standards of the profession while ensuring the safety of our patients.
***
Shout out to Neil W. for a great post--worthy of a Grady doctor fo' sho! (Now y'all know how we treat "company" when they come by to visit us. . . .drop a comment, why don't you?)
*** Now playing on Dr. Winawer's mental iPod. . . .
Honestly? I write this blog to share the human aspects of medicine + teaching + work/life balance with others and myself -- and to honor the public hospital and her patients--but never at the expense of patient privacy or dignity.
Thanks for stopping by! :)
"One writes out of one thing only--one's own experience. Everything depends of how relentlessly one forces from this experience the last drop, sweet or bitter, it can possibly give."
~ James Baldwin (1924 - 1987)
"Do it for the story." ~ Antoinette Nguyen, MD, MPH
Details, names, time frames, etc. are always changed to protect anonymity. This may or may not be an amalgamation of true,quasi-true, or completely fictional events. But the lessons? They are always real and never, ever fictional. Got that?
