Top Ten: Little Shifts.

Sometimes I look up and realize that something that I have done or someone that I've seen on a regular basis has gone away. I realize that I miss those moments, those people and that part of my routine. Though I try to savor times and moments, sometimes I don't fully appreciate what I had until it's gone.

Oh, how cliche.

I'm sitting at my kitchen table. Drinking a cup of coffee. And thinking of how tiny shifts in life can shift you away from some of your favorite things. Such teeny-weeny adjustments that you pause and later realize were seismic. Like changes in the seasons. You welcome the next but at some point miss seeing the fireflies or hearing leaves crunch under your feet. Stuff like that.

I'm not talking about things like your best friend moving across the country or your children moving away. But then again, maybe I am because changes like those leave you missing little itty-bitty things. Like, for example, when Harry is out of town, I obviously miss him in major ways. But I also miss things like brushing my teeth beside him or sniffing his clothes to see if they smell like fabric softener (clean) or soap (his perpetual scent.) Fortunately, he doesn't leave town often enough for me to miss such things.

So my point. Oh yeah, that. It's that we all probably ache for some of the smallest things at times. Or at least pause and smile when we reflect upon them.


I wrote a little top ten about it. Like to hear it? Here it go.


#10  -- Mr. Brown.

When Isaiah was in kindergarten, he took the bus to school. We decided that it ended up being too long of a day, so we shifted to dropping him off. Every morning, I used to wait at the bus stop with him and every morning, we both greeted Mr. Brown, his bus driver. What a delightful soul! I would instruct Isaiah to always start off with, "Good Morning, sir!"or "Hello, Mr. Brown!"

And he would. And Mr. Brown would say, "Well hello, sir!" or "I'm good and you, Isaiah?"

Every single day.

On days that I was hustling out of the door, he would patiently give me time and smile and shrug like it was no big deal when I came huffing and puffing to the curb in a robe. I appreciated that.

I learned that he retired this year. That kind of made me sad because even though I miss him, it never felt permanent until then.

#9  -- Glenda, the Good Witch.

Our mail carrier for the first several years we lived here was a woman named Glenda. She would cover mail in plastic on rainy days and put packages in safe places. She'd leave us cards for holidays and even once left puzzles for the boys.

She always signed everything, "Glenda, the Good Witch."

We always left her gifts at Christmas and even figured out her birthday. Her route changed last year and just like that, we don't see her any more. She did remember to leave the kids a Christmas card last year, though.

I miss her.

#8  -- One cup coffee maker.

I used to have one, and sometimes I miss it. Harry gave up caffeine earlier this year so it would have come in handy now that I'm the only one on the pot. It has made me drink a little more coffee but oh well. There are worse things.

I don't miss those expensive pod thingies, though.

#7  -- Pre-Schoolin' it.

Zachary's preschool was small. The families were like a family of their own and the teacher had been with many of the kids since she'd departed their last school and opened this one. Pickup was like happy hour. We'd stand around and shoot the breeze. Laugh out loud. Walk out of the door empty-handed because that chat ended up leading to an impromptu playdate.

I especially loved and still love Zachary's teacher, Ms. Heidi. She remains a good friend of our family, but something about not going there every day to see her just isn't the same. We all cried crocodile tears on the last day he was there.

#6  --  Camp PaPa.

Okay. I talk to my dad every day. And I've lived away from him since I was eighteen years old and now I'm a few days shy of forty two. As all of you know, my boys go to Los Angeles to spend 4 weeks with him every summer. During that time, I love the joy in Poopdeck's voice when they are there. It is quite possibly the happiest I've heard him in a long, long time and seeing as my dad is a VERY happy person at baseline--that is saying a whole lot.

Whenever they return, I miss that sound in his voice. Especially since, when they first return, it gets replaced with this wistfulness that makes my heart hurt.

I am blessed to have him. So are they. I know that. But I still miss him with them and the loftiness of his voice.

#5 -- Small Group Alpha.

This was my first small group of medical students that I began advising on their first day of medical school in 2007. They are all in residencies now and I hear from them often. Two of them were here in Atlanta last year so it made the rest of them feel near. This year they are in San Francisco, New York City, Washington D.C., Chicago, Detroit, and St. Louis. Even though they send me sweet messages and updates, this week I acutely missed seeing their smiling faces twice per week.

I miss that time.

#4  -- Coach B. 

Last year, like a crazy woman, I had my sons at two different after school programs. One program didn't take Pre-K kids and the other was the one Isaiah had already been a part of in kindergarten and didn't want to leave. Oh, did I mention? They both attend the same school.

Yep.

So every day when I picked up Zachary from his after school program, I would walk in and see Coach Katie B. sitting in the office with a walkie talkie. Initially, we would simply greet one another and she'd call for Zachary. But over time, we developed a friendship. Those brief snippets were punctuated by stories about her work in a downtown homeless shelter, her daughter who happens to be a Grady nurse AND a newly wed, her grand baby that was born last year, and sometimes nothing much at all. She's an avid runner and on some days I would just lament about my horrible-ness when it comes to running and she would always smile and encourage me.

I will always remember the day I got stuck in traffic and reached after care nearly twenty minutes late. When I arrived, she was sitting on a chair reading a book to my baby. She didn't look annoyed or anything. In fact, she was so gracious that every single time I imagine that day, it makes my eyes sting.

Now that the boys are both at the after care program closer to my home, I realize how much I miss those every day meetings. I still see her directing traffic in front of the school or waving when I pass through the carpool lane but it isn't the same.

I miss that time, too.

#3 --  The best next door neighbors ever.

Dave and Beth lived directly beside us until last summer. Our relationship has been authentic from the very start and they have become like family to us. Their kids are all grown up, but they have two big dogs who are as fun loving as our boys and could quite possibly be two of the most FUN people we have ever met.

We always affectionately called each other "the best next door neighbors ever."  And we especially said that on the late nights on their patio during Camp PaPa where we drank red wine and smelled the aroma of Dave's cigars.

Which reminds me. Dave always smokes a cigar after work, and the smell of it is something I associate with being home and off of work in the evening. It would waft over the fence and into my yard and Isaiah would always say, "Mr. Dave is home!"

Crazy enough. I miss that smell.

Dave and Beth moved literally four houses around the corner from us. We can throw a rock at their house through our back yard so really they aren't gone. But they aren't our next door neighbors any more and I miss that. Our new ones are nice. They are.

They just aren't Dave, Beth, Moosey and Chancey. (The last two are the dogs.)

#2  --  Mrs. Reed.

Mrs. Reed was Isaiah's first grade teacher last year. What I will say is that she changed our lives. She changed my life. That is all I can say without crying.

She also works in after care with Coach B. I really miss seeing her there and also knowing that she is Isaiah's teacher. His new teacher is amazing, too. And just maybe I will fall in love with her as well. But something about that year with Mrs. Reed will always feel divine.

Always.

#1  --  Body Pump.

I used to faithfully go to my Body Pump class at the YMCA on two early mornings each week. The regulars were there and we'd all moan and grown as Lisa K. our awesome instructor whipped our backsides into shape. Everyone looked a hot ass mess because it was at 6 am and that was part of the bonding, I suppose. We'd push each other to do push ups and nudge each other to add more weight or not give up.

Now that the kids are in school it's hard to make that class. I miss that specific work out, yes. I miss the people and the experience far more.

Bonus one:

Fox 5 Good Day Atlanta.

I used to go there every single week to talk about medical topics on local television. They had some management changes so our schedule coming changed, too. It was amicable and I do still come here and there, just not weekly. It was a lot of work and often a hassle to fit into my schedule but people in the community really seemed to appreciate it. The camera guys, the security dude, and all of the people in the background are surprisingly what I miss the most. You'd think I'd mostly miss the "being on TV" part.

Nope.

I loved talking to people in the grocery store about what I'd talked about or even at the park. It helped me connect to more people and was my favorite part of doing that piece of media so regularly.

And perhaps this is why I love connecting with all of you here so much.

If you weren't here, I'd miss you, too.

That's all I've got this morning.

***
Happy Wednesday.

How 'bout this 80's jam for your mental iPod? "Seasons Change" by Expose. Yes. I just said Expose. You're welcome.

We are Olympians.

We are Olympians. 

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

Run. Faster. Harder. Again. 

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

We are Olympians.

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

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

Gold.

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

Because it will be. 

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

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

And off they go.

We are Olympians. 

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

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

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

Talk about "love."

Yes, we are Olympians.

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

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

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

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

Gold.

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

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

Yes!

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

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

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

Ever.

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

Run. Faster. Harder. Again.

And so we do. Again.

And again. 

And even again.

The flame never dies.

Because we are Olympians. 

And our patients are the gold.

***

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

The other side of complexity.

**Warning: Rambling ahead. Read at your own risk.**

“For the simplicity on this side of complexity, 
I wouldn't give you a fig. 

But for the simplicity on the other side of complexity, 
for that I would give you anything I have.” 

~ Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.

This quote is in my head right now. I think of it often and felt the need to share it with you. 

 It applies to so many things.  Personal lives, professional lives. . . even sweeping social and political changes. At some point, we have to accept that the only way to get to the simplicity on the other side of the complexity is to deal with the hard parts. The yucky parts.

When I reflect on those words, I recognize that oft times what we we think is "simplicity" on one side isn't simplicity at all. Instead it's stagnancy. It's fear. It's this false safety in what is known. Even if what is known isn't so good.

I call that "pseudo-simplicity."

There are some people I care for deeply who are dealing with affairs of the heart. Paradigm shifts that they didn't sign up for that will require them to armor up and run full speed into that complexity if they want to truly be happy again. But the problem is . . . there's that pesky unknown; it's hard to know exactly what the simplicity is on the other side. 

 Is it simply peace?

And if it is, what will bring that?

Is it a full reconciliation?

Is it a complete redefinition of life as you knew it with someone? 

Is it instead redefining who you are?
Or is that the reason this happened in the first place?

Hmmm.

And see, all these questions suck for me as the friend listening because I don't know the answers. At all. All I know is that I don't like seeing people I care for with their waters being troubled. All I know is that I don't like passing tissues over the table to catch tears. 

Other than that, I don't know much of anything really. That is when it comes to helping to support someone as they step into the tornado of complexity. And vice versa.

So I've started saying one of the few things that can be agreed upon in such times. 

Which is:

"Man. This sucks."

Because sometimes when someone is on the edge of that complexity or just too scared to step all the way into it, that's all they have it in themselves to hear from you. 

At least I think so.

On the bright side, I know some people who have been pushing through some complexity and who are getting closer and closer to that simplicity on the other side. Like Mark and Fred who are an amazing same-sex couple who are as entrenched in their every day life of kids and houses and friends as any other couple I know. Except for several years, they've had to fight to stay together because Fred is a French national and not an American one. 

Which reminds me: Mark says Fred "had him at allo." 

 Ha. (Yes, Mark, I read that somewhere on your blog.)

Anyways. My point in mentioning them is that Mark and Fred have been super brave about living their simple lives in the eye of the complexity of a real, true threat of Fred having to leave. Leave the country. The country where they've built a life together with their four spectacular children and their lovely home. 

And maybe I have oversimplified this and if I have I apologize. But I guess I thought about Mark and Fred because I see a lesson in their lives. Mark's blog is called "Our Simple Lives" -- which is technically how I "know" him -- but we're a community here and I think the stories and photos Mark shares there illustrate how beautifully one can enjoy the simple celebrations of life inside of that swirling storm of complexity.  And. Since we are a community of believers of all sorts of things, I know that every person reading this may feel something different. But I think we can all agree that loving and cherishing children and each other and making sure that safe and loving families exist are good things.

We can agree on that, can't we?

I'm just thinking. You know? They could have just hidden it all from the world. Huddled down in that pseudo-simplicity of shadows without the judgment or the difficulty of fighting to just be who they are. But, see, just knowing that on the other side of the complexity of all of that lies something greater? Man. It's worth it.

Not easy. But worth it.

No matter what you believe.

And, see the tricky thing is that you don't even know for sure if you'll win. You don't. But you try. You have to if you want to be happy.

Mark and Fred's story also teaches me that sometimes as the listening ear that's being supportive, sometimes you have to say more than just "Man. This sucks." Even if it gets kind of complex when you do.

Sigh. I'm rambling, ha ha ha. . . I know.

I guess I think that quote just sums up so much of life. All of the things I try to do. All of the things I want to do. Every moment that I step off of the shore of my comfort zone and wade into a zone of development, I see it. The other side. And sometimes the simplicity on the other side is just feeling proud of myself for trying. Or proud of myself for loving and believing in me enough to go for it thinking I could and succeeding.

Yeah.

So I guess I just wanted to give this idea to you to chew on, too. To get you to explore the pseudo-simplicities that are holding you back from the authentic simplicity that awaits you on the other side of the complexity before you. 

And for you, I don't know what that is. 

But you do.

***
Happy Day-After-Firecracker Day.

***

"You know the day destroys the night 
Night divides the day 
Tried to run 
Tried to hide 
Break on through to the other side 
Break on through to the other side . . ."


~ The Doors


Now playing on my mental iPod. . . Mr. Jim Morrison pushes you into the complexities to get to the other side. (Ignore the fact that he was high -- this is good music, people.)

Imposter? No, ma'am.

You think you know who I am. But you have no idea.

im·pos·ter  n. 

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.

X_______________________________________

***

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . .

Love's Myopic View.

me and my daddy, eighth grade graduation 1984

"It's like forgetting 
the words to your favorite song.

You can't believe it 

You were always singing along.

It was so easy and the words so sweet.

You can't remember

you try to feel the beat."

~ Regina Spektor

________________________________________
Daddy, I see you in a three piece suit. With a brown suitcase gripped tightly in your right hand and an afro so perfectly round that it defies the laws of afro-nature. I also see you with a bright gold headband around that same natural that, on weekends, you allowed to be distorted by terry cloth and elastic. Your goatee is immaculate, your shorts nineteen-seventies short and your socks Kareem Abdul Jabbar high. There are other times that I see you squatting behind twelve year-old Little League catchers with a that funny little umpire cap and a mask covering your face. Calling out in this throaty and animated voice phrases like, "Yerrrrrrrrrrr outta there!"

me and my daddy, Emory SOM graduation 2012

Later I see you with male-patterned cowlicks in your afro. But still I see you as a strong, athletic thirty-something father in a suit on weekdays and at Getty's Baseball Field on Saturdays.

mommy on my wedding day, 2004

Mommy, I see you as an officer in the PTA at my elementary school and with your brow furrowed over a Singer sewing machine before the first day of school. I see your hand on a steering wheel and hear you snapping Wrigley's spearmint gum in between KABC TalkRadio shows. I see your hair dyed some unnatural shade of reddish-blonde with your dark roots emerging --yet owning the look like the Beyonce of your time--eyebrows arched almost to non-existence. After that, I see you with your coif shorn into a natural. And later with some sassy version of the "Anita Baker" haircut.

retro-mommy with newborn, preemie JoLai (in her twenties, not thirties)

But still in all of those versions, I see you as a thirty-something. 

And yes. On most days for me, Grandma Ernestine is fifty-five with speckles of salt in her hair. Granddaddy Cottrell is nodding off in an easy chair but smiling and loving when he isn't. Mudear is shelling peas on her porch or watching her "stories" or off on a cruise ship in her most dapper attire. Which includes a mink coat. T'Renee is standing in the House of Style Beauty Shop or, depending on the situation, in her kitchen pressing everybody's hair with a hot metal comb and Blue Magic hair grease while Auntie Mattie is smoking cigarettes after closing up shop for the day at Winchell's Donuts.

And yes, I know that Granddaddy Cottrell, Mudear, T'Renee and Auntie Mattie have all gone home. And I know that my Grandmama Ernestine is a rock's throw away from her ninetieth birthday and no where near the fifty-five years old that I constantly see when speaking to her on the telephone. But still. This is how I continue to see her. And them.

Just as I see you--my parents. Through the lens of a ten year old child.

I believe that no matter how old we get, we all do that with the people we love. Even if our childhoods were imperfect, we still freeze-dry people in whatever constitutes the simplest of times. More often than we even care to admit.

I call it love's myopic view. It's this nearsightedness or farsightedness or whatever you want to call it that somehow happens without us even thinking about it.

I know this is true. It's what, I think, often keeps people holding hands well into their sixth decade of marriage and through life-altering illnesses. It's what brings a daughter or son to change the diaper of a parent without even flinching.

Love's myopic view.

But you know? I believe that very thing is what makes it so difficult when matriarchs and patriarchs begin to age and show signs of being mere mortals. Mere mortals. Because to our ten year-old selves, they were never mere mortals. Even if they weren't perfect, they were still the closest things to superheroes in our lives.

And perhaps this is what that view beholds while changing the adult Pamper of a once healthy dear one once they've reached a point of being able to manage bodily excrement for themselves.

Perhaps.

But every now and then, you get a jolt out of that time-trippy myopia. You go to see an aunt or uncle or parent or grandparent and suddenly see them with glasses that are clear and not rose-colored. You notice the humped back of collapsing vertebral bones and those parchment paper neck skin folds. And you look and you think, "Who is that?"

I know I have. Especially when a lot of time has passed.

I know I'm fortunate to see my parents regularly. And despite my earlier statement, I actually realize that my mother is indeed sixty-five and that my father is sixty-eight. I know that Tounces (mom) has mostly silver and white hair instead of Dark 'n' Lovely auburn and that my daddy's once electric 'fro is a buzzed down white crop.

I know that.

But on the inside? It's totally different. My heart sees them as thirty-somethings. Totally.

Yeah.

That reminds me.

I have a fairly new friend whom I now hold dear. We actually met because of our blogs but now talk far more by phone and text than by our blogs. Which is both interesting and heartwarming now that I think about it. It's also besides the point, so I'll reroute from that and get back to my point.

One of her parents is sick. Her parent has been fighting a series of very serious illnesses. So far, the words "fighter" and "overcomer" have been understatements. The medical history defies much of what I know scientifically; her parent has lived to see the other side of some pretty hard diagnoses.

Today we talked on the phone about the most recent of these medical setbacks. She wanted to know what I thought. And I consider her a friend--I truly do--and I know she was asking me because she considers me one, too. So I told her that I was concerned. That this sounded serious to me and that, if she was ready, here are a few questions she might want to ask the doctors. And I rattled those questions right off.

Then I froze.

Because I could hear it in her voice. I could hear that struggle between her image of a strong and virile afro-wearing parent rolling around on the lawn at age thirty-five and this reality that her doctor-friend was speaking over an iPhone. It made me imagine that this was my own parent. How would I even get my head around that?

I can't.

When Poopdeck had a massive heart attack, he survived. Just like the thirty-something I imagined him to be, he lived to power walk at the park every single morning and spend summers with his grandsons. So even when he tells me of any ailment, I have to shake myself hard enough to listen and acknowledge it with some pragmatism. And not see it as something for Excedrin or Alka Seltzer only.

Her voice was stoic. She is a professional and an extraordinarily smart human being so she got the facts I was telling her. But no matter how many degrees you have, it's hard to shake that ten year-old image of your parent. No matter what somebody is telling you.

I worried after we spoke today. I reflected and had this ah hah moment after we'd talked. I felt that I'd been insensitive to that ten year-old time warp and gave the facts too direct, too harsh.  She never said or did anything to suggest that, but it's how I felt.

Which reminds me.

When I was in residency my Mudear's baby sister lived not even five miles away from my apartment. My daddy made sure that I got to know his mother's sister and I'm glad he did. Auntie Mac was the only person I knew in Cleveland when I got there and even though she was in her sixties and I was in my twenties, we spent a lot of time together. We grew close and developed a very special relationship over coffee and chats. Even though she looked a lot like my Mudear, her personality was uniquely her own.

I loved her.

From the moment we got to know each other she'd already been dealing with health problems. So my lens was not a ten year old one at all. It was that of an intern and a newly minted physician. I saw her as a mortal, albeit a mortal I loved. Her health failed more and more. In my second year of residency, she peacefully slipped away in home hospice.

I was sad mostly because I would miss her. I would miss taking her three dollars and running to the corner to "play her numbers" or even her getting into the passenger seat of my car while holding an overfull cup of Folgers that always, always spilled all over my cloth interior.

But I knew she was mortal. Even if I would miss her dearly, I saw her with eyes that were okay to let her go.

me and my Mudear (in my Auntie Mattie's kitchen)

When my Mudear came to Cleveland for her sister's homegoing celebration, she sat right beside me on that pew. Like a little girl she fell into a heap on my lap and cried hard and deep. I patted her platinum curls just as anyone would their own child because that was the right thing to do. But what I said in that moment was less so. I remember saying, "It's okay, Mudear. Mac is at peace now. She's at peace."

And don't you know that my Mudear didn't even lift her head? All she said through her muffled sobs was this:

"She's my baby sister. My baby sister."

And she wept and wept until her body sputtered like a car out of gas. While I rubbed her head and closed my mouth.

It didn't matter that Mac's body had been decimated by organ failure and pain. It didn't matter one single bit. This was her baby sister. That was her myopic view of that day--through the lens of a big sister. And when you see it that way, you know that there's nothing natural about being at your baby sister's funeral. At all.

Especially if you still hold her in your heart at a certain point in time. Now I know in my heart that my Mudear was mourning the loss of that version of her baby sister the most. The one that got on her nerves and asked to borrow her things. Not the one with jaundiced eyes and an edematous body.

And you know? I don't even know where I'm going with all of this. And I know that I'm rambling and I'm all over the place. But really I'm just thinking about all of this and trying to flesh it out. That's all.

Yeah.

Talking to my friend made me reflect on my Auntie Mac and how it felt to console my grandmother when she died. It made me think about what she must have been feeling and how this translates to my friend and the health of her parent and how she might be feeling.

And honestly? I just want to be sensitive to the dichotomy between the cherished images of our loved ones that we have seared into our hearts --  and the ruthless picture painted by reality. Because there is a dichotomy there. There so is.

I guess the point is that I'll try to remember this when I'm talking to my patients. I'll choose my words more carefully--and tell the truth, yes--but do so while knowing that this dichotomy exists and must be considered if I truly strive to be empathic.

Hmmm.

I just thought of something. Not only do we see our parents and loved ones through love's myopic view--we see ourselves the same way, too. We're shocked when we pass a mirror and see grey hairs here and also there and crows feet bursting from our eyes in photographs. Unnerved when we feel hot flashes and back pains or bewildered when somebody prescribes us with blood pressure medication. It doesn't match up with our myopic self image, does it? I'm thinking that maybe--just maybe-- we, too, see ourselves at our most fertile and virile. No matter what reality and calendars are talking about.

Hmmm.

Maybe I'll put that thought on a mental post-it note for later.

So yeah. That's what I'm thinking about tonight. And maybe none of it even makes sense. Or all of it makes perfect sense. Hell, I don't know.

Either way, that's all I've got for now.

Oh, and a few more of these lyrics:

"You spend half of your life 
trying to fall behind.

You're using your headphones 
to drown out your mind.

It was so easy 
and the words so sweet.

You can't remember

You try to move your feet...."

Sleep well. And thanks for listening.

***
Happy Tuesday.


Now playing on my mental iPod. . . .I can't believe I'd never heard of her until I heard her interviewed on NPR's "All Things Considered."  The sweet and haunting voice of Regina Spektor. . . hear that whole song here:

I got a testimony.

Okay. I know, I know. This is getting nauseating. But alas, there is more.

I was talking on the phone to my dear friend Tracey H. today and she reminded me of something special that I had forgotten from my wedding day. Though I'm sure you are still dry heaving from the ridiculously effusive love fest I've been having on this blog this week, I couldn't let this day escape me without adding this.

And before I forget to say this, let me tell you what has run through my head. I tell myself that it is quite indulgent and a bit kooky to go all into my thoughts and feelings about Harry on this blog. Because seriously, a bunch of people come here because they heard it was a medical blog. Then they arrive and are all like, Huh? As well they should.

But the thing is. . . .the Harry part of my life is very much intertwined with the doctoring part. My peace of mind on this front helps me with the work front and honestly-to-goodnessly, a substantial part of my reflections involve things that are not happening at Grady Hospital.

So this is what that's all about and I would apologize but I would just be disingenuous. So. . uhh. . .yeah.

Anywho.

Tracey and I trained together in Cleveland and have remained close friends since that time. When the time came for Harry and me to get married, I knew I wanted her to play a formal part in some way. I asked her to do a special reading and lucky me she readily agreed. I searched high and low for the right poem or words; I even tried to pen a few things myself.

No dice.

And then. . .and THEN! Yes. I remembered this super-rare Stevie Wonder song that I used to listen to way back in the day before I met Harry. The lyrics and the melody never failed to make me super-ugly-cry because back then I really, truly, honestly-to-goodnessly believed that it wasn't possible for me to ever achieve the kind of love that Stevie was singing about in that song.

No exaggeration.

Anyways. I would listen to this song over and over again and just weep and weep. (Feel free to gag again here.) Then I'd pray for the remote possibility that I might actually sing those words about someone and. . . .and mean them. Really, really mean them.

Yeah, right.

So I asked Tracey to read an excerpt of those song lyrics as a part of my wedding ceremony. No. Not sing them. Read them. Which reminds me -- if you are planning a wedding, consider having someone read meaningful lyrics to one of your favorite songs because it goes over quite well. Anyways,  I wanted to hear those words and relive those moments before our family was officially "born" because back then? Man. I was feeling real, real discouraged and disappointed. Hearing those words reminded me of exactly what I'd told Isaiah last Friday:

"Without disappointments we wouldn't appreciate the good times as much."

No, we would not.

So, yes, Tracey reminded me of that reading and those lyrics and sure as I am typing this, I can see the big smile on her face and that twinkle in her eye as she read them. And at the end, for emphasis, she added a little extra umph to that smile and you know? I could have sworn it had a sound effect that sounded something like this:

*ting*

What's the rare Stevie song, you ask? Man. It's one that's so rare that I couldn't even find it on YouTube to embed for your listening pleasure. And that's rare since you can find just about anything and its mama on YouTube. But that's okay because just like on my wedding day, instead of hearing them sung I want you to read them and let them marinate. Then I want you to picture me weeping and wishing and praying for a love for my soul.

A pretty pathetic visual, right? But that Stevie Wonder ministered to my sorrowful little heart back then. And if you read those lyrics, you better believe that he will minister to your heart, too, whether it's sorrowful like mine was or something else altogether.

I love this song because it's hopeful. And it has a testimony in it that can uplift you.

Especially if you've felt discouraged because you've convinced yourself that you don't have a chance at a real true love. Or if you've sat around with a group talking about how every single person that you could possibly be with is either already taken or a scumbag or immature or batting for the other team (regardless of your team of choice) or only likes the race that you aren't or doesn't have a job or isn't the same religion or is the same religion but is like on a way different page or is a cheater or . . or . . or. . .

Yeah. That.

Look. I talk about Harry and me and how we met and how we love because, dammit, I have a testimony. Just like that song, I have a real, true testimony. Like many single women who've been disheartened at some point, I could not see myself with someone that loved me like this unconditionally. No way, no how. Nor could I get my head around being with a mate that allowed me to feel so safe and alright with being my most authentic and flawed version of me.

I mean it. I couldn't.

I believed that eventually I'd settle for end up with some person that I could tolerate or that we'd eventually grow into some smoldering love match even if there weren't too many flames to fan at the beginning. I figured that before that happened, though, my eggs would get too old, shrivel up, and do all of the other things that women sit in dark rooms worrying that they'll do.

Yes. I did all of that.

So what was the secret? Uhhh. . . .hello? There wasn't one. The only thing I can say I did (besides fervently praying) before meeting the BHE was that I stopped hanging out with, talking to, or dealing with anyone who made me feel like I had to try too hard. If I had to pretend like I didn't really like them or like I could care less about marriage or monogamy or commitment or motherhood then I decided to K.I.M. --which is short for KEEP. IT. MOVING.

Sure did.

So at the time that we met, I had NOTHING else going on. Nada. No random straggler calling my phone or popping by my house to confuse the situation. And not one single encounter with any throwback dude in the spirit of black history.

Nope.

Oh what do I mean by black history? Well, in the context of dating, that's when sisters unearth ghosts of boyfriends past. And let me tell you--nothing can sabotage a woman (or man) more than a throwback ghost. And for the record--I call it "black history" because I think that's funny, but not because that kind of stupid decision is limited to black folks.

If you want, you can call yours American History Ex.

(Thank ya very maaaach! I'll be here all week!)

Wait! I just realized in my late night flight of ideas and ramble-ific testifying that I never told you the name of the rare Stevie Wonder song. Whoops. (See? This is what Harry has to live through every single day.)

The song is simply called "I'm new."  And no, I am not saying that I was some old and wretched mess when I met Harry but really? I had longed for a love that would make a part of my soul feel new.

And that is exactly what came to me on the day we met.

Yes. I got a testimony!

I sure do. And whether you are full on retching now or not, this is my sho' nuff testimony. And if I have this testimony, then there is no reason in the world that it can't be yours, too. Not one single reason. Now that's something to shout hallelujah about!

Yes, people. The doors of the church are now open!

***

"I'm New" by Stevie Wonder

Try to envision you as the oldest living someone

Being every night and day all alone

Going through ages and ages, places and spaces

With never finding that someone to call your own

Like a treasure chest of dreams long forgotten

Hidden for good in a stolen lost and found

But just when fate was calling quits

Love appeared in the midst 

of despair, came and turned your life around

I'm new, new like the first day of spring

New like a nightingale that's just learned to sing

I'm new, new like the very start of dawn

Like a child that's first born with your love, I'm new

You're standing amongst a crowd of six billion people

Crying out for help, but no one understands

Cause much to your dismay, you've been taken far away

To a land where joy is pain and sorrow's a happy man

Where an aching heart's the sign of the mighty

And a love-filled heart looks down with fault and shame

But at the very instant all was through, 
lady luck appears, says "love can do"

And changed you like a Christian who's been born again

I'm new, new like the fresh morning dew

New like a work of art that's finally through

I'm new, new like a first flight of a dove

So safe and secure with your love, I'm new

Love took a long time coming to me

But I've gotta say

I owe my thanks to Him for sending you my way, hey

Cause I'm new, new like the first winter snow

Like the start of forever, with infinity to go

I'm new, new like the birth of the sun

Forever young I will be

Cause with your love, I'm new

New like from a restful night of sleep

New like a starving man that's had food to eat

I'm new, nothing compares nor can compete

Sharing with you the sweetness of your love. . . 

I'm new

Yaaaass!! You betta preach, Stevie! (I added that part.Heh.)

***

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . since the doors of the church are now open. . .

(Now pardon me while I shake my tambourine and do the "happy dance.")

P.S. You can find "I'm new" on iTunes. 

To the moon.

"Sometimes I sits and thinks. 

And sometimes I just sits."

~ Satchel Paige, baseball legend

___________________________________

Yesterday evening, the kids were at a sleepover. Harry had a prior commitment so I had the evening all to myself. On a Friday, no less.

What to do with myself? Go out? Stay in? Meet a friend somewhere? Take a nap? What?

I decided that I needed simplicity. That translated to an evening at home alone. But even with simplicity I wanted some kind of cherry to put on top of it so I called one of my favorite restaurants, Murphy's in the Virginia Highlands, and ordered my favorite thing off of their menu for take out. And this did feel like a cherry on top because Murphy's is not the kind of restaurant that you go to for take out; it's a date-night place where you order full-bodied reds and ask the sommelier dumb questions while waiting for your table. But me? I walked in there with flip-flops, ratty, hole-filled jeans and a soft t-shirt that smells exactly like the BHE to get the very decadent "Murphy's Burger" with a side salad -- to go. (If they'd had a way for me to get that full-bodied red wine in a to-go cup you'd better believe I would have.)

Anyways.  I came on home with my fancy hamburger and sat on a blanket placed on the floor of my sunroom (sure did) where I enjoyed every single bite of it. Cooked perfectly to my liking with just the right amount of pinkish-cool in the center. All of this at a sunset picnic for myself. Yay. 

Now what? I asked myself.

Watch television? Write something? Read something? Do some work? What?

Instead of any of those things, I decided to tip toe just outside of my front door and sit on my front steps with a lovely glass of full-bodied red wine from my own kitchen.  Surely did. Sounds kind of crazy, I know, considering how unseasonably cool it has been for the last few evenings. But for whatever reason I felt lulled there. To my front porch. To sit and think. Or just sit. And so. With the door cracked so the I could hear the phone ring or maybe just out of habit since I have kids, I slung a blanket over my shoulders (which interestingly also held my husband's scent) and pulled my knees into my chest like some sort of teenager waiting for a boy.

There were stars in the sky. I wondered when the last time was that I even noticed them, those stars. I watched them quietly twinkling and imagined them all as points of light in my life. Just like those constellations up there, I wanted to make myself aware of how they all sparkled. And so I recapped moments from the last few weeks.

First I thought about this medical student I've advised named Kevin S. I smiled as I recalled the day he walked right up to me outside of CVS pharmacy in Emory Village and said, "Hi Dr. Manning. My name is Kevin and I really hope we get to work together soon." And then he told me that he would try very hard to get on my team at some point and said it like he meant it. I was flattered by his words, and told him I'd look forward to it.

Now. It doesn't always work out for us to get the exact team we request, but in this instance it eventually worked out. Kevin had a great month on my team and I grew to know him quite well. And seeing as he is a wonderful, kind soul, I am better for it.

Well. A couple of weeks ago, Kevin called me and told me he wanted me to meet his parents. Quite similar to the way he said he'd like to work together outside of CVS. And just like then, I told him I'd look forward to that, too.

Early one morning, I met Kevin and his parents at this very coffee shop that happens to be only a few feet away from the very place I first met him outside of CVS pharmacy. And I learned in that moment exactly why he his so kind and gracious and full of light. We laughed and talked and listened to one another. I learned more about his family and his parents and that was great. Really great, in fact. It was one of those twinkling stars in the constellation of my life.

A police car went by with lights on but no sirens. Wasn't sure what that was about. Looked up at the trees and then back to the twinkling stars.

My mind wandered to earlier that afternoon when I picked up Zachary from aftercare and Mr. B, one of the amazing educators who works with the kids there (and who blogs), said to me, "Hey! I have a question about your blog." And, y'all know me, I get all giddy whenever that happens so he had me at "hey" and "blog." Anyways, he then asked about how I decide what to write about, so I told him that I've come to realize that there's always something to write about. Plus I just need to write so even if that means turning off the television or rambling (like now) I just do it because I must. But I also told him that writing makes me pay more attention to the extraordinary pieces of ordinary moments. He nodded because he got that--he truly did.

Next he showed me this awesome picture that his daughter had drawn earlier that day of a teacher that looked curiously like him demanding that a class be quiet. And we laughed out loud at the number of exclamation points she used. And even though talking about kids and families in the lobby at aftercare seems really ordinary, I think we both recognized that indeed it is also extraordinary.

Yes, it is.

That breeze felt good on my face out there. The blanket was just the right amount of warm and cozy. And my full bodied red was making me feel mellow. I tucked my feet in to let the blanket cover my flip-flops, too, and rearranged the cover so that just the stem of my wine glass would peek out for my lips.

A wild and crazy night, I tell ya.

My mind drifted to thoughts of Harry and the kids. I inhaled that blanket and his weathered t-shirt and smiled at how powerful scents are at evoking memories of places and people.  I imagined this recent image of Harry trying to teach Isaiah how to do a military salute.

And it made me think of all of the things he does that they wish to emulate. Like. . .Harry regularly buys me flowers from the grocery store because I truly love flowers. And without fail, those boys pick a flower or two for me each and ever time they play outdoors. Or they tell me when I look pretty or smell good or even if I'm doing a good job at mommy-ing because this is something that their Daddy does.

I hope they know how to receive all that love in return based upon what the see me doing in response to theirs.

Yeah.

Cars driving by, cool breeze on my face, a runner glanced in my direction wondering what this woman is doing sitting out on her front porch in the dark. Just as I was wondering what the hell he was doing running without reflective gear in the dark.

Anyways.

Next I thought about my friend Kris R. Part of me was sitting outside because she is all the way in Uganda and a little part of me wanted to connect to her especially. Connect with those same constellations and that same vast sky that we share. Unlike me, my friend Kris has the move-to-Africa gene, but that's not important. What IS important is that she is just hours to days into fostering-slash-adopting a sweet little girl. This makes their party of five a party of six. This has always been a dream for her. . .living there, giving there, loving there. . .and extending her family in some way through adoption. And it's happening. It's really happening!

I am so happy for her family. And especially her.

Another runner ran by. What are these people doing out here so late? Probably wondering what I'm doing out there looking them. I wonder if they thought I was waiting for a boy. Or a pizza guy? Hmm.

Stars still twinkling. Then I thought of Thursday. Thursday is one of my favorite work days of the week because I get to work in the clinic with some of my favorite residents but also because it's usually my day to chat with my Grady bestie Lesley M. We have a committee meeting together on those days, so that always spills into some wonderful girlfriend time.

Clinic was awesome. The residents were great and the patients were even greater. I even gave this super funny Grady elder double high fives -- one "up high" and another "down low"-- upon his request since he had quit smoking. Loved it, loved it, loved it.

And then our Thursday committee meeting got canceled which meant that Lesley M. and I just sat in her office and laughed and talked and chatted and connected. I was so glad, too, because I kind of needed that. I had just received this composite evaluation from some of my students that was mostly glowing but that also had one rather tough-bordering-on-hurtful comment. I loved how she listened to me and helped me process it some more. I sorted through what parts could help me grow and what parts to just stick on a post-it note in my mind for later or even never. She didn't have much advice. Instead she paid attention and nodded and asked a few questions which were good questions that I needed to think about.

Then we laughed some more and talked about some other completely unrelated-to-work things like husbands washing dishes (or not) and six year-old kids getting onto kayaks. I needed that part, too.

At the end of that time together I received a text message from a medical student asking if I had time to talk. Something about that text alarmed me and I did have time to talk so I left Grady right then and there and met that student late that afternoon. What I found out was that this had nothing to do with school or grades or residency applications at all. This student was sad about a loved one nearing the end of life and was feeling suffocated by pain and helplessness. I sat and listened and paid attention and nodded. And like Lesley, I didn't have much advice, either. I asked for the student to tell me all about their loved one and what made the person so very special. That part led to smiles and even laughter. Which was good. Very good.

That same Thursday even included a small group session with SG Beta at my home that evening. We talked all about residency plans and boards and whatever else was on their minds. That part was wonderful, too.

Funny. Those meetings and that tough-bordering-on-hurtful comment reminded me of who I am as a clinician educator. I'm imperfect, yes, but I am also someone that a student who isn't even in my small group could feel comfortable reaching out towards at such a difficult time. And that another student who isn't even in my small group would want to meet his parents on an early Saturday morning. Also one that allows students in my small group to feel relaxed enough to take off their shoes in my home on a Thursday night.

I put all of that on a post-it note, too.

I stared at the sky some more. Then I looked for the moon. For some reason I couldn't find it from where I was sitting but looking for it did remind me of something else. Something good, actually.

My former Grady doctor-sister-friend, the Infectious Disease profesora in Pittsburgh, sent me a random text message on the very day that I had received that evaluation form with the comment that troubled my waters. And you know? She had no idea that it wasn't the best day for me but for whatever reason that random text message was simple and affirming:

"Love you, man."

To which I typed back, "You more, man. All the way to the moon."

To which she replied, "To the moon and back."

all the way to this.

No. She didn't even know how much I needed that upload at that moment. But I did so I was glad.


And last night I was even gladder that looking for that moon made me think of it again.

Congratulating the profesora after she'd given an awesome lecture, 4/2011.

After all of that thinking, I just sat there. Sat there gazing mindlessly at the star-filled, moonless sky and the occasional car or ambulance driving down the street. Just sitting. Watching a group of bike riders with lights on their helmets passing me by and more runners, too. But this time just watching them and that's it. No thinking much about what or why or where they were running or biking.

Just sitting. That's it.

And that part was very good, too.

Sometimes I sits and thinks. And sometimes? I just sits.

Last night, I did a little of both.  And it was ordinary and extraordinary and necessary and good.

***
Happy Sabado.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . .a little Billy Idol. (Sorry, I've been on a bit of an 80's Brit invasion kick!)