Happy feelin's.

Now playing on my mental iPod:

 "Happy feelin's in the air

Touching people everywhere

Plenty love and everything

Listen to the people sing. . . .

I've seen the light

Watched it shine down on me

I'm gonna spread my wings, yeah

And I'm gonna tell all I see

Of these happy feelin's

I'll spread them all over the world

From deep in my soul. . . . .. 

I wish you happy feelin's. . . ."

~ Frankie Beverly and Maze, "Happy Feelin's"

________________________________________________________

Ran into Miss Regina, the cafeteria lady, on the elevator yesterday.  The door opened on the second floor and on she came with her big ol' silver cart-- and oh-EM-GEE when she saw me. Just that very day someone had shown her the two posts on this blog about her and as it turns out, she had literally just read every line including your comments.

Oh me, oh my.

"It's you!" she exclaimed. "That lady who wrote those things about me! Somebody let me see it and I finally read it all today."

For a minute I was thinking,  Rut roh. Is she mad? Naaaaah.

"I'm glad you got to read it, Miss Regina."

"Oh Lord. . . .I was just crying and crying," she told me. "I kept saying, 'Me?' I couldn't believe it." She patted her chest and shook her head. "Mmm." She sighed to blow off the emotional charge. "I just--"  she stopped mid-sentence and closed her eyes and shook her head again. "Mmm."

Mmmm was right.

"And all them people," she went on incredulously, "them strangers on them comments. . . .saying all those nice things about me. . .'Miss Regina this' and 'Miss Regina that'. . .I mean. . ." She pressed her lips together and furrowed her brow in that same way actresses do when accepting Oscars or Emmys and they're trying not to do the ugly cry.  Hmmm. Now that I think of it, Oprah has done that like forty five times already during this farewell season. . .errr, but I digress.

Wow,  y'all. She was really happy. Which made me really happy. Which is probably making you really happy, too. Which makes me happy all over again.

Miss Regina grabbed my wrist and her face became serious. Something about the way she gripped my arm sent a bolt of electricity through me. "Please. . . can you tell them I said thank you? All those people who said those nice things about me? Tell them I said thank you. For real."

I smiled at her big and wide and kind of goofy even.  "Miss Regina, I think they'd want me to thank you."

She placed her palm on her chest, turned her head away and did the "girl, don't you go into the ugly cry" face again.

A smile spread across my face, oozing into my eyes and dripping down into my heart. I nodded, facing her as the elevator doors opened. I pointed at her and backed out of the elevator while continuing to nod my head.

"Yes, you," I told her. "Yes, you."

Yes, you.

Here's what I know for sure:  Flowers are best when given to the living.

Blowin' up.

Random Grady elevator moment:

I'm riding on a random elevator one random day and in steps this gentleman who appears to be somewhere between forty and fifty. He has bandages over his arms and lower legs, and someone has attempted with painstaking detail to cornrow his hair into several tight-ish braids which are fraught with peril considering that his probable European descent afforded him baby fine, stick straight hair. The giant jersey he was wearing was swallowing him up like Jonah in that whale, but this look was intentional for sure. Bandages or no bandages--this dude could not be more content. He tapped the bottom of his box of cigarettes, getting himself ready to go outdoors for a good smoke.

"What's up, doc?" he spoke with a raspy voice.

"Not much. You doin' alright sir?"

"Yeah, main. I'm doin' good now. But real talk, doc, I'm sayin', Grady pretty much saved my life!"

"Wow. That's great. Car accident?" I immediately jumped to the thing we are most known for--trauma.

"Naaawww! I got burnt! Like bad. Guess what happened, doc?" He kept tapping the box of Newports. I liked his voice. It was somewhere between Wolfman Jack and Samuel L. Jackson which, combined with his slippery cornrows, ginormous neck tattoo and surprisingly toothless grin, made him memorable and decidedly blogworthy.

"I can't even guess."

"My house. It jest blew up, for real. Like 'BOO-YOW!'"--he added in some jazz hands--"That sh@& straight blew the f--- up. It was crazy, doc!"

I decide that I am amused at people who randomly feel comfortable dropping happy f. bombs in the presence of complete strangers.

"Wow, that sounds crazy! Looks like you were really fortunate."

"Hella fortunate."

"Were you in the house?"

"Yeah, main. . . . but I got my azz up outta that piece. Then it was like 'BLAAAMMM!' Windows was breakin' and all kinda sh@%! I'm sayin', I coulda died for real."

"For real for real," I cosigned.

"Yeah. . . they was all like, 'What happened, folk?' and main. . . .I just laughed and told my peoples, 'Shiiiiiddd, I'm blowin' up!" He laughed at the play on words. I did, too. "Tha's so they wouldn't be all worried and sh@$."

Wow was he at ease with his potty mouth. I tried to picture his whole crib imploding windows and all.

Hmmmmm.

"So . . . .like. . .what made your house blow up, though? That sounds kind of crazy. . . .like. . . what were you doin' in there?" Immediately after I said that I chuckled, but then suddenly froze -- putting my hand over my mouth and widening my eyes.

Right then we reached the ground floor and the doors flew open. He slid a cigarette out of the pack and placed it behind his left ear. With a throaty laugh he stepped out of the cabin ahead of me.

"See, now doc? Now, you askin' too many questions."

And with that, he bid me adieu and headed off to smoke his square.

Being the nerd that I am, I entertained a differential diagnosis for things that might make entire houses blow up. Not a very long list.

Hmmmmmm.

Yeah, doc. You asking too many questions.

T.G.O.F. (The Gradys on Friday.)

Random sampling of stuff I heard and said today at Grady:

***
"How you doing today, sir?"

"Me? Awww, baby, I'm easy like Sunday mornin'. . ."

(If you don't know nothin' 'bout that--peep this jam from the Commodores circa the 1970s.)



***

Me:  "Hey there. Just coming by to check on you again."

My patient:  "Ooooh!"

Me:  "What?"

My patient:  "I 'in't knew you had all that gray in yo' hair!"

Me:  "Yeah. I got a hair cut so you can really tell since I'm due for color."

My patient:  "Ooo, Jesus, doc. When you gon' get it colored, baby?"

My stylist insists that I'm five years away from this.

***

Patient:  "Do y'all think this is cancer?"

Intern:  "That's a good question. What we can say is this: The scan looks concerning for something like cancer. But the only way to know is to get a sample of it."

Patient:  "You mean a biopsy?"

Intern:  "Yes, ma'am."

Patient:  "Well, go on then and let's find that out. And listen to me and you listen good--if it's something real bad, I don't won't nothin', do you hear me? Nothin'." 

Me:  "We promise to let you know what the biopsy shows the minute we get it. Then you can talk things over with your family to see what you all think is--"

Patient:  "My family?  No! This is MY BODY. I will make decisions about MY BODY. My family? They love me and they gon' want everythang no matter what. And this?  This MY BODY. And don't nobody need to talk nothin' over with me about MY BODY."


Silence.

Patient:  "Do I make myself clear?"

***

An environmental services worker walks by after cleaning the area. She smiles and says hello as she passes our rounding team.

Me:  "Hey--is that money pinned on your shirt because it's your birthday?"

Lady:  "Yes!"

Me:  "Awww!  Wait a minute--"  (pinning a dollar onto her uniform) "--there you go!"

Lady:  "Thanks!"

Med Student:  "How old are you today?"

Lady:  "Twenty one!"

Team in unison:  "Happy birthday!"

***

Student:  ". . .and that's our plan for her."

Me:  "Would you like some feedback on your presentation?"

Student:  "Yes!"

Me:  "Pulak, my dear, you sound like an intern. That's my feedback. You sound exactly like you are already an intern."

Student:  (big grin) **ting!**


***

 Patient transporter:  "You got kids, right Dr. Kim?"

Me: "Yep."

Patient transporter:  "Yeah, I figured 'cause you got little bit of that mummy-tummy like me."

Dayum.

***
"Standing in a patient's room talking to him and his family. Dinner trays are being passed.

"What's in there?"

I open the tray.  "Broth."

"Broth and what else?"

"Jello."

"It ain't no steak in there?"

"Nope. Just broth and Jello."

Pauses for a minute. Then does the old school Florida Evans move from Good Times. 

"Daaaaamn! Daaaamn! Daaaaaaaaamn!"

Hilarious, do you hear me?

*(Note:  All black people between the ages of twenty-five and fifty-five hear this and know exactly the moment and the scene from Good Times when this took place. If they don't, they automatically deemed imposters.)



***

Nurse:  "He seems confused today."

Me:  "He can't be confused."

Nurse: (looks at me puzzled)

Me:  "He told me I was lookin' slim and trim today."

Nurse:  "Aaaaah."

Me:  "So clearly he can't be confused."

Nurse:  "Clearly."

***
 
T.G.O.F. and T.G.I.F. to all. :)

The woman in the elevator.

Yesterday I ran into that woman that I'd met in the elevator last year who worked in the cafeteria. She was the one who had taken it upon herself to bring a patient a special meal and two pieces of cake--because she had noticed on the patient's ID band that that particular day was her birthday.

It was quite a moment.

The funny thing is that I never asked her name that first day and I wished that I had. I loved how much pride she obviously took in her work. It actually made me want to do better. I kept thinking. . . anyone who would be kind enough to do such a thing (when no one was watching) just seemed like the kind of human being I wanted to know by name. And you know what? I wasn't alone. At least three other people at Grady Hospital asked me if I knew her name. Everyone, it seems, wanted to know exactly who this nice person was.

And so I finally had my chance to end the mystery. I asked her, "Do you remember me from that day that you let me take your picture in the elevator? I asked if I could write about you? I did write that story about you, but never got your name."

She looked at me with wide, surprised eyes from around the giant metal food cart. Kind of like, Who me? Which immediately made me feel a tiny bit ashamed that maybe people in long white coats usually aren't talking to her or even noticing her on elevators, even when accompanied by a six by six foot box of stainless steel on wheels. "I do remember," she answered. "I do."

"That . . .what you did. . .was one of the best things I have ever seen. Seeing you that day made me want to find ways to make my ordinary actions more extraordinary. I know that woman was so blessed by you that day."

"She was a prisoner. I know that it ain't my business why someone in a situation, but it was her birthday and she was a prisoner. She didn't have anybody to see her or make her smile or nothing."

I imagined this patient with her ankle shackled to the end of the bed--unfortunately not an unusual sighting in a public hospital. I thought about how easy it is to pass judgment on such a person, and how helping somebody on lockdown celebrate their birthday is generally not at the top of most people's to do list.

"What is your name?"

"Regina," she replied. She flipped over her work badge so that I could see it. "Regina L."

The elevator doors swung open on the tenth floor--my floor--but I let them close. Regina reached out to hold the door for me, but I waved my hand to tell her I would stay on and ride with her. I needed to tell her what I hadn't told her before. And I needed to tell her by name.

"Well, Miss Regina, you are something special. What you did that day was really remarkable.  I've thought of you often since that day and I'm so happy to meet you. I just wanted to tell you that."

"I 'preciate that, ma'am. I really do." She placed her hand on her chest and softened her eyes and voice.

"No, I appreciate you."

"It ain't every day you hear somebody say that to you. I don't even know what to say."

The lift had climbed up to the twelfth floor and had returned to ten again. Miraculously, no one else had joined us on the entire ride. I knew my team was waiting for me to start rounds and that I needed to go. I thought about my friend Crystal C., and something she once said to me:

"There is power in touch."

So I decided to touch Regina. To physically touch her. Before stepping out of the cabin, I reached out and grabbed her thin hand and squeezed it tight. "I'm so glad I saw you again, Regina. My name is Dr. Kimberly Manning, and I'm so honored to know you. Really." I covered the top of her hand with my other hand and held it for a moment.

She stood next to the enormous rolling box smiling as the doors swallowed her up and carried her off to the next floor. Just like that.

A name to go with the face.

Yeah, man.

Crystal was right. There is power in touch. Just like that first day when I met Regina. And just like that moment last year when she took it upon herself to bless someone for no reason.

Today, I think I'm going to do my best to channel my inner Regina. Maybe you can, too.

Extraordinary Grady.

Elevator music.

On the Grady elevator yesterday:

• A nurse was wearing a really scary Christmas sweater. She told me she was off today, but on her way to the party on her unit.  100% truth: I almost opened my mouth to ask was it an "ugly sweater" party (people do have those you know.)  It was kind of like one of those Twix commercials, though-- you know. . . the ones where somehow everything hits a pause button while you get it together. My Twix pause allowed me to recognize that this was probably a fashion forward decision on her part that had zero to do with a party theme. Yikes. (For the record--it wasn't an ugly sweater party.)

• A woman stepped onto the elevator and started singing. Loud. Like I wasn't there.

"A child! A child! High above the trees! With a voice as big as a kite!"  

Uuuhhh. Okay.

• A little boy gets on the elevator, looks me up and down and commences to compliment every single thing I have in his line of sight.

"I like yo' shoes."

"Thanks."

"I like yo' shirt."

"Thanks."

"I like yo' hair."

"Thanks."

"I like yo'. . . " Points at my pager. "Wha's that?"

"A pager."

"Oh. Could I have it?"

"No, sweetie, I need it."

"Oh. I like yo' belt. "

"Thanks."

"I like yo'. . . ."

• An elderly gentleman with salt and pepper hair starkly contrasting his dark brown skin got on the elevator with me right before I left for the evening. He was absolutely "Grady elder" personified.  "Ground please," he spoke in the kind of rich and throaty tone that makes you immediately stand up taller. I obliged him and pushed 'G.' He crossed his hands in front of him, cleared his throat, and nodded. 
• I caught him reading my badge, confirming that I was a doctor. His head made the tiniest nod when he saw it--but I caught it. For the ten flights down he stood there smiling at me. . . .in that proud granddaddy kind of way.  He didn't say a word for the entire ride, but his expression. . . .sigh.  

"You have a blessed day and a safe holiday, okay young lady?" 

"You, too, sir."

He stopped and looked at me--almost lovingly-- for just a moment. Not in a fresh way, either. Just in an inexplicably proud granddaddy way that immediately made me feel proud, too. The Grady elder turned up his collar and picked up his stride toward the door and toward his life.


I love this job.

Reflections of a Grady doctor on 9/11: Where I Was.

*In loving memory of those who lost their lives on 9/11 and the people who love and miss them.

The E elevator at Grady Hospital.

That's where I was when I first heard about what was going on. I was on the inpatient service and had come in to round early before going to a clinic session I had scheduled with the medical students that morning. The day started off uneventful. No surprises from the patients, no issues overnight. I made good time, and was scurrying over to Medical Clinic 2 from 12B, the TB isolation floor. That's when I first heard the news. I thought it was a joke. This disheveled, toothless man who wreaked of this nauseating combination of urine, alcohol and must stepped onto the elevator and said,

"Hey Doc! Somebody just crashed a big a-- plane into a big a-- building in New York City!"

Yeah right. I gave him the hairy eyeball. One, because I was riding on the E elevator, which is the only one that takes you to the psychiatry floor (hello?), and two, because it wasn't like this guy seemed to be the most reputable source of information in the world. But being me, I did humor him for a moment or two.

"Oh yeah? A big plane was it? Like a 747?"

"Yuuuup! I ain't lyin' either, doc! A big plane full of people. And it was people all up in the building, too. Like a big a-- skyscraper! In New-York-City!"

I still remember the way he said "New-York-City"--like it was one word. I also remember laughing as I waved goodbye to him, making every effort to remember his animated story to recount to my colleagues later.

I was holding a Styrofoam cup with tepid coffee from the 12B nurses station that I did my best to continue sipping as I shuffled toward the clinic. As soon as I stepped into the waiting area leading to the patient rooms, I saw the crowd. Every patient, staff member, student, and faculty crowded around the little 20 inch television mounted on the corner of the wall.

I squinted my eyes at the image. The two towers of the World Trade Center, one with large plumes of black smoke spilling from a gaping hole on it's side. I put my hand over my chest and gasped. My toothless comrade and his exaggerated hand movements replayed in my head like a silent movie. What's going on. . . . . what in the--

That's when, right before our eyes, a second airbus slammed into the second tower. One woman hollered out in a high-pitched shriek, "Jesus!" --but not in that way a person does when they step on a hard plastic toy in their kids' bedroom or when they realize that they forgot their lunch for work in the refrigerator at home--but in that pleading way that people of deep faith use to petition higher powers. Lord knows, this was a time for calling on a higher power for sure.

Just like that, life as we knew it changed. Changed in a way different than how growing up and maturing changes you. Like everything that felt safe to you, like sitting at your desk at work or lolly-gagging next to the water cooler, could now be terribly unsafe. Every decision could be much more pivotal than you realize. . .like trying to get an earlier flight or stopping to pick up something instead of going to work or buying a coffee in the lobby instead of taking the time to make a cup at home. Two minutes, three minutes can be life or death. In the most everyday situations.

When I was in elementary school, I remember when my cousin, Tot, was hit by a car and killed. He was my uncle and his wife's only child, and just like that--he was gone. I remember as I grew older hearing of plane crashes and even when I became a doctor recognized how swiftly illness could descend upon a family and change it forever. So I learned to fear those things in a healthy way. Saying a little prayer before car trips and thank yous when airplane wheels would touch runways. Being mixed with prayerfulness and tearfulness when sick loved ones feel better or when babies are born with ten fingers and ten toes. Because now I knew what could happen.

But this was different.

A big plane crashed into a skyscraper in New York City. And then, right after that one, another one did. It sounds too crazy to be true. But it's true.

Today, I'm reflecting on the morning that those families had with their loved ones before this happened. I am praying that someone said, "I love you" and that someone else laughed out loud on a cell phone chat while en route to their beat as a New York City police officer. I'm deliberately allowing those sad feelings that I felt resurface. . . those emotions I felt when all of those lost people flashed upon my television screen weeping and holding up their Xerox signs reading "Have you seen my sister? Have you seen my fiance?"

We all called the people we knew in New-York-City and Washington D.C. like we always do when tragedies hit regions where we know people. "Y'all doin' okay?" "Yeah, we all fine." That's what we all get used to, right? That's what we all expect, and most of the time, that's exactly what we get. But this was different. It was so weirdly horrible and unexpected that nothing seemed expected anymore.

Yet eventually. . . .it passed . . . . .kind of like everything does. Like even the most horrific things seem to. People returned to living and took off their black clothing. They got used to the new skyline without it's two pillars and replaced the gaping hole that had taken the "penta" out of The Pentagon. And I guess that's what's supposed to happen, right? Life is supposed to go on. I guess.

Even though the world somehow bounces back from things like planes crashing into buildings and hurricanes putting entire cities/cultures/generations underwater and words that we never heard of like "tsunami" becoming as everyday as "Suze Orman" and carrying on after mommies and daddies lose their only children to unspeakable and unforseen circumstances. . . . .a little part of me feels the need to stay back and linger in the memory for a bit. Morose, I know. . .but necessary for me.

Earlier today I was sitting in the lobby of a car wash and a 9/11 tribute was playing on CNN. Somebody walked up and turned the channel to College Football. I sat there conflicted for a few moments before uttering in the tiniest, most non-confrontational voice I could muster, "Excuse me, I was watching that." I was so relieved when this wise looking elder added with eyebrows raised in a not-so-tiny, and unabashedly confrontational voice, "I was, too."

Yeah, it's heavy, I know. But sometimes it has to be. I have to make myself remember that even though today people like me are getting "Armor All, please" and "not too much air freshener since it makes me sneeze, okay?" and others are turning channels to the big game and rolling their eyes when asked to turn back, the least I could do is my teeny tiny part. . . .to actively remember what happened on this day . . . .to do my best to outstretch my hand in a way that no one may ever feel or care about. . . . yet a way that says, "I remember."

I heard this question multiple times on TV and on NPR today, "Where were you on 9/11?" I'm pretty sure they meant physically "where were you," but today I'm thinking about where I was mentally, too-- a place that I'd have to say is a far cry from where I am now nine years later.

Something changed that day. Life as we knew it changed forever. And somewhere deep down inside of us all, we all know that with these new rules of tragedy and catastrophes . . . .it could have been any one of us.

Elevator Observations Part II

"Can you mash five please?" I asked as I joined crowd of people huddled in the 'A' elevators at Grady this morning. The unspoken rule is that the man (or woman) closest to the keypad is responsible for firming up the destinations and pushing the right buttons. I take that back. Mashing the right buttons.

It's official. Without even trying, I have blended into Atlanta, and even more, into Grady. The language that sounded kind of funny to me when I first started working here has now become second nature. I not only understand the words I hear around Grady- I find myself using them.

Case in point:
Me: "Hey there, Mr. Johnson- what you know good?" (How are you?)
Him: "I don't know nothin', doc!" (I'm fine)
Me: "You still running off?" (Are you still having diarrhea?)
Him: "No.. . but my stomach started hurting a little bit again."
Me: "Where 'bout?" (Where is the pain?)
Him: "Right there where you're mashing. . . ooohhh" (The place where you're torturing me now)
Me: "That's where your pancreas is and remember, it's flared up. Did you ask for the pain medication we prescribed for you?" (You have pancreatitis and we prescribed you some pain medicine)
Him: "Yeah they brought it, but it ain't no count." (I took the pain medicine, and it wasn't very helpful.)
Me: "Really? I'm sorry about that. How long have you been in pain?"
Him: "I'ts been a minute." (A long time)
Me: "I'm sorry. Let me try something different, okay? I'll notify your nurse."
Him: " 'Preciate you, Miss Manning." (Thanks, Dr. Manning)

See what I mean? I'm not kidding. . . .I'm slowly morphing into a true Southerner. I habitually "ma'am" and "sir" now, and I don't even flinch at the terms "high blood" (hypertension), "low blood" (anemia), "sugar" (diabetes), and "nature" (anything related to a man's ability to get a . . .well you know.) And just when I thought it was safe to still tell people I was from L.A., the other shoe dropped. I started mashing things.

Well. . .I'm not fighting it anymore either. I am a part of Atlanta, Georgia now- and even more, I am a part of Grady. So go ahead. . . . push your buttons in California, and press your buttons in New York. In Georgia, we mash bugs with our shoes, we accidentally mash our fingers in doors, and yes, we also mash elevator buttons. You got a problem with that?

Elevator Observations Part 1

I love NPR. Yep, I admit it. Despite how ridiculously cool I seem, I am a self-proclaimed National Public Radio nerd. Interestingly, I can do without watching the news on television, but give me a few moments with Renee Montagne or Kai Ryssdal during my commute or while making dinner for my family, and I'm all good. Ask Harry- it's my favorite background noise after a long day at work. (Personally, I think this is the result of all the talk radio my mother tortured us with over the years which, now that I think of it, I am doing to my own children.)

So you would think that being an NPR junkie and all, most breaking news I get from NPR, right? A natural catastrophe? An icon unexpectedly dies? Surely it would be straight from my friends at WABE 90.1 before anyone else, right? Uhh. . . .try no. While it is true that I probably get most of my news from NPR, I kid you not, I have heard some of the biggest headlines of the last decade from folks on the elevators at Grady Hospital. No exaggeration.

"Hey doc! Somebody crashed a big a** airplane into a big a** building in New York City!" this disheveled gentleman proclaimed to me one early Tuesday morning in September 2001. Okay, so he didn't look like the most reliable news source in the world, but I bit. "What?" I replied with amusement, assuming that this patient was likely on his way to 13B, the Grady psychiatry destination. He could tell I didn't believe him. He opened his eyes wide, placed his right hand over his heart, and lifted the left high over his head. "I ain't lyin' doc! I'm for real! It was like a big a** airplane with like whole bunch of people on it!" I shook my head as we reached my floor and waved goodbye. As soon as I arrived in the clinic that morning, there was a big commotion. All of the staff and patients were glued to the waiting room television, mouths wide open. Not even two seconds after I joined the onlookers, the second plane plunged into the other tower of the World Trade Center. Wow, I remember thinking. That dude was telling the truth.

And that was the first of many. Other memorable Grady elevator bombshells include John Edwards pulling out of the Democratic presidential race, Whitney and Bobby getting divorced, and even who won this season's cycle of America's Next Top Model. Okay, maybe the Top Model thing is not huge news, but that depends on who you ask and it saved me a few minutes on Google. My point is that, without fail, you can always count on the elevators at Grady to give you the real scoop.

My latest one? A few weeks ago, I joined a Grady employee on the elevator. I was heading upstairs from the ground floor, and from the pungent smell of smoke, more than likely he was returning from a cigarette break. This gentleman was one of our patient transporters, so I saw him often. Usually chipper and friendly, this day he looked unusually sad. As any Grady doctor would, I said hello and then asked him if he was okay. I seemed to startle him out of some deep introspection. "My bad--how you doing today, Miss Manning? I'm sorry, I'm just still messed up over the news," he said solemnly. "Wait-what news?" I inquired, now believing virtually all Grady elevator reports. I feverishly pulled out my iPhone to confirm that President Obama was okay. "Michael Jackson. He died, doc. Died. They found him dead in his house. 50 years old." I covered my mouth with my hand in disbelief. He balled his fist, pumped it twice over his chest, and then pointed skyward. "R.I.P. Mike." The doors flew open and he walked out of the elevator.

So. . . now whenever I'm behind on my NPR or even need to simply know what happened on The Real Housewives of Atlanta, I just ride the elevator at Grady. And the good news is, since they always take so long, you never have to worry about getting only half the story!