I think I know you .

*some details changed to protect anonymity.

image credit

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Yours was an overcomer's story.  Life had you on the ropes, pummeling you with quick jabs and followed by a firm left hook to the jaw. A near technical knock-out.  First, it was just beer. Occasionally there was alcohol, too, but mostly beer. Malt liquor, to be exact.  Then came the Mike Tyson of them all--crack cocaine.  Your defenses were weakened against this opponent.  Brought to your knees, you were down for the count.

One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! Eight! Nine. . . . . 

You stood up, all woozy, doing your best to regain focus.  And then you started swinging. And swinging. And swinging.  Until the ruthless tag team of Colt 45 and tiny plastic bags of white rocks fell bloodied and surrendering.  It had been almost a year, and you were winning.  The comeback kid, now in a recovery program and taking it "one day at a time."

So this was your story, your overcomer's story, told to me by this thoughtful intern in his careful and empathic tone. He wrapped your story up with a shiny red bow for me, such that I imagined you before I even made it into the room to see you for myself. The hard times you'd fallen upon, the periods of unstable housing and high risk activities you engaged in, not because you wanted to, but because back then, you were on the ropes.

The age on your chart was not far from my own, but I expected your struggles to have aged you. Like other overcomers I'd met along the way, I knew you'd have the light of someone reborn gleaming in your eyes and more than likely a body that yes, was still ticking, but that had clearly taken a licking.  Perhaps your teeth would be riddled and decaying from those years of neglect or your belly protuberant and taut with a cirrhotic's collection of peritoneal fluid.  Maybe your ankles would be swollen from the volume overload of alcoholic cardiomyopathy or your fingers scarred with burns from tiny glass crack pipes.  Maybe.

With every word the intern spoke, your image sharpened.  You. Now in recovery. For over a year. Now winning the welter-weight division. Taking care of yourself for the first time in a long time with a little help from your friends. You. The picture of the overcomer crystallizing even more in my mind. Would you have the freshly cut hair, those clean, clean socks they always issue, or be carrying a proud collection of Narcotics Anonymous key fobs? Or just maybe might you have a prominent crucifix around your neck and answer me by saying, "blessed and highly favored" when I ask how you are today or refer to your recovery from drug and alcohol addiction as "delivery" instead? Perhaps.

See, I am a Grady doctor so I already knew you. And I had heard your story before. See, yours was an overcomer's story.  And working at this place day in and day out, I've met you and been moved by you before.  I've shaken your hand and congratulated you for beating the odds. And sometimes on my way home from work, even prayed for you by name. Yeah. I knew you.

So even though I'd only heard your story rolled out like parchment paper by the young doctor who saw you first, I knew you already.  And since the younger doctor had now been at Grady for close to a year, perhaps by now, he knew you, too.

"Shall we go and see him?" I asked after listening to the assessment and plan.

"Sure, I'm ready," the intern replied.

This visit was a straightforward one.  A minor complaint and a focused visit with something easy to remedy. The intern selected a medication that wouldn't hurt your liver or get you in trouble at your recovery program.  I'd spend most of my time congratulating you on your recovery. You deserved to be congratulated, and because I knew you already, I figured you'd appreciate it very much if I did.

We knocked on the door and entered your room.  I smiled and introduced myself, arm outstretched to shake your hand.  Yours is a firm handshake, an overcomer's handshake.  I covered it with my other hand and said, "I've heard so much about you, and it's really an honor to meet you. Congratulations on all you've done."

And I meant that, because I hadn't been through what you have been through. Or overcome what you have overcome. So yes. It was an honor to meet you.

But then I look closer at you.  Surprisingly, you are healthier-appearing than my imagery; the mutinous body I expected had withstood that terrible beat down I'd just had described to me quite well. That part caught me off guard. But. . .like I suspected, you did have that light in your eyes. . .it was almost familiar. Our eyes lock for a moment.


Wait.

Your easy smile and twinkling eyes take me somewhere I've been before. No, not to a hospital bed or a clinic room, but somewhere altogether different.  Then you laugh, a slow and confident laugh. Like a southern drawl kind of laugh, decidedly unique. And undeniably familiar.

Wait. I have heard this laugh before.

My eyes dart down at your chart again. I read your name. And read it again. I look at your age. And then at your face.

Wait.  Are you . . . . ?

I cover my mouth and gasp. 

Immediately, an uncomfortable feeling washes over me as it registers. I know you-know you.  No, not in the biblical sense, but in the we-were-peers-at-some-point sense.   

What the. . .? 

Whoa! This image is the polar opposite of the one I'd had just five minutes earlier. You. Standing on our college campus with a heavy backpack full of books.  Surrounded by your fraternity brothers and always by flocks of swooning and giggly undergraduates. You. With that same molasses laugh while giving "man hugs" and secret shakes to those same fraternity brothers, a satin stole designating your summa cum laude status at our university commencement. I was younger and not necessarily in your inner circle. But our college was small. Small enough for me to know you.

"I think. . . ." I paused for a moment, deciding whether or not to acknowledge knowing you, " I think we know each other."  I know my facial expression was awkward.  And okay, I admit that part of me was intrigued. . . .but most of me was conflicted. 

You study my badge for a moment and then look at me with squinted eyes.  "This is my married name," I added, "oh, and back then my hair was a lot long--"

"Kim?" you suddenly interrupted incredulously. Then you smiled, stood up and repeated it louder, "Kim Draper?"  Without a moment's hesitation, you reached out and gave me a tight and welcoming hug. The kind of hugs people who went to our small college give each other when they run into each other in airports or shopping malls.  "Hey, Kim! Wow! It's so good to see you! What a small world!" Your face is beaming.  And genuine. And not the least bit ashamed.

I immediately relaxed, too.

"You look good!" I responded. And not "good" in that "you've been to hell and back and considering that you look good" kind of way. But good, for real, in that "you're forty-something and you don't have  a pot belly, a receding hairline, or seventy-five extra pounds" kind of way. 

"Thanks, man!" you replied still smiling as you took your seat again. "I never would have recognized you with that short hair.  Wow, man. . . . it's good to see an old friend."

I looked over at my intern who looked totally confused.  "This guy was the man when we were in college," I said to him with a chuckle. "And he was super smart.  You know I dropped Math 107 three times before finally passing it?"

"107, Kim? Damn!"  We both laughed out loud.

And so we got on to why you were there.  I reviewed your complaints. Repeated the intern's examination.  Discussed the plan, referring to you as "Mr. ___" the whole time during that part. Despite your reassuring laugh, I tried to keep the details of your time on the ropes as vanilla as possible; I wanted the mood to stay light. Like homecoming.

You referred to mutual friends of ours, and then asked about my sisters. "They're great," I told you.

"Tell them I said hello, will you?"

Your shoulders didn't coil inward once nor did your eyes become defeated a single time.  Nope, not once.  Of course, they didn't. I should have known they wouldn't. You were an overcomer.

"Hey, listen, Kim. . .it was good seeing you all in the doctor-mode and everything," you said to me as we wrapped up the visit.  You gave me this approving nod as I stood near the door in my stiff white coat. "Dang, K.D., I'm really proud of you, man."

I smiled and then said exactly what I was thinking. "Man, I'm really proud of you, too."

You get exactly what I mean by that, and so does my intern, which was really cool.

As we left your room, the intern looked over at me and said, "Wow, so you knew that guy?"

I recounted all my preconceived ideas of who I thought I would see before entering the room, took a deep breath and smiled.

"Yeah, I knew him," I replied, "but not like I thought I did."

***

Lifesavers.

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

~ The Fray "How to Save a Life"

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

Gross, I know.

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

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

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

Not too bad.

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

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

Anyways.

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

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

Arrggghh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something told me. To stop.

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

"Yes, ma'am?"

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

Wait, huh?

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

Even if it sounded good.

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

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

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

Was she for real?

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wow," I replied.

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

Wow.

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

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

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

Man, oh man.

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you for sharing.

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

***

Happy Tuesday.

***

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

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

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"

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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.

Heartwarming.

Today on rounds. . . .


This is a snapshot of the medical student on my team with one of our patients--performing their own little "morning ritual."  Each day on rounds, this patient warms up the student's hands before she performs the exam. It's been their own little thing between them that, normally, no one else is around to witness.

But today, I was.

a therapeutic touch. . .

And now you were, too.


The power of touch goes both ways. . . . . yeah.

***

Happy Sunday.

Reflection on the Ides of March: Three minutes.

*names, minor details changed to protect anonymity.

Ready in three minutes.

This whole exchange took place yesterday while I was (very busy) typing my notes at the nurses' station in the afternoon. The daycare pickup clock was ticking. . . .

The entire incident happened over a three minute period.

_______________________________

"Excuse me, ma'am?"

I looked up and saw a woman in front of me. Her face was smooth and youthful, but troubled. And not troubled in that "do you know where the women's clinic is?" kind of way, but more of a troubled in that "I'm getting evicted" kind of way. I removed my hands from the keyboard to show her she had my attention.

"Could I ask you a quick question?" she asked. I immediately noticed that she was wearing what looked like a Grady employee badge, so I now knew for certain that she wasn't lost.

"Sure," I replied, now curious about her furrowed brow and searching eyes.

She let out a big sigh and then said, "Okay, so like. . . .if somebody got the AIDS, right? Well, not the AIDS where you real sick, but the AIDS where you just got it in you and then you wear a necklace on your neck and put it in they mouth. . .you know, like a cross on a necklace. . . and nen somebody else put it in they mouth, do that mean they can get the AIDS, too?"

Wait, huh?

I decided to say that out loud. "Wait, huh? I'm a little confused. How about you tell me exactly what happened so that I can help figure it out with you."

I noticed that she was panting a little bit while she was talking to me. Her right hand was tremulous and her eyes had become glassy while giving the first explanation. She was worried. Like, real, real worried.

"Okay, so explain what happened to me--" I reached my hand over the counter and grabbed her wrist, "--and take a deep breath. So far, this doesn't sound like it is much of a problem, okay?"

She took a deep breath, but it didn't seem to help. "Okay, so. . . . like my close friend. . . he. . . . he got the AIDS. . .but he go to the doctor and he don't be sick or na'n. . .like he say he don't even have it to that point like thet or na'an."

"So, he is HIV positive is what you're saying?"

"Yeah, ma'am. Tha's what he always be correcting me saying. That it ain't the AIDS but iss really the HIV in his body that they keeping from being the AIDS."

"Your friend sounds pretty smart."

"Yeah, ma'am. We grew up together. He, you know what I'm sayin', be with dudes and stuff but we been friends since we was real, real little. So he like a brother to me. And, you know what I'm sayin', he trust me and told me about thet."

I leaned my chin into my hand and just listened to her.

"Okay, so wha' had happened is that he was at my house and he was playing with my baby daughter. Well, she really like two, but you know she like my baby, you know what I mean. So he was holding her and stuff and I went in the kitchen and nen when I came out she had his cross on his necklace in her mouth."

I turned my mouth sideways and squinted my eyes. "Okay."

"And nen I was like, 'Oh my God! Get that out her mouth!' And he was like, 'What you trippin' for?' And I was like, 'I seen you with that in your mouth when you was texting when you first got here!' And then I start screaming at him why he let her put thet thang in her mouth when he know he jest had it in his mouth." She was shaking again. And now she was sweeping away thin tears that were sneaking down her cheeks.

"Oh my goodness. What did your friend say?"

"He got all mad and left. Like he said, 'What kind a friend are you?' And I said, 'Eff that, tha's my babygirl.' So for two weeks I been reading up tryin' to find out whether my baby got the AIDS now."

Two weeks? Damn.

"What's your friend's name?"

"Justin."

"And what's your name?"

"Nika."

"Okay, Nika. I'm Dr. Manning." I squeezed her wrist again. "Listen to me, okay? Even if Justin had the cross in his mouth two seconds before your baby did, that isn't something that you need to be worried about."

She didn't look convinced.

"Nika, the way you get HIV is if it's in some blood you get, which almost never happens now. If you shoot up with somebody's needle, you can get infected." She gave an exaggerated shudder--the kind people often give when they want you to know that they'd never voluntarily inject themselves with a needle. "You can get it from having sex with somebody who has HIV if you aren't using a condom. That's if you are a girl or a boy, it doesn't matter. If you get stuck with a needle or come in close contact with like blood or something. But not spit or saliva."

"For real?"

"For real. Like there's a lot of happy couples that kiss and make love and everything where one person is HIV positive and the other one is negative. And they stay that way. Kissing is fine. Even really, really kissing--as long as the person doesn't have like an open bleeding sore or something. It would take a lot to get HIV through the mouth. Now a cold? You can get a cold. Did Justin have a cold?"

"No, ma'am. He stay healthy."

"That's great."

"I had made my baby an appointment. I was gon' see if they could test her for the AIDS."

"Nika, cancel that appointment. I would use that time to go and find Justin and tell him you're sorry and that you didn't know. Tell him you didn't mean to hurt his feelings. You know? Because you probably did, you know. . .hurt his feelings."

She looked down. And finally she had stopped shaking.

"Nika?" She raised her eyebrows. "I wanted to mention something Justin said. So if you come in contact with the virus that causes AIDS, and it gets in your body, that's called HIV positive. HIV can hurt the blood cells that fight infections and then when they get low, you are prone to getting sick. There's a lot of medicines that keep people from that point, and doctors who help them. But if the blood cells get low, that's called AIDS. And it's okay to just refer to what Justin has as HIV, if you must, instead of 'the AIDS' or 'the HIV.' That's if you must."

"He prob'ly was hurt. He lookeded real hurt," she said in a tiny voice.

"Well, it sounds like he trusts you with a lot of personal information. I'm pretty sure he'd be cool if you told him about our conversation. I say the wrong thing all the time when I don't know that much about something. If you are really sorry in your heart, then somebody who loves you will accept your apology."

She gave me a bright smile, and for the first time, I noticed the gleaming gold tooth on the side of her mouth. "I sure 'preciate you for taking the time to talk to me. For real."

"I just wish I'd seen you two weeks ago," I replied with a wink.

"So cancel the appointment?" she confirmed before leaving.

"Yep. Cancel the appointment, but not the friendship."

She nodded slowly and pointed in my direction. "Right. . ."

And just like that she departed and headed for the elevator. But not before I heard the beginning of the call she placed on her cell phone. . . .

"Hey, J. . . .wha's up? It's me. . . ."

All in three minutes. Wow.

I went back to finishing my notes and made it to daycare with time to spare.

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.