Redeemed.

*details changed for anonymity and. . sigh. . you know the deal.

 

"Do you believe in redemption?" she asked me.

"Yes," I answered.

____________________________________________

Me

My shoulders sagged with exhaustion with every detail of your story. You'd seen "someone else" at Grady who, of course, was conveniently no longer here. That person had "promised you" that they'd fill out your lengthy stack of disability forms. So that was your agenda when you came that day. To get this paperwork completed so that you could go on your not-so-merry way.

Wait. Not so fast.

For starters, you'd strolled right in and handed those papers to the resident doctor. No trace of an antalgic gait or slippery cognition to anchor such a title as "total disability." I scrolled through the scant documentation of your hospital encounters in the electronic medical record. I mean, yes, you did have your share of hard luck. Health problems, indeed, but not ones that necessarily deemed you unable to achieve gainful employment ever again.  And so. I would be honest.

But that wasn't what you wanted to hear.


You

Here we go. I guess now she got to go get some other doctor to come in here and give me the run around. This is some bullshit. Some total bullshit.

I guess she thinks since we both black she can smooth talk me or something. Looking me all in the eye like we both know some secret. But really, I ain't here for none of that shit. I'm all messed up. My back hurt and I can't do the work I used to do. I just can't.

If I don't get some kind of income to get me the fuck out of this shelter? I just don't know, man. I just don't.


Me

"Tell me about your back."

"What?"

"Your back. Can you tell me about it? Like when it started hurting and the story behind how you've been feeling?"

You seemed so shocked by that question. Almost appalled. So I just sat there with my eyes fixed on yours waiting. Waiting to hear what would make a man not even ten years older than me want to get permanent disability.

Even though I think I sort of knew already.


You

"My back got hurt from all my years of lifting heavy stuff. Over time it was just too much. And now that I'm older, nobody want to hire you if you can't stay on the job for a long time. A lot of these young guys and immigrant dudes is so hungry, man. They can work a good fifteen hours straight like it ain't shit. I can't do that. And that's always been my job."

I told her the truth. The black lady with the short hair that was sitting in front of me ice-grilling me like she Dr. Phil or Oprah or somebody. And really, it all seem like one of those bullshit questions you ask somebody when you already know what you gon' do anyway. Rhetorical, they call it. Yeah. That.

She thought I didn't know a rhetorical question when I heard one. But she was wrong.


Me

"That sucks."

I said that because it was true. I mean, it did suck that a man like you who used to work manual labor could no longer hang with the competition. It also sucked that you were living in a homeless shelter which appeared to add urgency to your need for some sort of supplemental income. I hated that.

"You know? It does suck."

Your expression softened a tiny bit when you said that. I'd learned during some tough times in my own life that something as simple as an acknowledgement of the shittiness of a situation could bring comfort.

"I'm sorry." I paused for a second before saying more. "How long has this been going on?"

You thought for a few seconds, almost like someone under oath. Your answer was careful. "A while."

I nodded my head. "Um. Okay."

When I said that you mopped your face hard with your hand. I could see this mix of anger and frustration welling up inside of you and I quickly tried to assess whether it was something that could threaten my safety. I decided that it wasn't.

Although I sort of wasn't completely sure.


You

She seem nice but with a angle. Like she got my number and just waiting to dial it. I prefer the doctor to just come in like an asshole and start refusing everything from the start. At least I don't have to think so hard.

That clock on the wall is ticking hard. Maybe it isn't but all I can see is the fact that right now it's two something in the afternoon and I got to go back to that crowded ass shelter in the next few hours. A man was hollering in there all night yesterday. They have big roaches and little roaches in there and I'm still trying to decide what's worse. It's hard to tell who is just hard on their luck like me and who is effed up in the head. Like, somebody might start talking to you and you can't tell if they high, about to rob you, schizophrenic or just in a jam. It's too much. And I ain't used to all that.

I feel my blood starting to boil so I tried to wipe my hand over it to keep from punching this wall next to me. The doctor look scared like she think I'm gon' hurt her. But I wouldn't.

This wall next to me, on the other hand, is another story.


Me

I stuck to my motto: "Everything I say about you outside of this room is what I say inside of this room." In this case, it was that I couldn't in good conscience say that you were disabled and unable to work permanently. Not based upon the information I had in front of me, your exam, or what you'd told me.

You reacted as I expected. Some complex mixture of anger, frustration and despair. You threw out expletives as you pounded your fist on the desk. You said you felt trapped. And like a caged animal.

And that part sucked, too. But I was too scared to say it.


You

"Where is your family? I mean. . . . do you have any who are aware of what's going on with you?"

She asked that shit like it was so simple. "Hello? Hey. It's me. The one who ruined your lives because I couldn't get my shit together. Uh huh. Yeah. I'm homeless. Can I come there? Great!"

Man, please.

She got this short hair cut that you can tell she got professionally cut by somebody. Lined up in the back and clipped close on the sides. The kind of thing you do when you have a job and house to go to. So I'm looking at her wondering do she have any idea what it's like to lay on a cot still like a statue with your eyes wide open because you don't want a big roach to crawl on you or a little one to crawl in your ear or in your bag. I know she don't. I can tell by that haircut that she don't.

Nope.


Me

It sucked that a lot of this--okay nearly all of it--was an issue of resources. Like, if you had a place to stay while you sorted a few things out, you could and likely would get some sort of job. I could tell.

You said things that suggested you were worldly and full of the wisdom of hard-fought lessons. I wanted to know. I wanted to know why you were too proud to turn to your family. Because when I asked if you had any, you never said no.

You didn't.


You

One of my daughters had two babies when she was still a teenager. But she raised those girls up and they both made it to college and they doing good. Granddaughters in college. Good colleges, too. And it wasn't too far of a stretch because in spite of me and the hell I put their mama through, both of my daughters went to four-year universities, too. Married with good families and situations. So I feel like I owe it to them to stay out of their way.

Their mama forgave me. Not in the way where you forget what happened. But she always told me that I was sick from the alcohol and that, since my daddy was the same way, a little piece of it wasn't my fault. She real happy in her life, too, so I think that gave her room to let go of that anger. Some part of that is what gave me the courage to do the same thing eight years ago.

Eight whole years now. And I got the Alcoholics Anonymous key chains to show for it.


Me

Wait a minute. Eight years of sobriety? Eight years? And all you've done is exchange mundane text messages and front like everything is "all good" on the telephone with your daughters and granddaughters? The ones who, in your own words, were "very, very, very proud" of you for your recovery and who invited you to see your granddaughter graduate in the top ten from her high school right here in Atlanta?

"Why didn't you go to the graduation?" I asked.

"Because. They might find out I'm homeless. And I promised myself that I wouldn't be a burden."

"You don't think they'd want to know about what's going on?"

"It doesn't matter."

So I stopped talking there. Instead I just promised you that I'd get the social worker since we'd pretty much shelved the idea of permanent disability. And you seemed a little less upset when I said that and shrugged and said it was fine.

And that was that.


You

3:12 PM. Just a couple of hours before I have to go back to the little roaches and the big roaches and the screaming people and the maybe crooked ones.

Deep breath.

The social worker was nice. She told me some stuff I didn't know. And it turns out that my current medical issues do qualify me for some temporary help, too. She even knew about some places where you can get on your feet with working while you live there.

"Family?" she asked me.

Sigh. 

Here we go again.


Me

I popped back in after the social worker Mrs. Beasley had finished up. You were sitting there alone and, for the first time, you looked me square in the eye and smiled. I returned the gesture.

I took a chair right in front of you. Just as I parted my lips to speak, you spoke first.

"Thank you." That's all you said.

I felt my face get very hot, very fast and my eyes immediately starting to prickle with tears. I want to be kind. And I want to make people feel like they are significant. The look on your face, the tone of your voice just. . . .yeah.

"It has been an honor to meet you. Thank you for your honesty." It felt corny when I said it but it was true.

You reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone. Like the proud father and grandfather you are, you showed me a picture of a group of five young women, one of whom was wearing a cap and gown. "That's my grandbaby that just graduated," you said. "Heading up north to school. A good school, too."

"I know they are proud of you for your recovery. I just know it."

You nodded. "Now that is a true statement. They always send me messages on the milestones of my sobriety. Always, always."

"That's awesome." I decided to go there once more. "And you're sure you don't want to reach out to any of your family?"

You stared at me for a few seconds. Then you dropped your head into your hands and cried and cried.


You

I haven't cried in over ten years. I thought my tears had all dried up. But I guess they were just being stored up for this moment. It felt embarrassing but I couldn't hold it in anymore.

This kind, kind black lady doctor with her haircut and dry-cleaned coat didn't understand. The very best gift I ever gave my daughters was the day I left them alone. That's why I was crying. Because the best thing I ever did has always felt like the worst.

She asked me if I believed in redemption.

"Yes," I told her, "and I give it to my girls every single day that I stay at arm's length from their joy."

Me

I have this bad habit of underestimating the enormity of how harsh a reality my patients face sometimes. With my Pollyanna view on the world, I suggest things like calling family or moving to the part of town where it's hard to get crack or applying for some kind of other job somewhere.

Sigh.

You started crying and it was clear. This was too big. Too big for me and my little bag of internal medicine tricks. But some part of me wasn't sure.

I tried to put myself first, in your shoes, and second, in your daughters' shoes. I tried and tried but couldn't really get my foot all the way inside enough to be objective. It kept playing like some ABC After School Special where everyone would hold hands and dance ring-around-the-roses as the credits rolled.

"I'm sorry if it seemed like I oversimplified this. I'm sorry."

"No. I appreciate you caring so much. I really do." You were still weepy a little and patting your eyes. All of it so complex and so riddled with regret.

"It is really your decision to make, sir. And not an easy one." I took a big drag of air and stood up. "I will be praying for you, okay?"

"You will? I'd appreciate that."

"Okay. Then I promise, I will." And I said that because it was true.

Perhaps some might think that's inappropriate to say but it felt right.


You

I didn't get any of the things I asked for when I arrived. But I somehow felt better anyway.

My phone rang as I was walking out of the clinic. One of the girls.

"Hey Dad. Just checking on you."

"Hey there. Just leaving a doctor's appointment."

"Is everything alright?"

I checked my watch once more. 4:01 PM. Plenty of time to make it back to the shelter without risk of being stuck outside for the night.

"Is everything alright? Yeah, baby. Your dad is cool. Cool as a fan."


Me

God,

Bless my patient indeed. Enlarge his territory. Let Your hand be with him and keep him from harm so that he will be free of pain. Please, God. Grant this request.

And Lord? Keep blessing those girls of his. And blessing their mama because mamas are important. And, I guess, just let Your will be done in this. 

Thanks so much for giving my patient sobriety. Please God. Give him his life back, too, so that he can be a blessing to somebody. 

And God? Bless me, too, so that I can keep doing this. Help me to sleep tonight. And to not be haunted by the unbalance of the world . . . or the sound of someone hollering in the cot next to my patient.

Amen.



 ***
Happy Monday.

Jabez cried out to the God of Israel, "Oh, that you would bless me and enlarge my territory! Let your hand be with me, and keep me from harm so that I will be free from pain." And God granted his request.

~ 1 Chronicles 4:10

Now playing on my mental iPod. This, a song that I love to let minister to my soul. Playing this song for my patient today. . . and for myself, too. Even if if it sort of makes me cry.

The unnatural.

 Monday, Monday

Can't trust that day
Monday, Monday

Sometimes it just turns out that way

Oh Monday morning you gave me no warning 

of what was to be
Oh Monday, Monday

How could you leave and not take me?

~ The Mamas and The Papas

Today was tough. I saw and heard things that weren't natural. Out of the order of nature and not how things should be.

At least, not to me.

A woman sat across from me today in the clinic. She was trying to quit smoking and we kept it light, talking about things like how hard it will be for her to not have a cigarette while on the commode. And that made us all laugh big, full, fluffy laughs. The kind that connect people and make them feel at home. She smiled at me and I smiled right back, feeling a connection.

"Do you have any kids?" I asked her. And I asked this because this woman was in her late forties and there was no mistaking--she had the twinkle in her eye and the tenderness of a mother. I knew for certain that she was.

But when I asked that her face grew serious and troubled. "Sometime I don't know how to answer that question." And right then and there I wanted to kick myself for not remembering what my resident had just told me before I'd entered the room. She had a son. But he had passed away.

So I was honest. "I'm sorry," I spoke softly, "Your doctor had just told me that. I'm sorry."

And she shrugged. This really complicated, lopsided shrug that I couldn't fully interpret. I knew it didn't mean "that's okay" because it wasn't. Maybe it just meant "this sucks" because it does.

"He wasn't but fifteen." She looked somewhere distant when she said that. I felt my pulse quickening.

"Do you . . do you mind telling me what. . . .you know. . .happened to him?" I hate the way I stammer when I'm treading out of my own lane. But she didn't even seem to notice.

"High speed car chase," she said. "Died right here. . . in this hospital. They had him under a John Doe 'cause he didn't have no I.D. And he died right here in the trauma room. Brain hemorrhage." Her voice was tiny and far, far away.

I didn't speak. Instead I just reached for her forearm and held onto it. Like we needed each other to be steadied to hear all that. Because hearing of a mother losing her fifteen year old boy is unnatural.

"He was caught up in them gangs and with the wrong crowds, you know. And it seem like God prepared me some kind of way. Like, I told him that if he don't change what he doing he wouldn't live to be a man. And he just told me, 'Mama, until I get out of here it ain't nothing you can do.'" That part was too much. She pulled her arm away and covered her face with her palms. Her head dropped and her body just shook and shook. We waited quietly, voyeurs to this unnatural grief for which there are no words.

She spoke first. "I didn't have no way to get us out of that neighborhood. No money like that, you know? And I knew. I just knew that this wasn't no place for my boy to be who I wanted him to be. You just want to protect your kids so bad, you know? And this kind of thing make you feel like a failure. Not being able to protect your boy."

And my resident and I--we just patiently listened. Honored her son and her testimony by keeping quiet until she was done speaking. Then she simply wept some more. Right there in front of us.

Eventually the room fell silent.

So I asked what her son's name was. I asked her to tell us what he was like and even asked if he looked like her. For the first time since he'd come up, she smiled. "Yeah, he look a lot like me. 'Cept he was red." We both laughed when she said that because we understood that terminology.

My resident looked a little puzzled. In his defense, he's quite culturally competent. But getting descriptors like "red" and "redbone" meant that you'd spent some time in only the most relaxed and every day settings with Southern black folks. But she was gracious and caught on that this was lost on her resident doctor.

"See me, I'm brown-skinned. And her," she pointed at me with a smirk on her face, "she red."

"Whaaaat?" I feigned an offended tone. "Excuse me! I ain't red." I held my arm up to hers.

"Oh yeeeeaaah. You a redbone for sure. Same complexion as my son." She chuckled, a soft and gentle chuckle that seemed to comfort us all.

Next,  she reached into her wallet and pulled out some pictures of him. A few small ones and one large one that was tearing on the ends. I stared carefully. His young face did resemble hers. And she was right, you had to get past the striking contrast in their complexions to see it. This boy obviously belonged to her.

"I loved him so much," she said.

"I bet he loved you, too." I paused after saying that because I needed to choose my words carefully. Then I recalled my friend Davina and my friend Rachael. Both of whom had the unnatural experience of burying their own sons. I thought of them and felt their example reminding me that the love is still as fresh as ever no matter how much time passes. And that there's nothing awkward about loving your child.

Ever.

So I remembered that and let that guide the rest of our conversation. To make it natural even though a big part of it wasn't at all.

"So tell us. . . what was he like?" I asked again. "Like, his personality?"

Her face lit up. And then she told us. Told us about his strong will and quick wit and sense of humor and his love for his mother. And all the while she kept showing us pictures but each time she'd return to one in particular--the first one she'd pulled from her purse. It was obviously her favorite.

"Yeah, girl. That's a redbone if I ever saw one!" That response felt natural. And she seemed to appreciate that. I encircled her forearm once again with my palm. "Thank you for telling us about your son. And for introducing us to him. I am so, so glad that you did."

And I said that because I was glad. I really was.

So that was pretty much the end of that.

Later that day, I saw that one of my favorite Grady elders of all time was scheduled to see us in the clinic. The minute I saw his chart, I told his resident doctor that it was imperative that he sign out the patient to me and not another attending -- because this man was my ultimate F.P. (I then explained that F.P. is short for "favorite patient.")

I knocked on the door, walked right in and smiled big and wide like always. My greeting was easy and familiar. "Heeeeey, sir!" I announced in a sing-songy voice.  I reached right out and hugged him and he hugged me right back.

"Heeeeey, babygirl!" he cooed as we squeezed for a moment. Being called "babygirl" by this Grady elder felt natural. So I didn't mind at all.

I was so glad to see him. So, so glad. He always has a good word to tell me and has the kind of faith that could move mountains. Yes. I was happy to be in his presence.

But today, something was different. His smile wasn't as full. He'd put on a few pounds. I even smelled cigarette smoke emanating from his skin. Something wasn't right.

I waited, though. I let us get through the nitty-gritty of blood pressure and blood sugars and all of that stuff. Then as we got to the end of the visit, I acknowledged what I was sensing.

See, me and this man go way back like car seats. Three different resident doctors and a lot of years of seeing each other in that clinic. So he knew, for sure, that I not only care about him but I really do have love for him. I told him what was on my mind. "Something in my spirit is telling me that things aren't okay with you. What's going on?"

I remembered my patient who once insisted that I not be afraid to sometimes push. Push because sometimes I might be the only one who does--and that person might not be okay unless I do. So I honored her and the promise I made her that day by stepping right out and nudging my F.P.

But this time? I didn't have to push so hard because it was right on the surface. Right there.

That big, strong, over six-feet-tall Grady elder reached for my hand--then he just cried and cried. Told me he was feeling sad. Sad because his wife of many years had health troubles. That life was hard and "these was 'sposed to be the golden years for them just to enjoy each other." And since his wife was feeling ill and was frustrated, she wasn't being so nice to him. They weren't communicating well. And he missed her. The old her. So that had him sad.

"All I do is set in my easy chair and smoke. And I eat and I sleep. Tha's all." And after he said that he wept some more. Because this wasn't how it was supposed to be. This wasn't natural.

It wasn't.

And you know? I tried but I couldn't hold it back. I covered my eyes with one hand and turned my back to him because that--seeing that Grady elder who had worked his fingers to the bone his whole life and who had raised up his kids the best he could, crying in front of me like that--it was just. . .just.. . unnatural. And I love that man. As sure as I type this, I mean it--I do.

Let me tell you. I just hated seeing that. Damn, I did. But we talked some more and all of us--me, him, and the resident doctor--came up with a good plan that took all of these things into consideration.

But still, I hated everything about that.


On my way home from work today, I felt heavy. NPR was talking and I wasn't listening. Not even twenty four hours until the biggest election of my lifetime and I was totally disconnected from every bit of news surrounding it. I couldn't help it.  I was haunted by that faded, dogeared photograph of that teenage boy who will never be a man and hearing his mother telling me about how she wished she could have saved him from that environment. But couldn't. On that drive, I wondered what my favorite Grady elder was doing and hoped that he could find just a tiny ray of sunshine because, dammit, he deserves it.

And you know? You'd think that a day like this would make me not want to do this job. Like it would feel too burdensome to carry around day after day, right? I don't know. It's weird. In ways that even I don't understand, it's the days like this one that make me appreciate being a Grady doctor the most. These are the days that I feel like my steps have been ordered and like I am more plugged into God than I could be anywhere else. The ones that make me hug my children tighter, make me want to write faster than my fingers can type and that end with me drifting asleep with clasped hands in a fetal position.

I don't know. I just. . .yeah.
 
So today? Today was tough. I saw and heard things that weren't natural. Out of the order of nature and not how things should be.

But something tells me that I was exactly where I was supposed to be.  And that part does feel natural.

Yep.

***
Monday, Monday. Can't trust that day.

Now playing. . . .

Taking a load off.

I saw a fellow Grady friend today and we greeted each other like normal. Passing through the hall way, going about our normal every day. Quick small talk. How was Turkey Day? Obligatory pause for expected response: Good and yours? Mouth moving saying "fine" before I could even think about what it was like. Fine. Kind of like saying "muy bien, y tu?" when you don't speak Spanish and someone says "como estas usted?"

Yeah. Fine.

No big deal, though, because it was fine. More than fine, it was great so I added that on, too. So we passed each other and that was that, but then someone asked a question about some mundane thing and I can't really even remember who did. But what I do know is that the second exchange slowed me down enough to see something I hadn't noticed before. Couldn't put my finger on it. A heaviness was there. . . . something hard to explain. 

First thought was to ask. "You okay?" But I didn't because I figured the "yeah, I'm fine" would be just like that "muy bien, y tu?"  Instead I just made more small talk, looking to see if I could figure it out but I couldn't. This was a good friend. But a stoic one. Decided to back off.

But that heavy was there. No. It wasn't in my head.

Oh well.

I got back to my own hustle bustle and went about my business. Much to do, much I've procrastinated on so I'd put it on a post it note in my head for later. Back to work. Eventually allowed myself to forget about that heavy altogether with all my own busy.  But then I ran into my friend again. And there it still was. That heavy.  

But still I waited because sometimes heavy is private. And even when concern is well-meaning it's better to let it wash up like placid waves instead of crashing like surf.  So that's what I did. Waited.

Small talk was where it started. Laughed about this and that and chatted about that and the other. And somewhere in it all, it came out. Just like that the heaviness was explained.

"I'm sorry," I said. "It looked like you were flying on one wing."

"Yeah. . . ."

That was it.  That was all. No dramatic hugs or tears or melodrama. Just a listening ear and a little bit of trust found in an unexpected place. At work.

Imagine that.

You know. . . at Grady we give so much of ourselves to our patients, our learners, and our careers. But each of us is human and connected to lives that extend beyond the walls of the hospital. Today I was reminded of one of my favorite things about working here--these really deep and genuine friendships that I've forged over the years.  A place to put your heavy down and know it's safe.

I've had my heavy on some days and I was so glad to have one of several people see it and feel it and know it. Sometimes that heavy is 100% patient-care related. But many times it isn't at all. And this time was one of those times.

So the placid waves rolled up and the heavy washed away just a little. And that was good.

Every job isn't like this.  But thankfully this one is.

And this? This, too, is Grady.


***

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . Donny Hathaway's haunting voice does this the most justice. Please. . .listen to this and be moved deep in your soul.

Sweet dreams are made of this.

*obligatory disclaimer: details changed to protect anonymity. . . . you know the deal by now, people!

Sweet dreams are made of this.

I was toodling about the wards one day tying up loose ends. It was late in the afternoon and the majority of the work had already been done. Patients had been rounded on and plans solidified. Teachable moments had been seized and F.P. designations established. I'd written all but two of my progress notes, and only needed to check a few test results before finalizing those. I looked up at the clock: 4:46 PM. Nice.

And so, I plopped down onto a chair on wheels and rolled myself over the computer with the keyboard that I like best (because clearly this makes a difference.) I sat on the vinyl padding like a thirteen year-old, left foot tucked underneath me and right leg tapping up and down rhythmically as I typed my notes. This was the less hustly-bustly side of that particular floor, further from the regular foot traffic, beeping nurse call buttons, and ambient noise. And at 4:46 PM, it was more peaceful than ever.

So there I was. . . in my groove. . . . fingertips dancing over those keys as I supplemented my thoughts to those of my interns. Eventually I found myself lost in my own world with this electronic medical record, so much so that I didn't even notice this woman standing on the other side of the nursing station.

"You doin' alright today?" she greeted me, startling me out of my foot-tapping and fingertip-dancing symphony.

I whipped my head over to the left and quickly fixated my eyes on her--kind of like that jerky way that the chipmunks and squirrels look at the kids and me when we're playing too close to them in our backyard.

"Yes, ma'am," I replied. "What about you?"

"I'm fine. They fixin' to discharge me, so that's good." She smiled a quiet smile, but something about her eyes didn't convince me that things were so good. I kept my hands still on the keyboard but my focus on her for a few seconds. Maybe I was reading too much into it. Like, maybe this was just a "you doin' alright today" and nothing else.

I couldn't place her age. I could tell that she was at least my age, though, but that was about it. The whole "black don't crack" adage was true in this instance; those clues of aging like crow's feet and neck folds weren't there to guide me. But there was still something mature about her coffee-colored complexion and a wisdom in her glistening hazel eyes that suggested experience and life. Now I'm thinking around ten or fifteen years my senior with all that wisdom she was giving off. Regardless of all that, she was striking.

"That's good that you get to go home," I announced with a cheery smile. She kept standing there, so I added, "Was there something I could help you out with?"

It was kind of weird, that moment. She gave me that same quiet smile and did this shoulder shrug coupled with a head shake. I wasn't sure what to make of it.

"Did you get a chance call your family to come pick you up? I bet they're happy you're getting out of here." I wanted to keep things light without getting all up in her business (like I have a tendency to do.) Instinctively I felt like something was wrong. Not in a medical way, but in some other kind of way. But this wasn't my business. She wasn't even a patient on my team, and the intricacies of her hospitalization or social situation were four lanes over from my lane.

"Oh. Yeah, I have someone coming to get me," she responded.

Someone? I didn't know what to make of that either, but what I did know is that she was standing there and I was sitting there and she wasn't moving. This didn't feel like an annoying hover, either. It felt like something else. . . . it was hard to describe. I decided to invite her in.

And so I reached into my pocket and pulled out my iPhone. "Can I show you something super cute? I have to show this to somebody," I said while scrolling through my phone. She walked toward me and reached for my phone over the counter. "This is my four year-old son singing. He's a trip!"

She watched the grainy video with genuine amusement. "Wow. . . he is something else!"

I took the phone back and smiled. "Do you have children?"

"I do but they all grown." She looked down and began twirling the ring on her left hand. I looked at the tiny pave diamonds on the band instead of at her because I felt like I'd struck a nerve. Then she added with a warmth in her eyes, "My kids are great. I've got some great kids."

The next thing I said flew out of my mouth before checking in with my brain's receptionist. "Is your husband living?"

What?! Is your husband living? Seriously, Kimberly?!

But, in my defense, I think what made me query the husband thing was the ring she kept flipping in circles with her thumb. I heard Harry like a tiny, drill sergeant angel flying over my shoulder yelling out, "STOP RIGHT THERE! GET BACK IN YOUR LANE!"

"Is my husband living? Hmmm. Yes. . . and no." She didn't seem to mind my question. In fact, she almost looked relieved that I'd gone there. "We not together any more. He decided he didn't want our life together, so he moved on. His life is another life that doesn't include being married to me."

"Dang. I'm sorry." I folded my hands into my lap and offered her what I hoped was a smile. My foot was now falling asleep under my bottom--turning numb like I'm sure she felt.

"Yeah. We was married for more than twenty years. Together even longer than that. But then we grew apart. My kids, they grown, but they was so hurt. . so mad. Even though they grown they was still so mad."

"How did you feel?" I wanted to know.

"How did I feel? I mean, at first I was real mad with everybody else and stuff, you know, 'cause he seem all happy to go on like it ain't nothing. But when I came in the hospital it felt different, you know what I mean? Like something about getting sick make you want the things you know. Even if they ain't the best for you. Now, I think I'm just kinda sad. "

"Yeah, being in a hospital makes you vulnerable for sure."

"Yeah. . . ." she leaned forward on the counter with the warm familiarity of a next door neighbor. "My leg was hurting and they fount a clot in my leg. They set me up with blood thinners-- all that, and the doctors said everything would be fine. But I felt so sad being in here without my husband. I haven't been in no hospital since my baby son was born and he almost twenty-five. It just seem like he should've been here with me."

Something went "pang" in my chest because I could dig what she was saying. My heart felt sad because it made such sense. Of course you'd want your partner of twenty-something years to be sitting next to you in a hospital. Of course you would.

"Do y'all talk to each other?" I asked. At this point, I was so far out of my lane that I flicked the Harry-sergeant-angel away from me.

"No, not really. I mean, my son, you know, he so mad. . .he called him up when we was in emergency. He said something like, 'Daddy, you dead wrong' and I told him don't say stuff like that and he got mad at me for defending his daddy. But my son, he so hurt. . .he so mad."

"What about you? Are you a little mad?"

"Like I said. . . . I was, but now mostly sad. My oldest son got two kids, my daughter--she expecting her third baby, and my baby son, the one that was here with me, he don't have no kids yet." I stayed quiet, waiting to see where she was going with this. "I kinda had this idea in my head about how we was gon' be with our grandkids and everything. Raisin' 'em up. All of us together."

Aaaah. A grandmother. This was the wisdom I saw beneath that smooth skin.

I wasn't sure what to say so I just said the only thing I could think of. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"You married?" She asked the one question I was hoping she wouldn't.

"Yes, ma'am."

She nodded slowly and just stood across that counter staring wistfully beyond me. I felt slightly uncomfortable in that moment, letting my eyes seek the safety of the computer screen in front of me.

"Marriage is a good thing," she finally said. "My husband, he wasn't that nice to me sometimes. I mean, not like he put his hands on me or nothing like that. Just. . . you know, not always nice. He had some issues, too. Like real problems, you know? But I stuck by him and we worked through a lot of stuff together. He started doing good, doing better. Then just out the blue. He don't want to be married. And my son? Oh, my baby son. . . he so mad. He fightin' mad."

But she wasn't fightin' mad. She was just sad. And you know. . . I didn't blame her. Losing your husband--and your dream-- without having any say in it was something to be sad about.

I've heard the Grady elders say more than once, "Man plans and God laughs." But usually when they say that, they're referring to light things like finding out you're pregnant with twins or getting a big job promotion. And though I'm not sure God always laughs, I know this--man plans and sometimes, things just don't go as planned.

One of my favorite songs is this song by the late Louie Armstrong called "A Kiss to Build a Dream On." There's a part of the song that says,

"Give me a kiss to build a dream on and my imagination will thrive upon that kiss."

Those words are so true, so very true. You hold hands, you kiss, and then, if it feels right, your heart fast forwards. Then the more you kiss the more it speeds up. You can't help but see yourselves holding babies and hugging at graduations and kneeling down in gardens pulling weeds together. You fuss sometimes, yes, but then see beyond all that to fast forward to rocking in rocking chairs and holding each other's wrinkled, tremulous hands on porches.

That's what I'm reflecting on today. I'm reflecting on those curveballs in life that seem, just like this patient said to me, like deaths even when nobody died. We are planners by nature, even if our plans are disorganized. The most gutwrenching things we see and hear challenge that part of us, causing us to shudder at the thought of it all playing out differently than we imagined. Sometimes, it's a divorce. Sometimes it's just having someone you counted on to be one way letting you down by being another way. Other times it's something rough like infertility or finally getting over that hump and having a child with special needs. And then, like those of us who work in hospitals often see, it can unfortunately also be illness and death. But they are all deaths of sorts, aren't they? All the air deflated from those hot air balloon dreams that started with just a simple kiss.

This morning I sat on the tub next to Harry as he brushed his teeth and asked him, "Hey, are we good? Like are we happy?"

And he said, "I'm happy and I think we're good. What about you?"

And I said, "I think we're good, too. Sometimes I just have to ask, though."

And he smiled wide with toothpaste in his mouth and that spoke volumes.

"I love you, Babe," I said.

"I love you, too," he replied. And then he spit foamy bubbles into the sink.

I decided that this moment right now was enough for me. Harry with a mouthful of Crest and my kids pretending to be the world's loudest komodo dragons in the background on a Saturday morning was enough. I thought of that lady and how sad she felt about her husband sort of dying but mostly how sad she felt about her dream that sort of died. Then I thought about how promised nothing really is. . . and I enjoyed it--that moment in time--for exactly what it was.

And so, when you get it, you try to hold on tight. You do your best to savor each morsel of now while it's on your tongue before you swallow, and when you do, you swallow hard and slow with your eyes closed. Because yes, man plans, and the rest? Well, let's just say it doesn't always go as planned.



The afternoon peace on the back hall of that ward served as a perfect place for that lady and me to connect that day. We talked for a while more, and it felt good. Eventually, the conversation chugged to a halt and we began exchanging parting words. She thanked me for listening and I thanked her for sharing. She reached out and gave my hand a quick squeeze before she left.

I smiled and tried to be encouraging. "Maybe you can make some new dreams."

She stared at me with glassy, tired eyes and replied with a forlorn sigh, "You know what? Sometimes . . . . you just don't even know how."

***


This is what happens when imaginations thrive upon kisses. . . . I cry every single time I see this. Every. Single. Time.



. . and of course, Satchmo is now playing on my mental ipod. . .


****
Happy Saturday and sweet dreams.

Beyond belief.

image credit

"One day I'll fly away

Leave your love to yesterday

What more can your love do for me?

When will love be through with me?

Why live life from dream to dream. . .

. . and dread the day that dreaming ends?"

~ "One Day I'll Fly Away"
lyrics by Will Jennings, music by Joe Sample

(now hearing this version on my mental iPod)

____________________________________________________________

My rounds were quiet and peaceful that day. The interns had the day off, and the resident was putting out fires on other floors. This time for you would not be divided by medical student queries or carefully guided tours of your physical findings (with your permission of course.) I was all yours that day.

It was a weekend day, so there weren't even any meetings to race over to be late to or conference calls to dial into or students shuffling their feet in front of my office door or urgent emails to return. The kids were somewhere climbing jungle gyms or splashing in puddles or licking syrup off of their hands with their dad who had kindly sent a text that simply said, "We're fine." So that meant that, on this day, I was all yours.

This day, I saw you in morning light so bright that it made me take pause. Despite the overcast sky and its imminent plans to deliver a torrential downpour, somehow the rays that were stubborn enough to come out any way managed to find you. Your hands were idle, folded over your abdomen; your eyes tired and fearful. It had been a rough night; the pain had been at almost a 'ten' until finally you told someone and ultimately received a higher dose of pain medication.

"I hate to be a bother," you tell me.

"But you aren't a bother," I quickly reply. "If you are in pain, I have failed you."

"Okay." Your face washes over with a blanket of childlike comfort, but not your eyes. I can still see fear. Cancer is something to be afraid of. Especially this one.

I glance over at the window sill. Not a single card or flower. No photos of you posing with loved ones during the honeymoon that preceded this diagnosis and no worried significant other abruptly rising from the bedside chair upon my approach to examine you. It was just you. And today, just me.

"Are you? In pain, I mean?"

"No. I am okay."

"Good."

I carefully pull back your cover and examine your cachectic body. My stethoscope rocking over your ribs; their perfect outlines like some kind of skeletal relief sculpture. Your lungs sound surprisingly clear on this day, and outside of the mild tenderness around your feeding tube, your sunken abdomen is equally unremarkable. I inspect your legs for any asymmetry; your backside for redness from the pressure of lying in bed more than standing up and making it.


No, your exam is not normal. But for this day, it looks pretty close. With the exception of your fearful eyes, it is normal enough to plan your discharge.

"There is so much to coordinate," I say softly. "Our plan will be to get all of this done for you and discharge you first thing in the morning. How does that sound?"

"That sounds good."

"What questions do you have for me?"

Your smile is warm and genuine. Your bony cheeks and wasted temples perfectly framing your every expression. "I think you answered them all."

I reach down and put my hand on your soft cheek. "Are you sure? Is there anything you need?"

You smile again and shake your head. "I'm okay."

"Okay."

I step back from the bed and delicately arrange the covers over your tiny shoulders. I fluff the pillow and tuck another blanket around your neck; enveloping you in as much safety as I can.

"I'll see you later, okay?" I say after finishing my fuss over the bed.

You nod and smile once more.

I walk away from your bed and that morning light. . . . around the thick pink curtain dividing it from the other side of the room where the neighboring bed was empty. Suddenly, I abruptly stop in my tracks. The next thought I continue to replay because it was so memorable. It was simple and clear--like the single chime of a tiny bell--and enough to halt me in place:

Maybe I should go and just sit with you. And hold your hand and maybe even. . . . pray with you. Or better yet just be with you a little longer.

The Grady elders might call this "The Lord puttin' something on your heart." And they call listening to such a thing "being obedient." Others might call it something else or even be uncomfortable thinking about it. Regardless of what you call it, it was something. Something strong yet fleeting that I somehow allowed to come and then go in the blink of an eye.

I lean back around the curtain and into your light again.

"Ma'am?"

You raise eyebrows and turn in my direction.

"Umm. . . you. . . make sure you remember what I said about the pain medicine, okay?"

"I will," you murmur quietly. "I will."

And with that. . . . I leave. Thinking I can do it tomorrow. Letting go of that moment in time on my solitary rounds.


Early the next morning, the intern covering the team on call left a message on my voicemail. You were found pulseless. They worked on you as hard as they could to bring you back. But unfortunately, they could not.

No! I must be hearing wrong!

I remembered your pleading eyes and those words put on my heart. I replayed the message and immediately felt my pulse quickening and my eyes welling.

No! It wasn't time yet!

But actually, it was. That morning, I stood listless in a hot shower crying and crying. Not because I could have saved you. And not because I could have cured you, either. But because I didn't listen. And regardless of what you believe or who you pray or don't pray to, sometimes you get a little nudge that tries to give you a message. This time, your eyes tried to tell me. And even after your eyes tried, something else tried, too. But I missed my cue.

Now I know. That day, I was supposed to be the cards on your window sill and the flowers on your tray. And even though you weren't in pain, in a way I did fail you. I should have yielded to that tug, that magnetic force that was pulling me back to you. And I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry I didn't.

But.

Today, I will dry my eyes and honor you. And for you, I will never ignore that whisper laid upon my heart again. Because that time was your time. And on that day it was just you and just me. So next time, for you, I will be obedient.

***

Heavy.

"So on we go
His welfare is my concern
No burden is he to bear
We'll get there
For I know he will not encumber me
He ain't heavy, he's my brother"

~ Donny Hathaway

Today I am thinking about trust. I am thinking about how although folks often talk about how little some people trust their doctors-- that there are a lot of folks that put a whole, whole bunch of trust in their doctors. And not just any kind of trust, but that save your life kind of trust.  Like, I know you've got my back no matter what kind of trust.

Compound that with being a black woman on the front lines of a county hospital and it gets even more complex. Like, you get me so you know deep down what I'm afraid of kind of trust. Like, I know you wouldn't let nothing happen to me on your watch kind of trust. 'Cause you get me. 'Cause I'm your auntie and your uncle and your sister and your granddaddy. 'Cause I'm your mama'nem and your Mudear and your play cousin. And sometimes, it's heavy.  Real heavy.

'Cause even though they are thinking those things, they aren't alone. I am, too.  I am thinking, you can trust me. I am touching your hand and using your language in a way that says, I do get you and I do know what you are afraid of deep down. And even though sometimes it's unrealistic, I am feeling, no, I won't let nothing happen to you on my watch. Even if it's out of my control.

So I pray. A lot. To fill in the gaps that reading journals and calling consults can't cover.

And today? After all of that, I stood in a bathroom stall and cried. Because a lot of times it is out of my control. And sometimes things do happen. Even on my watch. And today, it was heavy.  Real heavy.

So thankful I'm being carried, too.

***

"If I'm laden at all
I'm laden with sadness
That everyone's heart
Is not filled with gladness
Of love for one another. . ."

Dad, do you remember when you played this Donny Hathaway song for me when you drove me to medical school across the country? I know you don't. But I do. Especially today, I do. . . . playing on my mental iPod. . . listen and you'll feel me.