"She was up in age." "She had a full life." "At least it was peaceful."
I work in a hospital around sick people. As a result, I am near infirmary and death more than most people. A lot more.
I'm also 44 years old. Old enough to no longer have living grandparents without it seeming unusual. But in the grand scheme of grandparents and aging, we were fortunate. My last living grandparent, my maternal grandmother, passed away just shy of her 91st birthday.
Yep.
The combination of seeing people navigate death and dying--and also living long enough to experience it with the elders in my life--has taught me one thing if nothing else: There is never a convenient time to lose someone that you truly, deeply love.
Particularly a beloved parent.
Sure. When health fails and independence is robbed, some piece of you knows that transitioning would mean less suffering. Depending upon your beliefs, you envision lively celestial reunions with loves of lives and dear ones who left too soon. And all of that seems mostly reasonable in your mind. Problem is, the heart is always late to get the memo. The loss is filtered through love's myopic view, which blurs the present and sees far into the past.
My grandmother's funeral wasn't terribly sad. Kind words were spoken and afterwards when we all retreated to her home, those aforementioned words were spoken repetitively. And I guess, a little bit, they felt quasi-comforting to utter but the reality was that no matter how up in age she was, how full her life had been, or even how peaceful her passing, I'd never known a life without her in it.
I hadn't.
My grandma lived in Tuskegee, Alabama where we all went to college. My dear aunt took excellent care of her until the day she passed quietly in her sleep, and has since continued to live in the family home. This year, like always, I came over during my visit there for our college homecoming. When I walked inside, almost everything was the same. The same foods were on the counter, many of the same familiar faces and even the smell of my grandma's home hadn't left. The olfactory part was a comfort. But that was about it.
Immediately I had a strong urge to leave. My heart wasn't ready for that piece of my world to not include my grandmother and her high, tinkling laughter. Yes, my mind said those other things, but my heart was still far, far behind.
I knew my grandmother wouldn't live forever. But even when she passed, I realized that there is never a convenient time to begin a life without someone you deeply love in it. No matter how old or chronically ill. The finality of it feels suffocating in ways that can't be fully reconciled even with the strongest faith.
Someone special to me lost her mother today. She was up in age. She had a full life. And it was peaceful.
But regardless of all of that, somebody has lost her mother. And tonight, my heart is weeping for her and feeling sad. Because even though it may have been time, I know for certain that the time never seems to be right.
Isaiah helped me edit this picture. He said, "Add a happy face because I can tell he made people smile."
Seize upon that moment long ago
One breath away and there you will be
So young and carefree
Again you will see
That place in time. . . .so gold
Steal away into that way back when
You thought that all would last forever
But like the weather
Nothing can ever. . . and be in time
Stay gold
But can it be?
When we can see
So vividly
A memory
And yes you say
So must the day
Too, fade away
And leave a ray of sun
So gold
Life is but a twinkling of an eye
Yet filled with sorrow and compassion
Though not imagined
All things that happen
Will age to old
Though gold
~ Stevie Wonder
_____________________________
I listened to this song tonight and quietly wept. Especially the stanza that says:
Life is but a twinkling of an eye Yet filled with sorrow and compassion Though not imagined All things that happen Will age to old Though gold
Life truly is just that. But a twinkling of an eye. Today I sat on a hard pew in a church. Along with throngs of colleagues, medical students, residents and others, we paid respect to a dear colleague--a golden colleague--who, unfortunately, left us long before his golden years.
Yep.
A team on call couldn't get their attending on the phone. An attending physician who took great pride in caring for his patients at Grady Hospital and who would never leave them high and dry without some good explanation.
When Deanna didn't pick up our kids from after school care on November 15, 2012, I remember uttering aloud to Harry over the phone: "Over her dead body would she leave those kids without calling us." Well. Unfortunately, this was a nearly identical situation. Over his dead body would he leave those patients at Grady.
Sigh.
He was young. Presumably healthy. Cherished by many. And now, in the twinkling of an eye, he has made his transition. Some kind of natural cause, although the timing seems horrifically unnatural. This wasn't supposed to be what I was doing today. No, it was not.
Last week I sat in a meeting with him. Last Thursday evening to be exact. We were about to start a project together with a group of others. The meeting was going over and I whispered to him that I needed to get my kids. He calmly said, "Don't stress it, Kim. You should go to your children. I'll fill you in on the details later."
And you know what? He did.
I guess you'd think that something like this--a young colleague in his 40's having some kind of sudden death after what seemed like an ordinary day--would take me to a dark place. Or at least rip the scab off of my own wound. Particularly since the last time most of my colleagues saw him in the hospital was on November 15--coincidentally the day we said good bye to Deanna. But you know what? It didn't. It broke my heart, yes. But somehow I felt my heels digging down into the ground of my life and the people in it. Reminded, yet again, of that truth Stevie Wonder sings of so hauntingly:
Life is but a twinkling of an eye.
My colleague, George? He lived life like it was golden. He did things with zeal, marched to his own drum, and didn't waste a lot of time worrying about what everyone else thought. He was a dedicated teacher, mentor and friend. A Grady doctor through and through and also a small group advisor who will be survived by four doting small groups of former and current medical students--all broken hearted and reeling from this tragic loss.
But.
Life is but a twinkling of an eye. And somehow George must have known that, too. He left it all on the field. And man. You should have heard the words spoken about him today. I heard someone wise once say, "The value of a man's life is measured in how much of it he gives away." Listening to his family, students and colleagues talking about him today was a clear affirmation of how rich of a life he lived.
I hated seeing his small group students crying. I just hated that part. It also hurt to hear the restrained pain that kept eking out between the words his young niece spoke on behalf of their family. That part felt like deja vu.
Anyways.
Here is yet another charge to us all to live life like it's golden. To love like you mean it. To try the things that seem out of your reach. And to be as intentional as possible. And to not bog yourself down in what other people might think. My friend George did all of these things.
This evening I was running in silence (and actually darkness.) I love stillness like that because in it I can hear and see things that normally I'd miss. This time, I could hear George with his silky accent saying something wise about all that transpired today. Shrugging and saying in his relaxed way,"You know, Kim? Here's the thing: Death brings life. Like, a seed is planted and grows. But only after it has fallen from the tree. You know?" And I smiled and even laughed while I was running because this is the kind of thing that he'd totally say. Something deep, cryptic and Yoda-ish like that-- and words that would make you think for a moment and then say, "Aaaaaaah" -- like 45 minutes later. Ha.
That was George.
He wasn't a father or a husband and his parents preceded him in death. That said, he was a true family man. A doting uncle and so open and giving to all of us. He understood the importance of family and I know that first hand. He always, always helped me out when I asked for a colleague to cover me or when I needed to get out early to get to my children. "That's important, Kim," he'd say. "Go ahead. Get to Isaiah and Zachary." He'd call them by name, too. Funny how the little things become the big things, right?
Sigh.
Again. . .life is but a twinkling of an eye. Tonight I'm reflecting on those words and the life of my colleague and friend, George Mathew. And feeling glad that I had the chance to know him.
And yes you say
So must the day
Too, fade away
And leave a ray of sun
So gold
***
Stay gold, Georgie.
Now playing on mental iPod. . .and on my real one tonight. . . Stevie singing "Stay Gold." When I see a ray of sun, I will think of you, George.
He was crying in a way that didn't seem natural for a man his age. For a man period. Men seem to inherently know restraint. The feelings are there, yes. Yet somehow they get masked by a carefully mastered impulse control.
But not in this instance.
His shoulders were curled inward. The unspeakable grief oozed from his eyes and his mouth had fallen open as if under the control of some faulty hinge. Words kept trying to come out but became garbled each time. It was awful.
I was on his immediate left. My chair scooted as closely to his wheelchair as it could possibly get and my hands tightly gripping his forearm and wrist in the most supportive way I could. His daughter stood behind him, arms draped over his shoulders and repeatedly burying her face into the top of his head to hide her own emotion. Her brother, his son, was two chairs away from me, lost in his own world of grief. Seeing his father so broken while saying goodbye to his mother at the same time was too much.
It was just too much.
This was my very first day knowing this family. I was the attending who had just taken on the inpatient service where this woman, his beloved wife, had already been a patient for several days. Most doctors who work on hospital wards will tell you that there are some positives and negatives to having someone come in with a fresh set of eyes to a critically ill patient. The "Monday morning quarterback", as we always call it, is the one who wasn't there for all the dirty work or the parts when all of the puzzle pieces weren't yet available. It's that Monday morning quarterback who strolls in, surveys the big picture and makes a quick assessment. A lot of the time, this kind of thing is annoying. But sometimes, it's advantageous.
This was one of those times.
I listened to the residents telling me her story. It was convoluted, complicated and unfortunate. Right up against her ninth decade and initially admitted with this pervasive febrile illness. The kind that the very advanced elders get that we go ahead and admit them for even though you can't quite put your finger on its origin.
The team before me data-mined and gathered information. They put out campfire after campfire while a wildfire was ravaging the countryside. And I know from experience that this happens sometimes. We hyperfocus on individual things such as sodium levels and Vancomycin titers and the teeniest perturbations in kidney or liver function. Each going awry and then slightly improving while we lose sight of the entire landscape. The one that has these flames that we keep tackling with handheld hoses when somebody needs to call in the helicopters.
So after hearing all of this, her hospital course, I became that Monday morning quarterback. Then I saw her with my own eyes, strengthening my position. "Wow, y'all. This management is awfully aggressive. Has anyone talked about end of life issues and the fact that this patient is dying?All of this--these labs and her exam--this is a patient who is actively dying."
And the resident and his interns communicated to me that indeed this had been considered but that no one, including the family or their prior attending physician, was on that page. A feeding tube was in her nose since she wouldn't and couldn't eat. And her chest was rising and falling so rapidly that it was exhausting to even witness.
"It doesn't matter at this point who is on what page. I cannot see where this can end in a meaningful recovery. I see that she wants all heroic efforts in the event of an arrest. Is this her wish or is this just the default?"
"The family was very upset when this was brought up. Not doing everything."
I glanced over my shoulder toward the room during that discussion. Per the monitors, she was breathing nearly forty times per minute despite the one hundred percent non-rebreather oxygen mask fixed onto her face. She was no longer conversant in the last four days and had so much edema that all of the bony architecture in her extremities was distorted. But on top of that, her labs and images collectively spoke loudly and clearly.
This woman--this wife, this mother-- was dying.
Of course, we could do everything. And, in this situation, that would mean CPR and intubation in the next few hours. It would also mean fracturing her fragile ribs and eventually putting the family in a far more difficult position with de-escalating care.
But I had just gotten there. Yes, I felt strongly about my clinical opinion, but still. They didn't know me. At least, not really they didn't. I imagined myself strolling in like some kind of grim reaper poorly disguised by my stiff white coat. It wasn't a good mental picture.
There are times when we have no choice. My rule with my patients and their families is this:
"Whatever we're talking about when it comes to you or your loved one and their care outside of your room is exactly what we'll discuss when we get inside of your room."
At least, as close a version as we can. But how would that work for this situation? One where this woman had been worked on dutifully for eight full days by well meaning doctors only to fully declare herself on the day some new lead doctor arrives? There was no easy answer. There wasn't.
But then, in the snap of a finger, I remembered something. This woman--and her dear husband of over sixty-five years--was under the care of a geriatrician. One who'd cared for them for nearly a decade and who'd carefully built a relationship with that entire family brick by brick.
Her doctor. Her doctor. Yes! Her primary doctor--her primary geriatrician--needed to be called and brought into this. This would comfort the family far more than I could. Of course. Not the Monday morning quarterback but the offensive coordinator. The one who'd been there when the plays were being drawn out and who'd stood with them during inclement weather to cheer those pass completions.
Of course. Dr L. Her doctor.
"I'm going to call Dr. L." I said this quietly and matter-of-factly to the team. They'd been communicating with him, but this would be a different call. Not the "your patient has been hospitalized" call, but a call to him as the offensive coordinator from the Monday morning quarterback.
And so I called. I explained what as going on and what I saw. How ill she'd become. How concerned I was of her imminent demise and whether or not us feverishly pressing her sternum and filling her veins with central lines was the right thing to do.
"Please come," I implored him. "If you can, please come."
That is exactly what he did.
And so, some forty-five minutes later, there we all sat. In the family waiting area as the offensive coordinator of my patient helped us navigate the next step in her care.
Yes, I was to her husband's left. That daughter stood with her arms encircled behind Daddy trying her best to protect his heart and hers at the same time. And Brother was perched on the edge of that distant chair weeping into the crook of his elbow.
And Daddy.
Daddy was tremulous and angst stricken in that wheelchair. The one that Dr. L had put him into when he arrived on the ward --not because he could not walk, but because this kind of grief knocks people off of their feet and he knew that from experience.
The other part of that picture included Dr. L., her primary geriatrician. Kneeling in front of that husband and staring into his eyes. Both of his hands overlying that husband's and pressing down into the veiny network on each of them. There was trust in that gaze. Those words came from a knowing place and that husband--his patient,too--received them.
That's why he was so grief-stricken.
The saliva between his crying lips stretched like violin strings and finally he mustered out a word to his doctor, the offensive coordinator.
"Do you really think. . .she 'bout to go home?"
And Dr. L closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose as he nodded. A hard, deliberate nod that couldn't be confused for anything but the affirmative.
"Eeeeee. . . . eeeeee. . . . .eeeeeeeeeeee!"
That is exactly how his guttural cries came out. They pushed beyond the masculine impulse control and stoic code of manhood. And he felt safe doing that with Dr. L. in front of him. This was the cry of a man who was just told by someone he knows and trusts that he would soon have to say goodbye to the love of his life. A woman that he'd lived more years with than without and who'd first spoken words of mutual love to him on a humid summer night nearly seventy years before.
It was quite possibly one the saddest moments I have ever seen in my career. I swear that it was.
Dr. L. patiently let him have his moment. He knelt right there in front of that wheelchair for well over fifteen minutes, not once appearing to tire or lose his resolve. And me, I sat quietly on the left, holding his forearms and saying nothing. Nothing at all.
Shortly after that, our patient peacefully slipped away. With her family beside her and without a single thing beeping in any of their ears.
I learned a lot from being a Monday morning quarterback that day. Just like in "real" football, the very best plays handled by quarterbacks--Monday morning included--involve carefully executed passes to able-bodied teammates. Sometimes there are days when the QB runs it in for the score, but the ones we remember the most always manage to know when someone is open.
Open.
That means less glory for the quarterback, but the win is somehow sweeter for everyone.
Thank you, Dr. L. for teaching me the importance of looking for who's open. And thank you for reminding me that I don't always have to use my own playbook.
The second and final part of our Deanna's Life Celebration is behind us now. And now that the dust is settling on all of these gatherings, can I just say this? It was beautiful. All of it. Every piece. Every part of it.
And now, for those who were there only in spirit, I've gathered my wits enough to bring you there. Sorry I don't have many pictures. Let's just agree that me walking around the services with my iPhone snapping photos might have been slightly awkward. But I will admit that some part of me wanted to. Mostly for all of you. And also for me to look at later and remember.
But don't worry. I captured a lot of images in my head and saved them all in my mental iPhoto library.
Yep.
Okay. So while it's all fresh in my head, I'm ready to take your hand and walk you through it. Especially those who couldn't be there physically. Or those who were there but, for whatever reason, weren't there in the way they wanted to be. Because that happens sometimes.
But.
Chronicling all of this is also for me. Because those who've read here for some time know the answer I always give when people ask me why I started this blog--those words I stole from Toni Morrison when she was asked why she wrote "The Bluest Eye": "So I could read it."
Yeah. That. Still. But so you can, too. (If you want, that is.)
So where to start? I'll break this into two parts and start with Atlanta.
Part of the sea of love
All of our family was there. Aunties, uncles, cousins, play cousins and all of those friends who've now become family. Including several of our over thirty-some-odd first cousins. Many of whom have aged unbelievably gracefully and who embody that old adage "black don't crack." My two "big cousins" pictured below--Heather and Shari Lyn--are both well into their fifties.
Seriously? Seriously.
First cousins
Whoops. I digress.
Yeah, so my point was that the family was there in full force. That includes the children. We knew they had to be there because they needed this just as much as we did. They smiled and wept and smiled again and wept again right along with all of us. They played with their cousins and hugged waistlines.
Man. I'm so glad that we didn't keep them away. So, so glad. In fact, it never crossed our minds to do that. Which reminds me. Can I just pause to say what a tremendous blessing it is for them to have been SO close to a family member who isn't a parent or a grandparent? So much so that they'd emote over their loss in such strong and open ways as all of these children? Just. Wow.
You know? Each one of those kids has their own, separate memories of their own, separate relationship with Deanna. And you know what's even better? Every member of "the six pack" is old enough to carry those memories into their adulthood. All the way down to six year-old Zachary.
Ahhh. Yet another provision.
Dang. Just digressed again. So where was I? Oh. Atlanta.
Yeah.
So . . . . in Atlanta, we started out with our Delta Sigma Theta ritualistic homegoing celebration. This final act of sisterly love in our sorority was surely the part I personally worried about the most. At least from a potential-for-emotional-breaking-down-and-ugly-crying standpoint.
Whew.
See, Deanna was so, so active and committed to our sorority that this--the process of seeing her transition into that celestial chapter of Deltas who've gone before us--was going to be a lot. Plus Deanna always found those ceremonies to be super moving. The last one I'd attended was with my sister and she wept and wept. Even before we got to the sadder parts. "It's just the beauty and symbolism of it that always gets me," she once said. So I already knew that being in a room with all of these voices lifting up into the sky at once--in shared love for both Deanna and our beloved Delta Sigma Theta--would be hard.
So was it? Uh. . . that would be a solid "fo sho."
Ha ha. But mostly it was beautiful, that part. It was. You know? I walked in and felt okay. I was struck when I looked around and saw the sea--and I do mean sea--of Deltas assembled in that room. Over 400 of them. For Deanna.
Hold up. For Deanna?
Damn.
It was too much. The wind flew out of my chest and my mouth just fell open to cry but nothing came out. Every single wonderful memory of us and all that we'd shared as Delta sisters and also biological sisters came pressing down onto me. I felt my legs getting wobbly but before I could even think of falling, my linesisters jumped from their seats to surround me. They wrapped me in a big circle of love and let me know it would be okay. Rubbing my face and holding my head. Standing by me as a sister should. And you know what? They sat right there with me through that whole ceremony. Ebony and Joy and Marra and Crystal and so, so many more.
The ceremony is open to the loved ones who aren't Deltas, too. So others got to witness our sisterhood and I think that would make Deanna happy. At one point, JoLai became very emotional and my linesister Marra flew over to her side so fast that it defied even lightning.
So, yeah. My linesisters were amazing. Over twenty of my own sands were flanking me, standing by as their sisters' keepers. My #6, Falona, even flew in from Denver, Colorado--all the way to Georgia. Denver, Colorado, y'all!
And all of that? All of them being there with us and me and seeing about my babysister and holding me up meant the world. The world.
Aaah. All I could think of was my sissy's words -- "the beauty and the symbolism of it."
Yes. Yes. And yes.
Those Delta women marched in looking so regal, y'all. I felt my heart swelling at the sight of all of the love represented by the ceremony participants. And lucky us, a lot of special people in our lives just happen to be Deltas, too, so they were in the key parts.
People like Deanna's best childhood friend since fifth grade--our soror, Deborah. Like my best childhood friend since second grade, Kimivette B., whose Delta letter Deanna personally wrote. And our college friend, Sharon P. who pinned Deanna when she became a Delta and the one who wrote her letter. There was Stacy B., the dear, dear soror-friend that originally met Deanna over the internet but later came to be one of her very best in-real-life friends, too. Then there were all the members of our current chapter--Stone Mountain-Lithonia Alumnae Chapter. Royce and Bev and Crystal and Simone and Toni and too many to even count. They sang and served and loved and celebrated.
They sure did. Beautifully. Symbolically. In the way that moved Deanna the most.
Yeah.
So the very next hour was the celebration of life for everyone. Man. Person after person flooded in to join the sea of Deltas already assembled in the fellowship hall. Y'all. There were easily over a THOUSAND people there. In celebration of Deanna. In support of our family. Collectively. Individually. And you know? All of y'all were there, too. In spirit, I know that you were.
So yeah. It was like a sea of love. A sea of love! For real.
Okay, so we'd be here all day if I listed all the special faces who came. Old friends, new friends, coworkers, medical students, Grady doctors, and many, many more. My dear, dear Grady wonder-twin, David M., surprised me by coming from Philadelphia to celebrate with us. And y'all already remember how bad I showed out when he left Grady and Atlanta! Ha. (I won't even go into how much seeing him meant to me because it will make me do the ugliest of ugly cries, complete with snot bubbles.)
So yeah, that was great. Seeing all of those people, that sea of love. That, too, was beautiful and symbolic.
And the speakers.
My big brother started us off and man, I didn't envy him. He had to go right after the photo montage--whew! But Will did great. He sure did. Sure, he got a bit choked up, but then he locked eyes with his sweetheart Fran. She coached her man to go on and he shook it off and honored our sister as the sibling who knew her the longest. He sure did.
When he came off stage, he had a moment. Frannie stood to embrace him and he cried such a pure cry in her arms. That was hard to see. But you know what? The most endearing thing happened next. When Will sat down, Isaiah leaned forward and looked at his uncle. Harry was between them and Will cast those tear-filled eyes right back on his nephew. Isaiah, in his old soul way, simply extended his hand toward my brother. Without one word. According to Will, the moment that Isaiah closed his little hand around his, clamped down and held my brother's gaze was divine. It was something he said he'll never, ever forget.
Sigh. That boy. He's been here before, I tell you.
Next. Beautiful words came from our sorority sister, Beverly, who even brought some of the cute baby things Deanna had crocheted for her twin baby girls. One of the members of Deanna's book club, Tijuana, also shared some beautiful reflections. That was awesome, too.
Ha. I'd be remiss if I didn't mention our very, very dear college friend-turned-family member, Bert D., and his absolutely unforgettable part. Bert, being his absolutely eloquent (and unpredictable) self, started with a poignant proverb. Next, he launched into a formal resolution-proclomation-thingie from our alma mater, Tuskegee University. So yeah. That part was really cool.
But that ain't the memorable part. Ha ha ha.
Dude. How 'bout Bert finished up with the story of his thirtieth birthday where he (crazily) decided to take thirty shots of Jack Daniels. Of course, you might imagine that this celebratory plan was fraught with peril. Well. When Bert fizzled out at a respectable shot #22, Deanna stepped in and took shots 23 through 25, then enlisted others for shots 26 through 29. She handed the glass back to Bert, who took shot #30. So yeah. Bert tells this story and you know? It was all good because we all knew and loved Deanna and knew that, even though we weren't there, that all parts of this sounded accurate and very much Dee.
Then this: Bert reaches into his blazer, pulls out a half pint of Jack -- and then a shot glass. He then commenced to pour a shot into said shot glass, held it up and declared, "And this shot is for Deanna!" Sure did. Right down the hatch, right then and there.
Let me tell you -- there is NO person who would have found this more amusing and entertaining than Deanna LaShaun Draper! Ha ha ha. And let me just add to this imagery by telling you that the previously crying Will stood to his feet and applauded that shot.
Man. What can I say? It was just that kind of celebration, y'all.
Yes. We were in church. But I dug it when the officiant said, "Hey ain't nothing wrong with a little communion!" Ha. Now that's what I'm talking about.
Bet y'all ain't never seen anybody take a shot of JACK at a homegoing. No. You. Have. Not.
The BHE says that it was one of the best things he's ever seen.
Ever.
Anyways.
"The Middles"
Then came Will's daughter, Gabrielle, who bravely spoke to that giant ocean of people about her cherished auntie. She's the third of the other Draper four, and, like me, is the middle daughter. She was unbelievable and so poised. Man. There was not a single dry eye in that piece. Not a one. Even the BHE broke down, and y'all know that dude cries only once per decade.
My favorite part was when she said this:
"My Auntie Kimberly told me that as the middle children we have to be stronger for those older than us and those younger than us. I believe that I'm doing that right here, right now."
We were all so proud of her. Her Auntie JoLai came up with her and held her hand while she spoke. She had one little sun shower, but with JoLai beside her she quickly pulled it together. She sure did.
Deanna used to say:
"If it ain't your spiritual gift to be singing, you need not be singing, okaaaaay?"
Then she'd give this mischievous giggle. And that always came after someone got up and tried to sing a song that should have been blending into the choir instead.
So yeah. I passed that sentiment on. And the singers? Un-freaking-believable. They couldn't just sing. They could SANG. Stomp yo' foot, clap yo' hands, shout hallelujah SANG, too.
Lawd.
This is just one of the lovely songs that one of our sorors sang. And did I mention that every song was sung by our sorority sisters? Even a Delta chorus sang--and boy, did they SANG.
Oh! I almost forgot. JoLai and Daddy gathered a bunch of photos and I made a video that really captures her essence. Admittedly, that made us all a little misty. That's what poor Will had to speak behind.
Yep.
Mom and Dad asked me to give the eulogy. Or "not-eulogy" as I call it because "eulogy" is one of those words like "funeral" that make my parents feel sad. So yeah. That's the last time I'll say that word here. So what I did was the part that spent more time celebrating her through words.
Yeah. That.
And you know what? I felt so happy to publicly honor my sister this way. I mean, I have given talks all over the place, taught in hospitals and classrooms for years and stood before both live audiences and massive televised ones -- but somehow I knew that this would be one of the most important speeches I'd ever give in my life. Like, perhaps every bit of public speaking ever was leading up to this one moment in time.
Hmm. I'm going to put that thought on a post-it note in my head for later.
Anyways. My point is that I didn't feel sad. I felt blessed and grateful to have her in my heart and to have known her. My sister. My Ruth. I could stand up and tell a sea of people about her like it was some sermon on the mount. Introducing her to those who didn't know her and uplifting the ones who did. That made me feel more glad than sad. It did.
Plus, she always liked me to speak and often made me do things for her committees, etc. for sorority functions. Ha ha. I guess that made me feel stronger, too, because I knew I'd have her blessing. I knew I needed to do this the right way and in a way that would please Deanna more than anyone else.
Well, I take that back. I wanted to please Deanna and my parents, too. Because in all of this, that has been paramount to me. Seeing about them and making sure that all of this was okay with them.
Yeah.
So with a smile on my face that was genuine and not forced, I told that room of people about Deanna. And since she loved my blog and especially the "top ten" posts, I distilled it into "The Top Ten Things I Know For Sure About My Sister Deanna." Indexing those things was therapeutic and uplifting. And funny. Because that was my sister. Funny. Fun. Joyful. Giving. (And the kind of person that would inspire somebody to take a shot of Mr. John Daniels in the pulpit.)
Ah hem.
Zachary kept giving me these super eager thumbs ups from his seat on the front row every time I caught his eye. And Isaiah ran up to me to give me a huge hug when I finished. He said right in my ear, "Mommy, you did really, really good and I know Auntie would be proud of you."
Yeah. That boy. He's been here before, I tell you.
Maybe I'll make a post of what I shared that day. It would make a kick ass top ten, now that I think about it. But I promise that it will be for another time because this post is already ridiculously, oppressively long. Ha ha.
Oh well.
Did I mention? Grandmama was there. Ninety years old and right there seeing about her own baby, my mama. That was a hard sight. It was because what could be more unnatural than making it to your tenth decade and living to see a grandchild go before you? Now that? That's just effed up and all out of order. So that was rough to see.
But.
My grandmama is a strong lady. Super, duper strong. And after ninety plus years, Grandmama understands the circle of life better than anybody. And you know? She was peaceful. Really, really peaceful the whole time. I suppose her peace made us all feel a little more of the same.
At least it did for me.
I know you want to know about my parents and how they are. They are doing surprisingly well. I love that they're transparent about their feelings and that we're all just grieving in our own ways. We're loving on each other and sharing and just doing the things that families do.
And the kids? They are resilient like kids are. They are talking about Deanna and crying when they feel sad and laughing when they feel happy. They speak of her like the force she was and always will be in their lives. Fearlessly and without trepidation. Things like, "Auntie taught me how to crochet this scarf" or "Auntie would be mad if she saw you walking around with your shoelaces untied! Tie your shoe!"
And I love that. So much. I do.
So that day, like most days with Deanna, was a day of love. I'm so glad that you got to take my hand and be there. I promise to come and pick you up for the California one, too, okay?
Oh. And keep on thinking of us and praying for us, okay? We will still need that. And to every person that felt a scab of their own getting unroofed when this happened -- because they either lost a sibling themselves or another dear loved one -- know that I'm thinking of you, too. Because you know and I know that the heart makes room for joy, pain, sunshine and rain. Our own and that of others, too. All at the same time even. It always does if we let it.
I love y'all. Man. I sure do.
***
Happy Sunday. And here is the video--because that's part of you being there, too.One of the last pictures of Isaiah captures the way he looked at his Uncle Will. (You might have to make it full screen because I couldn't figure out how to make it fit when I embedded it.) VENI, VIDI, VICI: CELEBRATING DEANNA! from Kimberly Manning on Vimeo.
And this, one of the solos sung by one of our sorors who indeed has a spiritual gift for singing.
It was a celebration, y'all! A homegoing fit for a life well lived. Yesterday was the homegoing (not to be confused with homecoming) celebration for my beloved sissy, Deanna. And like real, true homegoings, it was a celebration of her life--more light than heavy and with tears like sunshowers instead of a torrential downpour.
Yeah. So it was awesome, y'all. More to come, okay? I promise. Because I do want to gather my wits and tell you about it so that you can feel like you were there, too.
Thanks so much to all who were there in spirit and in person. My heart is still full of joy. Joy and peace because my sister had such an impact on people. Her celebration gave us all the opportunity to introduce others to her, too.
Here's my favorite picture of her. Isn't she so gorgeous here? That hand on her shoulder is actually mine. We were at a sorority function together and it was a good time. I cropped me out of it--and you should thank me because I wasn't nearly as cute as she in this one.
Mom and Dad are doing okay. The love has been felt. God has engulfed them in His love. And you have, too. You have! Even virtually. You know that right? You know that you've been a part of this healing process? You have.
Okay. Just wanted to check in with y'all and let you know that everything was beautiful. The Delta ceremony was spectacular, too. There were a SEA of Deltas there. Absolutely amazing. And guess what? I wore Deanna's pin right over my heart. I sure did. That made me stronger.
I know that a lot of you are wondering about the details on Deanna's Homegoing Celebration. And wow--what a blessing that SO many people love my sister and our family and want to be there to celebrate her life!
Okay. Here's the deal:
VENI, VEDI, VICI:
The Celebration of Life for Deanna L. Draper
December 8, 2012
Memorial Service will begin promptly at 3PM
*Delta Sigma Theta Homegoing Ceremony will precede the Memorial Service at 2PM.
Deltas and loved ones/family (non-sorority members) may attend.
If you are contemplating being there, please email me directly for the specific location and further information at: gradydoctor@gmail.com.
**Los Angeles peeps -- the hometown memorial celebration will be on December 15, 2012. Please email JoLai (Bay-sis) for details or hit her up on Facebook: djdjd04@yahoo.com
Thanks, y'all!
Deanna's brick on the Tuskegee Walkway on the yard. Perfect mantra, right?
***
See y'all at the celebration--in person or in spirit! Kool and the Gang. . . take me out!
And tell me mama are you missing me the way
that I'm missing you today?
Tell me mama can you hear me?
Oh,I'm thinking of you
And all the things that you wanted me to be
And I'm trying now. . .
Oh, I'm thinking of you
And all the things that you wanted me to be
And I'm trying now . . . .
*** Dear Sissy,
I'm thinking of you and I'm trying this morning. Wearing my collection of pretty scarves that you crocheted with a sister's love. Feeling your presence and looking at your pictures and laughing and crying and trying.
I love you forever and always.
Sissy
*** Now playing on my mental iPod as I'm thinking of you. Thank you, Mr. Kravitz for ministering to me this morning.
"Homegoing celebration" is the term my people often use to describe what most refer to as a funeral service or a memorial. Instead of the traditional heavy, dark clouds of grief and muffled sobs that funerals usually bring to mind, it's a bit different than that. It's often hopeful. . . uplifting. . .and though painful, yes. . . .almost always celebratory. The shouts are audacious and when the tears do come, they are often so unrestrained that to someone less familiar with black culture, it could be a lot.
I always liked the term "homegoing" instead of funeral.
Unfortunately, I wasn't able to be there for her homegoing, but my heart was on the front pew. I know that if she touched me like she did in that brief period then her service was packed from wall to wall with more people than anyone can count. I just know it. So yes, in my heart I was there.
Last night, I went by the funeral home to pay respects at the viewing of her body. My fellow Grady doctor, Neil W., met me there and together we signed the book and reflected on this remarkable human being. We read her life story and felt the energy and the love in that place. Three of her family friends were there, too, and they asked us who we were. When we shared that we were Grady doctors who had the honor to care for her, they cried and nodded.
"Of course her doctors are here. Because she was the kind of person that would make you want to be here," one woman said. And we all nodded, too.
We stood there in a circle. . .sharing and reflecting and remembering and celebrating. Neil told one of the sisters from her church that he has never met a more peaceful human being. I shared that I'd known her for only a brief time, but it felt like an eternity. Another lady said that she always made her feel like she was better than she gave herself credit for--but eventually she started to believe thanks to Mrs. Z. It was awesome. Four black women and one Jewish guy from Long Island holding hands and touching and agreeing--- all in the context of love. We all hugged each other tight and it felt good.
Yes, Mrs. Zebedee. You were right. You were so very right.
Thank you for everything. . . .
Now . . . you go ahead and get some rest. It's okay. Go on home.
I am hearing this on my mental iPod today. . .feeling your peace in my heart and celebrating your homegoing. I love the joy and peace in his voice that reminds me so much of you. . . .
I know you loved this song. Today, I'm playing it for you.
Honestly? I write this blog to share the human aspects of medicine + teaching + work/life balance with others and myself -- and to honor the public hospital and her patients--but never at the expense of patient privacy or dignity.
Thanks for stopping by! :)
"One writes out of one thing only--one's own experience. Everything depends of how relentlessly one forces from this experience the last drop, sweet or bitter, it can possibly give."
~ James Baldwin (1924 - 1987)
"Do it for the story." ~ Antoinette Nguyen, MD, MPH
Details, names, time frames, etc. are always changed to protect anonymity. This may or may not be an amalgamation of true,quasi-true, or completely fictional events. But the lessons? They are always real and never, ever fictional. Got that?
