Alix. Alix. Alix.

2015

When she was a first-year medical student, I ran into her in the lobby of the medical school. She knew my name before I knew hers. Which isn't an unusual thing for those junior to you in a place where you're both underrepresented minorities. "Hi Dr. Manning!" she said as I passed. Her eyes were dancing with admiration and deference. I was busy, but still. I wanted to try to show her the same.

I stopped. I smiled. I asked her name, too.

"Alix," she said.
"Nice to meet you, Alix," I replied. Then I said:

"Alix. Alix. Alix."

That's what I do when I meet someone and want to be sure to seal a name into my brain. And that is exactly what happened. After that, whenever I saw her moving between classes with an oversized bookbag or chatting with her comrades, I made sure to call her by her name.

"Alix. Alix. Alix."

Yup.

Ultimately, that created a space for us to talk more. I gave her my number and told her to reach out anytime. Because I care about our students, yes. But especially because I know exactly what it feels like to be a black female navigating a large majority medical institution.

Yup.

One day during Thanksgiving break of her first year, she sent me a text asking if she could join me on rounds. I replied that she could and offered some future dates. "I was hoping to join you this week," Alix said. It was Thanksgiving week. And she was on break. But once I asked if she was sure, she confirmed that this was exactly how she wanted to spend the Saturday after turkey day. And so she did.

Yup.

2015

That was in 2015. Fast forward to this month and now she is a senior medical student rotating on my team. She's a few weeks away from matching into a residency. Her stride is more confident. Her comfort level navigating around Grady so much different than the nervous freshman student who stuck close to my side back in November of 2015. I looked at her on rounds yesterday and felt a pang in my chest.

2019

"This is a full circle moment," I told her yesterday after rounds.
"Yes, it is. I feel so lucky."
"Do you remember that day you came to round with me?"
"The Saturday after Thanksgiving. I will never forget."

After that, I didn't say much. I just sat there staring at her with the same admiration and deference that she'd offered to me in the hallway nearly four years ago.

"Damn, I'm so proud of you."
"I know."
"You do?"
"Yes. I do."

We both sat there smiling for a few beats. Then I spoke again.

"Pay it forward, okay?"
"I will."
"You know what? I already knew that."

And I said that because it was true.

Alix. Alix. Alix.
I'm so glad I took the time to learn your name.


I love this job. So much, man.

Yeah.

***

I took those photos that day right after she'd finished rounding with me back in November 2015. Because I knew I'd want to go back and savor that moment someday. You know what? I was right.

First Person Chronicles, Chapter 3: Me and Mrs. Jones.

*with minor exceptions, all people included are fictional. The hypothetical experiences are based upon my own observations.

The Unit Clerk

"Miss? Where can I find some gauze and some scissors?"

I was actually on hold with radiology when I heard his voice. Just as I started to address him, someone came in on the line to answer my call. I held up one finger, looked up and smiled. Then I mouthed to him, "Give me just one second." He didn't seem to like that.

"I really need some gauze and scissors now," he repeated. That "now" had a huffiness to it that caused my brow to furrow. I mean, was someone bleeding to death as he stood there? Or had he just decided that his time was exponentially more important than my time--or even the time of the other person I was assisting? "Who is my nurse?" he demanded once more. "I mean, the nurse taking care of 15 bed one?"

At this point he made it clear to me that he was gong to keep hovering right there until I stopped everything to help him. Now I was on hold again with radiology as they looked to see where a patient was and whether transport had picked her up already. I took my chances and put them on hold with me, too.

"Mrs. Okeke." I had checked the board behind me that very clearly indicated who the RN was caring for his patient. The same board he could have looked at. I decided to be a bit passive aggressive when I said it by pointing at the white board.

"Who is that?" he countered without even trying to think more. Just then, Mrs. Okeke walked up.

"This is Mrs. Okeke, " told him while gesturing in her direction. "Okeke, this doctor needs some help with 15 bed one."

He immediately butted in. "I need some gauze and some scissors."

That's it, that's all. No "good morning." No "excuse me, can you help me." No nothing.  Mrs. Okeke just walked off toward the PIXIS to get him what he needed. And that was that.

Just then I remembered radiology and tried to return back to the call I was placing. Before I could, someone else approached the station. "My daddy is cold. Don't Grady have more than just one blanket they give people?" For a moment I wasn't sure who this young woman was speaking to. But then, after a few seconds, it clicked for me that she couldn't be speaking to anyone else but me, the unit clerk.

"Ma'am?" That's all I could think to say. She was clearly frustrated. I needed to prepare myself.

"My daddy is seventy five years old and he in there with just one blanket. He's cold! Can't he have more cover?"

"I don't think that should be a problem. Let me call someone for you."

And with that, she just walked away. No "thank you," no "preciate you," no nothing.

"Is it time yet for me to get something for pain? I'm in pain." This was Mr. Marshall who, every few hours, was at the unit clerk's station asking this same question. His IV pole was right next to him and he still had on his hospital gown. Like always.

Sometimes he started out super, syrupy sweet, complimenting my hair and my skin and then asking me to call his nurse. Other times he was volatile, banking his adhesive taped hand on the counter and gnashing his teeth in my direction. But most of the time, he was somewhere in the middle. Too exhausted to put on a show or rather,  just forgetting. "It's only been about two hours, sir."

"Well, can you call my nurse to come and see me? I'm in pain," he said. His face twisted up and he slumped his shoulders before slinking back toward his room with the IV pole in tow.

Sigh.

I put my hand on the receiver of the phone once more and prepared to call radiology back. Then came that booming voice overhead and those sirens.

"CODE BLUE, SEVEN A. CODE BLUE, SEVEN ALPHA!"

I had noticed a little bit of commotion down on the tail end of the long hall but didn't realize that it was a code situation. Mrs. Okeke came bursting out of room 15 and all of the other nurses began running toward room 26. The rude resident with the gauze ran out next and seconds a later, more doctors of various levels came pouring out of the stairwells and hallways into the corridor.

"Where is it!?" one yelled in my direction.

"26!" I responded.

The entire area outside of the door of room 26 was swarmed with people. Some walking in, some walking out. Some yelling, some looking terrified. And me, I just braced myself and waited for all of the orders that would surely be coming my way.

Whether the patient made it or not.

See, for the clerk? A code means entering orders and making calls. Where those orders and calls go depends upon the outcome. Either way, people often come out of those crazy situations flinging orders like frisbees at your head.

No "please," no "thank you," no nothing.

Which, I guess, I can maybe allow if someone has died. I mean, maybe.

I look at my census to see who is in room 26. Oh no! Sweet Mr. Shaughnessy! Oh no.

I wasn't sure of all the medical parts of what was going one with him. All I knew was that he was homeless, had some psych problems and some kind of medical issue that had made him a real, real long term player. He didn't come out of his room much during the day. Only in the evenings, when things were more quiet. And when he did, he was kind to me. Really and truly kind.

His hair was always matted and he smelled a little bit whenever he came out to the desk. His teeth were all cracked and blackened and his beard so nappy that it resembled taco meat pasted to his face and neck. But that part didn't faze me so much. It didn't. I loved the way he always remembered my name and how, despite his circumstances, seemed to be able to find a glimmer of light everything. I know for sure that he knew my name because every time he approached the counter in the late afternoons or evenings he'd sway from side to side while holding his IV pole like a microphone. Then he'd croon in a really low voice,  "Meeeeee aaaaaaand Mrs.-Mrs. Joooooooones. . . we got a thaaaaaaaaaang . . goin' on. . . . "

And each time I'd just laugh and laugh. Some might have thought he was being fresh, given the nature of that song. But not me. To me it felt like a hug and a big pile of all the "thank yous" and "good mornings" that I hadn't received all day long.

I closed my eyes and said a little prayer for him.

"My daddy stil didn't get no blanket," the same woman said to me. My eyes flung open and I stood up.

"Let me help you," I said. Quickly, I headed over to the laundry cart and slipped a clean blanket out of the stack. "Here you are, ma'am." She took the blanket and marched away, mumbling under her breath something not-so-flattering.

No "thank you," no "preciate you," no nothing.

The phone was ringing when I returned to my desk and from the corner of my eye, I could still see the people milling around room 26.

"Unit 7A, Ms. Jones speaking,"I answered. The person on the other end was a family member of a patient. A seemingly angry one who wanted to know what was going on with a loved one.  Carefully, I did what we are instructed to do, determine who the person is and contact the nurse. But with the code going on, I'd just have to take a message.

"Who am I speaking to?" the person demanded to know.

"I'm Ms. Jones. The unit clerk."

"Well. I need to speak to a doctor or a nurse. Right now."

"Um, okay. Well ma'am, we have an emergency on the floor right now and her nurse is occupied. I can have her call you right back. You said you're her daughter, correct?"

"I'm like a daughter to her, yes. I need to know what's going on right now. I'll just hold."

Like a daughter? I leaned back in the chair and rolled my eyes a little while the receiver was away from my face.

"Ma'am, I will have the nurse or doctor call you back once we get the permission of the patient. Thank you for your understanding."

"This is some bullshit!" the lady on the other end said. And then she hung up. On me.

Sigh.

I looked back down the hall and hoped poor Mr. Shaughnessy was okay. I wished that call had been for him and wondered who would arrange a funeral for him if he passed. I decided that I would go if there was one. To his funeral.

Suddenly, everyone came walking out of the room toward the unit station. Mrs. Okeke was reaching into her pocket for meds that she was obviously about to pass before and the rest of the staff all seemed to be returning to what they were doing. The doctors, even the rude-gauze-and-scissors dude, all walked right by my desk with these nondescript looks on their faces. I couldn't tell from looking at anyone whether or not Mr. Shaughnessy had made it.

So much energy. No answers. No nothing. Chaos one minute, business the next.

I closed my eyes once more and said another little prayer for Mr. S.

"Good morning, Ms. Jones."

That nice greeting--by name--startled me. I looked up and saw the smiling face of what appeared to be a young doctor. I tried to place her--I think she'd been a medical student here first and had stayed on as a doctor. I could usually tell by the length of the white coat which, right now, I couldn't go by since all she was wearing was a set of blue scrubs.

"How are you doing today?" she asked me still smiling. I noticed the tiny freckles spread across her nose and the color of her eyes. Some shade of greenish-blue.  I smiled back.

"Good. Crazy morning."

"Yes, indeed," she replied. "You look a little distracted. Are you okay today, Ms. Jones?"

I felt bad for not knowing her name. But the fact that she'd made up her mind to not only learn my name but use it, spoke volumes of who she was. Though I couldn't place her name, I recalled the team she was on as a student where her attending, Dr. Winawer, always spoke to me in front of all of them. I think she'd learned from that example. Which I appreciated.

"The patient who coded has been here a while. He's such a nice man. I was just feeling a little worried, that's all."

The freckle-faced intern reached out her hand for me and touched my arm. "That's so kind of you," she said softly. "Well, I'm on the ICU team this month. And I want you to know that I'll be taking care of Mr. Shaughnessy up stairs, okay? We got his pulse back and it looks like the nurses called the code so quickly and started compressions so fast that it made a difference. Of course, he's sick. But we will take good care of him, I promise." I could tell that she meant that.

"I'm so glad."

She nodded and began to walk backward toward the room again. Then she stopped and said, "Oh, I almost forgot and I've been meaning to ask. Did your daughter make the dance team?"

I was confused for a moment and then remembered telling Dr. Winawer about my daughter trying out for her high school dance line last year. She was a student and was there and remembered. Which immediately made me feel like crying and laughing at the same time. "She is the captain this year. Her and another girl."

The freckle-faced intern gave me a big thumbs up and shuffled back over to room 26. And that was that.

"Is it time for my pain medicine yet? Is it?!"

It was Mr. Marshall again. This time he was angry. He slammed his hands on the counter in front of me.

"I'm sorry you're in pain, sir. But it's only been a few moments since the last time you were here."

"CALL MY NURSE!" he snarled.

I didn't say another word. I just sat still for a moment. From the corner of my eye, I noticed the bed being wheeled out with Mr. Shaughnessy on it. Someone was bagging him while the freckle-faced intern was holding his the rail of the bed helping guide it. When she passed me, she gave me another thumbs up. "Bye Ms. Jones!" she said. "Thanks for your help!"

As they disappeared down the hall, I realized that I hadn't done anything for her. But that she seemed to appreciate the fact that I stood ready to.

Sigh.

That little bit, that tiny humanistic nod from that intern did my heart good and had given me the charge I needed.  I looked up at Mr. Marshall and softened my expression. "Good morning, again," I said, "Let me see if I can somehow help, okay?"

And he nodded his head and let that angry fire quiet down. Instead of getting his nurse, I put my hand on his back and walked him back to his room. I told him it would be okay and that I'd make sure his nurse knew he was in pain. And that? That seemed to be enough.

Surprisingly enough, it was and all he really wanted after all.

Two lines were ringing when I got back to the desk. One of which was radiology asking why I'd hung up on them. Another resident doctor was asking for something without making eye contact with me.

"Who is O-KEEK?" she asked while looking a bit annoyed.

"Mrs. O-KAY-KAY is right there. Would you like me to get her attention for you?"

That annoyed resident just walked off while muttering what I think just maybe was a thank you. Maybe. She obviously hadn't been on Dr. Winawer's team. Oh well.

Also a patient who was recently discharged was standing at the counter with a prescription that she couldn't afford to fill. I wasn't sure how to fix that, but figured I could at least say I was sorry and get the doctor. Which seemed to make a difference.

I paused for a moment, just long enough to hear Mr. Shaughnessy with his crackly voice singing quietly in my ear and then I smiled, thinking about the care I know for sure that the freckle-faced intern would give him. I knew he was in good hands.

Why?

Because she noticed me. And if she noticed me, then she'll notice him. And to me, noticing people is like telling them they matter. And that you care.  Which, if you ask me, is more important than just about anything else when you're working in a hospital like Grady.

I returned to my work--answering phones and answering questions. Some people were nice to me and some weren't. But me? I made up in my mind to notice them all no matter what. . . .

. . even if they hadn't yet made it up in theirs to notice me.

***
Happy Monday. Will make up for Sunday with two today. Stay tuned.


Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . for all of the wonderful unit clerks at Grady who deserve to always, always be noticed. 

Like a new life.

See I was wasted 

and I was wasting time 

'Till I thought about your problems

I thought about your crimes 

Then I stood up, and then I screamed aloud 

I don't wanna be part of your problems 

Don't wanna be part of your crowd, no 

'Cause I've got a hand for you 

I've got a hand for you 

'Cause I wanna run with you 

Ah, won't you let me run with you? 

Hold my hand 

Want you to hold my hand 

Hold my hand 

I'll take you to the promised land 

Hold my hand 

Maybe we can't change the world but 

I wanna love you the best that

the best that I can

~ from Hootie and the Blowfish "Hold My Hand"

_____________________________________________

I reached my hand toward yours the minute I entered the room. Just like the elegant elder that you are, you laid your delicate hand into my own. Each of your nails was painted a deep shade of red. And just like that manicure, your ruby lips complimented your caramel complexion perfectly.

"Good morning, Mrs. Maxwell. I'm Dr. Manning and I'm working with your resident doctor today."

"It is very nice to meet you, Dr. Manning."  You shook my hand; your grip was more firm than I expected.

Sure. Deliberate. Tough.

Something about that handshake made me curious about your story. Even more so than my usual curiosity.

This is what you looked like on the outside: An exquisite matriarch with coiffed hair (that you quickly admitted was "one of many" hairdos in your closet) and well-coordinated, well-starched clothing. Your legs were crossed at the ankles and your hands were stacked one upon the other in your lap. All of it so dainty. Quite the opposite of that handshake.

I wondered about that. About you.

Who were you? Were you a grandmother of ten and a great-grandmother of fifteen? Were all of your own now "grown"and were they all somewhere plotting a big fiftieth wedding anniversary for their father and you?

Maybe you were a deaconess in your church, sitting with those same crossed legs and stacked hands on hard pews. Perhaps it was you that cut your eyes at teenagers chewing bubble gum in the choir stand or better yet who walked right up to them with an open palm and a full expectation for them to spit it right out. I could see that.

And what about your cooking? Were you the queen of sour cream pound cake or the belle of all things barbecue? Was your kitchen table the one where family of all ages sat around and learned those very important things like picking the best collard green leaves and shelling black eyed peas? Did your kitchen sink have two milk crates in front of it for tween-agers to stand upon while elbow deep in dishwashing suds? I could see that, too.

But then there was your handshake. No, it wasn't one of unnecessary roughness but what seemed to be necessary toughness. More than just the regular tough of growing up black and female under the thumb of Jim Crow laws and intense segregation. This was that kind of tough that you can see and hear and feel if you just pay attention. You seemed to be an overcomer of some sort; this is what I was thinking. And all of this I thought about with just that one handshake.

Sure. Deliberate. Tough.

I repeated parts of your history of present illness and also examined you. Just as the resident had described, there was not much to report in the exam. You took my hand as I helped you down from the examining table and there it was again--that handshake.

Sure. Deliberate. Tough.


What was that? Where did it come from?

"You have a great handshake. It's so confident."

That observation seemed to make you smile. "Yeah. My Daddy always told me that your handshake tell a lot about you."

I thought about that for a moment. "You know what your handshake tells me? It tells me that you must be strong."

"You know? I'm stronger than you'd even believe."

That felt like you were giving me an invitation.  And I was hungry for your story so I readily accepted. Where to start? I pressed my lips together to force a pause before speaking. Then I bit. "Stronger than I'd even believe? Tell me about that."

Yes. That's what I said. But just like that hand shake you were deliberate in your answer.

"Which? The truth or something that will fit what most people see when they see me?"

That kind of shook me up. I held your gaze and drew from your necessary toughness. "I guess I'm interested in hearing your truth. That is, if you want to share it."

My resident looked from side to side. What did this have to do with her blood pressure or her blood sugars? How would this get her that overbook into the GI clinic or get one of the medicines she needed added to the four dollar list at WalMart? Nothing.

And everything.

In his defense,"tell me about that" is a rather loaded statement. That answer could yield anything from a knowing nod to a hyperverbose soliloquy. I couldn't tell if my resident was frustrated with my detour or if he just wasn't sure what to expect out of your answer. But he was gracious and respectful so I believe it was more the latter.

Honestly? I wasn't sure what to expect either.

You reached into your patent leather pocket book and pulled out a key chain filled with multicolored key fobs. My first thought was that these represented grandchildren or foster children or travels or years on a job. But once you lifted them all the way up, I could see what they were.

NA: Narcotics Anonymous

"This is my twentieth year of sobriety this week. It's a very important week for me." Your face looked proud. As well it should have.

Narcotics Anonymous? Sobriety? You? 


I was stunned into silence. I just nodded my head and furrowed my brow. This wasn't what I expected but it did explain more about that handshake. This wasn't what I thought you'd say. No, not one bit. I tried to be cool.

"Twenty years is a long time. Congratulations." That's what I finally managed to say. It felt canned because I was still reeling from that revelation.

"Yeah. Baby, it's like a new life," you responded. "A brand new life for me."

"It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life for me, yeah. And I'm feeling good. . . ."

It was like Ms. Nina Simone was standing right there in that room singling those lyrics out loud instead of in my head. Your voice was even raspy like hers and that statement filled with just as much meaning.

Sure. Deliberate. Tough.

"I can see that in your eyes. And feel it in the way you shake hands." That made us both chuckle in unison. I obviously wasn't the first to comment on your firm grip.

"Twenty years away from crack is a long time, but by the grace of God I been making it. Every day. I just get up and take that day. Then I go to bed thankful and wake up to take the next one."

"Do you have children?" I asked. I'm not sure where that came from. I just wanted to hear more about who you were.

You beamed and nodded. "Four wonderful and patient grown up kids. You know? I was in my forties already when I started using. Had just got a divorce 'cause my husband liked to drink and then put his hands on me. I got tired of that so left him, but I was still looking for ways to abuse myself. Almost like I somehow thought it was what I deserved."

"Man."

"Yeah. I had a uncle used to touch me when I was a girl. And all the men used hit on women back then, too. That'll make you grow up hating yourself. Drugs just an extension of all that, you know? I waited late to start messing with 'em but once I did, I was hooked." All the while, you still had your hands stacked in your lap with those ankles crossed carefully and daintily at the ankle.

"Did that hurt your relationship with your kids?"

"They was adults, like I said. But really, they was just very, very gracious. In every single way. I went to a treatment program and they was coming to see about me and everything. And I give it to them 'cause I had hit rock bottom. I was out there taking dates to get high and all that. One time I spent almost $3000 in one day."

"Taking dates?"

"Yeah. That's what they call it when you on the street and you prostituting your body for crack."

And that image was enough to make me want to change the channel. I didn't like the idea of you, my elegant matriarch "taking dates" and at rock bottom. I couldn't get my mind around someone abusing your body and robbing you of your innocence as a child. No, I didn't like this one bit. I liked my fairytale version from earlier.

My resident spoke up just in the nick of time. "Twenty years? Wow. I didn't even know that about you, Mrs. Maxwell."

You swung your head in his direction. "Well, it's true," you said. "All of it."

And you had the keychains to prove it.

Turns out that you were a grandmother and also a great-grandmother. Had your late husband lived to see this year, you would have celebrated your forty-fifth year of marriage the very week before. So, I guess you were all those things I thought initially. You were also everything that handshake conveyed.

Sure. Deliberate. Tough.

"Congratulations, Mrs. Maxwell. I know your family is so, so proud."

"I'm proud of myself."

"I'm proud of you, too."

After that, you reached out and hugged me tight. Right there in the middle of the visit. Then you showed me every last one of your keychains, one for each year of sobriety. Then we laughed and talked about things like pollen counts and humidity in the South. We even talked about sour cream pound cake.

Finally I stood and prepared to leave. You reached out for my hand and shook it again. Red nails pressing into the back of my hand just like before. Then I thought about your daddy's take on the whole thing and what that handshake said about you before I even heard you speak your truth.

Sure. Deliberate. Tough.

You know what? I think your daddy was right.

***
Happy Tuesday. And Happy Sobriety, too.


Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . .taking it back to the 90's.


and this one, too. . . .just for my elegant, strong, deliberate, and tough matriarch. Because it's like a new life. And she's feeling good. Sorry Mr. Buble, but nobody sings it like Ms. Nina Simone. And if you don't agree, you don't know good music, baby!

Zoom.

 Oh Zoom

I'd like to fly far away from here

Where my mind is fresh and clear

And I'd find the love that I long to see

Where everybody can be what they wanna be

~ The Commodores "Zoom"

_____________________________________

"Tell Patrick to shut that screen door!"

I nervously rearranged the covers over Ms. Abner since I couldn't meet that request. First of all, there was no screen door in this hospital room. And second of all, I wasn't fully certain who Patrick was.

"Hi Ms. Abner. It's me, Dr. Manning. I'm just here to see about you and check on your bladder infection, okay?"

"Somebody told y'all to come over here and I didn't want all that. I still got to write out bills."

I stared into Ms.Abner's eyes and searched for something, anything that would even our playing field. A glimmer or flicker to let me know we were in the same place. But we weren't.

You see, Ms. Abner had been robbed. Slowly and ruthlessly robbed. Not in that way where someone kicks in your door and ransacks the place for everything at once but in that way that takes some time to realize. A piece of jewelry here. A couple of dollars there. Until one day you look up and realize that just about everything you really cared about is gone. With the exception of the heavy furniture.

And yeah. Technically, robbery suggests that something is being taken by force. But in my mind, any time someone loses their precious memories and cognitive abilities, it has to be by force. Even if it seems sneaky like a pick pocket, no matter what anyone says, it's still brutal like robbery.

Yeah.

So, Ms. Abner had been robbed. Over and over in broad daylight with everybody at home.

Her eyes were so vacant. Off in some far away land with people named Patrick and swinging screen doors. And the hardest part was that she wasn't even seventy years old yet.

"You're looking a little better today, Ms. Abner. Your blood pressure is better and your fever seems to have broken."

"Do she know how to get there? Somebody need to give her directions, don't they?"

"Beg pardon, Ms. Abner?" I reflexively asked.

Zoom.

Just like that, that idea was gone, too. Now it seemed like the heavy furniture was being lifted right along with the silverware.

I looked down at the blanket dutifully strewn over her shoulders. A lovely leopard-printed fleece that clearly wasn't a Grady issued item. Her face had been scrubbed clean and covered with what looked like Vaseline. The thinning gray hair on her head was tightly plaited into cornrows. It was obvious that someone loved her.

Next I saw a note taped to the bedrail:

"My mother Ms. Lola Abner is very cold-natured. Please keep cover on her shoulders even when it seem like the room is warm. Also if you take off her socks you need to put them back on her feet because she get cold. ~ Signed, Angela Campbell (her daughter)."

Written in careful cursive with love in every swirl. Followed by two phone numbers in big block letters, just in case that note wasn't clear. And so, I did exactly as that meticulous note suggested. I checked to make certain that her body was fully covered with her blanket and that her socks were on both of her feet. One was off so I replaced it.

She stared out of the window speaking in disconnected sentences. I watched her, trying my hardest to see the person that I am sure she once was. The one before the thievery and the vacancy.

"Ms. Lola." I spoke her name quietly while patting her cheek. She turned her head in the direction of my voice. I repeated myself. "Ms. Lola, Ms. Lola, Ms. Lola."  

And that seemed to be something that the robbers couldn't move. Her name, Lola.

So I just stood there saying her name. And each time that I did she responded. She even smiled--at me. Not just in my general vicinity but truly at me, this person who was speaking her name. I wanted to see who she was so badly. This was the closest I could get.

And so. For the rest of her hospitalization this is what I did. I talked to her doting daughter about the details of her condition. Then I told Ms. Abner the plan -- whether she could hear me or not. And last, I just rubbed her dewy skin with the back of my hand and murmured her name.

"Ms. Lola."

And that always seemed to even the playing field.

On the day she was being discharged, I stopped by the room to see her. Ms. Abner's daughter, Ms. Campbell, was there fussing around her bed getting things ready. Once she had everything packed up in the plastic bags she sat on the chair and sighed.

"Did Patrick get what I told him to pick up from the store?"

Ms.Campbell reached down and tightened the draw string on the bag. She didn't look the least big fazed. "Mama, Patrick is gone, remember baby? But I got all the stuff you like at home from the store, okay?"

"It's weeds all out in that flower bed. I don't know why nobody don't just pull 'em up. A little bit every day so they don't get overgrown."

"Mmm hmmm, okay Mama. We gon' get you out the hospital today, okay baby? You doing better, Mama so we gon' get you on home." She looked over at me and pressed her lips together for a moment before speaking. "A nurse is going to get us discharged, right?"

"Yes, ma'am," I answered.

"Okay, good. Thanks, hear?"

I smiled and just sort of stood there thinking of what to say next. Ms. Campbell was on to the next thing and barely seemed to notice the pregnant pause.

"Umm, Ms. Campbell? What questions do you have for me about your mother?"

"Oh, huh?" She looked up from her pocketbook. She had already moved on to throwing out the old receipts and scraps of paper cluttering her bag. "Questions? None, sweetheart. We okay."

"Oh, okay."

I waited a few more seconds and then spoke again. I hoped I wouldn't regret that next question, but I just had to know.

"Ms. Campbell?"

Without glancing up from her purse she answered me. "Ma'am?"

"Who is Patrick?"

This time she stopped what she was doing altogether. She smiled and let her ample chest rise again with a big breath inward. "Patrick? Patrick was her baby brother. She loved him so much."

"He passed on?"

"Yeah. . . .an accident on the job when he was only in his twenties or so. I was just a little girl when he went home but I swear I feel like I know him. She always speak of him."

I nodded and kept my eyes fixed on her daughter. "Wow."

"She loved Patrick so much. Mmm, mm, mmm. That was her heart."

"You can tell," I responded. Then I chuckled and added, "Even if he left the screen door open."

Ms. Campbell threw her head back and laughed out loud. She glanced over at her mother and said, "Mama, you still on that screen door? Lord have mercy!"

And that laugh was easy and gentle but laced with some pain. I think I sensed it because right after she said that the room fell awkwardly silent. I bit the inside of my cheek and watched this woman who could not have been even ten years older than me. I imagined my own parents and loved ones and siblings and tried to get my mind around that laugh laced with angst.

I couldn't.

"Do you . . .miss her?"

Ms. Campbell squeezed her eyes together tight, almost like she was trying to literally create a dam to hold back tears. She shook her head and sighed again. That same big, bosom-raising sigh. "Every day," she finally said. "I miss my mama every single day."

"Mmmm." That was my response. It wasn't much but it conveyed a lot I hoped. Like, I bet you do miss her, or I don't know how you do it, or I bet you she misses you, too.

"It's hard because sometime she look at me dead in my eyes and seem so much like herself. And she say something that sound just like the mama that raised me and I do everything I can to keep her in that moment. But then just like that, she gone again. This almost worse than having her gone altogether. I think that sometimes. One minute she here, then she gone."

Zoom. Just like that.

"I'm sorry."

"Sometimes I am, too. But not for myself. She still my mama. It's still her. Deep inside I know that."

"Yeah," I said back, almost under my breath. Then I spoke up. "What was. . .she like? I mean before?"

Ms. Campbell's eyes lit up and then floated away into another time and place for a moment. "My mama was bossy. And opinionated. And a cook? Girl, what you talkin' 'bout! But she was a mean cook. She wouldn't give nobody her secrets and didn't like nobody in her kitchen when she was cookin' neither. And she didn't like nobody swingin' no screen doors in her kitchen letting flies in. Wheeewww, you want to see her mad? Open that screen while she cooking." She laughed again. But this time without the pain. "And she was a good mother to us. She took good care of us. It's six of us and she treated us all like we was the only one."

"Wow."

And after that, there wasn't much more to say. I moved toward the bed and studied Ms. Abner's face. I searched her for that person that her daughter had just painted. Instead of her frail and atrophied body, I imagined her able-bodied wiping her hands on an apron in her kitchen. I pictured her scolding children for swinging screen doors and seating them at a wooden table to say grace in unison over food she'd prepared with love. I even let that image include a young Patrick, strong and muscular, wolfing down a plate that she'd placed warming in the stove for him, her beloved younger brother.

"Ms. Lola, Ms. Lola, Ms. Lola," I whispered to her one last time.

Again she turned toward my voice and gazed right at me.

And for the first time, I think I truly saw her, too.

***
Happy Sunday.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . .Zoom. Damn, I love to hear the young Lionel Ritchie! 

Little mama.

(the Atlanta skyline at sunrise)

I like the sunrise 'cause it brings a new day
I like a new day it brings new hope they say
I like the sunrise blazing in the new sky
Nighttime is weary 

and oh so am I

Every evening I wish upon a star
That my brand new bright tomorrow isn't very far
When that heavy blue curtain of night
Is raised up high way out of sight

I like the sunrise so heavenly to see
I like the sunrise and I hope it likes poor me

Here comes the sunrise...

~ Duke Ellington 

 ____________________________

She almost ran me over.  Right outside the Grady entrance by Jesse Hill Jr. Drive.

"Sorry, 'scuse me!" she said without even looking my direction. Instead she flipped her shoulder upward to secure the pink padded diaper bag she was holding. Her youthful face was troubled and full of urgency and determination. Too much urgency and trouble in it to be so young if you asked me. But unusually determined, yes. The next words were for the preschooler who, instead of keeping up with her, was studying  me.

"Come on, here!"

I playfully raised my eyebrows and wiggled my fingers at the child who, instead of giggling or smiling, recoiled toward her mother. Still, as they passed me by she craned her neck keeping those eyes fixated on me in my long white coat.

Oh yeah, that. I started to announce that I didn't have any shots, but there was no time for all of that. They were clearly on a mission. Headed somewhere fast. Our little exchange didn't even register with mom. She reached out her hand and quickly pulled her in close.

And that was the end of that.

In the other hand was the tiny palm of her other child. Two years old? If that. Gait still wide-based and staggering. Kind of like Fred Sanford on Sanford and Son but cuter and more innocent. His cherubic face had perfectly symmetric features; this was made even more noticeable by the fuzzy trim of his coat hood tightly covering his head. Every few steps he seemed to drag a bit. Feet lifting off of the ground because there was no way he could keep up with her footing with only six to nine months of full-fledged walking under his belt.

Something about the urgency that he was being subjected to at such a young age gave me a pang in my heart. And even though I wanted to help out, for some reason I was like some sort of voyeuristic statue. . .thinking and watching but not moving.

Those little feet bobbed up and down on the sidewalk. Pick him up, I wanted to say. Can I help you out? But my mouth was as cemented as my body.

And then, like some kind of gun was shot in the air at a Triple Crown race, something changed. Things got even more urgent and her fast-paced strut erupted into a run. Or better yet, some kind of discombobulated jog. That overfilled diaper bag now pulled across the length of her torso. Strap lost between ample breasts appearing more so by the ill-fitting brassiere she wore.

"Ma-ma! Ma-ma! Oooooowww!"

That almost two year old maybe was two after all because he had words of protest when her hand grip clamped down like a vice. Cheeks turning red and mouth open and panting, she pulled him right along. At this point his toes now did nothing but graze the concrete.

"Owwwww. . . .hoo. . hooooooo."  

Next that pre-kindergartner melted into a pool of tired whimpering. Complete with the little kid noodle legs.

"Ma-meeeeee!"

But wherever she had to go, it was important. Too important to fight against synchronous crying fits or gelatinous legs. She dug in deeper, strengthened her resolve and gritted her teeth. Next her head swung from side to side because she was talking to both of those kids this time.  Out came a throaty growl meaning business and nothing less.

"Come-ON!"

Tired toddlers and pre-schoolers don't get this language, though, so it fell on deaf ears. More crying. More whimpering. More noodle legs.

And statue-me still just kept standing there frozen. Watching now from behind; bag now swung all the way around to her back and two small children floating behind her running legs like two human kites.

Where are you going?

Then, from the corner of my eye I saw it as she ran diagonally across the street with kids in tow: The MARTA bus. Just as she came gasping onto the curb it blasted her and her human appendages with tailpipe exhaust. And it pulled away from the bus stop.

Damn.

Like clockwork, she slowed herself down. The first few steps appeared defeated and tired, but not even three steps later they quickly returned to some sort of normal.

Kind of like she was used to losing.

She finally picked the talking two-ish year old up and planted him on her hip. Next she used two saliva-covered fingers to tidy up the hip-baby's face and then, with a second finger lick, the preschooler's. And I kept on watching as that previously uncooperative pre-k kid perched her face skyward and let her. Wincing but still. . . . this time cooperating and allowing her mother to do what was necessary. What was most striking, however, was that she was not reacting the least bit to the fact that instead of winning the bus-catching race they'd just received a big, gray plume of smoke as the booby prize. No tears, no nothing.

Kind of like she was used to losing, too.

And then somebody yelled out. "Hey! Hey little mama!"

A dude with his head out of the window of that bus. Stopped right in between the intersection and waiting. On them.

I stood and secretly cheered inside of my heart as they hustled over toward that bus that they obviously needed to make. My frozen body began melting and my feet shoved off toward wherever I had initially meant to go. But not before casting one more glance.

And thank goodness I did. . .for in that moment I caught it--a glimpse of the side of her young face and the spit-shined faces of her babies, too. Smiling, finally. All three of them.

As that bus disappeared down the block with them in it, I wanted to run behind it to yell through the window just like that dude had a few moments before.

"Hey! Hey little mama! Sometimes you win, okay?"

Yeah. Sometimes you win.

***
Happy Friday.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . Amel Larrieux singing a beautiful, haunting (and non-embeddable) version of Duke Ellington's "I Like the Sunrise." It makes me cry. This is one that I'd recommend you take a moment to hear--really. Then tell me you've heard something lovelier today so I can tell you you're lying.

. . .oh, and also. . . . the lovely Ms. Larrieux singing with Sade's band Sweetback on "Baby, You Will Rise" (with lyrics equally apropros.)

I see you, too.

Wow. This picture speaks volumes--regardless of who you're down with politically. . . or how you feel about Al Green.

***
Happy Monday, y'all.

Just do it for love.

"In your world of noise
Or in your quiet place
Whatever you say
Whatever you do. . . .

Just do it for love."

~ anonymous man on the beach

This lovely man sang an original song for my friends and me today on the beach. He threw back his head and lifted his voice over that salty air like no one was even watching. And it was beautiful. Really, really beautiful like bells ringing in unison or Etta James singing "At Last."

I asked him his name and he just laughed real easy-like and said, "Yeah, mon, I'm just the singing guy." And that was as much as he was willing to say so I left it at that.

The Singing Guy sang that song plus another by Tracy Chapman that was hauntingly soulful. We applauded and he beamed brighter than that Caribbean sun -- seeming to appreciate our genuine entertainment far more than those few loose bills we dropped into his hat.

That made me think about all of the amazingly talented people in tiny pockets all over the place and how few people get to see them or hear them. Strumming guitars and writing music that sounds as perfect as anything I could purchase on iTunes. Or maybe even better.

As a writer, I relate to this. Our applause was affirming. And affirmations feel good.

And so I offered more. "Singing Guy, I loved your original song the best of all. Those are good words for me to hear in my head going into a new year. Thank you for sharing them with us."

And he beamed again. This time even brighter.

I recorded his song and have replayed it for myself two and a half times already. (That's how I remembered the lyrics.) Even though he gave me permission to share his picture and my little iPhone video, I wasn't fully sure if I should. Hmm. Will think about that some more.

"In your world of noise
Or in your quiet place
Whatever you say
Whatever you do. . . .

Just do it for love."

That's a good word on a whole lot of levels. Yeah, mon.

***
Happy Friday.

Slip sliding away.

Slip sliding away

slip sliding away

you know the nearer your destination

the more you're slip sliding away.

~ Simon and Garfunkel

_________

You'd been sleeping for what seemed like three days. Your admission diagnosis was for a common reason--"altered mental status"--but what would happen next wasn't clear.

The first day they brought you in with soiled pants and underwear. Your body was limp like a rag doll, or better yet, like some sort of carnivorous animal shot with a tranquilizer dart and chemically restrained. Strong in body, muscular like the king of the jungle. . .but still and quiet.

Someone pushed their pointed knuckle deep into your sternum hoping it would arouse you but  . . . nothing. Another doctor came and mashed hard on your finger nail with an ink pen while a medical student watched. "Noxious stimuli," the doctor said. "This helps me see if he responds to painful stimuli." The student nodded in acknowledgment.

That first day, you didn't respond to much of anything. Your loss of continence combined with the gash on the back of your head made someone think that maybe you'd had a seizure. That was enough to get the Neurology team in to see you. It was also enough to prompt several tests to be run on you including a spinal tap and an MRI. 

By the time I got there, you had moved from somnolent to "groggy."  Heavy eyelids, slurred speech, words that came out as nonsense--but this was better than how you reached the ER. I glanced at your arms and found them sprinkled with red dots like confetti. Next I saw the middle-aged woman whose pained expression from the bedside chair clenched the diagnosis for me:

Drugs.

You were too out of it to participate in that conversation, so on my first visit I just spoke with your mom. Watching how her lower lip quivered when she told me of your long battle with substance abuse and depression hurt me deep in my heart. Sips of alcohol in middle school. Then some marijuana. A few wild friends nudged you into harder things like powder cocaine and prescription pills. Before you knew it, this became too difficult to manage. You needed something quick and predictable to see you through the complexities of your mood disorder and your physiologic dependence.

"Heroin will help you not be sick." This was the word on the street so you clenched your teeth and got over that fear of needles that you'd had since your boyhood.

And from there things went crazy.

This was the story your mother gave me with her quivering lip and tired eyes. This wasn't the first time she'd been here.

When you finally woke all the way up, I happened to be there rounding. You were astounded at the fact that you were in an adult diaper and you asked about your mother right away.

"Oh my God. My mom--was she here?"

I nodded. "Her and, I think, your sister."

"Did my mom. . . .agghhh. .  . .was she crying?" you asked while smacking your palm to your forehead. I noticed your fingernails then. Painted black.

"Not really crying. She was just kind of. . . ."

"Trying to talk with her lips trembling? She only does that when she's trying not to cry."

I didn't want to answer that so I just stood there staring at you. That was enough, though. You dropped your face into your hands. "Fuck!"  You balled up your fist and pounded it onto the bed.

I reached out and gripped the hand rail. I wasn't sure what to do.

"She's done this with me so many times. I'm so tired of dragging her through this." You punched the bed again, this time startling me.

"She didn't seem mad. I mean, she just seemed concerned," I finally said. I wanted you to feel better and this was all I could think to say.

"That's the freakin' problem. She's not mad. She freakin' forgives me and prays over me and lets me back into her house. And it's fine at first and then I fuck it right up."

I bit the inside of my cheek awkwardly. I didn't really know what to do, so I just sort of stood there like I'd been frozen with some kind of remote control.

Your situation was different for me. I mean, yes, I have seen people addicted to intravenous drugs but in Atlanta at this hospital, it's definitely not the method of choice. I was used to hearing about relapses of crack cocaine and tales of bodies being sold to get hands on it. Bodies neglected from the full time job of smoking tiny white rocks in little glass pipes. And empty promises to get out of hospital beds.

You were this college educated person with blue blood lineage. The one whose behavior screamed black sheep but whose mother loved him like a precious lamb.

"Is it the craving. . .like. . feeling sick that makes you keep coming back to it?"  I asked this really dumb question, yes. But only because I was curious.

"It's the hating myself, really." You looked down at your arm band and twirled it on your wrist. "That's what makes it so hard when somebody is trying to love you through it. It's really, really hard to have someone loving you like that when you don't love yourself."

"Why do you think that is? I mean, that you don't love yourself?"

You pause for a moment and laugh. Your eyebrows raise and with a tiny shake of your head you replied, "Now that's the million dollar question, isn't it?"

I guess that was when I realized how dumb that question was, too.

"I'll get myself all clean and then it goes full circle. Feeling like I don't deserve to be happy."

"Hmmm." I tapped my fingers on my lower lip as I listened. Maybe it was out of nervousness or maybe it was to keep myself from saying the wrong thing. "Have you been talking to the psychiatrists still?"

"I do. I mean, I always do. It's so messed up. . . you know? I realize that this isn't normal, you know? I know the drill. . . talk it out. . .get to the root of the pathology. What happened to you? What fucked you up as a kid that now has you extra-fucked up as a grown up? See? That's what's so messed up. I can't put my finger on that thing. . . that one awful thing that allegedly started all of this."

"Pathology." "Allegedly." You were obviously highly intelligent and your insight was unreal. And you were right. I had no idea what the answer was to all of it.  So I just sat there listening because honestly, I'm not a psychiatrist and I don't exactly know what to do with all of this information or even the first place to start psychoanalyzing any of it.

"Wow, that's deep," I said instead.

"Yeah, that's one way to look at it," you replied. Just then you looked down at the adhesive from the IV taped to your arm. Next to that was a scar from the IV drug use poorly disguised by a tattoo. You caught me looking at it and shook your head. "I bet you're thinking, What a waste."

I looked at you and thought about my words before speaking them. "That's not what I'm thinking at all."

You chuckled and covered the scar with your hand. 

"I'm thinking I wish that you didn't have to be in this situation. You or your loved ones. I'm wishing I knew the key to making this go away." 

"I know the key," you responded. That kind of surprised me. You put up your thumb like you were going to hitch-hike and then turned it in on your chest. Next came a  big sigh and you added, "That's the problem." 

I narrowed my eyes and nodded. "Do you pray?"

"Naah. Not my thing. That always seems to come up, but I don't know. It never has soothed me or made me feel anything." 

I chose not to respond to that, recognizing that my first question on the subject was enough. 

"So. . . .it looks like you're recovering from the overdose. I spoke with your mother and she says she's willing to bring you back to North Carolina with her."

"Of course, she did." 

"How do you feel about that?"

"Undeserving." 

I reached for your hand and squeezed it.  You let me.

"You're a pray-er aren't you? I can just tell you are. You probably have Jesus on the mainline, don't you?" 

I smiled and released a little laugh. "Hmm. I guess that's fair to say. I think he even has a text package these days."

"Wow, man. L-O-L and O-M-G, literally," you retorted. That idea amused us both.

We sat there with our eyes locked and our hands locked, too.

You spoke first. "Well do me a favor, okay? Pray for me, will you?"

"I will." 

"You promise?"

"I promise."

"And my mom, too, alright?"

"Got her covered." 

After I finished up my exam and the necessary elements of the visit, I gave you a hug. Tight like the way a mother hugs a son. Something tells me that you felt that part of it. I sure hope you did.  

That night I prayed for you. And never saw you again.


***


Now playing on my mental iPod. . . 



Someone special reminded me of this story the other day. Today, I am praying for you, too.

That's all.

"I see you."

~ from the motion picture Avatar.

I was talking to a medical student the other day and even though it was a simple conversation about how things were going and not really about much of anything else, that student broke down and cried.  Wait, I take that back. I saw the emotion mounting in the student's face and asked about it. Then those tears came. I probably shouldn't have asked but I really wanted to know--where were the tears were coming from? This is what that student said:

"I just appreciate the time and attention. I really do. That's all."

And those tears came down fast and furious after that. More than expected and catching us both off guard. But they were welcomed because each one was genuine and sweet and necessary.

But was that trusting cry because of what was invested this time or what wasn't last time?  I don't know. All I do know is that those tears made me want to try harder. All I know is that I had times as a medical student (and probably beyond medical school) where I tried my hardest and still felt exactly like I was as transparent as glass. Or worse, like some kind of speed bump placed by the city but not wanted by the people--slowing down busy commuters and simply in the way. I wondered if that feeling had something to do with all that emotion.

"I just appreciate the time and attention. I really do. That's all."

Was there something unusual about the attention you were receiving this time? Was this a sharp detour from what you'd experienced up until this moment when all someone did for you was notice you and regard your presence as a learner? Or were you just glad in general and the kind of person that turns on the water works at times like this no matter how frequent they are and the kind that bawls on Hallmark commercials, too? Was this really not deep at all-- or was it instead telling of how a whole lot of medical students (and folks beyond medical school) feel?

That? See that stayed with me for the rest of the day. I don't know. Something about that twitching upper lip and red nose hurt my heart. It also made me feel ready to charge up a flight of stairs picking up and teaching every stray medical student along the way.  But I know I can't do that all the time for all those people. I can do a lot though. Like look people in their eye and give them my full attention when they speak. Like smile and pronounce their names correctly and hear about their futures. And no, I can't do it for everyone, but dammit I can do it for someone. And I will. Because honestly? They're giving me their time and their attention, too.

Yes, they are.

I put those precious tears into an imaginary bottle in my pocket as a reminder and walk away feeling both committed and conflicted.

***