One more reason to go hard.

 

The conversation usually goes something like this:

"You went to medical school in Nashville?"

"Sure did."

"You were at Vanderbilt?"

"No. . . . actually, I went to Meharry."

"Me. . .harry? Hmmm."

"Yes. Meharry Medical College. It's a historically black medical school and dental school. One of the oldest and most prestigious."

"Oh, yeah. That's right. Meharry. Okay, cool."

"Yeah. Cool."

This beautiful and bright young woman is one of our newest interns at Emory. She is also a recent graduate of Meharry Medical College--my alma mater. More than likely, she was the one saying those words during orientation this past week just as I did many moons ago.

This picture was taken in my home on Friday afternoon. Yep. Right on the couch in my sunroom. As soon as we met, I gave her my phone number and we talked about the fact that we had Meharry in common. Which meant we were automatic family in more ways than the parts that were already obvious. 

And what's cool is that she believed me. 

She sent me a text on Friday morning asking if we could meet. And you know what? I invited her straight into my home. Sure did. And I did that because I wanted her to know early on that --as long as she was here and as long as I was here, too -- that the light here will always be on for her. And that she will always have a soft place to land.

Always.

I didn't always have that. In fact, during most of my residency I didn't have that at all. But she will. And not just from me, but from others, too. Because it makes a difference.

It does.

You know what? I felt recharged when I saw her standing in that crowd of interns. Like I wanted to shadow box in a corner and come out swinging even harder. It's funny. Knowing that she is here makes me want to do better, to set an even higher standard for myself, and to just. . .I don't know. . .go hard, man. Because my mama and my daddy taught me to always remember that what I do is always about more than just me. Meharry taught me that, too.

Yeah, man. I already have a lot of reasons to go hard. But today, she is just one more reason.

*nod*

I see you, little sister. And I promise to always remember that you see me, too.

***

Happy Saturday.

Heard on rounds this morning. . . .

"Doctor. . .I don't want to die."

The patient? Not even thirty years old.

The concern? Valid.

Because, in this situation, it's a possible outcome. No matter what we do.

Damn.

***

Time to talk.

It was time to talk to you. And I am so ashamed to admit that I had secretly dreaded this time. Not because of you, but mostly because it would be awkward and lumpy like it always is when the doctors can't speak your language. The thing is that usually even when "the doctors" aren't fluent in someone's native tongue, somebody somewhere in the vastness of the hospital is. A crafty student or resident finds that person and just like a combination lock that finally had the right code entered, everything is opened to us.

But not this day. There isn't that person lurking on the Mother-Baby unit or at some desk down in the Emergency department. No person from your home country willing to change your words from a plume of smoke floating from your lips to crystal clear images that paint a picture and explain why your face has that twisted snarl of pain. Not even someone from your family to rush in after work still in uniform and waiting with anxious eyes on the end of the page the nurse just sent to the team.

Nope. Not even one.

So for this reason, I wasn't looking forward to this time on rounds when I needed to see you. My eyes quickly trampled over the clock hanging on the ward--4:45 p.m. Afterschool care pick up in the horizon and yes, I know, this was my problem not yours. But this problem of mine was making me even less excited to hear about yours. Especially because my 5:20 deadline would unfortunately become yours.

The medical student was perched beside the door waiting.

"You ready, Dr. M?" he asked all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

"Yep!" I announced with as much spunk as I could muster. But inside I was saying, No. I am not.

We approach your bed and find you curled in the fetal position. Your eyes squeezed shut and a tsk-ing sound is the first thing you say in response to my pseudo-chipper greeting in English. My patience drains down into my feet and forms into a puddle on the floor. I don't speak "tsk-tsk" and you don't speak "pseudo-chipper."

"We can use the phone interpreter," the student offered.

He must have stepped into that puddle and had decided to have patience for us both. I would need it.

"Oh, that's good," I replied, "so, we have a phone interpreter that speaks this language?"

"Sure do," he answered in a real-chipper that wasn't pseudo like mine. "I used it earlier."

He smiled gently at you and picked up the bedside phone. Looking at a laminated card retrieved from his overstuffed medical student pocket, he dialed a number and entered a few codes. I could hear a muffled voice and he announced your language in response. And then we waited.

"Looks like we're in queue," the student said while still being careful to keep including you. He held your hand and patted it. "There aren't many interpreters speaking this language, so sometimes there's a wait."

Of course. A wait. A wait to have a perforated discussion with you between a tiny voice coming through a hospital telephone, a medical student who already had spoken to you, and me--who still needed to get her two children from school before six p.m. That pool of patience floated out of the door and down the hall.

I rubbed my neck hard which is always what I do when my patience wanes. And then, finally, an interpreter.

"Hello, my name is Dr. Manning and I'm the senior physician that will be caring for you with the team."


I announce this into the telephone and pass the receiver over to you. The muffled voice says a version of my greeting and you mumble something in return.


"She says, 'Good to meet you, madam.'" Which was little surprising because the look on your face didn't seem to say that. It looked angry and tired and like it wasn't down with any pleasantries such as 'glad to meet you' and damn sure not 'madam.'

"Tell me about your pain that you've been having." I extend my arm back toward you with the phone. This time your answer is longer with more "tsks" peppered throughout. I realize that the "tsk" is not a good thing; mostly a sound of frustration. I wanted to "tsk" too.

I learn of your pain. The student interjects and fills in blanks about your very complicated past medical history. We lay the phone receiver down and examine you, picking it up to ask things like, "Right here?" or "What about this?" Between the student, the telephone interpreter, and your tsks it comes together. The diagnosis isn't a good one. In fact, it is a bad one. A really bad one.

Now what next? Tell you of a life-threatening, life-abbreviating diagnosis through a choppy back and forth via telephone? Do I do this, knowing that no matter how nice that tele-interpreter man sounds over the phone that he can't see your facial expressions or know exactly when to soften his intonation? Even in the King's English it's no walk in the park to tell someone that, "Oh this diagnosis that you have? Well it's essentially trying very hard to shorten your life. And we don't have a lot of medicines to stop what it's trying to do to your body." Yes, this sucks. How do I tell you something like this under these circumstances?

I look at the student and he looks at me. And a decision must be made about you. Tell you all of this or no? Right then, right there I decide.

"Do you have any family at all who speak your language here in Atlanta? Any one that you know that can come and help? There are so many complicated things to talk about. Some hard things. We would rather not have this conversation over the phone."

No. This wasn't the time.

I stick my hand in my lab coat pocket and secretly cross my fingers. Someone has to help me with you. Not a mystery man inside of a phone but a real person with warm blood and three dimensions.

I put the phone to my ear and what I hear washes me with relief.

"She says that she has a son. He can come tomorrow. After work to speak with the team."

Yes.

We exchange a few more words with you, the tiny voice, and your pain. We confirm that you are comfortable right now and make a plan to meet with your son. And you nod when the tiny voice tells you this through the phone.


I turn the ignition in my car at 5:18 p.m. Life goes on and surely I will find kids covered with Georgia dusty red clay and unidentified stickiness on their cheeks. Full of the vigor and joy of life and safety and consistency and familiarity. Then, I think of your frail body, the disjointed communication, and the worst part of it all--the fact that you are dying. In this foreign land with its confusing culture and impatient people whose cell phones play music and whose wall-phones are bilingual, you are dying.

And here I was worried about me and my time.

"Tsk," I say aloud to myself. "Tsk tsk."

***

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . .

Paradigm shift.

"Oh man, I heard you guys got him on your team last night. Oooo weee."

"I think this is my first time taking care of him," I replied.

"Really? Damn, how could that even be possible?  Dude. Everyone has had him before."


This was the exchange I had with a colleague the day after my team admitted this frequently admitted man to our service. Yes, him. He was well known to nearly every physician in our hospital because of his constant revolving door hospitalizations for his underlying--and yes, complicated--medical problems.

But mostly, he was also known for being difficult.  Real, real difficult.

"He will cuss you out and then throw you out." This was what one of the senior nurses had to say about him. She went on to say, "Chile please. . . . I've taken care of him so many times that I don't even take it personally any more. He's just a miserable, miserable little soul." She shook her head and punched in a code into the pixis system.

Hmmm.

Him. That difficult guy of legendary status. Challenging enough to grate on the nerves of even the most seasoned Grady nurses--which is pretty difficult to do. Him. Also known as "a miserable, miserable little soul." Guaranteed to either demand that I get out of his room or yell expletives in my direction until I turned red in the face and am rendered completely useless as a clinician. This was the word on the street about him.  Demanding and difficult. Demanding his pain medications. Demanding someone to "cave" in the face of his unruly behavior. And just downright demanding a whole bunch of things.

Yes. This was the rundown that I'd heard.  And no. Nothing about him sounded appealing. At all.


Even one of the nicest people in the entire hospital had this to say:

"Look, there's just no other way to spin it. He's just an asshole." 

Damn.

An asshole?

Look. We're all grown folks here and sure, I'd like to pretend like every single health care professional is SO professional that he or she would never, ever even go so far as to THINK of a patient as "an asshole"--let alone actually say it. But the reality is. . . .members of health care teams are human. They have feelings and nerves that, despite their altruistic origins, can be stepped on. And deep down inside of every single one of them is that "OH HEEELLLL NAW!" button that some patients just push.  If they can find it.

And this guy? He seemed to know exactly where to find it in every person he encountered.

So the count was now at "oo wee" and "miserable, miserable little soul" and now, "an asshole."

My team had seen him first and I knew they would tell me all about him on rounds. A palpable heaviness came over the entire team as we got closer to his room.

Everyone who had already met him looked so tired. The intern. The resident. Even the bright-eyed bushy-tailed medical student. This man had found their button and pushed it hard. They looked so tired. Which immediately made me feel tired.  And I hadn't even met the dude.

Before I could even get down the corridor in the ward, another person saw us approaching and chimed in their jovial two cents.  With a thumb pointing in the direction of his room, the passerby laughed and said to me sarcastically:

"Wow.  . . . Good times, Dr. M."

This was getting nuts. I offered a half-hearted smile and nodded as I watched the passerby disappear into the neighboring room.

Uggghhh.

We paused in front of the door and all focused our attention on the intern. The same tired-looking intern who'd been given the distinct pleasure of admitting him to the hospital. Not tired-looking as in I-was-up-all-night-and-might-be-an-assassin. More tired-looking as in this-dude-is-working-my-nerves-so-bad-that-I-am-dangerously-close-to-catching-a-case.

The intern's face was twisted and emotionally exhausted as he reached into his pocket for his notes.. He shifted between his feet and did his best to channel the most empathic part of his psyche. Next, he launched into this patient's story. The same story that seemed to be playing like a broken record all over Grady Hospital.

Suddenly I heard someone hollering from the other side of the door.

"Jest get the f--k out of my room! I ain't doin' none of that! Get the f--k out!"

My intern looked over his shoulder at the door and then down at his shoe laces. Kind of like a child that was being forced to do something he really, really, really didn't want to do.

"Wow," I said wincing as one of the patient techs passed through the door after being kicked out.

"It's bad," my resident said.

"It's awful," the intern cosigned.

"Oo wee"
"Miserable, miserable little soul"
"Asshole"
"Bad"
"Awful"

I felt like a person who was waiting for a fight after the school bell. All this build up was just too much for me to stand any more.

"Alright, y'all."  I finally interrupted my own thoughts and the intern's presentation that he'd just resumed. "Let's think about this for a minute."  The whole team paused, almost like they were all being operated by a DVR remote controller. I sighed hard and was honest with my intern. "I'm feeling completely drained by this patient and I haven't even met him yet."

"Dr. M. . .he's difficult. Like. . .so manipulative. . .it's just. . .I don't know. I'm sorry."

"No, I hear you." I stared at the card with my notes scrawled all over it and looked over at his door again. "Okay. Let's make a pact. Regardless of how he treats us, we will treat him with kindness and respect. And we won't fight with him. No passive aggressive stuff from us, either." That statement seemed to make my team bristle a bit, so I quickly tried to clean it up. "I mean. . .there is no way that this guy is getting the warm and fuzzy treatment here. No way. I haven't even been in there yet and nearly five people have already made it very clear that being tazed by the Atlanta Police would be far more pleasant than being the person caring for him."

"Tazed?"  one of the medical students asked.

"Yeah, tazed," I repeated. I reached in my pocket for my phone and pretended to jolt him in the arm with it. The team released a bit of much needed nervous laughter. "I'm just saying, guys. How about we just decide right here and right now to throw everyone a curve ball?" I had their attention so kept going. "Look, y'all. Every body was once somebody's baby. This man could not have aspired to be in and out of Grady Hospital infuriating ER staff and ward teams when he was five years old. Like, do you really think he drew himself like this with his crayons when he was in kindergarten? I don't think so." No one said anything. "I know it probably sounds corny but. . . .I say we just try to see that five year old."


Yep. Corny indeed, Dr. Manning.

So in we went. We talked to him as a team and examined him, too. And you know? It wasn't so bad.

I'd be lying if I told you some lovely story of a cosmically heartfelt interaction shared between us. Okay. . .yeah. . .  wouldn't it have been nice if I told you that the heavens opened up and that he'd become wonderfully angelic? Wouldn't a perfect ending have been for us sing kumbayah and all cry together? Yeah.  He was still 100% difficult, 200% unreasonable, and 300% annoying and manipulative.

Yes. I said it. Annoying and manipulative.

But you know what? Sometimes my kids can be annoying and manipulative. And hell, depending upon what's going on with me and my husband, I can be the same way--especially when I'm dealt a hand that I don't like.

Hmmmm.


Shortly after we saw him that day, someone walked up to our team and made another negative comment about this patient. In unison, we all just sort of looked at each other and didn't really respond. For the rest of his hospitalization, we spoke of him with compassion, paid no attention to references about his prior behavior, and . . .dare I say it? Simply showed him some love.

Cliche, I know.

And you know what happened next?

By the end of his hospitalization, nearly everyone else did, too.

***
Happy Sunday.

"The greatest healing therapy is friendship and love."  ~ Hubert Humphrey.

The Village People.

Dear Mommy and Daddy,

Having a nice time. Wish you were hear here.

Love,

Isaiah and Zachary

 ___________________________________________________________________________

 Picture it: Two little boys, one tireless and hard core granddad, and one fanny pack full of Chapstick, Band-aids, and snacks.  . . .

Next, picture this:

Four weeks of uninterrupted spoiling in California--far away from Mommy and Daddy.  One trip to Legoland on one day followed by one visit to the The San Diego Zoo the next day, divided by one San Diego hotel with two pools that of course, you can go swimming in at seven o'clock in the morning, of course you can--and that's just within the first three days.

Yep. It's that time of year again.

2009 - curbside service

"Camp PaPa" -- the west coast sleep away camp that includes front door child pickup, flight arrangements, reading lessons, haircuts, swimming lessons, and (on at least two occasions) 100% guar-own-teed potty-training-on-demand. Yep. Camp PaPa is as good as it sounds.

The best part of Camp PaPa, though, is that it includes hefty doses of the stuff that helped me to grow up feeling whole and alright with myself.  You know--all the stuff that makes you think that what you have to say is worth hearing and that your best effort is definitely worth giving because it can amount to something good.

This year is Camp PaPa 2011--the fourth year the boys have gone and the most special one to date.  Why is that, you ask? Simple. Isaiah is six and Zachary is almost five. I know for certain that it's the first one that they will both remember.

Sure, they'll see the pictures from the others, but this one? They will be able to see in clear sight. And yeah, that memory might be fuzzy and run into the other years, but you know? I'd say that's a good thing.

I just want them to remember. For themselves.

Camp PaPa 2011  - Legoland

Someone asked me, "Four weeks! Aren't you sad about them being gone for that long?"

My answer? "Kinda-sorta-but-not-really."

Firecracker day 2008

Lights out.

And that's the truth. Because I miss them yes, but honestly? I know it takes a village to raise a child and that my village was a good one. One of the most important parts of mine (my amazing mother) is less than thirty minutes north of Atlanta, so fortunately my kids get meaningful time with her on a regular basis. But I also know that one of the other most pivotal huts in that same village just happens to be more than 2,000 miles away in California and just happens to be that very unusual combination of willing, able. . . and trustworthy. So for the past four summers they've gone 2,000 miles to their grandfather's hut for the impact that only that kind of time can give. Which means, as a parent, sometimes you just have to be a little bit sad.

Kinda-sorta-but-not-really, that is.

Camp PaPa 2011

You know what else? If both living for forty and a half years and being a Grady doctor have taught me nothing else, it's taught me this:  Whether we like it or not, the village is ever-evolving. The village people come and sometimes, when we least expect it, they go. Morbid, I know, but true indeed. Yeah. When they do go, the best you can offer are stories under a shaded tree of who they were and what they taught and what they meant to the little village kids listening.

That relies on memories and experiences so rich in detail that with a little effort someone can weave into tales that bring them back to life. So that's why, if you can,  it's good to remember. For yourself.

My sweet mother-in-law lives in Cleveland and gets down here for wonderful visits when her work schedule allows. If I could move her to Atlanta, I so would, and---I am not kidding---would dance a jig if she were moving today. Because she, too, is a part of our village. . . .and of their village.

Harry's father passed away before I or our boys ever got the chance to know him. Aaaah, but the memories and the experiences Harry's father left behind? Priceless.  And thank God Harry has those memories. For himself. For his village. For theirs.

Learning to "skip rocks" -- Firecracker Day 2010

Sometimes those village people are living and are breathing and are still able to create their own stories.  They're right there in your face or up the road or on Skype or sometimes could be there but require planes, trains and automobiles to see and touch and know. And effort, too.

So, if it's important to you, you do it while you can. . . even if it means loosening the reins a bit and being a little bit melancholy on Firecracker Day. And you know what? It is important to me.

I hope someday it will be important to them, too.

I think it will.

Camp PaPa - 2010

 Yeah.  I guess I could be sad to be away from my kids on the fourth of July. But seriously? How can I be?

Just how?

Some fireworks never end.

May your day be filled with the richest of memories, with the brightest of fireworks and of course, with mischief of one kind or another.

***
Happy Firecracker Day, y'all.

Claims adjustment.

*Names, details, etc. changed. . . .you know what's up. . . .

image credit

"I can't take this, Dr. Manning," my resident, Fiona said to me one day near the end of rounds. "This is bordering on abuse. Seriously."

She was referring to the overbearing sister of our patient, Mr. Denton who had been admitted to our service the day before. He had an unfortunate stroke a little under one year ago--very likely as a result of active cocaine use. Up until then, he'd been living on the streets, shackled onto a crack cocaine chain gang that he couldn't escape. A massive brain hemorrhage finally did what no one else could--peel him away from a gripping stronghold that had alienated him from everyone he loved for years.

"What's going on?" I asked.

"First of all, she's yelling at the nurses, the intern, and me. She's demanding all sorts of things and it's just unreasonable. He shouldn't have even been admitted." Fiona sighed and shook her head. "I'm sorry, Dr. M. I'm just frustrated."

"Why the hostility?" I clarified the statement. "I mean from his sister. Where do you sense it's coming from?"

Fiona paused and squinted her eyes. I could tell she hadn't considered that question. "I don't know. I mean, we've been nothing but polite. . .but the minute I suggested that he be discharged, she lost it. She wants to know why we don't have physical therapy in here trying to get him up and trying to walk." She emphasized the word "walk" by furrowing her brow and shrugging her shoulders. Her mounting frustration was evident; a pink flush over her cheeks resembled that of someone who'd just been outdoors running.

This wasn't an unprofessional resident. Fiona was an effective communicator, an empathic caregiver, and a thoughtful leader. Her other strength was that she was an advocate for her interns, students, and the nurses. She wasn't the one to fool with when it came to tongue lashings by patients or their family members.

"How should we proceed?"

"I don't know, Dr. M." she said with a heavy sigh. "I mean, I know this isn't about me, but it's exhausting. I say we go in together, but I'm telling you. . . .it could be ugly."

I nodded and pressed my hand under the hand sanitizer dispenser. I bit the side of my cheek and looked at Fiona with trepidation before opening the door. The thing is, I wasn't sure what to expect. I knew that a resident this strong had given it a college try. I hoped that something with this repeat encounter would be better.

We entered the room to find Mr. Denton lying quietly in bed. His vacant stare and expressionless face were consistent with the regrettable extent of his brain injury. His arms were flexed upward and his wrists downward; his eyes somewhere very distant. It hurt to see.

His sister immediately rose from her chair and walked toward me with a pad of paper. "What is your name?" she asked while positioning her pen. The intonation of her question was confrontational; too much emphasis on the 'what' in that question.

"Dr. Manning. M-A-N-N-I-N-G."

"M-A-N-N-I-N-G?"

"Yes, ma'am. That's correct." I waited a moment while she jotted it down. "I just wanted to come by to introduce myself to you and to examine your brother."

"Well, I need to know why isn't there a physical therapist here working with him? He really needs that. They need to get him up and walking. How can we know if he can or can't walk if we don't try? And nobody is feeding him. How can he get better if he isn't eating?" She moved around his bed, smoothing the covers and fluffing the pillows. She wiped some saliva from his lip and then spoke to him. "Junior, you hungry, ain't you?"

I stood there quietly; my eyes scanned the perimeter of the hospital bed. A bag hung on a pump on the right side of his bed filled with milky liquid. I traced the attached tubing as far as I could until it disappeared beneath the blanket near his torso. There was no point in pulling back the covers; I knew there was a gastroenteral feeding tube doing the work that his brain would no longer allow his esophagus to do.

I finally got to my examination. Mr. Denton's sister folded her arms and stood right next to me during the entire assessment.

The exam didn't reveal anything active. Other than this very sad state that had now become his new norm, I could only admit that I agreed with Fiona's assessment--there was no reason why he couldn't return to the nursing home.

I felt my pulse beginning to quicken as I searched for the right words to begin what would surely be a difficult exchange. "Ms. . . I'm sorry, I didn't get your name?"


"Alicia Mays. I'm his older sister," she quickly answered. "So what are you planning to do? Can we please get somebody in here to help him eat and get him up to walk?" Alicia blotted her brother's brow with a washcloth and then looked up at me.


"Ms. Mays. . . ." I started, "The thing is that. . . .your brother. . . his stroke has really damaged his brain pretty bad. Because so many of his nerves were hurt, that's why, like, walking would be really tough for him. Like the part of his brain that stayed okay is telling the muscles and nerves to tense up, but the part of the brain that got hurt is the part that tells it when to relax. Without both working together, it's hard."


"He's a fighter," she countered. "We ain't afraid of 'hard', are we Junior?" He lay still, without any change in expression.


"I can tell he is a fighter. . . .I mean. . .with such a big stroke, the fact that he . . . I mean. . .I can tell he is a fighter."


"Yeah. He is."


"Ms. Mays, you need to be aware, though. With all he has been through, right now, he seems to be doing okay. There isn't an active problem that we want to keep him in the hospital for. I think we could coordinate some things between our social worker and the nursing---"


"No, he needs to be eating before he leaves. And also to get up and work on his walking. A lot of people use a walker after strokes, so I'm thinking y'all could call somebody over here to get him a walker."


"Ms. Mays. . . .he can't swallow food because he could choke. That's because of the stroke, so I wouldn't expect him to eat other than the tube feeds. With the walking. . . . I just want to be honest. . . .walking may be unlikely, too. The stroke made it hard for him to breathe at first, and his oxygen was really low. That hurt his brain more. . . and. . " I looked over at Fiona who seemed to already be in a wincing recoil. ". . . .and the chance of him recovering to a point of walking and eating is low."

"Oh. Well, that's fine if you think that, Dr. Manning. But we ain't claiming that. My brother will beat this. He's gonna walk out of here and go to get himself a hamburger and fries." She chuckled a rather odd chuckle. "Ain't that right, Junior? We ain't claimin' that, are we? We know the Lord is able."

Fiona looked at me with pleading eyes and also a bit of confusion. This was hard.


"We ain't claiming that." Sigh. I know this phrase well. When you know the souls of black folks like I do, not only have you heard this spoken more times than you can count, you've probably uttered it once or twice yourself.

"Claiming" something means accepting it as so. "Claiming" something releases it into the universe as a possibility or even, a plausible outcome. You see, trusting in God means, as many folks in these parts put it, "claiming the victory" in advance--the victory promised to those who love God--and specifically Jesus.

I've had my share of "claims."

A few weeks ago, we learned that our home address was being redistricted out of the wonderful elementary school that attracted us to our neighborhood in the first place. All hell was breaking loose, and this house that we'd bought at great sacrifice in 2006 was suddenly going to sharply decline in value. But more than that, our kids wouldn't get to go to the school that we've waited, literally, four years to attend. Snuffed out just like that with Isaiah only in kindergarten.

But I wasn't claiming it.

We prayed about it. We went to meetings. We talked to other parents. And at some point, I said to Harry, "I'm not claiming it. Isaiah and Zachary will go to that school. They will." And the truth? It was a long shot. That awesome school is overfilled and the other one we were getting zoned for is underfilled. I knew it wasn't really personal, and that similar things were being proposed all over the county.

I talked to my dad who used to be on the school board in our county when I was growing up, and asked him what the chances were that there'd be a change of heart and we'd get to stay at our school. Based on his experience? Slim to none.

But still. I wasn't claiming it.

Or rather, I wasn't claiming a negative outcome. Now I do admit. . .at some point, I had a bit of a "claims adjustment" and decided that rather than blindly saying I "wouldn't claim it", I'd shift my focus to wanting what was meant to be. Somewhere in all of it, I really, really believed that we'd be okay. Slim chance or not. And as it turned out, the revised zoning kept our address intact.

Faith won.

So I got what she was saying. God answers some pretty tall orders, so who was I to argue with her, especially since I have plenty of my own testimonies? Though my approach wasn't exactly like hers. . .definitely. . .I got where she was coming from.

"Ms. Mays?" I finally spoke. She rummaged through her purse pulling out papers and writing things down as I spoke. "Ms. Mays. . . .this. . .this is not a good situation. And . . .I, too, am a woman of faith . . . .but if you can just listen to me for a moment. . ."

"I'm listening."

"I can only tell you what I know based upon my medical knowledge. Based upon that. . . .your brother's stroke has changed him where for him to walk or talk or eat on his own would be a miracle. And yes, Ms. Mays, miracles take place, they do. But. . . I cannot be dishonest and tell you there is something I can do in the hospital to make that miracle happen right now. But I can make sure the things he needs, he has. I can make sure he is not in discomfort, and I can answer your questions. . ."

In my head, I was thinking that I could and would pray for them, but I decided to keep that to myself.

"This is ridiculous!" she huffed. "Everybody thinks my brother is dead and he AIN'T DEAD!" Her voice rose up and startled me. "He AIN'T DEAD! He's GONNA WALK! He's GONNA TALK! He's GONNA BE ALRIGHT! You AIN'T GOD!!!" She aimed her index finger directly at me with her arm fully outstretched.

My chest was heaving as I sifted my brain for the right words. I needed to wring out my mind to get my emotions in check. "I don't. . . ." I felt my voice getting tiny and wobbly and my face getting warm. ". . I don't think I'm God. I don't."

"Y'all do. Y'all DO, but you AIN'T!" She pointed skyward with her right hand emphatically, the skin below her ample arms shaking. "He's a HEALER, do you hear me? He's a WAYMAKER!!" she bellowed. Just like I didn't like her "what" earlier, this time I didn't like the accusatory tone of her "He." I glanced at Fiona, whose face was now beet red. She almost looked like she would be sick. I turned my attention back to Alicia.

"Ms. Mays. . . . listen. . .I . . .I know who has the final word. . .I do. And if He intends for something more to happen, it will. . .whether your brother is in this hospital or at his nursing home." I abruptly stared at the floor and then looked back up at her. I felt my voice quivering. "And let me tell you one thing for sure. I do not think I am God."

She stared at me intently as Mr. Denton lay with the same blank expression, possibly oblivious to it all. I repeated myself, knowing that I sounded like a broken record . . .I needed to say it again for me more than anyone else. . .my voice almost a whisper, "I don't think I'm God."

The room fell into an awkward silence. I cast my eyes back down toward the linoleum squares below my feet. I could hear the clock ticking, a phone ringing at the nurses' station, and someone chatting in the hallway. Fiona's eyes were glued to her shoe laces, her mouth sealed into a terse line.

Finally, I shook my head and spoke quietly. "Ms. Alicia. . . .I'm so sorry this happened. I. . .I have a brother and. . . I'm so sorry."

Suddenly I heard Alicia quietly weeping. A tired, frustrated, complicated cry. She immediately began patting her eyes with a frayed piece of tissue fished from her handbag and turned away from us. For a fleeting moment I thought she was going to fully break down, confessing how guilty the family had felt for allowing him to be swallowed up by the world. I was sure a story was coming about how the family turned their back on him; unable to peel his fingers away from his crack pipes or their precious treasures that always seemed to disappear whenever he was around. We'd give her knowing nods, hugs even--embracing the pain that manifested as anger and suspicion--letting her know through our empathy that we understood.

But that didn't happen. She regained her composure before it ever had the chance to be lost.

"Just let me know when he will be discharged back to the nursing home," she mumbled while reaching for her cell phone. She refused my desperate attempts at eye contact.

"Ms. Mays, if--"

"Can you just please just let me know when he will be going back to the nursing home?" she interrupted me. "Please."

"Yes, ma'am."

She began dialing her Blackberry, and then paused to dismiss me with eye contact so searing that it immediately made me wish I'd not been looking in her direction. I obediently stepped toward the door.

I stammered as I reached for the handle, "Ummm. . . . .if you have any other questions. . .my name is--"

"Yeah, I got it," she said, "Manning. M-A-N-N-I-N-G."