Who do you need? Who do you love? When you come undone
~ Duran Duran
________________________________________________
Outside an ambulance is still hot with exhaust. A man in an EMT uniform leans against the driver's side door. His face is crestfallen and his teeth press so hard into his bottom lip that perhaps he'll be next to need those emergency services.
A shrill sound pierces the humid summer air. A woman has fallen to her knees; the weight of whatever is pressing upon her is too much. Two other women flank her and try to help her to her feet. It doesn't work.
That cry is primal. A sound from so deep down in that cellular matrix that you just know it had to be built during the earliest embryonic phase. The kind reserved only for moments such as these; the kind that tells you the story even when you don't know all of the details.
Just before I heard that sound, I was daydreaming actually. Sifting through my brain and swirling inside of my own world while taking a simple walk down the concrete outside of Grady. Wondering about the four-dollar special at Subway and hoping it was one thing and not something else. And specifically, I was thinking that as long as it wasn't meatball marinara, I'd be fine with just about anything else. Mentally counting up how much money I'd spent in the last week on lunch and vowing to pack mine the following day. I stayed on that same path--on the street and in my head--which led me to the Children's Hospital right next door to Grady.
But then I heard it. That blood-curdling cry. I saw that woman buckling to her knees. Clawing at the air and coming undone. Not piece by piece but all at once. And the more those women on each of her arms tried to help her stand and console her the more her cries escalated. Louder, higher. . . up into the air. Like the haunting and longing howl of a lonely wolf; a gut-wrenching call of the wild.
And the second I heard it, I froze in my tracks. Because an alarm had been sounded and all under its clanging rattle were to take notice. To pause in deference, in acknowledgement.
So from across the street, I did. And from the corner of my eye I saw that two others had done the same. All of us stiff like statues. Eyes glistening, chests tightening, and making fleeting eye contact with one another from our separate squares of asphalt.
Eventually that woman and her two pillars of support gave in to gravity. There they sat, rocking and moaning in a tight huddle right there on the street in front of that ambulance. More people were surrounding them, their cries now confluent.
But still there was hers. Hers was different. Guttural, unsettling, primal.
And I knew. And since I did, I didn't even fight the hot tears that pushed straight out of my eyes and onto my cheeks on instinct. Nor was I surprised when I glanced back at that man whose back was against that ambulance and noticed his emotion, too. Fist pressed hard to his lips, eyes clenched tightly, face toward the heavens.
I still don't know the details. But, really, no explanation was necessary. The chilling in my bones when that cry left her lips was enough. The bell had tolled. A mother has lost her child.
And it turns out that meatball marinara was indeed the four-dollar special.
*** Now playing on my mental iPod, Come Undone by Duran Duran. Thank you, Simon, Nick and John for this beautiful song to accompany my thoughts.
That was his response when I asked him why he wasn't taking his medicines and doing the things he was supposed to do to be well. This was his fourth hospitalization in the last twelve months. I wanted to know why he was being mean to his body by completely refusing to chasten it.
"I'm not right."
"What do you mean by 'not right?'" I wanted to know.
"Since I lost my boy, I ain't been right. It's almost been ten years, I know. But still, my heart feels so sad that sometime it's hard to do anything."
Oooph. That socked me in the chest. I didn't know what to say.
"I know, Miss Manning. I got to do better and I will. I just be feeling like what's the point sometimes."
"You mean like you don't want to live?"
"Naww. Never that. It's just real hard to be all the way happy that's all. Then you wonder what's the point in doing all this stuff when you can't be happy anyway?"
"What happened? To your son, I mean?"
"Shot. Somebody shot him dead. Not even thirty years old neither."
I looked down in deference. "I'm sorry."
"Yeah. Me, too."
The room fell silent.
"He looked-ed just like me. Just, just like me." He stared out of the window and shook his head. "Just like me."
I imagined him sitting beside us, the spitting image of his father. I kept my mouth shut and simply watched and listened.
"It's like getting your leg or your arm amputated, you know? Losing a child. Like, you figure out how to walk and maybe even run, but it ain't never the same. You always walk with a limp.You learn how to laugh and if you really work at it, you can blend in like you ain't even lost your leg, you know?"
"But you did," I replied. "You did lose it."
"Damn right you did. Minute you wake up in the morning, first thing you reminded of is that you did."
I nodded.
"Sometime it just ache so. It ache in a way can't nobody fix."
"Phantom limb pain," I murmured.
"What's that?"
"Pain where the leg once was. That's hard to touch or describe but it's there."
"It don't go away. Not all the way it don't."
This was heavy. And he'd caught me off guard with all of this. I wasn't prepared to have such a discussion. Not today. Not now. But now I was inside. He'd opened this door and let me in whether I wanted to or not.
"What was your son's name?"
He smiled and pointed his thumb at his chest. "He was named for me."
I smiled in acknowledgement.
"You know what? Sometime. . . losing my boy make me sometimes feel like I lost my all my fight right along with him."
I stared at the floor and blinked hard so I wouldn't cry. My heart was pounding hard because I was hoping with all my might that my mama and my daddy aren't feeling that exact same thing today or ten years from now.
Losing their fight right along with Deanna.
That's when it just came out. "I just lost my sister. In November. One day here and gone the next."
He looked up at me and held my gaze.
"The hardest part is watching my mama and my daddy. It's different for the parents. They know how you feel."
"Damn. I'm sorry that anybody got to know how this feel." His eyes were welling up with tears now. And he wasn't fighting them. "It is different for the daddy and the mama."
I reached for a box of tissues and handed it to him. I didn't bother saying anything else because there weren't any good words to allay the pain of what he described. Not a single word.
That silence and that Kleenex opened the floodgates. He dropped his head into his hands and wept. Wept like all of this had just happened ten days ago instead of ten years ago. And it all made sense to me. Now more than ever.
"Miss Manning? Pray for me, hear?"
I placed my hand on top of his and clasped his fingers."I will. I promise."
So tonight I did just that. Prayed for him. Prayed for them, the ones that know what he knows. I prayed for them all. For something to ease the phantom limb pain. And for something, anything to help them to keep their fight.
I went back to work today. And specifically, I went to the Grady wards to assume the service I was supposed to pick up on November 16. People were sick, too. The team is busy and there was a lot going on.
A whole lot.
So how'd it go? Mostly, it was fine. I was reminded of how much love is in that place. Just . . .wow. Everywhere I went, I was embraced by fellow physicians, nurses, social workers and patient transporters--you name it. All with quiet, respectful eyes and those types of hugs that will make you cry if you aren't careful.
Not that I'm trying to avoid crying or anything. But I'm just saying--you know those types of hugs when you get them.
Anyways. There was one point in my day where I sat beside a man who was crying about his loved one. "Boo-hoo" crying as my best friend Lisa D. calls it. He was a Grady elder who had been married for longer than I've been alive. His whole body was shaking and heaving and out from his mouth poured the most desperate and mournful of cries. All while I sat between him and their adult children, both of whom were crying, too.
Whew.
In that moment I realized something. I'm a different person now. Kind of like how my pediatric clinical acumen and bedside manner sharpened after having babies of my own. This kind of pain was no longer hypothetical. I felt my heart reaching out to his, my touch more knowing. Less about sympathy, more about empathy.
Interestingly, though, I wasn't crying. And you know that I have no issues with crying in front of my patients. Especially my Grady elders. But for whatever reason, I just held his arm and stayed silent. Feeling his rhythmic rocking and periodically handing him more tissue. And I was okay because his cries felt like they were almost in solidarity with those I've released recently.
I was rounding with Sarah, our medical student today. Just the two of us. After the umpteenth person offered me condolences in the hallway, I explained to her that I'd just lost my sister and that today was my first day back. And saying that to someone who doesn't know is both awkward and awful. Awkward because what are they supposed to say to that beyond the sorry? Is it safe to smile or laugh on rounds? It's hard to tell, right? It's also awful because. . .well, it just is. But when Sarah and I left that room with that crying elder, she looked in my eyes with genuine concern and asked if I was okay. She touched my shoulder and made sure to check on me. Me.
I appreciated that. I did. I appreciated this student who was on her first day working on this team acknowledging my reality right in that moment. I told her I did, too. And I told her I was okay. Because I was.
And look. Let me just say for the record that I am not coaching myself to feel any kind of way. Like I'm not fighting to be strong or whatever thing people think they're supposed to be in times like this. But I'm also not forcing myself to hang my head and look the part of whatever this part is supposed to look like. I'm just responding to myself and feeling how I feel. And what I am sharing is how I feel which, as crazy as it sounds, is mostly peaceful.
Someone told me I looked "peaceful" today. And I told them that this was a good word for it. Because I am. Of course, I'm very sad. In fact, if I may be frank, this whole thing effing sucks. But even still-- it's just hard to have someone like Deanna in your life even for a moment and not feel swept up in a wave of gratitude. So I guess that gives me a lot of peace.
Yeah.
I got to tell a lot of people about my sister today. I told them of her qualities and why I loved her so. Or love her so. See? There's that "tense" thing again. But what can you do? You walk through it, you love through it. That's what I am doing.
My friend, Natalie L., wrote these words to me today regarding my "tense" struggle:
"deanna's presence is so strong around you enveloping you and your family
with such power. how can the person who is responsible for this force
be described with the word 'was'? she cannot. she is most certainly an
'is'."
Those words comforted me. So thanks for that, Natalie. You are a true friend.
Yeah. So I returned to work today. Baptized by fire on the Grady wards. And, like always, it was filled with joy, pain, sunshine and rain. But as a wise man (okay, Frankie Beverly) once wrote: "Where there's the flower, there's the sun and the rain. Oh, but it's wonderful--they're both one and the same."
This I know for sure.
***
Night, night. And thanks for continuing to listen because it's helping me.
Now playing, music from a wise man named Frankie Beverly with a funky baseline provided by his band, Maze. Y'all don't know nothin' 'bout this.
I used to think it might be fun to be
Anyone else but me
I thought that it would be a pleasant surprise
To wake up as a couple of other guys
But now that I've found you
I've changed my point of view
And now I wouldn't give a dime to be
Anyone else but me
~ Tony Bennett's version of "Lucky to be Me"
____________________________________
Yesterday was busy. Very busy.
The number of patients scheduled in the clinic seemed unusually high. For some reason, there seemed to be more residents with full templates of patients than usual. But for each of those patients, their problems were the most important. Unique to them and important to them, so whether we were busy or not, it was our job to remember that.
That's not always so easy, though.
I saw a lady crying. Crying because she felt like a failure for not being able to quit a bad habit that was really far more than just that. It had become a stronghold, something that had her defenseless to its power like a puppet on a string. But her insight was excellent. And she was brave.
"You're an overcomer," I told her. "I can see it. I can tell. You are."
And she wept some more because she wanted this to be true. Her doctor--the resident--had created a safe space for her over the last several months. One where it was okay to break down and cry with both of us. And this wasn't her first time doing that.
But that was okay. Well sort of okay. Okay because we care and we want her to have a space to unpack sometimes. But only sort of because the clinic was busy and there were other patients pacing in and out of doorways and craning necks down halls.
But mostly it was okay.
Another patient lost forty-two pounds. On purpose, she'd lost forty-two pounds! Her resident doctor had carefully counseled and encouraged her and it had made a difference. There was pep in her step. There was slide in her glide. I walked right in and danced right around that room with her. Gave her a hug and a fist bump and, I'm pretty sure, a hip bump, too. Because this was a big deal. A very big deal! She was proud of her weight loss and so was her doctor. I was proud of them both.
"Dr. Manning! Do you see what my doctor helped me to do?" she said.
And her doctor, the resident, said, "No. You did this. You did the hard work."
And she looked at him saying that and just beamed. He did, too. And so did I.
Another man was hearing voices. Not voices commanding him to do bad things but still voices that were clouding up his conscience and making it hard for him to live his life. The voice-stopping medicines make him "a zombie" so he was in this catch 22 between hearing noise and hearing nothing. Which sucked because I had no answer to that.
Someone used to walk with a cane but waltzed straight into the clinic without one. "Water aerobics!" was the glee-filled explanation to why those achy-breaky joints finally seemed to be doing better. A bad knee feeling better because of the weight-loss that took some of the load off that weight-bearing joint. And that patient just laughed and laughed because people who aren't in pain have something to laugh about. Me and that resident doctor laughed, too, because everyone knows that a good laugh is infectious.
So yeah, even though we were swamped, that part was good. Really good, if only for a moment.
So this was the day. Moments like these, where the pendulum swung back and forth. Joy and pain. Sunshine and rain. All swirling inside of a cloud of busy, hustle-bustle, go-stay-go in the clinic at our public hospital. A day where sandwiches get wolfed down over counter tops while simultaneously listening to patient presentations. Hoping you're getting it all and also, if you're lucky, teaching someone a thing or two. Or at least being a halfway decent role model.
Yeah.
The day drew to a close and it had been long. The time change means we walk out of the hospital and into darkness. That makes the day feel even longer. It does.
I drove home feeling tired. Not much on my mind but mundane things like what we'd eat for dinner and whether or not my children would come home with the jackets I bought from Target less than two weeks ago. I pushed that swinging pendulum of human lives out of my head because it felt like more than I wanted for this drive home. Because I was tired.
Once I got home, I did the things that parents do. Once the kids were off to sleep and Harry was off to watch Monday night football on the couch, I opened my laptop and prepared to do some work. That's when all of those people and their stories and their lives started swirling around me. Finding their way back into my head and my heart. Some part of me felt a little bad because it was all so busy. So in and out and here and there and rushed. I hoped it was okay. For the patients. For the learners. For everyone.
There are days like this. The busy ones that leave me with these dueling emotions of gratitude and self-doubt. Hoping, hoping, hoping that it's enough. Hoping, hoping, hoping those little moments where I slip in behind hard-working resident doctors and medical students to say my part and reinforce whatever needs to be reinforced. . .is enough.
Yesterday was one of those days.
But then. In the midst of all of those thoughts, I click open my email inbox and saw this:
Dear Dr Manning,
After a busy clinic, as I am about to wrap up my day, I feel light and
blessed. I thought I have to share this and thank you once again for
your time, working with our pts and me. It is so rewarding to see the
happiness, wellness and pride in our pts. Indeed
your presence, supervision, words and final touches are incredibly
valuable, both for our pts and me. I see the difference, feel it and
appreciate all your trust, support and leadership.
Thank you for the opportunity, which allows me to grow personally and professionally, as a student, as a proud Emory citizen.
Have a great night,
A.
I closed my eyes. I took a deep breath. And then felt my own pendulum swinging. Further and further away from self-doubt and closer and closer to gratitude.
Yeah.
***
Happy Tuesday.
This version of this song is playing on my mental iPod. And I'm singing it to Grady Hospital today. Thank you, Mr. Tony Bennett, for this perfect soundtrack to my thoughts.
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.)
The happy side: My med students at my house last week. Love having them there.
"You can't do it like that Love will show you where it's at What you put up you'll surely get back 'cause there's no other way if you play you'll pay
Back and forth . . . . "
~ Cameo's "Back and Forth"
______________________________________
Left and right. Right and left. The pendulum of life continues to swing. The "ugly cry" on one end, the "Snoopy dance" on the other. . . . .all existing in a continuum. . . fluid like waves but less predictable.
So like surfers on waves, you do your best to just go with the flow. You grab your board and you boogie. It's all you can do. . . . . .
Here are ten things that happened this week in the swinging pendulum of joy, pain, sunshine and rain in my life.
Harry was out of town last week. He spent good and quality time with his mother, and I stayed here.
Him plus my boys being away was novel for like one day, but got old real quick. When he got home, he sent me a text that said, "I'M BACK IN THE ATL, BABY!" I was in the middle of my work day and it made me so happy. The minute I got home, I hugged him tight and told him how much I love him. Then we got some fish tacos from La Fonda and drank the remaining half of a bottle of cheap Riesling in the refrigerator. After that we cracked jokes on each other and ate pumpkin seeds on the couch, followed by both of us promptly falling asleep on the $2.99 budget list pay-per-view movie.
My kind of date.
#9 - Stolen.
There was this stunning girl I knew in college with the purest, greenest eyes I have ever seen on a real person. Her eyes were piercing against a creamy olive complexion--kind of like that Afghan girl on that famous National Geographic cover from back in the day. In addition to those green eyes (that left others green with envy), she had a mane full of dark, shiny curls--and this was before all those hair weaves became mainstream. . . . .
We weren't close friends, but at our small college--by definition--everyone was considered your "friend" if they were there while you were there. She and I finished high school and started the same year. Later we pledged "rival" sororities--she became an AKA and I pledged Delta. But honestly? At Tuskegee those rivalries were light like whipped cream because regardless of the letters on our t-shirts we were all like family. That's just how folks roll at Tuskegee.
I saw her last month for the first time in ages. She had cut her signature long and naturally curly locks into a bold and spunky bob. I barely recognized her at first--but the minute she cast those green eyes in my direction, I knew exactly who she was. "Hey girl!" we greeted each other in unison. Then we laughed and hugged and caught up.
"How many kids do you have?"
"I have two, too!"
We meant to exchange numbers, but never got around to it.
Early this week, she lost her life in a murder-suicide. Right here in Atlanta. Not even five miles away from where I saw her that last time. Her husband was ill and depressed and obviously in a very, very dark place. Ill and depressed. Yes, this is what I tell myself when it comes to things like that. To leave your children motherless and fatherless, you have to be in a very scary, dark, ill place. Fortunately, her kids were okay because he took them to a safe place first. Then he did it. The unthinkable. Just like that.
I was not her close friend, but I knew her enough to be sad. And I am sad. Sad for her family. I'm sad about her mother and her father having to bury their own child and sad that they have to imagine their baby girl with fear in her eyes in her last moments. I'm sad that they will probably have to find words to explain something to their grandkids that is lose-lose no matter how it's spun, and for the crippling anger and grief they must be feeling. I am sad for her husband's parents and sad for the aftermath that things like this can bring. Most of all, I'm sad for her children--one whose face and haunting eyes resemble hers so much it's eerie. And the other who is so young that she may struggle with remembering the fine details for herself.
Yeah, I'm sad because I knew her and hugged her tight and genuine just last month. I am her age and I showed her two kids on my iPhone that day, too and said mundane things like, "Yeah, girl, they're a handfull!" just like she did.
See, all of this is lose-lose. Too much to reconcile and try to get your mind around. Too too much of the pendulum swinging the wrong way.
But.
When I saw her that day in June, she looked peaceful and fresh and beautiful and happy. I hope this is her legacy. I do.
#8 -- Me and Free-Free.
My friend and former Grady doctor Frieda J. was a resident when I joined the faculty back in 2001. The following year, she was chief resident at Grady and spent a few more years on the faculty. We became fast friends and remained as such after marriage, two pregnancies each, and her her departure to the private practice world.
I always called her "Free-Free." Mostly because she thinks it's funny, so it stuck.
On Sunday I came to visit her at her new house in Buckhead. Lovely! Even lovelier was Free-Free and how happy she was. Yes. Happy-happy, whole-whole, and free-free. We escaped to a nearby Thai fusion restaurant for dinner and drinks and laughs. We caught up on all of the things that girlfriends catch up on and it was wonderful.
It really was.
#7 -- Broken.
What do you do when your heart says "yes, please" and someone alerts you that their heart is now saying "no, thank you?" What if that person initially said "yes" in front of every single person you care for, but mostly in front of you and God, but now after all that their heart is saying "no?"
Okay. . . maybe not even "no". . . maybe just "I'm not sure." What do you do when there are other someone's involved and affected by that decision? What if more of your life has been spent with your heart saying "yes" to this person than not, and just what if you have no idea how to redefine your every day since this is really all you've known since forever?
I don't know the answer to those questions. My friends who are dealing with those questions don't have good answers either. . . . other than this:
You just wake up and you take a shower and you slug it out. You remember the little people who are innocent in the confusion and slug it out harder. And if it's your thing to pray, you do that, too. You talk to friends who you trust who hug you and listen without judging and who hold your hand and wish you weren't going through it. Then you wake up and do it again.
These women are resilient like women can be. But human still, with hearts that can break if not handled with care. Broken hearts suck. Broken people and broken lives suck more.
#6 -- Of Mice and (Wo)men.
What did I do?
I pulled into my driveway on Wednesday around 8:25 AM after coming back from the Fox studio. Harry was in Cleveland on vacation still and was likely fast asleep. But see, when I pull in my driveway I see what looked like a mouse. No, I said a MOUSE. Some kind of field mouse or whatever, but a MOUSE no less, and it was all shivering and sickly-looking.
Awww HELL naww.
You KNOW what I did. Claro que si! I called the BHE and woke him up. In Cleveland. (Clearly, there was plenty he could do from Cleveland, Ohio about a field mouse in Atlanta. Clearly.)
Me: "Babe!"
BHE: "Ummm hmmm" (groggy, froggy voice.)
Me: "Babe! There's a sick looking mouse in our driveway by the bushes."
BHE: "And?"
Me: "What should I do???"
BHE: "Nothing."
Me: "But what if it goes into our garage?"
BHE: "Have you seen a mouse in the garage before?"
Me: "No. But he could crawl into the garage."
BHE: "I thought he was sickly."
Me: "What if he has rabies and attacks me?"
BHE: "A rabid field mouse?"
Me: "It's a mammal! Should I call the pest control? To get him?"
BHE: "To get a field mouse sitting next to a field in our driveway? Outside? No, baby. No, you should not."
Me: "But what if he gets in the house?"
BHE: "Do you think he's going to climb TWELVE stairs to get in the house from the garage?"
Me: "He might. You never know. Especially if he has rabies."
BHE: *snoring*
Me: "BABE!!!"
BHE: "What, what, what."
Me: "You aren't worried about him ATTACKING me? ATTACKING your WIFE?"
BHE: "No, I'm not worried about a sickly FIELD mouse hanging out near a big-ass FIELD in your driveway attacking you. No, I am not. Not at 8:20 in the morning while I'm all the way in Cleveland."
Me: "Babe? Oh shoot! I think he hobbled somewhere. . .should I--"
BHE: "Goodbye, crazy girl . . . "
And that was the end of that. If something happens to me, y'all know who did it. I'm just sayin'.
I looked at this over and over again. My kids are having such a wonderful time with their grandfather. And I am missing them terribly but loving the idea of them doing things like this.
They were at the beach for more than five hours that day. That makes me so happy because there aren't beaches in Atlanta. Or their PaPa.
#3 -- "Music makes the people. . . come together." ~ Madonna
Remember my patient that I used to download music to play for her on my iPhone on rounds? Nat King Cole and Sam Cooke? My friend and fellow Grady doctor, Shelly-Ann F. sent me an email to let me know that she had peacefully slipped away in hospice the other day.
Yesterday I listened to Sam Cooke and Nat King Cole quietly in my office and wept. I let my mascara run into ugly raccoon swirls and sighed hard and heard each word and each melody. I listened hard for her and felt thankful that this was a piece of unrelated yet important information that I learned about her while caring for her. Then I wiped my eyes and smiled because I realized that when I listened like that I could see her face. Oh, her face! She was in such awe of how that little device could grab her favorite songs straight out of thin air and two minutes later play it for her just like magic.
Those moments of sharing that music with her were magic. . . .and caring for her felt magical, too. Yes, it did.
#2 -- Baby love.
If you don't feel madly in love with him, you are not normal.
Jackson is my godson and he was born on the day after Christmas. Whenever my best friend brings him over, I steal him for the whole time. I see him often, but the last few times it was obvious that he knew me. He really knew me. He smiled at me and looked at me and reached for me like he knew who I was.
Seriously? Seriously.
The only thing more beautiful and perfect than him is watching Lisa mother him. She is perfect at it and even though she has always been beautiful, motherhood has cast a glow over her that is hard to explain.
I am so happy for her. And so, so happy for me that I get to be in her life and Jackson's, too.
#1 -- Going back to Cali.
It makes me sad to think of Camp Pa Pa coming to an end. Sure, there's a whole week left, but I know how much my dad and the kids are enjoying it. But especially my Poopdeck (my dad.)
Kids bring such an energy to houses, don't they? They yell and sing and stamp their feet and pull out toys and spill gooey things on tables. They play with Play-do and forget they were playing with it and cry when it turns all dry and crusty. They mess with your ice dispenser and splash too much in the tub and accidentally put banana peels in toyboxes, too. Houses come alive when kids are in them; they float like that house did on "Up" -- except the kids are the balloons.
My dad always has this look on his face that pains me when he takes us to the airport. It's like happy and sad at the same time. But mostly happy, thank goodness.
While I'm in L.A., I'll be there for my little sister, JoLai's 40th birthday party. Yay. We're ten months apart (which is a kind of a long story in itself, but one that I'm glad exists.) I am delighted that I get to see her and celebrate with her because she is some kind of wonderful.
I think Zachy looks like Auntie JoLai, don't you?
No offense to any other person that I know or love, but seriously? She could quite possibly be one of the very best people I know. There is not a more selfless person. There is not a more fun, hip, cool, easygoing, non-quirky, loyal and giving person, either. Plus, she loves everyone--so much so that I call her "the friend hoarder"--because like those folks on those shows, she doesn't get rid of anyone. Even the oldest friends stay neatly stacked all over her heart--while she keeps bringing new ones home. (That's a whole post in itself. . . . ha ha ha. . . .)
But for real, y'all.You know what? Anyone reading this who knows her is nodding their head right this second because it's true. JoLai is the friend/sister/daughter/granddaughter/auntie you wish every person could have. Really. The kind of person that if you didn't have her in your life, you'd wish you did.
Harry and I have this joke about JoLai--
"If anybody falls out with JoLai or has some kind of problem with JoLai, then BY DEFINITION they are AUTOMATICALLY the problem."
Harry even goes so far to say that he doesn't want anything to do with anyone who has some kind of beef with JoLai. I think the exact words he used to describe such a person were "automatic a--hole."
Ha.
The good news is that, with very few oddball exceptions, no one fits that description.
***
So that's it. That's my week. Ten swings of the pendulum. The ups, the downs, the laughs, the smiles, the tears, the stillness. . . . .
All a part of the continuum. . . .the back and forth of love and life.
"So on we go
His welfare is my concern
No burden is he to bear
We'll get there
For I know he will not encumber me
He ain't heavy, he's my brother"
~ Donny Hathaway
Today I am thinking about trust. I am thinking about how although folks often talk about how little some people trust their doctors-- that there are a lot of folks that put a whole, whole bunch of trust in their doctors. And not just any kind of trust, but that save your life kind of trust. Like, I know you've got my back no matter what kind of trust.
Compound that with being a black woman on the front lines of a county hospital and it gets even more complex. Like, you get me so you know deep down what I'm afraid of kind of trust. Like, I know you wouldn't let nothing happen to me on your watch kind of trust. 'Cause you get me. 'Cause I'm your auntie and your uncle and your sister and your granddaddy. 'Cause I'm your mama'nem and your Mudear and your play cousin. And sometimes, it's heavy. Real heavy.
'Cause even though they are thinking those things, they aren't alone. I am, too. I am thinking, you can trust me. I am touching your hand and using your language in a way that says, I do get you and I do know what you are afraid of deep down. And even though sometimes it's unrealistic, I am feeling, no, I won't let nothing happen to you on my watch. Even if it's out of my control.
So I pray. A lot. To fill in the gaps that reading journals and calling consults can't cover.
And today? After all of that, I stood in a bathroom stall and cried. Because a lot of times it is out of my control. And sometimes things do happen. Even on my watch. And today, it was heavy. Real heavy.
So thankful I'm being carried, too.
***
"If I'm laden at all
I'm laden with sadness
That everyone's heart
Is not filled with gladness
Of love for one another. . ."
Dad, do you remember when you played this Donny Hathaway song for me when you drove me to medical school across the country? I know you don't. But I do. Especially today, I do. . . . playing on my mental iPod. . . listen and you'll feel me.
Told my friend Davina that I was thinking of her and her son C.J. who was born on December 24.
Donned brand new Christmas eve pajamas with the kids. And Harry, too. (Major feat, people.)
Popped a big bowl of (real-from-a-heavy-pot-not-microwave) popcorn to bring downstairs to the "man cave" for a Christmas eve family movie night. (Equally major.)
Also brought down extra blankets and gourmet caramel apples (sliced, please)--upon Isaiah's request.
Realized that although I've read The Polar Express to my children five trillion times, I had never seen the movie until then.
Decided that even though I liked The Polar Express book better, being snuggled under blankets in new P.J.s with my husband and my kids made that fact an easy one to ignore.
Wrapped gifts until 2 a.m.
Went to CVS to get batteries and a gift card at 2:05 a.m.
Watched the wonder of Christmas through the eyes of a four year old and a five year old.
Thought about my mentor, Neil W. and his wife, Tamara, whose son, Matthew, was born on December 25.
Remembered praying for Neil and Tamara to have children, and felt warm inside imagining what a difference a day (and a prayer) makes.
Went to see the Yogi Bear movie on Christmas, which was not anywhere close to as enjoyable as The Polar Express.
Almost cried when Zachary squealed, "This is the best Christmas EVER!"
Wanted to go to sleep hugging the glorious red Tory Burch totebag my husband gave me for Christmas.
Decided to go to sleep hugging my husband instead.
Watched the wonder of snow on the ground through the eyes of a four year old and a five year old on the morning after Christmas.
Drove in that wonder-ful snow and into Grady for post-call rounds.
Despite having to work over the holidays, was reminded repeatedly of why I love, love, love my job.
Received a text that my best friend had her baby--that our other best friend (Tracey, the world's greatest OB-Gyn) delivered. Sigh.
Remembered when Tracey delivered Isaiah and Zachary -- and smiled.
Remembered when Tracey and I were clueless medical students -- and smiled again.
Left Grady Hospital. . . .and headed to the other hospital. . . .
. . . .where I talked and hugged and laughed with my newly post-partum best friend about what life would be like for her as a new mommy. Married to a new daddy.
Received a text that one of my very ill patients passed away as I was rocking my new god-son in the mother-baby unit at the other hospital.
GG and the Pooh-bear
Left the other hospital to head back over to Grady Hospital after asking myself what my mentor, Neil W., would do with that text. (Go back to Grady.)
Ran into my best friend's mom on the way out and wanted to cry when we talked about what life would be like for her as a new grandmommy.
Hugged her tight and felt her joy run through me.
Reached Grady and was surprised at how quiet it was when I walked back into the building.
Made it all the way down the hall and to the J elevators without a single person asking me for directions or help or money. (Very unusual.)
Stepped off of the elevator and immediately heard voices.
Joined what looked like a tear-filled family reunion with all of my patient's loved ones.
Hugged them all one by one.
Thanked them for trusting our team to care for their loved one.
Reached my patient's granddaughter last, who never left her grandmother's side for the entire hospitalization.
Hugged her tight and felt her pain run through me.
Quietly whispered in her ear, "Thank you for teaching me to be a better daughter and granddaughter."
Felt her hug me tighter and told her I meant that.
Was again stunned by the stillness of the hospital as I headed toward the exit.
Felt the tiny snowflakes on my cheeks and the blistering cold on the walk to the parking garage.
Sat in my frigid car for a moment. . . .taking in the wintry silence.
Reflected on the last 48 hours of life and love full circle.
"Over and over You can be sure There will be sorrow but you will endure. . . Where there's the flowers, There's the sun and the rain Oh, but it's wonderful. . .
. . .they're both one and the same."
from Frankie Beverly and Maze's "Joy and Pain"
Today I:
Woke up at 5:35 a.m. to go to Body Pump. I stepped only on the non-creaking parts of the floor so that Zachary wouldn't wake up and ambush me.
Did bonified, bad-ass, military pushups on my toes (and not my knees.) Kept saying "Come on, Manning!" all the while, which kind of helped.
Talked on the phone to my mom most of the way to Grady, even though she's been nagging me to fully commit to Oprah's "No Phone Zone" pledge for my car. (Working on it, Mom.)
Waved at Johnny the Parking Security Officer as I pulled into the parking garage.
Had excellent parking lot karma and snagged a ground level parking space (no, not the MD IN/OUT space, either.)
Accidentally left my badge in the car so had to ask medical students to get me access in the stairwells all day.
Passed one of my patients in the elevator lobby as she headed downstairs to take a smoke. She has lung cancer.
Rode the elevator with one of my favorite Grady staff members, Ms. Saadiq from Neurology. I showed her a picture of my sons on my iPhone before getting off.
Gave a medical student a fist bump for a doing a good job.
Laughed out loud with one of my favorite Grady Social Workers, Myoshi T., who happens to be from New Orleans, LA. I teased her for the way she says "baby" (bebbby) and "today" (t'deey). In return, she gave me and my medical student, Joshua Z., beads from her recent trip to Mardi Gras. (But nobody had to show anything for them.)
Watched two medical students do physical exams on their patients. (Strong work.)
Asked my patient to show me a picture of her new baby. (Really cute, no really.)
Talked to a family for 45 minutes about their loved one.
Talked to my team about talking to a family about their loved one for 45 minutes.
Saw Gabe W., our chief resident, teaching in a conference room on 7a.
Told one of my favorite senior faculty members, Dr. Lubin, that he looked handsome today.
Heard my medical student offer to walk down the street to buy his patient a phone card so he could call his family long distance. (That was thoughtful.)
Introduced one of my favorite residents, Ayushi A., before she gave her Senior Resident Grand Rounds Lecture on "Women in Cardiology." (So proud of her.)
Gave Ayushi a fist bump, too.
Saw Dr. Wenger, a female pioneer in Cardiology, stand up and speak before all of the residents and medical students as a representation of living, breathing history at the end of Ayushi's lecture. (Awesome.)
Hugged one of my former medical students who was interviewing for a faculty position in our division. (Wow.)
Had some girlfriend time with one of my best friends and fellow Grady doctors, Lesley M., after our division lunch. (Love her.)
Smiled at a man in the elevator who had a gold grill.
Looked up something on the computer and learned something new with one of my medical students.
Talked to my mentor, Neil W., about a paper he just wrote and submitted for publication.
Saw all of my favorite 12B nurses and called them by name, "Hey Ms. Smith! Ms. Fairley! Ms. Green!"And they all said, "Hey Dr. Manning!" in unison. Love that.
Saw my patient's loved one fall to her knees and hysterically cry in the hallway after hearing bad news.
Hugged my patient's loved one, but really wanted to fall to my knees, too.
Saw my patient looking worried and pained--not because of bad news, but because I knew he'd heard his loved one fall to her knees and cry in the hallway.
Cried about my patient on my way home from work. And for his loved one.
Heard my dad getting choked up on the phone because he said was proud of me. I said I was proud of him, too.
Hugged my loved ones as soon as I got home.
Talked on the phone to one of my other most favorite friends and Grady Doctors, Lisa B., about teaching med students and raising rowdy, screaming sons. Overheard her 4 year-old son Aaron -- apparently clad in a bicycle helmet and goggles--cheering at the TV as he watched that redheaded pro skier zip down half-melted Vancouver slopes. Of note, Aaron is also very much a redhead, which only adds to the fanaticism.
Ordered my kids a pizza online because I was too tired to cook. (Online ordering rocks.)
Read Isaiah three chapters from "Charlotte's Web."
Told my husband about my entire day and thanked him for listening.
Cried one more time for my patient before I went to bed. And his loved one.
Prayed for my patient. And his loved one. And my loved ones. And me.
Went to bed. . . but not before kissing my loved ones. . .and even watching them sleep for a few minutes. . . .soft breaths from Zachary, whisper quiet sighs from Isaiah with occasional teeth grinding, and a faint but one-I'm-totally-used-to snore from Harry. . . . .
Laid my clothes out so I can do it all over again tomorrow.
Felt thankful for more joy than pain and more sunshine than rain.
"Oh, but it's wonderful. . .
they're both one and the same. . ."
Honestly? I write this blog to share the human aspects of medicine + teaching + work/life balance with others and myself -- and to honor the public hospital and her patients--but never at the expense of patient privacy or dignity.
Thanks for stopping by! :)
"One writes out of one thing only--one's own experience. Everything depends of how relentlessly one forces from this experience the last drop, sweet or bitter, it can possibly give."
~ James Baldwin (1924 - 1987)
"Do it for the story." ~ Antoinette Nguyen, MD, MPH
Details, names, time frames, etc. are always changed to protect anonymity. This may or may not be an amalgamation of true,quasi-true, or completely fictional events. But the lessons? They are always real and never, ever fictional. Got that?
