Good morning. You are loved. That is all.

My friend lost her one of her children. Right before the start of school which, since he was an adult, has different meaning than what you might think about. But this morning, it has very significant meaning to me. And likely to her, his mother.

One because she works in a school where everyone knows her. Her waving hand is, to us, a monument. As recognizable as the Statue of Liberty with, literally, that same outstretched arm signaling to all that they are welcomed. But, more than that, there will always be these sights and sounds of new academic year energy that, instead of creating joy for her, will now punctuate the worst day of her life. I hate that. Partly because I personally associate her with that new-grade-level joy that I feel each year. But mostly because I care for her deeply and consider her a Ruth now. . .  which means I have willingly signed up for a piece of her pain, too.

That's how it works.

You know? She did that for me. Said very little but always, always showed me through her hugs and her eyes and her gentle, unassuming love that she was willing to hold on to a piece of my pain, too. And she did.

But.

This is different. She is a mother and this was her son. I have always been careful not to equate that horrifically unnatural trauma to that of losing a sibling. It is not the same. Ask any parent who has been inducted into that awful club. On second thought, don't ask them. Just take my word on it as someone who has seen it in three dimensions.

Seen it. Not lived it.

And so. I look for ways to let her know that I will hold a piece of this for her. Even if it is a tiny piece. I will take very good care of it and protect it. And then, when she thinks I've forgotten, I will present it back to her as something new. An invitation to speak of him when she desires. To laugh out loud about some funny quirk or unforgettable experience. Or bring him up and say his name without that awkward, lonely cloak suffocating it all. To let her know that it won't be weird to me if she can't speak of him in past tense because that part I do understand. And hopefully, just a heart open to give her a chance to celebrate her favorite things about him long after the casseroles have stopped arriving on doorsteps.

Or at least I'll try.

But for now, this morning, I simply said this in a text message to her:

"Good morning. You are loved. That is all."

Because when someone is living through the worst days of their life, this is, perhaps, all you can give. Love, shown through presence, silence, the eyes, and the tiny gestures. Recognition for the magnitude of the horror, but not so much so that you leave them isolated. No. Just love. The very understated love she showed me during those days when our lives stood still.

Yeah.

***
Happy Thursday. Love will always be the what.

Have no fear.

I will remember you.

Will you remember me?

Don't let your life pass you by

Weep not for the memories.

from Sarah McLachlan's "I Will Remember You."

_______________________________________________________________

I sat next to a patient yesterday who was dying. I held his hand and stroked his face as he took laborious breaths. His family clung lovingly by his bedside. They understood that things were not likely to be reversed, and had asked that we do nothing heroic. The patient had made peace with every member of his family and according to his family, was at spiritual peace, too. There was no unfinished business.

I was glad to know that my patient would have death with dignity.

And a few hours later, that's exactly what happened. He made a loving transition surrounded by the ones who cherished him the most.

I asked his loved ones what their favorite things about him were. It was wonderful to hear them conjuring up their favorite moments, and to see them smiling. It somehow felt better than the "sorry" I'd offered earlier.


Death is, unfortunately, a big part of my job. It's something I see regularly. Something I discuss often. Sometimes multiple times daily. Instead of being horrified by it, I believe that it's an honor to be there as a human being nears the end of this life. Because of that, I try hard to respect the family, and to honor the patient. In life and in death.

So I guess after more than ten years of working in the hospital, I thought I knew a lot about what to say and not to say in times like this. I considered myself savvy in dealing with death's aftermath; even if sometimes it meant flat out crying in front of a family at times or in my car on the way home.

But it wasn't until recently that I really learned some of the most valuable lessons I could ever learn about death and life. These lessons could not be taught in a medical school classroom, a journal or a textbook. They had to be learned through an experience that hit close to home.

_______________________________

C.J. 

Two years ago today, God decided He needed another angel. He decided it swiftly and without much warning. Just like the way He blesses people out of the blue, yet we somehow don't think of it that way. On November 23, 2008, a three year and 11 month old cherub joined the heavens.

His name was C.J.

Celebrating the return of daddy from the Gulf

C.J. was the beloved son and namesake of Harry's dear friend, Cedric and his wife Davina. He was the cherished sunshine of his parent's lives and an absolute joy in every way. But. . . .the same God who gave C.J. to Ced and Davina decided that He wanted to bring him back home.

The moment I entered their home on the day before C.J.'s memorial service remains one of the single most pivotal, painful, and riveting moments of my life.

But.

On that day, Davina and I somehow connected on a level that continues to feel otherworldly even two years later.  She has taught me so much that I didn't know. And ever since, I have never seen grief the same.

I recently read something a wise person wrote that said:

A man who has lost his wife is called a "widower." A child without parents is an “orphan.” Yet there is no single English word to describe a parent who has lost a child. A heartbreaking lexical gap.

Hmmm.

Davina calls it "Mommy of an Angel." It's not a single English word, but it is still beautifully descriptive.

I am so thankful to the "Mommy of an Angel" for trusting me and so many others with her feelings during this painful walk. She has made me a better doctor, a better mother, a better wife, a better writer, a better sister, a better daughter, a better friend, and a better believer.

Today I am reflecting on some of the things I learned from Davina about loss, about unspeakable grief and about life. These are things we could all take pause on. . . .I know I have.

Thanks to Davina, I now know that:

• A mother who has lost her child is still a mother.
• Mothers love to talk about their children. Even when they aren't alive any more. Especially when they aren't alive any more.
• "Time" doesn't necessarily heal all wounds.
• Some things are just as awful and painful as they seem.
• "Good morning. . . I love you" is an acceptable thing to say when you don't know what to say.
• So is "Hey. . . "over a text message.
• Another baby, though a blessing, can't replace the one you lost.
• Saying "I know another baby isn't a replacement, but. . ." might be better left unsaid.
• Understanding when you don't get called back/emailed back immediately is deeply appreciated.
• There's not a good answer to, "No . . .how are you really?"
• Pretending like you no longer have children of your own when talking to a mom who lost hers is alienating. Because, even though it's hard sometimes, mommies not only like talking about their own children, they like hearing about yours, too.
• Fear is alienating, too.
• Not being afraid to speak her child's name is so much better than cryptic references and awkward silences. Even when you mean well.
• We shouldn't allow gripping pain and tragedy to permanently redefine who a person is. It's like making a person relive a funeral for the rest of their life.
• Joy and pain really are like sunshine and rain.
• Loving like you mean it is a good way to live without regret.
• Remembering is not a passive thing. It is active.
• So is love.

There is not a day that goes by that I don't actively think about C.J. Despite all the requests God gets constantly, it still amazes me that He heard my whisper of a prayer. . . to not be afraid. He took all the fear and trepidation away and allowed Davina and I to forge an authentic bond as mothers in the mommy-army.

To talk about our children. To talk about our husbands. To talk about nothing. To laugh. To cry. To remember. Without fear. Without facades.

Roomies: Ced and Harry, July 2010

Ced came to see us over the summer while passing through Fort Benning. It was our first time seeing him since C.J.'s memorial service, and the heaviness in the room was suffocating. I was industrious in the kitchen while Harry sat with Ced in the sun room and, for the first time, seemed at a loss for words with one of his very best friends. It hurt to watch . . . .

But then something happened.

Isaiah skipped into the room and completely out of nowhere plopped a framed picture of C.J. right on Ced's lap. Ced looked at the picture. . .this beautiful picture with C.J. beaming straight into the camera. . . .and looked like the air had been knocked straight from his chest. I cannot even begin to describe his expression. It was. . . .so. . .so . . . .yeah.

"Where'd this come from, man?" Ced asked him while staring incredulously at Isaiah.

Harry mouthed to me in the kitchen, Did you tell him to do that??

I mouthed back, Hell no, I didn't tell him to do that!

"He's our playroom angel, so duh Uncle Ced! I got it from the playroom!" Isaiah announced in the most beautifully innocent way ever. Ced wrapped his arms around Isaiah and drew him into his chest.

"Wow. . .man, this really means a lot to me, Isaiah," I heard him say quietly.

Isaiah seemed to recognize his grief. He peered into Ced's haunting eyes and said, "It's okay. Everybody knows that C.J. is in heaven. It's okay."

Harry and I looked at each other, both silently shaking our heads. Neither of us ever told him to say such a thing. But even more interesting. . . .Isaiah had never met Ced in person. Remotely, he'd asked what "C.J." stood for and I'd told him it stood for "Cedric Jr. since his daddy's name is Cedric" but that was it.

It was divine. In that moment, God used a little child to do what the adults in the room could not do. Speak C.J.'s name. From that moment on, the mood lifted and the walls came down. Harry reconnected with his friend as a father. . . as C.J's father. The fear of remembering melted away. . . .

Ced (with Zachy) and Harry (with Isaiah): Ice broken between friends and daddies.

So now I get it. Sometimes a simple "I'm sorry" is perfectly suitable. And sometimes just a silent hug is amazing. But remembering? Really remembering. . . now that's special.


As I promised C.J., I will do my best to honor his memory by speaking his name and introducing him to others. . . .just has his mother had the courage to do for me. And I bet he'd want you to meet his mommy and his daddy, too. :)

May I introduce you to whom we affectionately refer to as "The Royal Family?"

• Major Davina C. aka "Queen D." (super funny, quite sassy, a wonderfully squeaky voice, and one of the raddest mommies I know)

• Lieutenant Colonel Cedric C., Sr. aka "King Ced" (quite possibly the sweetest man ever. . .he refers to Davina as "my bride"--gaaaahh! But don't let that sweet face fool you. Harry says their roommate days were wild and crazy! Mmm hmmm, Ced!)

• and Heaven's Angel, Master Cedric "C.J." C, Jr. aka "Prince C.J."(scary smart, the life of all parties, lover of the arts, lover of Disney, champion booty-shaker, major flirt, mini-Harley Davidson owner, an angel on earth and in heaven.)

__________________________

Dear Sunshine Girl,

I will never forget. Ever.

Love,

Your sister and fellow mommy in the mommy-army

_______________________________

"There is no fear in love; but perfect love casts out fear; because fear has torment. 

He that fears is not made perfect in love."

~ 1 John 4:18

It's a love thing.

image credit

I could never hide the feelings
That come over me
When you're near me
I know that's how it's supposed to be
My heart is telling me. . . .

It's a love thing. . . .yeah.

from The Whispers "It's a Love Thing"

______________________________________________________

This past Monday was the most "fall" of the fall days I'd seen so far this year. The kind of air that's so crisp that it shoots straight up your nostrils and opens your nasal passages like strong peppermint. And the colors. . .grass, so gloriously green. . .the sky, so breathtakingly blue. . . and the leaves. . .oh, those beautiful leaves! With each gust of wind, they rise up to meet you. . . swirling around your feet and head in a palette so rich that it can only be compared to that moment when black and white Dorothy landed in technicolor Oz. . . . . .the kind of beauty that makes you know for sure that there has to be a God somewhere that had something to do with it.

Yeah, kind of like that.

This past Monday was one of those kinds of autumn days.

I took in its beauty as I parked my car in the space that this official-looking woman in a long skirt and dark clothing pointed to for my car. "That's fine right there," she said. I nodded and turned the steering wheel in that direction. Right behind me in her car was my friend and fellow Grady doctor, Stacy H. I watched her straighten up her wheels to get them as close to the edge as of the curb as she could. In the passenger seat beside her was Joanne, one of our Grady administrative assistants. I slid on my coat as I watched her step out of Stacy's van and onto the grassy shoulder. Joanne offered me a half-hearted smile. Stacy did the same.

We walked in silence for a few seconds; our feet in synchronous reluctance. No one knew what to say.

"God sure smiled on this day, didn't He?" I finally uttered. It came out kind of awkward.

"Yeah. . . " Joanne politely replied. Stacy just glanced at me and tried to smile again. This time her eyes were glistening with tears.

We reached the top of the grassy knoll where scores of people huddled solemnly below and around a green tent. A rabbi spoke in a hushed and calming voice. This was in stark contrast to the unabashed singing and bellowing ministers I was used to in my own culture. The traditional African-American "homegoing celebration" would probably feel like being in a foreign land for the many in attendance. But as I silently listened to unfamiliar prayers spoken in Hebrew--one similarity rang true: This was not something any of us wanted to do.

I clutched my chest and drew in a deep breath when my friend and fellow Grady doctor took the podium. Her arm was locked tightly in her sister's; her face a solid mask of pain.

"I want to thank each of you for being here. Our mother was an amazing woman, a devoted wife, and a committed mother. . . ."

Her voice began to break, but she quickly regained her composure. Sniffles rose and fell amongst the mourners. She was strong and brave to stand there. She even said a few funny things about her mother that made those who knew her mother smile.

Watching her grieve hurt me deep in my soul. I wanted to push through the crowd and tell her how sorry I was. I wanted to cry with her and to hold her hand; the doctor in me hoping that those things might be therapeutic. But what do you say to a child who just eulogized her only remaining parent? How tightly can you hold her hand to make her not feel afraid and alone? That thought made me cry.

Suddenly, while I was weeping into a tattered piece of napkin, something happened. It was as if God Himself tapped me on my shoulder and whispered in my ear, "Don't be sad. Take this in. No, not just the fall colors and the cool weather. This. Take this in."

And that's what I did.

Here's what I saw:

First, what I saw was a crystal clear autumn day. But then I saw nearly one hundred people standing shoulder to shoulder in honor of my friend's mother. I saw hands. Some holding the person beside them, some wringing shredding tissues, and a few masculine ones securely placed on the yarmulkes that mother nature repeatedly tried to blow off of their heads. I saw several medical students shivering outside of a tent in dark suits; one of whom had very, very recently had a baby. I saw Grady doctors young and old, current and former, patting tears from their eyes or hiding them behind dark shades. There were childhood friends flanking the family fiercely, and there in the center of it were the two sisters. Two sisters, one an attorney and the other a doctor, both of whom sat in those very seats eleven years before when they lost their beloved father. Two sisters who, since that time, had become two wives and two mothers each of their own two children. But that thought--it was too much. That made me cry more.

I felt that soft tap on my shoulder again. "Look again. Don't you see it? If you did, you'd not be sad."

Just then, I saw it . . . .I really saw it. And just like that, I stopped crying.

Here's what I saw when I looked again:

I saw children who grew up to be whole. I saw kids who became true friends to others and decent human beings--a sparkling testimony of the very best any parent can ever hope and pray for in a lifetime. In that moment, I saw what happens when two young people meet each other, fall in love, get married and then have two children that they parent with all of their might. I witnessed what happens when a man and a woman carefully hand down traditions and teach their children to embrace their culture and faith.

What I saw wasn't a black thing or a white thing or a Jewish thing or a Christian thing. This was a love thing. And in that love thing, I witnessed the perfect outcome of what happens when a mother's eyes and a father's eyes light up whenever their children walk into the room.

Those children become the kind of people that others love. The kind of people that draw countless friends out to stand with them in quiet solidarity in the middle of a cool autumn business day with virtually no notice. Some because they personally knew your parent. But many others who only knew the love they instilled in you, their children--so for you, they had to be there. Which really means they were there for them after all.

I thanked God for revealing that to me, and as soon as I had the chance, I hugged my friend and whispered in her ear the very words that had just been given to me:


"You represent the very best your parents had to offer this world. Your life is their greatest opus and the swan song for them that never ends. Always remember that."


I felt her trembling body burying muffled sobs into my shoulder, yet somehow it felt strangely peaceful. Just then, something else was revealed to me in that moment: As doctors, we don't just need to take care of our patients. We need to take care of each other, too.

I put that on a mental post-it note so that I wouldn't forget it..

When I walked back to my car, I could feel the temperature outside getting a bit warmer. I lifted my chin and let the November sun caress my cheeks. My tears had all dried and something in my heart felt celebratory. I squinted at the intense sunlight and paused. I promised myself to keep this moment as a reminder of what "love things" can achieve.


Yeah. God had smiled on this day indeed. And there was nothing awkward about it.

________________________

*for AB and AB, may your swan song never end and your love thing never die . . . .