Farewell, Sweet Poopdeck.

William Ralph Draper, Sr. 10/8/1943 - 6/22/2022

What if missing your father was the singular burden he left behind for you? What if he was so present, so loving, so engaged, so proud, and so over-the-top supportive that you had nothing—I mean not one single thing—to wish he’d done for you? What if he fully equipped you with confidence and enough self-love for meaningful adult relationships through his exemplary love of your mother, his siblings, his cousins, and countless lifelong friends? And what if you had the chance to personally evolve into a loving, trusting grown up friendship with him? One distinctly different and special from the one you had with him as a child—and unique to you and no one else?

What if he not only told you how much he loved you for your entire life — but showed you through his actions and sacrifices? What if he cherished you and had such high expectations of you that you actually got to reach your full potential professionally and personally—and then be blessed to have him live long enough to bear witness to it? What if he got to know and love your spouse in addition to many of your closest friends—enough for them to have their very own connections, feelings, and memories of him, too? And what if all of this was amplified exponentially by the love, adoration, and influence he poured not only into his own grandchildren but generations of nieces, nephews, cousins, play cousins, and community kids as well? Imagine that.

Then all you’d have to do is miss him. And though missing him is a heavy load, it is a price we gladly pay for the intense, fulfilling, and comprehensive love God blessed us to know in the form of our father. For this, we are more grateful than sad. There is not a single regret left to bear.

Rest in power, sweet daddy. Thank you for leaving it all on the field as a father, a grandfather, a role model, and man. And especially thank you for the gift of showing up in every aspect of our lives—physically, emotionally, financially, collectively, and individually. We will forever speak your name and rejoice in your legacy. Job well done, sir. And just so you know—we were always proud of you, too, Daddy. And we always will be.

I knew that it would be important for me to share this news here since so many of you grew to know and love him through this blog. Though I'm not as active here these days, do know that he loved, loved, loved the way you celebrated his unforgettable Camp Papa summers and so much more. Thanks in advance for your outpouring of love, prayers, and condolences. Know that it is felt even if we don’t respond immediately. We are more glad than sad. And more grateful than anything else that all we have to do is miss him.

Breath regular.

On rounds the other day

Him: "You alright, doc?"
Me: "Me?"
Him: "Yeah you. You seem outta sorts."
Me: *smiles* "I'm in sorts I promise. Now tell me--how you doing?"
Him: "Feeling a little better today."
Me: "How's your wind?"
Him: "Way better."

I sit him up and carefully untie the back of his gown. On cue, he takes breaths in and out as I listen intently.

Me: "Lungs sound good." *moves around to front of chest* "You can just breathe regular."
Him: "I know."

After pressing my palm to his chest to feel his heart, I search his chest with stethoscope. Although it's not normal, it hasn't changed. Like always, he keeps making big gasps, forcing breaths in and out the whole time exaggeratedly.

Me: "It's okay. Just breath regular."
Him: "Sometimes you want to breathe regular but you can't."

*silence*

Him: "Miss Manning?"
Me: "Sir?"
Him: "You okay?"
Me: "I'm okay."
Him: "You sure?"
Me: "Just got some bad news today about a friend is all. A friend who passed."

*silence*

Him: "I'm sorry."
Me: "Yeah. Me, too. Was a real good dude. Through and through."
Him: "Damn. Shot?"
Me: "Nah."
Him: "Kids?"
Me: "Yup."
HIm: "Damn."

*silence*

Him: "I knew you was out of sorts when I seent you."
Me: *taking a drag of air* "Yeah. You were right."
After that we just sat there for a few moments in silence. Then my patient asked me about my friend and I told him a really funny story about him. We both laughed out loud.
Me: "That dude was wild."
Him: "Sound like he was cool as hell."
Me:  “That he was.”

*silence*

Him: "It's gon' be okay, Miss Manning."
Me: *eyes stinging and wanting to cry* "Yeah. Sometimes you want to breathe regular but you can't. You know?"
Him: *staring at me* "Yeah. . . I do know."

If you think the only ones doing the healing around Grady are the doctors and nurses? Think again. These patients save my life every single day.


Rest well, my friend. Praying we can all breathe regular soon.

Sister and the Warrior.

*as always, details changed to protect anonymity.

Afternoon rounds last week

Her: "Did you feel nervous when got that?"
Me: "When I got what?"
Her: *points at my wrist* "That."
Me: "Oh this? First yes. Then no."

*silence*

Her: "Wow. I never saw a doctor with a tattoo on her wrist."
Me: "No?"
Her: "Nope."
Me: "So. . .I'm curious. How does that make you feel?"
Her: "I'm young. So it mostly make it seem like you cool."

*laughter*

Her: "Nawww, but real talk? I think it just make me know you a person."
Me: *listening*
Her: "Like, to me, a tatt supposed to tell a story. Like, it should mean something."
Me: "I like that."
Her: *pulls gown off of shoulder* "See this one? It say 'WARRIOR.' Because I been through so much with my health but I come through stronger every time. I'm always gon' fight back!" *kicks foot out of sheet to show her foot* "This one on my foot say 'Follow my footsteps.' That one remind me that even though some people let me down when I was little, I ain't no victim. I can create my own path, follow God's path and be somebody other people want to follow, you know what I'm sayin'?"
Me: "I do. That's dope."

*silence*

Her: "I mean, you gotta be careful about where you get ink. And what it say. But you also got to do you." *covers feet back up with covers* "And you can't be drunk or nothing."
Me: *nodding* "I know that's right."

*fist bump*

Her: *points at my wrist again* "Okay. So what's the story behind that?"
Me: *turning my wrist to look at it* "Well. . . I lost a sister."
Her: "Oh man. Sorry."
Me: "Yeah. But she was awesome so I like remembering her this way. I also have another sister living. And I'm forever a sister to her, my sister who passed and to my brother. I believe in women having tight bonds so I'm a sister to my women friends. And then there's my sorority. . .that's another sisterhood I'm in."
Her: *smiling* "That's what's up."
Me: *still looking at my wrist* "Yeah. I was gonna put it somewhere else at first. But then I realized that I wanted to see it every day. So I put it here on my right wrist."

*silence*

Her: "See? I told you a tattoo make people know you a person."
Me: *laughing* "I'm not so sure everyone would agree."
Her: "I think sick people don't care about that. They just want to know you a person who care and not a robot."

*silence*

Her: "I saw that and you know what I thought?"
Me: "What's that?"
Her: "That sister gon' take care of me. 'Cause she got love in her heart for somebody."

*silence*

Me: *wanting to cry so bad*
Her: *just staring at me smiling*

She seemed like she knew I wanted to cry.

*silence*

Her: "I love your tattoo, Dr. Manning."
Me: *staring at my wrist again and smiling* "You know what, little sister? I love it, too."

Sigh.

Damn, I love this job.

***
Happy Monday.

I love you x 3.

There was this older gentleman who'd been admitted to my team and his admission was soft. We call admissions "soft" when someone was on the fence about whether or not to keep the patient hospitalized or send them home. But anyways, he got admitted and his issue was quickly sorted out and the very next morning he was ready for discharge. Nothing about his problems were exotic or earth-shattering.

Nope.

We actually didn't see him as a team on rounds that day. His issues were so straightforward that I'd agreed to see him on my own. He was nice enough and didn't have many questions when I got to the end of the encounter. And so. I reached for his hand and wished him well.

And that was that.

Well. Not really. I always like to find some way to connect with my patients or to show them I have an interest in them as a person. This patient was pretty quiet so it wasn't exactly the easiest thing in the world. I tried anyway.

"Is someone in your family coming to pick you up?" I asked. "If not, we can arrange a ride for you."

"My sister will be coming to get me. I'm okay with the ride part."

"Okay," I responded. I smiled and prepared to stand up from the bedside chair. "Do you have children, sir?" 

At Grady that question feels rhetorical--especially when talking to the elders. Of course this man had children. He probably even had grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

"No, ma'am. We never had children."

He said 'we' not 'I.' Hmmm. So I bit. 

"Were you. . . previously married?" I kind of wanted to smack my forehead after saying that. I was relieved when he didn’t seem to take offense to that question. 

"If I could have been, I would have been." 

He stared out of the window and his eyes began to glisten with tears. I wasn't fully sure how to proceed but I hungered to know from where the emotion was coming.

"Tell me more." That's all I said, sitting myself back down in preparation for his response. Vanilla enough. Forward enough. Maybe even too forward, but I didn't want it to be mistaken as anything other than the question it was.

Nope.

He turned his head and gazed at me. This soft-spoken man who'd uttered very few words since his hospitalization touched his fingers to his lips and then pressed them together to hold in the first thing even close to a smile that I'd seen since walking in. "My love. That is a good word for him."

Yes. Him. Aaaah.

"Do you mind telling me more?" 

He smiled and shook his head. Then he began to speak.

"His name was Morris. He was funny and loud and a really, really good dancer. He wasn't afraid of anybody, either. We met when I was still a teenager but we were inseparable. He didn't care what people thought about him loving me, either. Nobody."

"Wow. How long were you together?"

"More than 20 years off and on. He went to the military for a little while and I lived out west for a couple of years. Then we came back together."

"Morris sounds amazing."

"He was. I took care of him until he took his last breath. I held his hand and stroked his cheeks and just kept on saying 'I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you' until his last moment." He started blinking fast to remove the tears that were quickly forming. Then he sighed deep and hard. "He was so, so brave. He was the love of my whole life."

I was already crying. I patted my own cheeks and smiled. "I love that you just kept saying 'I love you' until the moment he died. That's probably one of the most beautiful things I've ever heard."

"It was so hard being gay back then. There weren't people clapping at parades for us, either. Especially in Atlanta. But Morris always said that life was short and that we needed to live. He said we deserved love and I believe he was right. One funny thing he always said was, 'You don't want to hear about, talk about or imagine your mama and her sex life. Why the hell you got your drawers all in a bundle about mine?'" He let out a moist chuckle and then quickly looked wistful. "He made me brave, too."

"Wow. What happened to Morris?"

"He died of AIDS. Back before they had all the stuff they have now. I got lucky somehow and didn't get it. But his family was scared of him and they weren't nice. That's why I wanted the last words he heard to be 'I love you.' I must have chanted those three words for more than six hours straight. I'm not kidding you. He was in and out of consciousness but I just kept on. Sip some water and then say it again. And again and again and again."

"I love you, I love you, I love you. I can think of no more beautiful way to make a transition."

"I pictured him hearing my voice and then God taking over with the same words." He looked over at me and smiled. I could tell that he was serious.

"Me, too." And with that my voice cracked and I started full on crying. I sure did. And he handed me his tissue box off of the tray table and I took three pieces. And then we just sat there imagining Morris escaping the pain of horrible stigma and ignorance and not being accepted and advanced AIDS and just feeling free and loved. Following the sound of those three soul-fulfilling words.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

It was perfect, that moment. Perfect in how unexpectedly beautiful and pivotal it was. Every time I imagine him standing vigil over his brave Morris saying, I love you, I love you, I love you, I cry. And it feels good, too, because I know I'm honoring their love and that moment that I had the chance to be introduced to it.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

Yeah.

A cup of joe.

Today was my day to drive carpool. That makes my morning crazier than usual and the struggle even real-er than it is at baseline.

Grrr.

I was hustling out the door so fast that I spilled half of my coffee in the driveway. Which, if you know how much I love a good cup of joe in the morning, is a really big deal.

Grrr.

I got stuck behind a train. Right by the kid's house that I was already running late to get. And fortunately, his mama is cool and so is he. But still. That mixed with no coffee wasn't my favorite.

Grrr.

I forgot my gloves. And I have those hands that turn fifty shades of ghastly grey when cold. They hurt, too. So after dropping kids off, I kept doing this thing where I'd stick one hand under my thigh while driving with hopes of the car seat warmer toasting it up. Let me tell you something: That doesn't work so well.

Grrr.

The Grady garage was already filling up. Which was annoying considering it wasn't even 9am. I circled up and up and up until I reached the roof. That is, the 10th floor. Which adds like 7 minutes to your commute home. And that's a lot when you are almost always on two wheels trying to get to a kid during hospital service time. Did I mention that I spilled almost all of my coffee?

Grrrrr.

Like always, I felt a little better when I got to work. But that was short lived because my office door was locked when I got to it. Which, for most people, is no big deal. But for me it is since I don't like my office locked nor do I carry around the key.

Grrrr.

Bump it. I decided to just grab my white coat and roll out across the street to the hospital. Fortunately, Linda, this super nice woman on our admin team had just made a fresh pot of coffee. She waved her hand from her cubicle and told me she could feel that I'd want some. She was right.

Sigh.

I pour a piping hot cup to go. Carefully, I place a top on it to be certain, certain, certain that I wouldn't spill it. My colleague friend waited for me beside the elevator because he was going to round, too. And we chatted about our teams and my icicles (both figurative and literal) started to melt.

Whew.

So we strut out of the office building and the cold hits us in the face like a mad ass pimp. (Yeah, I said it. Because that's what I was thinking.) But even that was fine because I had this really, really hot and really, really fresh cup of coffee that Linda had put love into. She even told me that I could have some of her fancy creamer if I wanted. I added a tiny splash. Which gave me something to look forward to.

Yup.

So we were just walking and talking. Really fast, too because it was, to quote my dad, cold as adunnawhat. So we are hustling quickly with our white coats pulled super tight. Making our way into Grady before freezing in place.

That's when I heard it.

"'Scuse me! Miss Doctor? 'Scuse me!"

I stopped and turned around to face him. It was the voice of what appeared to be a man at least 20 years my senior. This elder appeared to be living out in those elements. Shit. I braced myself for him to ask for cash. And immediately wished I'd placed a granola bar in my pocket.

Grrrr.

"Um, could you tell me where I can get coffee?" he said.

He had his hand wrapped around himself, rubbing his bony shoulders. His coat was not warm enough. Not at all.

"Um. Let me think,"I replied. "We have a coffee shop inside."

"Oh. Okay, thank you, hear?" He didn't walk toward the entrance, though. Instead, he turned the other direction. Maybe it was because he didn't have cash. I'm not sure.

I thought about just walking him into the coffee shop to get him a coffee. But I knew that, one, my team was waiting. Two, the line was going to be long at this time of day. And three, I never give cash money outside of the hospital. Plus I didn't have any money on me anyway.

Sorry, sir. That's what I said in my head before continuing on my way. We resumed talking and walking. I looked back over my shoulder as my brisk footsteps took me further away from him.

Then, I felt something. It was like God Himself grabbed my shoulder and said, "What about your coffee?"

"This one? With the special splash of creamer? Dude. Seriously?"

I stopped in my tracks. Spun on my heel and called out. "Sir!" He turned around. "You want my coffee? It's hot. I just got it."

His eyes widened. That's when it occurred to me that he never intended for me to do THAT. He just hoped I knew of some magic place to hook a brother hard on his luck up with a cup of coffee. Turns out I did.

"Oh yes. I would really, really like that," he said. And I knew when I put it in his hand that I would be going to round and into my day without that yummy special creamer and minus that perfect backup cup of joe.

Did birds start chirping and heavens open up? Nah. But that was okay. Because maybe, just maybe, God showed HImself to me today. And you know what? I saw Him.

Yeah.

***
Happy Wednesday.

Me and mines.

Mines.

Last month on rounds

Her: "Before you say anything, hold on for a second, okay?" *fishes around in bed for her phone* "I need to get my sister on the phone." *opens flip phone*
Me: "You know. . . . if you want, we could call her for you. You know. . . and update her on everything."
Her: "Nawww. Let me go on and call her right now, okay?" *holds up index finger telling me to wait*

*inward cringe* 😬

CONFESSION: The whole "let me get somebody on speaker phone" thing in the middle of rounds is so not my favorite. Like, at all. For one, I don't enjoy having to speak louder and more animated to bring someone else into the discussion. And lastly, by definition, people on the phone seem to need more to make up for not being able to see your face and expression as you talk. It can get lengthier than normal. Which isn't always so fun when you're super busy.

Terrible, I know.

But I do have a workaround. The compromise for me is that I offer to personally call that loved one afterward. And usually that's fine. This time? Not so much.

Me: "You sure you don't want me to just call her directly? I am happy to do that, you know."
Her: *chuckles* "See, if it was just up to me? You calling her later would be fine. But that ain't the case."
Me: *inward cringe* "Okay."

*silence as she scrolls through her contacts*

Her: "See, my sister? She don't play. She like to hear WHAT they telling me WHEN they telling me. She said she don't like no after the fact summary for the family, you know?"
Me: *presses lips together and nods* "I can see that."
Her: "Some doctors don't like all that, though. They ain't patient like you."

*inward cringe*😬

Her: "Like, this one surgeon? I said I need to call my sister and he flat out said, 'Your sister needs to be up here if it's that important to her to hear every single thing play by play."
Me: "Whoa."
Her: "That dude was talkin' 'bout some, 'You want to be IN the game? You got to be AT the game.' He started laughing, too. Like he said something funny."
Me: "Wow."
Her: "What's messed up is that I laughed, too. Even though that wasn't funny."

*silence*

Her: "Let me tell you what else wasn't funny though--when my sister called to ask me why I ain't call her when them surgeons came by and I told her what he said. You know, about the game and all."
Me: *squinting eyes and wincing*
Her: "Baybaaaaaay."

*laughing*

Her: "When I say she took the WHOLE DAMN DAY off from work the next day to wait for his ass? Girl, like a damn playground bully after the school bell!"
Me: *laughing*
Her: "That dude walked in and she was like, 'Oh. You the one who said that stuff about me being in the game, right?' He called his self laughing it off, too. She was like, 'Let me tell you ONE GOT DAMN THANG about ME AND MINES!'"
Me: *eyes widening and erupting with laughter* "She didn't go to the 'ME AND MINES' did she?"
Her: "Girl, he ain't knew that when somebody black say 'ME AND MINES', it don't NEVER end well."
Me: *doubled over*
Her: "Dr. Manning! She was like, 'OH. ME AND MINES? We ONE BALL, boo boo. I'm in EVERY GAME, you hear me?' Patting her chest, looking all crazy and all up in his face." *laughing and shaking her head* "Lawd. That po' man."
Me: "Wait--did she really say 'boo boo?' 
Her: "SHOLL did."

*hollering laughing*

Her: "Chile, for the rest of that week that man was calling my sister so much she got sick of him!"
Me: "It was the 'ME and MINES' that had him shook."
Her: "Please believe!"

*laughter*

After that, she pushed a few buttons and then put her sister on the speakerphone. We all talked about what was happening with my patient--her sister--and what to expect next. Sister was tough--as expected. She asked a ton of questions and with each one, my patient rolled her eyes and shrugged in my direction. Eventually, all the questions were asked and answered. And all was well.

Yup.

Was it awkward to be talking in Dolby stereo over an antiquated flip phone? Of course. But did I do it? You're damn right.

I'd be lying if I said that now I've had this epiphany about how much I'll now enjoy bringing in family on speakerphones during rounds. Nope. But I CAN say that I haven't stopped thinking about Sister's reason being that she wanted to hear EXACTLY what the doctor said to her sister EXACTLY when they said it. This was advocacy on a whole different level.

I remember when a family member thought she had uterine cancer because of the way her fibroids were described by the doctor on rounds. "Tumors on her uterus," they'd said. Which, to her, meant cancer. I wonder what those 72 terrifying hours of thinking she had cancer would have been like had she insisted I get brought in on speakerphone that day. . . .

Me and mines.

So this? This is why I take a moment every day to sit and think about what's going on around me. To let empathy push down my selfishness and remind me that you and yours are as important as me and mines. And that we ONE BALL.

Yeah.

"I'm in EVERY GAME, you hear me?" 

- a badass baby sister who took exactly ZERO mess from anybody.

****
#amazinggrady #idontmakethisstuffup #meandmines #supportisaverb #standbyyourfolks #andstayinthegame

Homeless-ish.

When my alarm went off this morning, I didn't want to get out of bed. Not because I'm a person who struggles with mornings--I don't. And not because I still felt super sleepy--I didn't. Mostly, it just felt super comfortable. And safe. And just. . . peaceful.

Yeah. That.

I hit the snooze button, stilled myself, and just listened. I could hear the tinkle of Willow's collar and his feet padding the floor while exiting Zack's room. Then I heard the plop of his body settling to the floor outside of my door. A few dry coughs came from the direction of Isaiah's room. And Harry's rhythmic breaths added to my ambient morning music. It all felt so good.

It did.

And this? I'm learning that this is not a tiny mercy. It's a big one. Just having a bed that you can lay down on that you either look forward to getting into or that you feel reluctant to leave? Man. This week reminded me what a huge deal that is.

Like on this day:

Me: "You're looking so much better, sir. You're off of oxygen and walking to the bathroom and back by yourself. And your fevers have gone away. I think we can let you go today."
Him: "I don't feel all the way better, Miss Manning. I prefer for you to just go on and hold me until I'm back to a hundred percent."
Me: "I'd sure love to do that. But it's a lot better for you to just finish recuperating at home away from all the beeping sounds and people waking you up." *trying to laugh*
Him: "That don't bother me. I'd just rather stay a few more days."
Me: "So, we do have to go ahead and discharge you today now that your body is strong enough to finish getting better at home. But how about we send a home health nurse there to see about you?"
Him: *looking visibly distressed*
Me: "You okay?"
Him: *tearful* "No. I just really, really want to keep getting better here."

*silence*

Me: "Remind me of where you live again?"
Him: "With my daughter. And her family for now."
Me: "Okay. I say when you get back there, you just slide on under the covers and keep on resting when you get home. We'll get you the prescriptions and get you all set, okay?"

*silence*

Me: *trying to look positive* "Okay?"
Him: *now tearful and frustrated* "First of all, I stay on a COUCH not in a room. And it's just . .just . . .just CHAOS all 'round there! Kids in and out, teenagers. People walking all around and smoking and cussing and talking all loud. TV on all hours of the day and folk letting me know I'm in they way. Like, 'Naw, we don't want it so comfortable that you don't get up outta here.' And I don't blame 'em."
Me: *silence*
Him: "I know you can't hold me past what you s'posed to. But I wish SO bad I had some place that just feel good, you know? Where I can just get in my bed and like it there. And get all the way better. But I ain't got that."
Me: *tiny whisper* "Man."

After that I asked him to tell me what he meant by "CHAOS" and he did. And nothing about it sounded pleasant or like a good set up for a brother that's trying to convalesce after dealing with some real serious health stuff. It sucked.

And this? This situation of unstable housing and "staying with somebody for a while" because of lost jobs or disability or strongholds? Man. This is way more common than I wish it was. Way, way more. That patient gave it a good name: "Homeless-ish."

Wish I could say there was a plan B for me to offer my homeless-ish friend that day. There wasn't. At least, not a fast or immediate one. And because I was keenly aware of the large numbers of sick patients down in the ER waiting for beds on the hospital ward, the chaotic couch would have to do.

Sigh.

So this morning before the snooze went off again, I prayed for him to find some pocket of solace in the next few days. Prayed that someone in that house would choose to speak in their inside voice or skip the loud TV or insist that everyone tiptoe and close the doors softly. That somebody would lightly place a comforter over his body and bring out a pillow and ask if he's okay. I prayed that until I could see it. I did.

After that, I gave gratitude for tiny coughs, jingling dog collars, low pitched hums of sleeping husbands, goose down comforters, alarms with snooze buttons and just. . . peace. Because somebody somewhere would give anything for it, man. This I know for sure.

Praying friends? And my non-praying friends, too. . . . remember my homeless patients, okay? And my homeless-ish ones, too. Thanks.

That's all.

***

Some type of way.

When I saw you on rounds today you were quiet. Your eyes looked in my direction but were otherwise vacant. This was a change.

Me: "You okay?"
You: "I'm okay."

I asked you to sit up in bed and carefully untied the back of your gown. Gently, I searched your back with my stethoscope, listening to see if you were improving.

Me: "Can you take a deep breath?"
You: *deep breath*
Me: "And let it out."
You: *let it out*

We repeating that exchange for a few more beats. The sounds emitted from your lungs confirmed what I'd been told. Things were improving.

I'd attempt to lift the mood.

Me: "You sound so much better!"
You: *head nod and shrug*

No such luck.

You'd been so upbeat the day before. So animated and full of light. Out of breath, yes. But still with eyes that twinkled. And so loquacious that I pulled up a chair to sit down and just let you talk. Today? None of that. Just quiet cooperation and a cloak of melancholy that didn't make sense.

Me: "What's wrong?"
You: "I'm okay."
Me: "Really? You seem sad today. Like you're not okay."
You: *silence*

Another shrug.

I slowed my movements and looked for a chair. Perhaps if you didn't feel like I was too busy to listen, you'd share. Something was wrong. And I didn't like the idea of you holding on to that something all by yourself while laying in a hospital bed. And so. I told you just that.

Me: "I don't like you in here by yourself with something heavy on your soul. If you feel like sharing, I want to hear. If you don't feel up to it, I can respect that."

A tear squeezed out of your eye and rolled under your chin. You sighed.

You: "Somebody came to talk to me about all this. Told me that if I don't do better I'm not gon' be here this time next year."
Me: *listening*
You: "Saying 'You need to lose weight and take your medicines! And stop missing appointments! And why you don't exercise and why you keep eating the wrong stuff and smoking cigarettes? You keep this up and you gon' die!' That's what they said to me."
Me: "Hmm."
You: "They kept on saying it was 'tough love.' Like every few words it was 'tough love' this and 'tough love' that. But to me? It wasn't no love in it."

Another tear slipped over your nose and disappeared into your nostril.

You: "I wanted to say, 'Do you know my life? Do you live where I live? Like, do you even know? I want to be healthy, too!' But all I did was just wait for it to be over. I just said, 'Okay' and acted like it was cool." *shaking your head*
Me: "Man. I'm sorry."
You: "That hurt my feelings, Miss Manning. For real. I know that doctor meant well but I felt some type of way about that."
Me: *silence*
You: "Like, I think when a doctor speak to you they should look you in your eye and see where you at. And if your face say this ain't okay? They need to do something else. Or just stop talking."
Me: "That's good advice for anyone."
You: "Know what? You right."

After that, we talked more about what makes it hard for you to get your medicines and make appointments and eat healthier and move your body and move toward being a non-smoker. You told me about where you live and who you live with and what it's like and how you get the things you need and what makes your nerves bad. Then we talked about a few strategies to help you make steps in the right direction. And the whole time I watched your face to see where you were.

Or if I needed to just stop talking.

The doctor who gave you what was believed to be "tough love" is a good one who, I have to believe, was looking to motivate you not be unkind to you. And I told you that, too. That we are all works in progress with blind spots and ball drops. All of us.

This seemed to resonate with you.

We didn't fix all your problems. But you were smiling when I left. Which, to me, was a start.

Yeah.

***
Happy Sunday.

Ms. Doctor.

I was walking near the hospital entrance today and saw three young brothers standing out front talking and laughing in the sunshine. One was slender with long locs rolled into an afrocentric hipster man-bun. He was animated and talking with his hands. Another was short and stout with flawless espresso skin and a close cut fade haircut. His mouth was gleaming with gold teeth. The third fellow was leaning on the wall chuckling in response to his comrades. His dancing eyes were a beautiful shade of amber and his nose was dusted with freckles.

They were beautiful. Seriously, they were. They greeted me in deference as I passed by.

Manbun: "Hey Ms. Doctor."
Me: "Hey gentlemen. You guys doing alright?"
All: "Yes, ma'am."
Me: "That's great. Have a good day, gents."
They smiled and all said it again: "Yes, ma'am."

I liked the way they all called me ma'am. Even though hearing it always jolts me out of this frozen-in-time idea in my head that I'm forever thirty years old, something about hearing it said in my direction feels maternal and special. I always return the favor, greeting the young men I see around Grady as "gentlemen"-- no matter who they are. Just like I do my own sons.

Yep.

I could immediately tell they weren't being fresh. Just pleasant and respectful toward a woman that they saw as--dare I say it? An elder.

Gasp. An elder.

Ha.

As I walked by, I admired the vast variations in blackness that each of them represented. All so different yet clearly unified in this cultural thread that weaved them all together.

And me with them.

Manbun reached for the door when I got to it and held it open. Just then I noticed that all three of them had their pants hanging nearly to their mid thighs. At first I was going to ignore it but then I decided to use my elder license instead.

Sure did.

Me: "Now you know I don't like seeing my three handsome little brothers standing out here with their pants falling down. Pull up those britches, gentlemen."

And yes. I said "britches."

You know what happened next? All three of them immediately pulled up their low slung jeans up over their hips. And all of them mumbled apologies and words like "my bad" and such.

Me: "Who y'all here to see?"
Manbun: "Our homeboy."
Me: "Is his mama there, too? Did she have to see what I just saw?"

*laughter*

Me: "If she is there, I know she don't want to see your whole behind hanging out of your jeans."

And yes. I said "whole behind."

Manbun: "Ha ha ha we hear you, Auntie."
Me: "Okay, but for real--what's the deal with your entire butt and drawers hanging out of your pants?"
Them: *looking at each other with amusement*
Me: "I'm serious, y'all!"
Freckle face: "It's just the style, I guess."
Me: *old lady scowl* "A style that makes  it where you walking like a penguin?" *shaking my head playfully*

*laughter*

Me: "Okay, gentlemen. Let me go in here and do my job."

*laughter as I walked through the door*

Manbun: "Hey Ms. Doctor!"

I turned around from the door and looked back. All three of them were standing in a row with their pants pulled all the way up and holding them at the waist. They all had these goofy, exaggerated smiles that reminded me of my own sons. Then we all burst out laughing.

I waved my hand at them and walked away shaking my head and smiling.

I told my team on rounds today: "If you stay with someone long enough, you'll always find a place where you intersect. Always."

No-- I don't like the sight of sagging jeans. At. All. And honestly? I'm not a huge fan of gold fronts either.

But I also don't like that video game Fortnite.
Or the random YouTube gamers I have to hear about nonstop from the backseat of my minivan.
Or dinner table discussions about Fortnite skins and virtual outfits for video games.

Nope.

But what I DO have is a soft spot in my heart for goofy sons with silly smiles. And beautiful brown manchildren with knotty hair and easy slang who hold doors and also poke fun at me and each other. Just like the ones that stood outside of that hospital entrance today.

And just like the ones that came from my own body.

Yeah.

***

L-O-V-E.

I took care of you in the hospital for fifteen days straight. I was there when you first came in with those symptoms. And I held your hand when you found out why.
“I am not afraid,” you said. “I’m just really, really glad you’re here.”

And you said that every single one of those days after. You also said the same thing to me each day before I left your room:

“I love you.”

Which isn’t something we never hear as doctors but is something out of the ordinary. But you—you said it each and every time.

I love you.

Not “I’ve got love for you.” Not “I love all that you’ve done.” But those three simple words spoken with clear intention every time.

I love you.

When your body got sicker and you were in pain, I held your hand again. And you looked into my eyes and told me once more, “I am not afraid. I’m just really, really glad you’re here.”

And then, “I love you.”

You had a big fight ahead of you. The kind of big that comes in like a playground bully, stealing lunches and terrorizing the innocent and weak. You were brave and fought back. You did. But that bully wouldn’t leave you be.

No it would not.

Someone called me the other day to tell me you’d been readmitted. This time sicker and requiring intensive care. I was grateful to have been told and made a plan to go see you first thing in the morning the next day.

You transitioned before I could.

Damn.

Today I am thinking of you. Letting your memory remind me of the great privilege of caring for you and every one of my patients at Grady. I am remembering our time together and speaking back the words you gave to me:

I am not afraid. I’m just really, really glad you’re here.

and

I love you.

Yeah.
***

Aretha.

Any and every resident or medical student who has ever worked with me at Grady has heard me say these words:

"Rock steady, baby."

It is what I say when a patient is doing better. It is what I say when everything is going well. It is the response I give to someone telling me they got several interviews for jobs or fellowships. Or even just the thing I offer someone who asks how things are going with me.

"Rock steady, baby."

It is the song that lifted my spirits after losing my sister. The one that lulled me out of bed and outside to learn to run to combat grief. The beat that thumped in my chest when I spoke to millions of people on CNN as the Chilean miners were rescued. The velvety voice that crooned over my shoulder when stepping up to a podium to give a lecture. And the jam that helped me cross finish lines for those 13.1 mile races I never believed I could run.

Rock steady, baby.

See, I believe that everyone should have a soundtrack playing in their head every single day. Those who know me and have read my blog know that I have a mental iPod playing 24-7. I kid you not--if my life were a movie and it had to have a musical soundtrack? Right at the top of the playlist would be this song.

Rock steady, baby.

Sometimes I put my earjacks in and strut straight into Grady to the beat of this song playing in my ear--literally. But most times? I don't even need it. I can hear it clear as a bell no matter what other ambient noises are around me.

Yup.

Something about the bass. The horns. Her voice. Her voice. . . and the background singers, too. All of it seems to swirl in my spirit and speak to my mood. It says, "You are good. You will be fine. Things are good. And if they aren't, they will be or they can be."

Rock steady, baby.

It makes me want to high five people, do the bump with somebody in the elevator, and put some pep in my step. It makes me want to convince a patient they can make it, shake the hand of a security guard, and raise my hand in the back of the teaching conference. It lifts my spirits and puts my feet on a positive path. Yes. That.

Rock steady, baby.

Such a perfect song. Nothing too fancy. Not too many complicated lyrics. Just good, clean soul. I mean, let's call this song exactly what it is.

Mmmm hmmmm.

So if you see me around Grady or anywhere for that matter. . . .and you wonder why I look like I hear music in my head? It's because I do. And thanks to the Queen of Soul, it is probably this very song.

Rock steady, baby.

Aretha will forever be playing on my mental iPod as a reminder to feel the rhythm of each day and step into it with gratitude. And then? Just call this life exactly what it is: One I'm glad to be living.

Rock steady, baby.

Rest in power, Soror Aretha. Your talent and legacy will live on forever. May you forever move rock steady, baby.

***

Fear of dogs.

When you came in, this problem was barking like a dog. It looked like one and behaved like one, too. A few tests later, it was confirmed to be just that. A dog.

Albeit not a very nice or well-behaved one.

This is the kind of dog that requires the help of expert dog tamers. And we have very good ones who stepped right in and made recommendations. Special tricks to acquiesce the gnashing teeth of this dog.

They say what to do and we do it. I am only the middleman. And you feel fine, mostly. So I come in to see you, do what the experts suggest, and not very much more. Which can sometimes be how it is with exotic breeds like yours.

“Has everything been explained to you?” I ask.

“It has,” you reply. I confirm by pressing you a bit with questions. Your understanding is accurate. Your exam unchanged. There is nothing to do.

“I was so scared I wouldn’t see you by yourself today,” you say. “Outside the team rounds.”
“I’m here,” I say. "I'm back, okay?"
You smile and your dry lips crack. “I'm glad.” The look on your face makes me feel glad, too.

And so. I sit beside you and lay my hand before yours. You reach for it and close your fingers. And then we just sit and hold hands. I listen to your thoughts. Hear about what makes you afraid. We talk about how you are scared of dogs. Real ones and metaphorical ones, too.

I'm not the dog whisperer and no, I don’t have all the answers. And, yes, I'll admit that I have fears of lions and tigers and bears—and, just like you, those cancer rabid dogs, too. But what I also know is this: Even though I’m not the expert, I am brave enough to hold your hand and face them with you. I am.

Or to at least show up and try.

Yeah.

***

This time.

*image shared with permission

I’ve passed you too many times to count in the last decade and a half. Our eyes always meet and the same thing happens. I wave my hand and say hello. And you offer a gentlemanly nod accompanied by a gesture for me to look at your collection of items for sale. I smile in response and, without fail, you say, “Maybe next time.”

Every. Single. Time.

This morning I woke up thinking of you. Recounting the hundreds of lunches that I’ve had that called for me to pass you and for us to have that same Groundhog Day-like exchange. I decided that today would be the day that I stopped and really, truly looked at what you were selling.

Yep.

I walked up slowly, to let you know I wasn’t in a hurry. And when you held out that flattened palm toward that rectangular cloth holding all of your goods, this time I halted, kneeled down, and gave it all a good, hard look. I asked you prices and questions. You were patient and answered each and every one.

“I like the copper bracelet but don’t have enough cash on me for it,” I said. “Maybe I could make a donation instead?”

You asked if I needed socks. Or perhaps some African oil? What about some shea butter? You didn’t want a handout. It was clear.

“What about you play me some music? And I pay for that?” I asked. You seemed to like this suggestion best of all.

And so you played. A sweet little ditty that I’d never heard before. But sweet all the same.

After that, I decided that I didn’t want us to be strangers anymore. I learned your name. You learned mine. I discovered that, like me, you love people more than you fear them and believe that we are all more alike than we are different. I found out that—no, you aren’t a Rastafarian from the West Indies. You are a bona fide ATLien—a Grady baby born and raised right in the heart of the 4th Ward. You’re a musician, an entrepreneur, a jewelry maker, a singer and, especially, a man who loves the pulse of a thriving city. You used to live in New York City for many years but found your way back home to Atlanta. You thought Dinkins could’ve done more as “the first brother mayor of NYC” and that Rudy Giuliani was decent but that he had no business running for President of these whole United States. Oh, and you like that Mayor Keisha Lance Bottoms is one of Atlanta’s own just like you.

Yep.

I bid you adieu and went to have some lunch after that. On the walk back, you gave me that same gallant nod and gestured to your spread. “Maybe next time, Dr. Kimberly,” you said this time.

“Yes, Mr. Harun,” I replied. “Maybe next time indeed.”

I love this place.

***
#amazinggrady #ilovepeople #objectsarecloserthantheyappear #loveisthewhat #iseeyou

Grandson.

“Where are your people from? Maybe Mississippi or an island?” 

- India.Arie, “Brown Skin”

______________________________

Grady elevator, July 4.

Him: “Hey doc.”
Me: “Hey there, sir.”

*silence*

Him: “Hey doc? Where you from?”
Me: “Me? I’m from California.”
Him: “No I meant like, where you FROM FROM.”
Me: “Ummmm. Born in Compton. Raised in Inglewood.” *holds up hand gesture* “West syeeeeeed.”

*laughter*

Him: *squints eyes* “But where your peoples from?”
Me: “Alabama.”
Him: “Alabama? So you just regular black? I was thinking you was something else.”

Me: *shrugs and smiles* “Nope.”
Him: *still pondering my ancestry*

Me: “So tell me, friend. Where’re you from?”
Him: “Straight out the A. Vine City.”
Me: “Gotcha. Is that where you’re FROM FROM? Like, your peoples, too?”
Him: “Yep. I’m just a regular ass n*** from Atlanta.”

*silence*

Me: “So, why are you at Grady today on Firecracker day?”
Him: “To see my grandmama. She been real sick.”
Me: “I’m sorry to hear that. Are y’all close?”
Him: “She my heart.” *eyes glistening so looks down* “I see her every day.”
Me: “I bet she’s so glad to see you everyday.”
Him *nods and keeps looking down*

After that, I asked his name and told him mine. I told him that I thought his grandmama was a very lucky woman to have a special grandson who came to see her every single day. And then I reached my floor and the doors opened. I stepped out but then turned back to face him with my hand on the door.

Me: “Hey grandson? Can you do me and your grandmama a favor?”
Him: *looks up* “Yes, ma’am.”
Me: “Please don’t ever, ever refer to yourself as a ‘regular ass n***’ again, okay? Like, ever. Because you’re not.”
Him: *staring at me while I stand in the doorway as elevator buzzer starts going off*
Me: “Alright then, grandson. Go see ‘bout your heart. She waiting on you.”
Him: “Alright then, doc.”
Me: *smiling*
Him: *smiling back*

Both of us: *fist bump*

I love this place.❤️🏥

***
#slowtojudge #hewasspecial #peopleoftenaskwhereimfromfrom #butonlymyownpeopleask #itscooltho #totallycoolwithme #dialoguestarter #amazinggrady #loveisthewhat #alwaysandinallways

Heavy on my soul.

"I don't know no love songs

and I can't sing the blues any more

but I can sing this song 

and you can sing this song

when I'm gone."

- James Taylor

"You okay?"

I pointed at my chest. "Who me?" 

"Yeah, you. Look like something heavy on your soul."

That's what my patient said to me on rounds the other day. It was late in the afternoon and visiting him was the last thing on my to-do list before heading out of Grady. He'd had some tests and I'd come back to check in on him and explain results. He'd need a minor procedure the following day and I wanted to be sure he was okay with it all. He was. After we'd gone through all of the business parts, I realized I had some time. Instead of walking out to chat with friends or my team, I pulled up the bedside chair and made up my mind to spend that window chatting with him. And honestly? Nothing about it was heavy. If anything, it was light.

Quite light.

A woman was on the television talking about a myriad of unimportant things and repeatedly kept using the word "slay" to describe any and everything. Her outfit. Her friend's hair. Michelle Obama's entire time in the White House. And even the person interviewing her. It was "slay" this and "slay" that.

Yeah, man. So, really, we were talking about whether or not the word "slay" had been officially beat to death or not. Me with my arm leaning on the bed rail and him narrowing his eyes and tapping his chin to give this topic far more thought than both of us knew it deserved.

It was perfect.

See, it had been a bit of a rough week. And with all the sandpaper rubbing against my heart over those last few days, this mundane chat with my young (but sick) patient was like a balm for my emotionally  weary soul. Plus, I really liked this patient. His energy spoke to my own from the moment I first shook his hand on rounds a few days before.  So, on this day in particular, I was really thankful to sit with him.

Yeah.

"I blame Beyoncé," I said.

"The Queen Bey? Honey, she is never at fault." He let out a moist cough into his fist and then slapped his chest a few times. I started to stand up to check on him and he stopped me. "I'm okay. Stay put."

I nodded and sat back down. Then went back to our conversation. "But you have to admit the word has been beat to death."

"Slay? Beat to death? Hmm. I don't think so. But it can't be the only thing you say, you know? Like, you have to mix it up. Everybody and everything can't slay." Right when he said that, the lady said it again. We both laughed.

We sat in silence for a few beats. And then I spoke. "Confession: I still say 'legit.' And 'epic.'"

"Whoa. You legit say legit still? And epic?" He widened his eyes playfully and raised his eyebrows. "And you seemed so cool at first."

"My niece asked me if I knew that wasn't really a thing people say any more. She legit said that to me." That made me snort out loud because it was so funny to me. He laughed, too. Followed by another cough.

After that the room fell silent again. The TV kept going and, other than my patient clearing his throat or coughing here and there, we weren't moving or talking. So there I sat. Chin in my palm and mostly just enjoying that moment. Which was good.

Really good.

A few more seconds passed and that's when he said it. Swung his head  in my direction and rested his brown eyes on me. Even though I was facing the television, I could still tell he we was looking at me.

"You okay, doc?" he said.

"Who me?" I pointed at my chest.

"Yeah, you."

I turned my head away from the television and back toward him. I poked out my lip and furrowed my brow.

"Look like you got something heavy on your soul."

Heavy on my soul.

I didn't say anything. Instead I just stared at him, surprised at how warm my face was becoming and embarrassed at how my eyes were stinging with tears.

"I'm okay," I finally said, speaking quietly. "But yes. That's a good way to put it. Something is heavy on my soul these days. But I'm okay."

"I hate hearing that. And here you are having to see about everybody else."

"No, it's okay. In fact, it's more than okay. Really."

I didn't talk because I didn't want to start crying, you know? But really, he was right. Something was heavy on my soul.

I wanted to tell him, too. I wanted to tell my patient--this patient who embodied every single thing I love about patient care and patient caring -- all about what was weighing me down. I wanted to talk about it with someone less connected to it, someone who didn't really know me. This way I could just hear the words or see the expressions in response unfiltered. Or, just maybe, I could wrinkle my nose like a little child and cry into balled up fists without any expectations or pressure. Empathy uncut.

But I didn't when he asked. I was his doctor. Though my sitting in his room that afternoon dissecting the social relevance of slang terms didn't exactly fall into the physician playbook I'd been shown in medical school or residency, I knew for sure that flipping the script in this way wasn't even in the same library.

So when he asked, I just stayed silent.

Yeah.

Just about 24 hours before that moment in his room, I was down in the emergency department seeing newly admitted patients with my team. My phone had buzzed twice in my pocket with text messages followed by two or three sustained vibrations from incoming calls. A few seconds later, I felt it happen again and that time, I fished into my white coat to see who it was.

Call me when you can. Alanna is not well. She wanted me to update you.

That was what the text read. It was from my colleague Danielle J. in reference to our friend and colleague Alanna. I walked straight out of that patient room and called immediately. That's when I learned that Alanna, who'd been fighting a ruthless cancer, was now intubated and in intensive care.

Wait, what?

The wind was knocked so hard out of my chest that I had to get out of the ER and away from my team immediately to catch my breath. This wasn't supposed to be happening.

As soon as I got out of there I felt the tears filling up my eyes. Once they began falling, I abruptly stopped. Then I turned my forehead into the nearest wall and let myself cry. And I could feel the people looking at me as they walked by, their feet slowing down and wondering what could be going on with this doctor and the muffled, guttural sounds she was making. No one said anything though. They, too, must have read the doctor-patient playbook and decided not ask.

Maybe.

Maybe my actions spoke enough. I mean, whatever it was had to be awful. A doctor facing a wall with shoulders shaking and body heaving in a stiff white coat said plenty. I guess it did.

Here's the backstory:

I met this remarkable woman named Alanna in July of 2007. I met her on her very first day of medical school when she came and sat in a room with several other medical students. And then, I really, truly met her when that big group was whittled down to just seven individuals--the seven that would go on to become my first small group.

Yeah.

I would get to watch her evolve into a doctor--literally bookending the experience from that very first day with placing a doctoral hood over her shoulders at commencement on her very last. I jumped for joy with her on residency match day and again jumped for joy when, after her residency training, she took a job back at Grady Memorial Hospital and Emory where we first met. This time, though, it would be different. Now we would be colleagues--both of us Grady doctor attendings.

Yeah.

One year into coming back to Grady, she was diagnosed with breast cancer. It was aggressive, but they caught it early. And that Alanna. That tough girl slugged it out. She came to work and taught the residents and rallied on. Finally that final treatment day came and our whole division celebrated by wearing pink in honor of Alanna and every person affected by breast cancer. It was super awesome.

Things seemed to be getting back to normal. Alanna was getting on great as a Grady doctor and showing everyone the very things I got to see as early as July 2007. The accolades poured in and so did the opportunities. And she was over the moon. She was.

Last April she wasn't feeling good. I remember sitting outside having lunch with her between lectures at a medical conference we were both attending in Washington D.C. "I'm feeling a little under the weather," she said. And that was about it.

A week later, she would find out why. Acute leukemia. Yes, after licking breast cancer, she now had a new cross to bear.

"Are they sure?" I asked her.

"They are," she replied.

"I'm so sorry." My voice was a whisper.

"Me, too."

Up until the moment Danielle called me during my rounds that day, it never occurred to me that she wouldn't get through this. Our last chat on the phone was upbeat, hopeful even about the bone marrow donor match that she'd located and the road ahead. "I'm nervous but I'm ready," she told me. "Just ready to get on with my life."

"That's great," I told her. "So great." And then, like usual, I started crying. Crying these complicated tears about how much I hated knowing that her dreams were having these horrific speed breakers thrown before them. I'd think about her adoring husband and their precious son with his head of blonde curls. I could hear her telling me that she wanted more children and how she'd chuckle and refer to the timing of her breast cancer as "super annoying." All of that would make me cry when trying to talk to her. I guess it was because of the nature of how our relationship began. As her formal small group advisor, even when she joined the faculty, my role always felt more familial, maternal-ish and big-sisterly than anything else. And in that role I'd always prided myself in protecting my students. From any and everything I could.

Yeah, so not being able to do that made me cry.

Yeah.

She was super kind with my crying. Patient and super kind like she was with everyone. Because of that, even though we talked sometimes, mostly, we texted. And I'm grateful to this day that she permitted me to do that. So very grateful.

Just a few hours after I got that call about her being in the intensive care unit, another call came in. It was Danielle. And as soon as I saw the phone ringing, I knew.

"She's gone." That's all Danielle could eke out. I slumped to my kitchen floor and dropped the phone. And then we both erupted into tears. And the same thing happened a few more times that same evening.

It sucked.

I was on the hospital service when all of this happened. And, since I'd spent the entire night crying in the fetal position on my bed, I knew that next day would be hard. The faces of some people made me cry even more. Then the text messages from that first small group amplified how out of order this all was. This wasn't supposed to be happening.

So all of this is what was going on that late afternoon when I came to sit with my patient. And he was right--all of this was weighing heavy on my soul. So heavy that I couldn't lift it.

Even still, I wasn't forthcoming when my patient asked. I just stayed silent. Even though the heavy was palpable and suffocating to more than just me.

"I'm okay," I said.

"Okay." That was all my patient said. Except for a few moments later when he repeated it. "Okay."

I tried to take things back to where they were. Light, airy and easy. But it didn't work. That heaviness on my soul was now out of hiding and cloaking the room. It was about time for me to go anyway so I arose from my seat and told him so.

"I'll see you tomorrow, okay?" I said. I tried my best not to sound as somber as I felt. "Don't forget--nothing to eat after midnight, okay?"

"Okey dokey." He held up a thumbs up. I returned the gesture.

I stepped toward the door and stopped short to pump some hand sanitizer foam into my hand. Just as I grabbed the door, he spoke one more time.

"Hey, Dr. Manning? I hope it gets better. Whatever is heavy on your soul, okay?"

I forced a smile and nodded. I pulled the handle of the door and then stopped. But then something clicked in me like a light switch. I spun on my heel and faced his bed from the door.

"Um. One of the doctors I work with here at Grady? Um. Well, she passed away yesterday. And she was young. And I knew her since, like, her first day of medical school." I cleared my throat and pressed my back against the door to keep from crying. "So, today was hard. Because she was really great. Really, really great."

"Was she nice?" he asked.

I smiled at the simplicity of that question. "Nice? She was more than nice. She was the kind of nice that you don't see all the time. Like . . . epic nice. . . genuine and for real, you know?"

"Yeah. I think I do know. What was her name?"

"Her name was Dr. Alanna Stone."

He mouthed out her name and squinted one eye as if he was trying to determine if he knew her. Realizing he didn't, he first shook his head then switched to a nod instead. "Well. Something tell me Dr. Alanna Stone would be happy you was in here spending time with a patient like me on a day like this. It seem like she would like that. Plus sometimes y'all need people to see about y'all, too."

He was right. That thought made the corner of my mouth turn upward on one side. I thought of how someone had told me about how, even in her ICU bed, she checked on the well-being of the physicians involved in her care. She even graciously told them that she trusted and appreciated them--even in her last moments.

"You know what? I think she would." Then something came to me so I went on. "Now that Dr. Alanna Stone? She slayed, man. At everything she did. As a doctor and as a person she did. She really slayed."

My patient gave me a playful smirk. "She legit did?"

"She legit did!"

We both chuckled at that and pretended to give a high five through the air since I was nearly out the door. And just that quick the heavy returned. Pressing upon the room once again and sliding around my chest like a boa constrictor.

"Okay then, sir."

"Hey--Dr. Manning? Thanks for telling me that, okay?"

"Thanks for asking. For real."

We stood there looking at each other. Me at the door, him in his bed.

"I wish I'd met her."

"I wish you had, too."

I think he could feel the emotion mounting again and wanted to let me off the hook. He smiled the warmest, dearest smile ever and waved. "See you tomorrow, Dr. Manning."

"See you tomorrow, sir."

I slipped out of the door and let it quietly close behind me. And then I walked out of the unit as fast as I could. . .through the automatic doors, down the hall. . . and then into the quietest Grady stairwell I could find so that I could lean my head into a wall once more to cry and cry.

Crying because I would miss seeing the life of this beautiful woman continuing to unfold. Crying because thirty four is too young to die. Crying because a little boy had lost his mother and a husband had lost his wife. Crying because one of the most legit epic students-turned-doctors that I have ever witnessed has had her career cut short and that patients like the one I'd just left would never get to meet her. Crying because she slayed which was ironic because that's not a word she would have ever used to describe herself or anything else. But also crying because of that moment with that man and how Alanna herself understood more than anyone that patients take care of doctors, too. That patients save their doctors' lives every single day.

I will miss Dr. Alanna Stone.

Yeah.

***

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . one of my favorite songs of all time.