Redeemed.

*details changed for anonymity and. . sigh. . you know the deal.

 

"Do you believe in redemption?" she asked me.

"Yes," I answered.

____________________________________________

Me

My shoulders sagged with exhaustion with every detail of your story. You'd seen "someone else" at Grady who, of course, was conveniently no longer here. That person had "promised you" that they'd fill out your lengthy stack of disability forms. So that was your agenda when you came that day. To get this paperwork completed so that you could go on your not-so-merry way.

Wait. Not so fast.

For starters, you'd strolled right in and handed those papers to the resident doctor. No trace of an antalgic gait or slippery cognition to anchor such a title as "total disability." I scrolled through the scant documentation of your hospital encounters in the electronic medical record. I mean, yes, you did have your share of hard luck. Health problems, indeed, but not ones that necessarily deemed you unable to achieve gainful employment ever again.  And so. I would be honest.

But that wasn't what you wanted to hear.


You

Here we go. I guess now she got to go get some other doctor to come in here and give me the run around. This is some bullshit. Some total bullshit.

I guess she thinks since we both black she can smooth talk me or something. Looking me all in the eye like we both know some secret. But really, I ain't here for none of that shit. I'm all messed up. My back hurt and I can't do the work I used to do. I just can't.

If I don't get some kind of income to get me the fuck out of this shelter? I just don't know, man. I just don't.


Me

"Tell me about your back."

"What?"

"Your back. Can you tell me about it? Like when it started hurting and the story behind how you've been feeling?"

You seemed so shocked by that question. Almost appalled. So I just sat there with my eyes fixed on yours waiting. Waiting to hear what would make a man not even ten years older than me want to get permanent disability.

Even though I think I sort of knew already.


You

"My back got hurt from all my years of lifting heavy stuff. Over time it was just too much. And now that I'm older, nobody want to hire you if you can't stay on the job for a long time. A lot of these young guys and immigrant dudes is so hungry, man. They can work a good fifteen hours straight like it ain't shit. I can't do that. And that's always been my job."

I told her the truth. The black lady with the short hair that was sitting in front of me ice-grilling me like she Dr. Phil or Oprah or somebody. And really, it all seem like one of those bullshit questions you ask somebody when you already know what you gon' do anyway. Rhetorical, they call it. Yeah. That.

She thought I didn't know a rhetorical question when I heard one. But she was wrong.


Me

"That sucks."

I said that because it was true. I mean, it did suck that a man like you who used to work manual labor could no longer hang with the competition. It also sucked that you were living in a homeless shelter which appeared to add urgency to your need for some sort of supplemental income. I hated that.

"You know? It does suck."

Your expression softened a tiny bit when you said that. I'd learned during some tough times in my own life that something as simple as an acknowledgement of the shittiness of a situation could bring comfort.

"I'm sorry." I paused for a second before saying more. "How long has this been going on?"

You thought for a few seconds, almost like someone under oath. Your answer was careful. "A while."

I nodded my head. "Um. Okay."

When I said that you mopped your face hard with your hand. I could see this mix of anger and frustration welling up inside of you and I quickly tried to assess whether it was something that could threaten my safety. I decided that it wasn't.

Although I sort of wasn't completely sure.


You

She seem nice but with a angle. Like she got my number and just waiting to dial it. I prefer the doctor to just come in like an asshole and start refusing everything from the start. At least I don't have to think so hard.

That clock on the wall is ticking hard. Maybe it isn't but all I can see is the fact that right now it's two something in the afternoon and I got to go back to that crowded ass shelter in the next few hours. A man was hollering in there all night yesterday. They have big roaches and little roaches in there and I'm still trying to decide what's worse. It's hard to tell who is just hard on their luck like me and who is effed up in the head. Like, somebody might start talking to you and you can't tell if they high, about to rob you, schizophrenic or just in a jam. It's too much. And I ain't used to all that.

I feel my blood starting to boil so I tried to wipe my hand over it to keep from punching this wall next to me. The doctor look scared like she think I'm gon' hurt her. But I wouldn't.

This wall next to me, on the other hand, is another story.


Me

I stuck to my motto: "Everything I say about you outside of this room is what I say inside of this room." In this case, it was that I couldn't in good conscience say that you were disabled and unable to work permanently. Not based upon the information I had in front of me, your exam, or what you'd told me.

You reacted as I expected. Some complex mixture of anger, frustration and despair. You threw out expletives as you pounded your fist on the desk. You said you felt trapped. And like a caged animal.

And that part sucked, too. But I was too scared to say it.


You

"Where is your family? I mean. . . . do you have any who are aware of what's going on with you?"

She asked that shit like it was so simple. "Hello? Hey. It's me. The one who ruined your lives because I couldn't get my shit together. Uh huh. Yeah. I'm homeless. Can I come there? Great!"

Man, please.

She got this short hair cut that you can tell she got professionally cut by somebody. Lined up in the back and clipped close on the sides. The kind of thing you do when you have a job and house to go to. So I'm looking at her wondering do she have any idea what it's like to lay on a cot still like a statue with your eyes wide open because you don't want a big roach to crawl on you or a little one to crawl in your ear or in your bag. I know she don't. I can tell by that haircut that she don't.

Nope.


Me

It sucked that a lot of this--okay nearly all of it--was an issue of resources. Like, if you had a place to stay while you sorted a few things out, you could and likely would get some sort of job. I could tell.

You said things that suggested you were worldly and full of the wisdom of hard-fought lessons. I wanted to know. I wanted to know why you were too proud to turn to your family. Because when I asked if you had any, you never said no.

You didn't.


You

One of my daughters had two babies when she was still a teenager. But she raised those girls up and they both made it to college and they doing good. Granddaughters in college. Good colleges, too. And it wasn't too far of a stretch because in spite of me and the hell I put their mama through, both of my daughters went to four-year universities, too. Married with good families and situations. So I feel like I owe it to them to stay out of their way.

Their mama forgave me. Not in the way where you forget what happened. But she always told me that I was sick from the alcohol and that, since my daddy was the same way, a little piece of it wasn't my fault. She real happy in her life, too, so I think that gave her room to let go of that anger. Some part of that is what gave me the courage to do the same thing eight years ago.

Eight whole years now. And I got the Alcoholics Anonymous key chains to show for it.


Me

Wait a minute. Eight years of sobriety? Eight years? And all you've done is exchange mundane text messages and front like everything is "all good" on the telephone with your daughters and granddaughters? The ones who, in your own words, were "very, very, very proud" of you for your recovery and who invited you to see your granddaughter graduate in the top ten from her high school right here in Atlanta?

"Why didn't you go to the graduation?" I asked.

"Because. They might find out I'm homeless. And I promised myself that I wouldn't be a burden."

"You don't think they'd want to know about what's going on?"

"It doesn't matter."

So I stopped talking there. Instead I just promised you that I'd get the social worker since we'd pretty much shelved the idea of permanent disability. And you seemed a little less upset when I said that and shrugged and said it was fine.

And that was that.


You

3:12 PM. Just a couple of hours before I have to go back to the little roaches and the big roaches and the screaming people and the maybe crooked ones.

Deep breath.

The social worker was nice. She told me some stuff I didn't know. And it turns out that my current medical issues do qualify me for some temporary help, too. She even knew about some places where you can get on your feet with working while you live there.

"Family?" she asked me.

Sigh. 

Here we go again.


Me

I popped back in after the social worker Mrs. Beasley had finished up. You were sitting there alone and, for the first time, you looked me square in the eye and smiled. I returned the gesture.

I took a chair right in front of you. Just as I parted my lips to speak, you spoke first.

"Thank you." That's all you said.

I felt my face get very hot, very fast and my eyes immediately starting to prickle with tears. I want to be kind. And I want to make people feel like they are significant. The look on your face, the tone of your voice just. . . .yeah.

"It has been an honor to meet you. Thank you for your honesty." It felt corny when I said it but it was true.

You reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone. Like the proud father and grandfather you are, you showed me a picture of a group of five young women, one of whom was wearing a cap and gown. "That's my grandbaby that just graduated," you said. "Heading up north to school. A good school, too."

"I know they are proud of you for your recovery. I just know it."

You nodded. "Now that is a true statement. They always send me messages on the milestones of my sobriety. Always, always."

"That's awesome." I decided to go there once more. "And you're sure you don't want to reach out to any of your family?"

You stared at me for a few seconds. Then you dropped your head into your hands and cried and cried.


You

I haven't cried in over ten years. I thought my tears had all dried up. But I guess they were just being stored up for this moment. It felt embarrassing but I couldn't hold it in anymore.

This kind, kind black lady doctor with her haircut and dry-cleaned coat didn't understand. The very best gift I ever gave my daughters was the day I left them alone. That's why I was crying. Because the best thing I ever did has always felt like the worst.

She asked me if I believed in redemption.

"Yes," I told her, "and I give it to my girls every single day that I stay at arm's length from their joy."

Me

I have this bad habit of underestimating the enormity of how harsh a reality my patients face sometimes. With my Pollyanna view on the world, I suggest things like calling family or moving to the part of town where it's hard to get crack or applying for some kind of other job somewhere.

Sigh.

You started crying and it was clear. This was too big. Too big for me and my little bag of internal medicine tricks. But some part of me wasn't sure.

I tried to put myself first, in your shoes, and second, in your daughters' shoes. I tried and tried but couldn't really get my foot all the way inside enough to be objective. It kept playing like some ABC After School Special where everyone would hold hands and dance ring-around-the-roses as the credits rolled.

"I'm sorry if it seemed like I oversimplified this. I'm sorry."

"No. I appreciate you caring so much. I really do." You were still weepy a little and patting your eyes. All of it so complex and so riddled with regret.

"It is really your decision to make, sir. And not an easy one." I took a big drag of air and stood up. "I will be praying for you, okay?"

"You will? I'd appreciate that."

"Okay. Then I promise, I will." And I said that because it was true.

Perhaps some might think that's inappropriate to say but it felt right.


You

I didn't get any of the things I asked for when I arrived. But I somehow felt better anyway.

My phone rang as I was walking out of the clinic. One of the girls.

"Hey Dad. Just checking on you."

"Hey there. Just leaving a doctor's appointment."

"Is everything alright?"

I checked my watch once more. 4:01 PM. Plenty of time to make it back to the shelter without risk of being stuck outside for the night.

"Is everything alright? Yeah, baby. Your dad is cool. Cool as a fan."


Me

God,

Bless my patient indeed. Enlarge his territory. Let Your hand be with him and keep him from harm so that he will be free of pain. Please, God. Grant this request.

And Lord? Keep blessing those girls of his. And blessing their mama because mamas are important. And, I guess, just let Your will be done in this. 

Thanks so much for giving my patient sobriety. Please God. Give him his life back, too, so that he can be a blessing to somebody. 

And God? Bless me, too, so that I can keep doing this. Help me to sleep tonight. And to not be haunted by the unbalance of the world . . . or the sound of someone hollering in the cot next to my patient.

Amen.



 ***
Happy Monday.

Jabez cried out to the God of Israel, "Oh, that you would bless me and enlarge my territory! Let your hand be with me, and keep me from harm so that I will be free from pain." And God granted his request.

~ 1 Chronicles 4:10

Now playing on my mental iPod. This, a song that I love to let minister to my soul. Playing this song for my patient today. . . and for myself, too. Even if if it sort of makes me cry.

S.O.S.

*names and details changed to protect anonymity. . .you know what's up

Just a castaway
An island lost at sea
Another lonely day
With no one here but me
More loneliness
Than any man could bear
Rescue me before I fall into despair

I'll send an SOS to the world
I'll send an SOS to the world
I hope that someone gets my
Message in a bottle

Message in a bottle

~ The Police "Message in a Bottle"

The story was straightforward enough. This forty-something year-old gentleman had been admitted to our team for chest pain. It started as a "twinge" and then evolved to more of a pressure. He was smart enough to not ignore any of it or do what many forty-somethings with chest discomfort often do--chalk it up to indigestion or acid reflux.

"My father died from a heart attack in his forties," he said matter-of-factly as I stood on his right side that morning on rounds. "And I think his brother before him did, too."

"Wow," I responded while nodding my head.

He pushed his hands down beside him and scooted upward in bed. I saw his biceps bulge when he did that, and looked at his date of birth to confirm his age again. Other than the deeply embedded crows' feet exploding from the corners of his eyes, he looked young for his age.

"Yeah. I'm not sure what either of them did about it, but the minute I felt something in my chest I came on in."  He ran his fingers through his reddish-brown hair to push it off of his face. It looked like some fairy had dusted Mr. O'Malley with freckles from head to toe. Even his lips were speckled with tiny brown spots.

"That was a smart thing to do," I affirmed with a smile.  Mr. O'Malley looked up at me and returned the favor. I decided that I liked how his almost invisible strawberry blonde eyelashes framed his eyes. I'd never seen eyes like these. Some unusual shade that appeared baby blue one minute and greenish-gray the next.

And so, I did what I usually do. I recounted the story that I'd just been told by my team and inserted a few more questions of my own as the team stood close by listening. Two interns, two medical students and a senior resident all focused on Mr. O'Malley and his words.

He was an excellent historian, so it was easy to create a fluid story board for his present illness. Chest pain that started at rest while watching television on his couch around 7 PM. Had just eaten some pizza from Papa John's delivery and washed it down with two Budweisers. That was about it. Nothing too crazy. "Matter of fact, it was Bud Light." We all chuckled at that clarification.

Beyond that concerning family history, the rest of the history wasn't too bad.  A previous smoker, but not any more. Very active, even played full court basketball several times per week up until about three years ago.

"What made you stop shooting the hoops?" my resident chimed in from the foot of the bed.

He glanced down for a moment as if thinking for a split second before answering that question. "Oh. . .uhh. . I was incarcerated at the time. I spent twenty years in federal penitentiary."

The room fell awkwardly silent. If you listened hard enough, you could hear the collective sounds of our conscious' reactions.

Twenty years? Daaaaaamn.

He closed his eyes and raised his eyebrows while nodding. Freckles were on his eyelids, too. He cleared his throat to break up the tension and said, "Yeah, so that was kind of time consuming." One or two nervous laughs tumbled out of our mouths. He curled his speckled lips and added in the students' direction, "Yeah, and don't believe what they tell you. I'd recommend medical school over the Pen. Definitely." This time we all laughed together, appreciating his willingness to ease things up.

My resident spoke up to keep us on task. "Well, Mr. O'Malley, the good news is that it doesn't look like you had a heart attack. We looked at your EKG and your lab tests and it all looks good."

"That's good to hear."

"Sir, have you had any more chest pain since you've been here?" I asked.

"No, ma'am," Mr. O'Malley replied.

"Okay," I continued. "Right now, the gameplan is to get you a stress test today and if that looks good, we should be able to discharge you this afternoon."  He nodded and held out a thumbs up. That's when I noticed the tattoo on the side of his right thumb. Some sort of intricate symbol that I couldn't quite figure out. He caught me noticing it and a strange expression came across his face that told me not to ask about it.

I reached for his right hand with mine and felt his pulse with the other. For some reason I intentionally covered that unexplained tattoo with my thumb as I held his hand. I feel certain that something in those chameleon-colored eyes washed over with appreciation for that gesture.

"Well, I guess it would be good if I examined you, now wouldn't it?" I teased. "Here I am giving you the plan and all I've done is arm wrestle with you!"  The team sounded like a laugh track behind me, but Mr. O didn't laugh at all. In fact, he looked worried. Unusually worried.

What the heck is going on? 

I paused for a moment and tried to figure it out. I had no idea. Scared I'd find something they didn't? Fearful that my need to examine him meant that I was hiding something that hadn't yet been discussed? I couldn't tell.

"Sir, you know, in teaching hospitals we always put our heads together about every patient. I don't want you thinking that me double checking the physical means something bad." I decided to make that disclaimer, hoping this might explain the terrified look on his face.

"Umm. . . noo. . .that's cool. I mean, I realize that."  His eyes darted from person to person and then back at me. I could tell that he was willing himself to be calm, but it wasn't working. His face became white as the sheet over his lap and his un-inked hand moved protectively over his abdomen.

What the hell? I couldn't figure out what was wrong.  Was he angry? Had I offended him? What? What was this initially cool dude so freaked out about?

I looked into his pleading eyes and tried to communicate with them. He was trying hard to give me a message and I wasn't getting it. "You okay, sir?" I finally asked. When he nodded in the affirmative, I reached for the top of his hospital gown and prepared to unfasten the buttons across the shoulder.  I noticed his forearm tensing up over his abdomen as I unsnapped the last snap and prepared to expose his chest. Carefully, I began to fold down the corner, but then froze for a moment.

What the hell was going on?

His face had now melted into a pool of dread and shame. I didn't know what the hell that was about but I knew for sure that for some reason he didn't want me to see his chest. And so, I did something I almost never do. I reconnected the gown and placed my stethoscope directly on top of his gown, fully ignoring one of my biggest pet peeves--listening to people through clothing.

I auscultated his covered heart, knowing that my medical students were all giving me the hairy eyeball and secretly preparing to call me a hypocrite for breaking my own rule: "S.O.S! That means 'SCOPES ON SKIN!"  

Next, I asked him to sit up for the lung exam. The gown gaped open in the untied areas exposing little pockets of skin that I could see from first glance were also covered with tattoos. I slid my stethoscope behind his gown--this time listening directly on his skin--and asked him to take a deep breath.

Inhale. . . exhale.

Methodically, I moved my scope off of that space and inched downward. That flick of my wrist unraveled the tie and the gown fell wide open revealing his entire back. Covered with more freckles and tattoos indeed. 

He immediately stopped midbreath and so did I.

Daaaaaaaaamn.

I almost said that out loud because finally I understood his trepidation. And got that message loud and clear.

Fortunately I was the only one back there to see what that gown was hiding. His entire back had become a canvas decorated with a giant tapestry of absolutely horrific black swastikas and black letters.  I couldn't make out any of the letters--something on it was in German? I didn't know. . but those swastikas. . .those swastikas were unmistakable. And terrifying to see that up close.

Daaaaaaaammmmmn.

I was so stunned that I didn't know what to do. So those three seconds of him midbreath and me frozen with my stethoscope trembling on his back felt like an eternity. That's when I decided to stick to the basics.

"And another deep breath," I continued. And he gave me breaths as long as I requested them.

After that, I simply tied up the back of his gown as normal as I could.

When I finished the exam, I faced him again and locked eyes with him. I knew for sure that what I saw in those eyes looked apologetic and ashamed. So I grabbed that right hand again and covered that little thumb ink once more, now knowing that it too represented something that probably wasn't so loving toward me, my Asian resident, or my Jewish medical student and intern. "Everything checks out fine." 

He squeezed down on my hand, his nail beds flushing bright pink. "Thanks." That was all he said with his mouth.  But that hand shake and those chameleon-eyes said a lot more.


Later that afternoon, I came back to see him prior to his discharge. The stress test was pristine and he was good to go.  I started off all business, talking about his follow up plans and seeing if he had any questions. He obliged me, but we both knew we had some loose ends to tie up.

"Twenty years is a long time," I finally said breaking the ice.

"Yeah," he quietly responded while looking down. "I was only nineteen when I got there. And. . .that world. . . . that world is so twisted up. You start thinking. . .  and believing things . . . .crazy things. . .that. . . .just. . .I mean. . .yeah. . .and then you come out in the real world and you . . . yeah."

"You got those in the pen?"  I called out the elephant in the room. Swastika tattoos weren't something I saw every day in real life. And I won't even front--having my stethoscope on top of one was scary as hell.

"Yep. In a gang. Like one of these gangs that becomes the only family you know to survive in a place like that. But when I got like thirty five I started realizing that I didn't hate nobody like that. Like in my heart I knew that wasn't true, you know?"

"And here comes this black lady doctor whipping your gown open in front of a group of onlookers."

"Man. I was so glad you didn't. You just don't know. I feel so ashamed of all this. Then when I saw you and saw that you was a black person? Man."

"I hear you. So. . . the chest ink is worse than the back?" I asked incredulously.

He nodded. "If you can believe that. And I'm telling you. You don't even want to see that shit, either. You really don't."

I decided to take his word for it. "You could probably get them all covered up, you know. Or removed."

"I know. It just costs a whole lot and I don't have a lot of extra money like that. Plus not everyone is hot to hire an ex-convict, you know."

Point taken.

"What's the thumb tatt?"  I at least wanted to know about that.

"Gang sign. But anybody who's done hard time would know what it is if they saw it, though. Soon as I get some money, I'm covering this one up first--'cause it's on my hand. Good thing most folks haven't done hard time or else I'd really be in trouble."

"You could rock a Michael Jackson glove. . . .you know. . .cover it up with a little sequined glove action until you can get it removed." I smiled as goofy as possible until he laughed out loud. That was all the nudge I needed to do a few MJ moves for him, including a leg kick.

Mr. O shook his head. "Doc, you one funny lady."

"Thank you very muuuuch, I'll be here all month!" I could tell he appreciated my lightness. And while there's nothing light about a swastika, I guess I just wanted him to know that we were cool and that I believed in redemption.

His face grew serious. "But for real, you got some good instincts, too. Thanks for paying attention."

"Thanks trying to communicate with me," I responded. Now that I think about it, it was kind of like a message in a bottle. . . floating on the surface. I snapped my finger and added,"Hey--what color are your eyes, Mr. O?"

"My grandma always said they was like a chameleon. Depend on where I am and what I'm doing." 

"Gotcha."  I looked at my billing card, circled "discharge" and prepared to leave.

"Hey, doc?" he said as I started toward the door. I stopped and raised my eyebrows. "You know. . . .like. . .  I don't hate you, right?"

I gave him the most high-beam smile I could. With a happy nod of my head I replied,"Good, sir. Because I don't hate you, either."

I hit him with one more MJ move complete with a point and headed off to see my next patient.

***
Happy Sunday.


Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . . The Police singing one of my favorites--"Message in a Bottle."  I couldn't embed it so click here to listen. 

Also on my mental iPod. . . this song (which I could embed) "Redemption Song" by Bob Marley.

For colored girls. . .and so much more.

"Do you have any idea what it mean
to somebody like me to see you talking on that show? 
Do you?"

~ A Grady Elder

__________________________________________________________

Okay. So here's a not-so-startling confession:  I'm feeling kind of melancholy today. Why you ask? Oh, I'm sorry--have you been under a rock, or better yet, on an I.C.U. rotation?  Uuuhhh, hello!  It was only the last day of the OPRAH WINFREY show.  Duhhh!

Dude. Deanna and I watched this together and bawled like we knew her personally. Man, oh man. It was not EVEN pretty.

I know, I know. At least one of you reading this has either a.) rolled your eyes so hard that they are now halfway down the block, b.) uttered aloud, "Please don't let this post be about Oprah," or c.) stopped reading this post altogether at the end of the last paragraph. But, hey.  What can I say, y'all? Oprah inspires me. For real.  (Oprah-haters, you can stop reading right here.)<-----

"Let your life be a mentor."

Remember when we were talking that day about a person's life serving to mentor others?  Surely this woman--this "colored girl" from Mississippi who went to a historically black college just like me--has mentored me for more than half of my life. Yes. Oprah Winfrey's life has absolutely served as one of my most cherished mentors.

Wrap your mind around that for a second. . . .especially those who aren't so keen on Oprah Winfrey. She was born in Mississippi in the 50's. Mississippi. In the 50's. As in, the worst place you could be during that time. As in the setting for "The Help." Ponder that for a moment. Now--can you even imagine what it has meant to people like me. . .yes, colored girls. . .to see her speaking with the sass of a sister, taking sometimes unpopular stands, all while holding the entire world's attention? Can you even begin to imagine how proud it makes me of who I am? You have to understand. . . .historically, that's been a struggle for my people. So for some, this thing is deeper than a day time television show with a cult following. I hope that makes sense.

I still remember the early Oprah shows when I was a high schooler, and then later when I was in college. As her show evolved into something more mature and responsible, so did I, and it wasn't until I really grew up that I really came to appreciate what this woman has done for so, so many people.

Especially me.

You think you know. But you have no idea.

Her example has made me want to live a more authentic life. Watching her has made me want to listen more carefully, react more thoughtfully, and live more intentionally. Even starting this blog came after adding it to my "vision board" -- an idea that I took directly from an episode of "The Oprah Winfrey Show." And the truth is . . .ever since I sat cross legged on my floor that evening cutting and pasting and scribbling my biggest, baddest dreams onto that board, something changed inside of me. My already good life started becoming my best life.

Today on her parting show she said that in the deepest parts of her soul she knew that every time she was on that show  that she was doing exactly what she was purposed to do. Like in some divine way she was aligning her energy and her dreams with a calling.  Some folks believe in callings and some don't--and that's cool.  I happen to be one that does.  That's one of the other reasons why I've admired Oprah Winfrey--she's one of the people that got me thinking about being deliberate about my dreams.  About striving to live and breathe and walk fully in my purpose.

I think my vision board helped me to move closer to that goal. It's especially helped me to try to set out to make a bold vision for what I will contribute to this world.  (And let me tell you. . .I have some whoppers on there!) I'm happy she gave me the idea to do it--I look at my vision board every single morning and every single night-- and feel recharged.

Vision compromised: I didn't get on your show, but hey, making 'O' mag was pretty damn cool.

I can't say that I've watched every single Oprah show for twenty-five years, but I have seen a whole bunch of them. I saw the one where she wheeled out the wagon with the fat. I watched that day when Tom Cruise did toe-touches on her yellow couch over his new boo, Katie Holmes.  I cried my eyes out when she introduced her half-sister to the world and even jumped up and down with the crowd on every single "favorite things" episode.  So, yeah. I've not seen them all, but I've seen my share for sure.

Might as well jump.

Of them all, my favorite moment ever in the history of watching Oprah was several years back when former child actress Tracey Gold appeared on her stage.  By no means was this one of the more popular episodes, in fact it probably flew under most peoples' radar. Either way, this was the moment that gave me that "ah hah moment" Oprah's always talking about.

Growing pains. For real.

Ms. Gold, once the golden child of the mega-hit "Growing Pains," was going through some real life growing pains of her own. As if coming on the show before to dish about her very difficult journey through anorexia nervosa weren't enough, this time she was on the show after she'd been arrested for a D.U.I. She'd had a few glasses of wine, drove onto the highway, and promptly rolled her SUV into an embankment nearly killing her entire family.   She was so, so ashamed of herself. I mean, of course she was. Putting your kids into the hospital due to being irresponsible? Um yeah. That's pretty heavy, man.

Anyways.

When the interview started, Tracey Gold was shaking like a leaf. I will never forget how dejected she looked. And don't get me wrong--she had messed up. Drinking and driving is an awful thing and there was no way to sugar coat that fact. But as I watched that episode. . . . I saw my own clay feet, remembering my own lapses in judgment when faced with similar situations through the years.

The shame seemed to suffocate her right there on that stage. But something about the way Oprah listened to her was. . . unforgettable. She didn't make excuses nor did she trivialize what Ms. Gold had done. But she didn't villain-ize her either. Instead she just listened and then admitted the many times that she, too, had had that "swimmy-in-the-head" feeling after that second glass of wine--and drove anyway.

Then, just as Tracey Gold seemed to be at her lowest point in that episode--where her expression looked as hauntingly pain-stricken as this mugshot from that evening's arrest. . . .

We all need redemption.

. . .Oprah Winfrey looked at her and said these words that I have told my patients, my learners, and many, many, many times myself:

"We are not our mistakes. We are our possibilities." 

This was, quite possibly, one of the best things I'd ever heard someone say.  I have that quote on my office door and wallpapered across my heart.  I ponder those words often, and think of them when dealing with Isaiah and Zachary,  and especially when caring for my patients at Grady Hospital.  See, the "ah hah" in those words was crystal clear -- they were words about redemption. Redemption, man.

That day, she needed redemption. Oprah has often needed redemption, too. . . as have many people she's spoken to over the years. So I guess what I'm saying is.  . . we've all needed redemption at one time or another. At least I know I have.

So, yeah.  I'm sad today because I feel like one of my most beloved mentors has just told me that she is moving far, far away even though she is saying over and over, "Oh, don't worry, you'll see me."

First day of kindergarten, 2010.

Last week it was the last day of kindergarten and Isaiah wept uncontrollably the whole way home.  He sobbed and sobbed telling me that he would really, really miss his teacher and also "just being a kindergartner."  No matter how many times I explained that "it would be different, yes, but better, you know?" this kid wasn't having it. Through breathless chest heaves he emphatically stated, "No, Mom. It won't be the same. Because we won't be in kindergarten any more."

Funny. I thought he was being a little dramatic that day, but now, I think I know how he feels. 

I told Isaiah that everything in life has a season and that the season for kindergarten was over.  I also told him that it was okay to be sad when a special season comes to an end.  He seemed to get that concept. After a good cry--and this is what he called it "a good-kind-of-cry, Mom"--he wiped is face and went back to playing and laughing and living.

Hmmm.

I suspect that when it really sets in that the show has ended, I will have a good-kind-of-cry, too.  And then, I will quietly reflect on this very special season with this remarkable mentor whose very life has shown me what is possible for someone who looks like me and talks like me and dreams like me if I just give my best effort.  Perhaps, that might even lead to the "ugly cry"--a term I love that I also borrowed from this mentor. Kind of like that "ugly cry" I had while watching yesterday's episode. . .this part on the finale where the four-hundred plus previously underprivileged black men that she'd put through college quietly entered with candles filling an entire stage behind her. Quietly thanking her for sowing a seed into their lives. . . .literally. Men whose rich brown hues resembled those of my own sons . . .and the countless faces I see at Grady every single day.  Those faces represented hope and possibility. . .and I bet in those faces there was some redemption, too.

Whew.

So. . . .to this mentor of mine who will probably never read these words. . . . I just want to say thank you.  Thank you for living your imperfect life in front of an entire world so that I could fold it into the blue print of my own life.  Thank you for helping me to create a bigger, clearer vision for myself, to savor every miracle, and to dream bigger even if it feels a little embarrassing sometimes. Most of all, thank you for letting your light shine in such a way that illuminates others and gives them the courage to do the same. . .and for reminding me that we are not our mistakes, we are our possibilities.

Yes, ma'am. I will follow you over to your new place. But, like Isaiah, I know in my heart that yes, this season has come to its end and no, it won't be the same.  I know it will be nice over there but, like Isaiah said, I won't be in kindergarten any more. . . . .

The last thing I told Isaiah after hugging and consoling him that day was to remember that his kindergarten teacher would always be his teacher. That makes me smile because right now I need to hear those words, too.

Say what you want about Oprah. Her success was no accident.

Yes, you will always be my teacher.

Thank you, Oprah Winfrey. It's been real. . . . for real. Now . . . if you'll excuse me, I think I will dry my eyes and go back to playing and laughing and living, too.

***
Happy Wednesday.

Now playing on my internal iPod. . . . . . .Beautiful.