This American Life in Pictures: Powered by love.

Martin Luther King Day.  I was driving the carpool after our service project and paused to get a selfie.

Or two.

Isaiah is a huge Cam Newton fan. His auntie JoLai sent him a jersey and wanted to know if he liked it.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                

That would be a yes.

And OMG this:

One of my former students from Small Group Alpha, Alanna S.,  INTERVIEWED for a faculty position at GRADY last week. So she could end up working along the very same halls shoulder to shoulder with you. . .the same ones you took her to as a first year student to place her stethoscope on a real person for the first time.

Here she is as an intern. . .just a few months after graduating from Emory. How sweet is this?

So very, right? Oh and this:

This is the resident conference that has become my baby. Instead of one 50 minute lecture, we have five 8 minute mini lectures from resident physicians. It has been absolutely amazing. We call it "BST Mode" for "bite sized teaching" mode. Go ahead. You can say it. "Damn that's clever."

Here's the video message I had my resident show to Sweetie before he left the hospital. I was so happy to see him when he came to his follow up appointment. He's doing great. I'm realizing that little things that show people we care and are thinking of them can go a long way. I'm SO proud to be a part of his care and in awe of the bravery of him and so many of our patients at Grady.

What else? Oh. This:

My yummy rigatoni carbload before the most recent race. Light with lots of bright colors like the location of this destination half marathon. . . 

. . .Miami! Can you believe that this was the view from our hotel balcony? This photo was literally taken over the weekend. Blasphemy considering the wintry blast going on up north.

So much fun to travel and run with The BFF Lisa and Free-Free for this one. Those two are loads of laughs and great at motivating you on the tenth mile on.

We call ourselves "The Beastie Girls." Even had shirts made for this one. Ha.

This was my 6th half marathon. 6TH!! Can you believe that? All I kept thinking was, "I can do anything, man." I love knowing that my running is powered by love. Love for my sissy and my fight against heart disease.

I did my mile dedications as always. They were as follows:

Miami Half Marathon 1/25/15

1. Me
2. Harry
3. Deanna
4. Zachary
5. Jackson, my godson
6. My patients at Grady
7. Poopdeck
8. Isaiah
9. My sorors of Delta Sigma Theta
10. Tounces aka my mama
11. JoLai
12. Will
13. Deanna 

Oh, and the last 0.1 is for ME. I always type them into my notes on my phone and memorize the list. I kid you not, I talk to the person whose mile it is when I get tired (which is a lot.) And I always cry when I cross the 12 mile marker because that last one is "The Deanna Mile." I tear up every single time and I ask her to loan me her angel wings so that I can fly.

And she always does.

She loaned them to my fellow Beastie Girls, too. How awesome are these beach jump pics? 

And this pic of my friend Tamika is from another race here in Atlanta. The jump pic tradition has gone viral. When I look at them, I'm always reminded that I can do anything if I can leap like that after running that far. I love feeling strong!

This was our situation after running 13.1 miles in Miami. Not a bad deal, man.

Not to mention some awesome time yucking it up with my girls. Can't beat that.

Oh! And this. Some snaps from this INSANELY amazing evening I had a couple of weeks ago. 

I was awarded this really cool award called The Clutchwoman of the Year given by P.Sherrod and Co. As a part of the awards reception, I was asked to invite 6 of my "clutch women" from different aspects of my life. 

I invited Lisa, Ebony, Joy, Marra, Frieda, and Shaton. I got to sit at a table with them and hear kind words from them--but also tell each of them why I thought of them as women I turn to in the "clutch" situations. 

It was so cool to have a "mash up" of my Ruths who normally aren't all in one place at one time like this.  

P. Sherrod and Co. is a fine handbag and accessories designer. Would you believe that they gifted me with this insanely awesome collection of clutches and handbags? It felt like it was my birthday even though it wasn't. 

We had a great time celebrating together. And can you believe that I got up the next morning and ran ten miles?

I would not recommend that to anyone. Especially after the night we had. Talk about the LONGEST long run EVER.

Ugh.

Oh. And speaking of "ugh." . . . 

This was the look on my face when the person right by me on the plane to Miami had air sickness and kept-kept-kept upchucking into that little bag they furnish you with behind the seat in front of you. And can I just say that I think there needs to be some rule on how many times you can vomit into the same bag. Or at least open the bag once you've vomited in it. 

Sorry for my non-doctorly empathy. I just don't do well with vomitus. 

To get us off of that, here's a snapshot with one of my new clutches in Miami. Was feeling pretty swanky and Miami-ish.

And lastly this. . . Zachary in the jacket he received at the end of his football season that he has not taken off since getting it last weekend. . . . followed by another snap with one of his number one fans--his brother.

Lots going on in this American life. . . . lots. Exhausting? You bet. But good. . .and all of it powered by love.

Yes indeed.

***

Happy Tuesday morning. Missed y'all.

Small Group Family Evolution.

Small Group Alpha, est. 2007

SG Alpha welcomes their younger sibs

 

Small Group Beta, est. 2009

 

In comes another batch of family members. . . .

 

Small Group Gamma, est. 2011

  

In the snap of a finger, Mom has another baby. Her fourth!

 

Small Group Delta, est. 2013

SG Alpha

What's funny is how so much changes. . .
yet it somehow stays the same.

SG Delta

The love is there.

The acceptance is there.

The family is there.

It is.

They grow up, yes.
They leave the nest, yes.
But all of the things that matter are there. Always.

And you know what else?

Lawd have mercy! So is that same print hanging on my living room wall!  Can somebody say redecorate?

Ha.

***

Happy Tuesday. I am very, very fortunate to get to do this.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . .

Keep it together in the family. Love this song -- and how Madonna mashes up Sly and the Family Stone with it.

Young bird.

This is Tony. He's one of my former students from my very first small group.

It's hard to believe that he's now a third year resident. Yes. A third year ENT resident no less. Operating. Calling shots. Growing up. It's so hard to get my mind around that. I get pictures and am blown away that one of my little birds is getting so close to becoming a papa bird in his own right.

Man.

So yeah, he's a third year resident now. And for the record--residency is hard. It demands that you grow and sometimes that pace is very, very uncomfortable. The stakes are high -- especially when you're responsible for dissecting open neck structures and cutting their tiny structures.

Um, yeah.

Tony is one of the ones who has regularly reached out to me during this time. In fact, most of them have but him perhaps more than most. He's texted me about the growing pains, asked me my thoughts or, many times, just needed somewhere to talk about his. Sometimes it is a full on conversation. Sometimes it's just a quick email or text. But regularly it is something. Which is pretty awesome.

And no. He is no longer a medical student at Emory University. He's not even in Georgia anymore. But like I said before--these relationships don't fizzle out after graduation. They evolve, yes. But they don't go away.

Residency is hard. It is. But with people behind you, you get even better at being behind yourself. We all need that. Whether you're a medical student, a resident, or a full fledged whatever-it-is-you-are.

I always ask my patients, "Who are your peoples? Who sees about you?" And I ask this because it's important. We all need peoples. And somebody should always be seeing about us. But that only happens when we allow them access.

Although Tony graduated in 2011, I am so happy that he continues to grant me just that. Access, man.

Case in point:

A few days ago, I received this text from Tony.

And this. This is everything. Everything to me. See, even though he already graduated, I was still in on that growth. I don't just see the glory -- I know the story.

This. Getting things like this far exceeds any award that I could ever publicly receive. He's thinking. He's reflecting. He's growing. And he's writing. Writing through it despite being in the epicenter of a grueling surgical subspecialty training. And granting me access to be a part of it.

Yes.

Read these beautiful words and bear witness along with me. I can think of no better way to underscore what is magical about longitudinal mentoring experiences.

Tony wrote this as a reminder to himself of who he is. When we talked about it, though, we realized that it could be many different voices depending upon the circumstances. Us to ourselves. Us to each other. God to us. And just maybe Tony to a young mentee of his own someday.

Thank you, Tony, for allowing me to share your journey with this community of thinkers.

Letter to a Young Bird

Good morning young one

I've watched you

Terrified to breathe

But in your first act of trust,

pulling this world's air into your burning chest

To announce your arrival.

I looked into your eyes that instant

and every moment since, young one.

I have seen your curiosity

I have seen your courage

I have seen your strength

I have seen your capacity for... (all things infinite)

And in your eyes, I have also seen understanding

that you too, just as I have,

have seen all of these things in yourself.

You have grown, young one.

And the world has grown with you.

the troubles have become more crucial

the universe has become far reaching

ideas are everlasting

love is the ever elusive magic---

  you know it exists, you inhale it with each breath

  you've been told it enfolds you

  but you can't touch it.

  you have never seen it.

  and it rings false as soon as you speak its name--
the very mention tumbling the tower on which it was perched.

You look tired, young one.  

  I see past the eyes that you put on display for the world.

  they say that they've seen you fly.

But you and I know better.

You have floated.

You have coasted.

and as magical as that may appear to untrained eyes

  you and I know that you were meant for more than this.

You were meant to soar.

This you have known since

that first magical eruption,

that first burning breath.

But your own expectations 

  have made your wings heavy.

I have seen you look to the sky and wonder -- what are one bird's wing beats against the universe?

What is one brilliant new flame in the world-sustaining light of the sun?

Yet today, in light of the dawn of your rebirth, I say to you that 

the expectations

the fear

the doubt

the limits

are of your own creation.

The weight of the world is an illusion.

It is your canvas

  make it beautiful.

It is your opus

  add your grace notes.

Stare into the sun and shine as you were meant to.

It will not blind you

and your brilliance will not blind those who look to you

but will prism-break into every possibility they have ever known.

and even some that they haven't.

You were meant to fly.  

and fly you will.

But then you will soar

into the everlasting expanse of your dreams.

Don't worry--

  you will breathe just fine up there.  

  and you will look into the sun with wide eyes.

And you will repeat to yourself every moment as you set your course ever upward:

My light was meant to shine.

My soul was born to fly.

And so it is.


~ Anthony Chin-Quee, Jr., M.D.
    EUSOM '11,  July 2013 


***

And so it always shall be, Tony.

Yes. This.

This is. . .

Everything. Everything. Everything.

Yeah.

***
Happy Saturday. Again. (Yes, Mom. I'm so prolific.)

Now y'all show that man some love in the comments, people. 'Preciate you.

Yet do I marvel.

Someone asked me the other day--or rather they made more of a statement to me:

"I'm so amazed that you've been able to write with all that's going on."

I wasn't really sure what to make of that, but I'm pretty certain that it wasn't meant to be insulting so I just shrugged. Because I'm kind of amazed, too.

I won't really go into that much more, but instead I'll just say that I'm glad to have a voice. Man, I am.

Speaking of which.

I received a message yesterday from one of the former students in my very first small group. It wasn't a message of condolence or any such thing. I had already heard from this student very shortly after Deanna left us. This time, the message was for another reason. He reached out to share a pivotal moment he'd had in patient care. And that's all.

The note was straightforward. He was taking care of a man with some cognitive issues and very limited literacy. An elder with not even a full elementary education and the kind of difficulty understanding things that was even harder back then because there weren't any names for such things or early interventions.

Yeah.

So anyways. Tony, from Small Group Alpha, is now a second year ENT resident. You can say "ear, nose, and throat" or, if you want to be all fancy with it, you can flex your linguistic muscles and say the proper name for it: "otolaryngology." Regardless of what you call it, that's what he's doing and I'm always elated to hear how it's going and how he's growing. And I'm glad that Tony still has a way and a desire to tell me about moments such as this.

This elder unfortunately had a recurrent throat cancer. Laryngeal cancer, to be exact. And Tony, being the head and neck surgeon (they go by that, too) was charged with coming in there to see this man and talk to him all about this procedure he was going to have. A procedure that would take away his ability to speak. For good.

And isn't it perfect that I'd receive this message at a time when people are thinking of things to be thankful for? We think of many things, but usually not our voice. At least I don't.

Well, Tony spent a lot of time talking to this gentleman and did so with care. No, I wasn't there, but I was there from the first day Tony started medical school. I listened to him and talked to him over the years so I know that it was important to him that this man understand what this surgery would entail. No matter how long it took, without question, I can say that Tony wanted to do all he could to afford this patient the chance to make the most informed decision possible.

And so. He talked. He explained. Carefully. And fully caring, too.

The gentleman had a tracheostomy tube in his throat at the time which limited his ability to speak during that conversation. But not yet permanently because there are speaking valves and such than can be used to help people talk. That is, if they have a larynx.

So after this young doctor spent all of that time speaking to him, he bit the bullet and did the thing that we are all taught to do but often come up with excuses to avoid. Ask the patient to tell back--or teach back--exactly what the gist of the plan is based upon their understanding.

This can be loaded. Mostly because if the person gets it all wrong, you're back at square one. Which, in my opinion, you're at whether you confirm it or not when the patient doesn't understand. A lot of times we feel the pressure of a ticking clock looming over us. The cop out question gets asked: "Any questions?" Which, most of the time, is often met with a "not right now."

That, or just one or two tiny ones that often gives the doctor the "dat'll do" wrap-up they were looking for. Especially if they are generic enough questions to convince us that we've explained things well.

But Tony did something even more extraordinary. He asked this question -- "What is your understanding of this surgery that I just talked to you about?" -- to a patient with a less than sixth grade education and some learning disabilities who also could not respond verbally. Having him write would be very tedious -- and time consuming -- but there wasn't another option.

Still, though, he asked. He respected that man enough to ask. Even more, he respected him enough to talk to him with the dignity he deserved and then positioned himself to have to wipe down the chalkboard and start all over again. He sure did.

And so. As his doctor patiently waited, the man took a piece of paper and scrawled these words in response to that question:

And I will tell you exactly what Tony said to me about this:

"Not sure exactly why yet, but I know this is one of the most important images that I'll see during my training."


I think he's right.

That entire note moved me in the deepest parts of my soul. I needed to hear that yesterday. Some other person's reality. If only for a moment, you know? Does that even make sense? I don't know.

Though I didn't cry, I did immediately feel like I wanted to when I saw this. And I'm not sure if it had to do with the fact that this man was losing his voice for good or the fact that this young doctor caring for him took the time to give him one.

Perhaps it's a bit of both.

Our voice is a gift. No matter what is going on, it is. And though I thought I knew that, this story underscored that for me even more.

I have this label I often use that you've seen and perhaps wondered about -- "yet do I marvel." (I know Nancy doesn't because she's all about the poetry, but others may wonder.) It comes from a poem from the Harlem Renaissance by a poet named Countee Cullen called "Yet Do I Marvel." There's lots of interpretations of the poem, so I won't go into all of that. What I will say is that I think the poem is hopeful and celebratory and not a lamentation. Against all odds, particularly the ones a man of color such as this author faced in the 1920's, he still had a voice. A voice!

So sometimes I see things and I just think to myself, "Wow." Because I'm just glad to be here. In spite of all that is going on in the world, I'm glad that I'm here to bear witness. I'm glad for hearts worn directly on sleeves. And especially in the time that I am walking through right now, I am glad for a voice.

A voice.

So to the dear person who couldn't believe that I could still write and talk through such unspeakable grief, I will share with you the poem my mother read to me as an elementary school kid -- likely close to the very age that patient was when he finished his education for good. Even though life doesn't make sense sometimes, there is always something in which to marvel.

At least that's what I think.

***

Yet Do I Marvel

I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind,

And did He stoop to quibble could tell why

The little buried mole continues blind,   

Why flesh that mirrors Him must some day die,

Make plain the reason tortured Tantalus

Is baited by the fickle fruit, declare   

If merely brute caprice dooms Sisyphus

To struggle up a never-ending stair.   

Inscrutable His ways are, and immune   

To catechism by a mind too strewn   

With petty cares to slightly understand   

What awful brain compels His awful hand.   

Yet do I marvel at this curious thing:   

To make a poet black, and bid him sing!

~ Countee Cullen

***

Happy Sunday.