Love of my life.

"It's the end of a love affair. But not just any love affair--like the love of my life." 

~ Mr. Caldwell

For as long as he could remember, she was there. From those early days sitting criss-cross applesauce on the porch shelling peas with grandmama, right along with the unmistakeable scent of red Georgia clay was the hint of her presence wafting by with every humid breeze.

"I can't remember a time without that being a part of my life," he said. And when he said it, he looked down at his hands and sighed. "I just can't."

There was a sadness about him. This heavy cloak of melancholy that pushed against the agenda I'd planned before entering the room. See, this was supposed to be a congratulatory conversation. Me applauding his triumphant separation from alcohol.

Yep.

But as soon as I came into that room and laid eyes on him, I could feel it. Yes, this was a good thing he'd done for his health. And definitely, abstaining from Jack Daniels for 16 full months after nearly a lifetime of being his best friend is no minor feat. So, yeah. I had all these lofty plans of shaking his hand hard and telling him how great it was. Reaching out with both hands and staring deep into his eyes to let him know that I meant it.

Because I did.

But. None of that felt right once I actually sat down. His shoulders were curled inward and his expression was lonely. Like some middle school kid chosen last in the kickball lineup, the kind you immediately want to hug and defend. Yes, Mr. Caldwell had crossed the one year hurdle with AA and had the improvements in his health to show for it. But still. He didn't seem happy.

Nope.

I guess I'd sized him up with this assumption of what he'd be like and where his mind should be, you know? Imagining some gum chewing chap with a bunch of AA key fobs proudly telling it on the mountain that he's just taking it one day at a time. I was expecting a testimony of how now even the smell of alcohol makes his stomach turn a little, especially now that he's broken free of that stronghold. But that isn't what I found.

At all.

"You seem sad," I finally said. "Like. . . . what you've done for yourself is so amazing. And you're doing so great, too. But you seem. . . . I don't know. . . sad."

Mr. Caldwell just stared at me for few moments without speaking. Then, instead of saying something in response, he just sighed and shrugged. His lips moved and I think he said, "Yeah" -- but it wasn't audible.

"Is everything okay at home? Did something happen?"

"No, ma'am. Everything fine with my people, Miss Manning. My kids so happy I don't drink no more." When he said that, the corner of the left side of his mouth turned up a bit.

"That's great, Mr. Caldwell!" I did my best to ramp up the enthusiasm to counter his somber mood. It didn't work.

"I'm okay," he finally said. Then, to make sure I knew he meant it, he repeated himself, this time a little more firmly. "I'm okay."

I leaned into my palm with my chin and squinted my eyes a bit. "You know? You don't seem so okay, Mr. Caldwell."

And something about that--my body language and that last statement--unlocked something. I could tell. His eyes focused on mine some more and I could tell he was trying to decide whether or not to tell me something.

"Tell me," I pressed. "Tell me what is making you so sad."

Mr. Caldwell took a big drag of air through his nostrils, closed his eyes and then shook his head slowly. Then he just froze for a beat with his eyes still closed before parting his lips respond. "I . . I just. . . " He sighed once more and went on. "I just miss it is all."

"Miss what? You mean drinking, sir?"

"Yeah. Like, I keep waiting for that point where I lose the taste for it but it ain't never happened. So when I see it or smell it or see folks drinking, it . . .it just. . .I guess it just make me feel sad."

"Hmmm."

"Like. . .  you know how when you was little how your main memories are tied to how stuff smell or the sounds you hear? See, that's how it is with me and drinking. Like, I come from a long family of alcoholics. But not fall down drunk and cuss you out alcoholics. Happy, domino and card playing drinkers. Shit talking and laughing. Having fun. But drinking the whole time. Even with kids around."

The image he'd painted was so vivid that I was at a loss for words. He kept going.

"My grandmama and my granddaddy drank a lot. I was raised around them and both my parents died from problems related to drinking. So I know that it's bad for my health which is what got me to quit, you know? That time they kept me in the hospital, I knew I had to quit so I did. But I guess as time go by I'm realizing that just about every memory I have involve either me drinking or being with somebody who was drinking. Going all the way back."

"You know what, Mr. Caldwell? I never thought of it that way." I said that because it was true. "For you, alcohol is like an old friend."

"Naaah. It's even more than that. Alcohol for me? She family. As much a part of my family as anything. Even when I was a kid."

"You started drinking as a child?"

"Naw, not at all. But my auntie'nem used to sit us on the porch and braid our hair down in cornrows. My mama didn't like cutting out hair so us boys always had braids. I'd be sitting right on the step between her legs. Every so often she'd fuss at me or my cousins saying, 'You bet' not knock over my damn drink!'" That made him laugh. But it was fleeting. "It's funny 'cause whenever I smell some gin, I want to cry for missing my auntie so much. That mixed with Newport menthols. And then along with the smell of some collard greens cooking with ham hocks and the sound of somebody cranking a ice cream maker."

And that? That made my eyes sting. Partly because I finally understood what he meant. But also because I knew there wasn't really anything I could do about it. I started to counter him with some canned commentary on the health benefits of no longer drinking but none of it felt right. Instead I just twisted my mouth and nodded. Because I got it.

I put my hand on his and squeezed it. "Thank you for giving me a new perspective, Mr. Caldwell. I get it."

Finally, he let out an unexpected chuckle. "Sometimes seem like the ones you can't get enough of don't love you back, do they? I love her but she don't love me."

"Yeah, she's funny like that."

"But I miss her. Every single day. Even though I shouldn't, I do. And all the people I loved though the years that's associated with her. My whole world different. My whole life different."

"In a good way?"

"I'm alive, which is good. I ain't getting DUI charges, which is good. But just imagine if whatever it is that connect you to all your favorite people, favorite memories and favorite things, you can't do no more. Or if you couldn't be around none of it no more. It's hard."

"That sounds super hard."

After that we just sat in silence. Him looking directly at me, face washed over with this complicated grief, and me squeezing down on his hand with mine. I kept wanting to say something or feeling like I should but nothing was feeling authentic enough. I stayed quiet.

Finally, Mr. Caldwell sighed and gently pulled his hand back. "I appreciate your concern, Miss Manning. I do." He began sliding his papers and medications back into his little knapsack and then pulled the drawstring closed. Patting the bag, he said for closure, "Yeah. So I guess I'm sad 'cause it's the end of a love affair. But not just any love affair--like the love of my life."

"Wow," I whispered.

"Sound crazy, don't I?"

"No, sir. You sound honest."

Yeah.


In the twenty years that I have been a physician, I have asked the same question of countless patients struggling with alcohol use disorders: "Did you grow up with any drinkers?" To date, I have never once heard a response that included anything other than the affirmative.

Nope.

This? Mr. Caldwell's story? It opened my eyes. He taught me a new layer of why it's so hard for people to let go of alcohol. And you know what else? Thanks to Mr. Caldwell, I will never look at alcohol abstention the same way again.

Ever.

***
Happy Friday.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . .Mariah Carey singing "Can't Let Go." Because sometimes, even though you try, you can't let go.

Stuck in reverse.

When you try your best but you don't succeed
When you get what you want but not what you need
When you feel so tired but you can't sleep
Stuck in reverse

~ Coldplay

__________________________________

"Miss Manning! Miss Manning!"

I looked over my shoulder and saw you coming toward me and waving your hand. I waved back. I figured you were just saying hello so I kept walking toward the hospital.

"Miss Manning! Miss Manning! Wait! Wait! Wait!"

Your feet were shuffling quickly behind me. There was urgency in your voice. Once you reached me you repeated my name, more to catch your breath than get my attention because I'd already stopped to wait.

"Miss Manning," you panted and you reached out to shake my hand.

"Hey there, sir."  I squeezed it tight and covered it with my other hand. "What's up?"

Your eyes were dancing and your face had a film of sweat over it.  Your clothes were unkempt and pasted to you with sweat. There was a nervousness in your disposition that made me worry about you immediately.

"Miss Manning, I'm hungry. I'm hungry. I need some money to get some food."

I was going upstairs to round. But that wasn't the issue.

Something was up with you. Something wasn't right. Your voice was staccato. Your hands were waving and shaking so I could see the burns on your thumbs.  The erratic behavior, the jumpiness, and even the pressure in your walk suggested that something else was up with you.

And you weren't a stranger to me, so this wasn't the same as being presented with this request by someone I didn't know.  I decided to keep it simple in the interest of time.

"I don't have money. Let me speak to a social worker. Let me--"

"Miss Manning! Miss Manning! I'll wait for you to go get some money, okay? Okay? I don't have my medicine either. I need it. I'm sick. I don't feel good. Please."  Your feet kept shuffling. Your eyes bouncing wildly and that film of sweat now coalescing into beads on your brow.

"I won't give you money. You know I won't."

"Miss Manning! No, it's not. . . I mean. . . Listen I promise . . .I promise that I--"

"I don't know what's going on with you. This is making me feel nervous." I registered the security officer standing several feet away from me even though I felt pretty sure that you'd never harm me. But something was up with you that might turn you into a puppet on a string with actions you don't see or want or mean. "Sir? Are you using again?"

"The thing, Miss Manning, is that it's hard. You know it's hard."

"Sir. It makes me sad that you're telling me you want money for food and medicine if that's not what you really are looking for. What happened when you left us?"

I was referring to you leaving the hospital earlier in the month. You shrugged.

So we just stood there staring at each other. I was already late for rounds. It was like standing in front of a giant mountain that needed to be torn down brick by brick. All I was doing was yanking on one, somehow hoping this would cascade the whole thing down.

But deep down I knew. I knew I couldn't fix this in five minutes before rounds. Just like I couldn't fix you in those five days. And we both realize that the only one who can fix you is you.

That made me feel sad. And helpless.

I think you saw that in my eyes.

"It's hard, Miss Manning. Hard to break free." You wiped your face with your hand and shook your head. Then your feet started walking backwards away from me. Like a puppet on a string. "Be blessed, okay? I got to go. I know you care about me, Miss Manning. I do. I'm gon' keep trying to break free. I'm gon' keep trying, okay?'

Keep trying. To break free.

The last thing I saw was you diagonally crossing the street, disjointed like the marionette that you still are.

Still erratic. Still anxious. Still stuck in reverse and not quite ready or able to break free.



***
Welcome to Tuesday.


Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . . haunting words, haunting lyrics. . . please listen.

Stronghold.

Giving up 
is so hard to do
I said I've tried
But it just ain't no use

But my light of hope 

is burning dim

But

But in my heart I pray
That my love and faith in the girl
will bring her back someday

~ from Donny Hathaway "Giving Up."

"Sit down on that chair, hear? What did I say?"

This sixty-something year old woman furrowed her brow and pointed her finger sternly at the two toddlers fidgeting in the chair beside the examining table. A little boy and a little girl -- certainly no older than three and clearly a big handful.

"Gran'mama, I'm hungry!" the little boy whined.

She didn't say anything in response. Instead she reached into her pocketbook and pulled out a little box of animal crackers and opened it up. Next she whipped out a little package of travel tissues and quickly secured one tissue in each hand. Holding both up to each child's nose simultaneously she directed them. "Blow."

*phhhhhttttttthhhhh*

Those little toddlers did just as they were instructed. This grandmama meant business.

I had just stepped into the clinic room with one of the residents when I caught all of this. And honestly? It wasn't exactly unusual to see a patient with children in tow. I kept things light and made a little small talk.

"Hey there, Ms. Ashton. I think we may have met before -- I'm Dr. Manning and I work with your resident doctor." I reached out hand shook her hand even though she'd just had a snot-filled Kleenex in it. "I see you have your grands with you today, huh?"

She made and exaggerated eye roll. "Honey, I got my grands with me every day--y'all stop dropping' all them crumbs all over the place, hear?" The obedient toddlers shifted nervously in that shared seat.

"Are they twins?" I asked. Partly because I was still making small talk but also because I was just curious.

"Mmmm hmmm, chile. And they a handful, too. Sweet little babies, but they a handful for sure. Cain't you tell?"

We all laughed, the resident, Ms. Ashton and me.

"You keep your grandbabies during the day?" I chuckled and reached out for the little girl's hand. It warmed my heart when she let me.

Ms. Ashton grabbed the box of animal crackers and dusted the crumbs off of their laps with her other hand. Her wide hips shook as she swished her hand and caught crumbs into the box. She returned to her chair and let out a sigh. "I keep my grands all the time. They stay with me 'cause my daughter cain't take care of 'em herself."

I widened my eyes and prepared to back off. I cast a quick glance in the direction of my resident because none of this had come up when she'd presented the patient to me. The look on her face suggested that this was news to her, too. I suppose she'd simply assumed that a kind grandmother was watching two of her grandchildren.

"Her mama got a stronghold. Hooked on that crack mess. So the state was gon' take her babies but I said, 'Naw, we don't do that in this family.'"

"Stronghold." Sure, Merriam-Webster has its own meaning for this word, but coming from a Grady elder, I knew exactly what this meant. A stronghold. The term the elders use to describe an addiction or gripping weakness; usually referring to how powerless it renders its victim.

I remembered that woman today. I remembered her not because of the medical problems we treated her for that day but because of our very brief conversation about her daughter. She went on to say a few words about her daughter and her addiction--always referring to it as a "stronghold."

"It's out of your hands. That's the thing about a stronghold. All you can do is love 'em and pray. Getting' mad at 'em don't help nothin'. So you jest love 'em and pray. Other than that it ain't much you can do."

***

This past weekend we went to visit some of our closest friends, Shannon and Michelle, in Virginia. The weekend was full of joy and laughter and memories and all of the things that time with old friends affords. Saturday was full of celebration. Their youngest child, Colin, turned five and we spent the day swirling in kid-centered fun. The night involved sugar-hyped children and dance games on Wii consoles. Wonderfully trapped in the basement where no one could get into much of anything. Which for us grownups meant clinking wine glasses and adult conversations. It was the very best kind of time.

At some point after a few too many laughs and after the Pinot Grigio had just about worn off, a couple of us wild and crazy kids decided that nothing would better than some Dunkin Donuts coffee for the after party. So my friend Nikki G. (who was one of the only ones who'd passed on the Pinot) agreed to drive and off the two of us went on an 8 PM coffee run. On a Saturday night. Which, okay, now that I think of it, sounds like a very lame and forty-and-up thing to do.

But I digress.

Anyways. Here we are all loquacious and happy like some twenty-somethings who are just leaving the club. LOL-ing and OMG-ing. And full of life and vigor and joy as we danced our way into that empty Dunkin Donuts. And, yes, it was totally empty because, as it turns out, America might run on Dunkin but Dunkin Donuts is not EVEN the hot-spot on a Saturday night. At least in Alexandria, Virginia it isn't.

But for me, it was the place to be because I felt light and free and relaxed. My kids were having a great time with great friends in a safe place around people I trust. And at the very same time, Harry and I were, too. The older you get, the more you appreciate these moments. Yes, you do.

So yeah, Nikki and I bust into the spot all giddy and goofy--her just because and me because I'm out of town/away from work/and okay, perhaps with some remnants of Pinot Grigio--and it was a perfect moment. It truly was. I even had on Zachary's Paul Frank monkey hat which made us laugh even more. And that made it just that much more perfect.

"Dude! Since when do they have plasma TVs up in Dunkin Donuts!" I joked. Still laughing and giddy. With my monkey hat on.

But then, just as Nikki prepared to counter my observation, we look up at that screen and see this:

And just like that we stopped laughing. Both frozen in our tracks, staring at this literally sobering news. Because we both knew that this was one of those "where were you" moments. So we just stood there in silence for a few seconds letting it sink in. 

Whitney Houston Dead at 48.

"NO WAY!" I immediately yelled out. 

"WHAT!?" Nikki screeched a mere two seconds later.

CNN. That's reputable. Wait, huh? Whitney? Whitney Houston? Our Whitney? Dead? According to CNN? 

"NO WAY!" 

"WHAT?!" 

And then we just paced back and forth, looking at the flatscreen television and repeating those same words over and over again.  NO WAY! WHAT?!

Then I turned my shock toward the poor, unsuspecting South Asian man behind the counter. "WHAT HAPPENED TO WHITNEY? WHAT DID THEY SAY HAPPENED TO WHITNEY!?" 

And yes. I meant to put it in all caps because I was speaking loudly and was probably being a close-talker to boot. Hearing that Ms. Whitney Houston was no longer alive was disorienting. So much so that I decided that Mr. Dunkin had some kind of hot off the presses information that we hadn't yet learned. I mean, seeing as he is up in there with that flatscreen on CNN all day. 

"YO! What they say happened to Whitney?!" I demanded again. And yes, I meant to write "what they say happened" because honestly? This is exactly what I said. I mean, somebody had just said that Whitney Houston had died. This was no time for standard English.

where I was when I heard

So Mr. Dunkin just shrugged in this weird way that looked partly like he had no idea what I was talking about and partly like he was deeply afraid that this was about to be a stick-up. I believe that my interpretation of that shrug is spot on. 

So we go from pacing to just standing there with our arms folded shaking our heads. Then we both get tearful for a moment as the same images keep showing over and over and over again.

Whitney is dead. No, wait. Whitney Houston--our Whitney Houston--is dead.

That's when that word popped into my head:

"Stronghold."

So apropos, that word. I thought of Whitney Houston's mother, Sissy. I imagined her daughter, Bobbie Christina. I even thought of Oprah Winfrey applauding her big comeback and punctuating it with a two-part episode in her final season. 

Stronghold.

I thought of every single woman who has ever sang a song or wanted to have a big and unforgettable voice and how by definition she had to look up to Whitney Houston. Because regardless of her struggles, her voice was unmatched. 

That voice made her very rich and very famous. But despite her talent and fame and fortune, she wasn't immune to that stronghold. And just like Ms. Ashton said that day, it was nothing her family could do. Hell, it was even too big for Oprah Winfrey herself to love her through. 

Ms. Ashton spoke a good word that day between passing snacks and wiping noses:

"It's out of your hands. That's the thing about a stronghold. All you can do is love 'em and pray. Getting' mad at 'em don't help nothin'. So you jest love 'em and pray. Other than that it ain't much you can do." 

Ain't that the truth.

So today I'm reflecting on Whitney Houston--our Whitney Houston-- and her stronghold. I'm also reflecting on Sissy Houston and Bobbie Christina Brown and every single Sissy and Bobbie who have ever had to stand by helplessly in plain view of their loved one being strangled by some kind of stronghold. 

Because the worst part about it is that it's out of your hands.

A lot of us were disappointed in Whitney. I guess we thought that with a voice like that, that she was superhuman and supposed to do more with her legacy. Seeing her erratic behavior was so hurtful yet we still loved her and accepted this version of her. That's the thing about a stronghold. 

Yes, we loved her and saw her as a golden girl. We wanted a scapegoat  so we even blamed Bobby Brown for a while, but over time it became apparent that she was ill. And even if Bobby sat next to her acting quirky and high on Barbra Walters' show, he still had his own stronghold. And Whitney's belonged to her. 

No, I don't know the specifics of Whitney Houston's cause of death. But I have lived long enough and worked at Grady long enough to know that even if it wasn't specifically related to drugs, it still was. We had waved good bye to the old version of her some years ago. That lanky, confident songstress with the poise of an opera singer and had forced ourselves to get used to this new person in her place. That's the thing about a stronghold. It's like watching a slow death. . . . even before someone dies.

I have seen people escape strongholds. Very few--but I still have. 

I've seen Ms. Ashton a few more times since that first meeting. Every time those grand babies are in tow. And most of the time, we've moved on and chatted about mundane things as if her lost daughter was just "one of those things" that you know of but tried not to think of. But you quietly promise in your heart to pray about it because the love is the part you can't forget.  Even when they're gone. 

Kind of like we did with Whitney all those years.

That's the thing about a stronghold. We hold on, too.

***

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . "Giving Up" by Donny Hathaway. . . .the song that always reminds me of strongholds -- and especially the people loving someone through one. His haunting voice and the musical accompaniment seems like it was recorded for this very moment, I swear. Please. . .please listen to this one,okay? Thanks.