You are not.

You looked at me with this bored expression. You yawned, folded one elbow behind your head and scratched your ashy torso with the other. "I'm a lost cause," you said. "Some people just like to get high. Me? I'm worse than those kinds of people. I LOVE to get high." When I didn't say anything, you laughed out loud. Hard.

I did not.

"I just keep shit one hun-ned." You shrugged. Then you laughed again. This time harder.

I did not.

There was such unapologetic resignation in your face. You meant what you said, believed it even. You spoke of all the people who had come in front of you, trying to convince you to quit.
"Sobriety is for who want it, man. I don't want it. I want to get high. As much as I can."
"I appreciate your honesty," I said.
"I'm always gon' be that. You can call me a junkie. You can call me a addict. But what you ain't never gon' call me is a lie, though." You chuckled once more.

I did not.

It started with some pills after an injury. You broke a bone and they gave you Percocet. Then they gave you more. At some point, you felt sick without it. And lucky you, you were down with somebody who knew how to help you not feel sick.
"You scared of needles? It involve a needle," your friend told you. You said, "I just don't want to feel sick." After that, it was a wrap.

Over and over again, you called yourself a junkie. Such an old school word coming from someone so young.

"I'm a lost cause, man. Don't waste your energy." You laughed every single time you said that. And every single time you did, I made up my mind to not join you.

So you kept talking. And I kept listening. You kept laughing, too. The whole time you did. I did not.
At some point, I reached out and touched your hand. You jumped a little. Then, for the first time, you looked into my eyes. You were genuinely surprised by my gesture. I closed my fingers tighter in response, ignoring the confetti constellation of needle marks and scarring. I was stunned that you let me.

Me: "You keep saying you're a junkie. And a lost cause. That's not what I see."
You: "Oh yeah?"
Me: "No. I see a smart, beautiful, black son."
You: *holding my gaze*
Me: "I know you like to get high. But little brother . .you are so much more than that."
You: "No I'm not."
Me: "Yes, you are."
You: *silence*
Me: "YES, YOU ARE. You ARE."

What happened next surprised us both. You started crying. Hard. And as soon as you did, I couldn't hold it in. I cried, too. Right then and right there. And the whole time I was squeezing your hand and you were squeezing your eyes as tight as you could to hold back those tears.

They came anyway.

This didn't end with you promising to never get high again. Or with me safely delivering you to a rehab center and all of us rejoicing in the hallways singing mumma-say mumma-sah mu mah koosah either. But you did let me hold your hand way longer than I thought you would.

After I left your room, I stood in the hallway weeping. My shoulders were shaking and my fist was balled up and held to my mouth. I shook my head and kept saying out loud, "I am so, so sorry, little brother. I am so, so sorry." My whole team was standing right there for all of it, too. And I didn't care. The part inside of your room and the part outside in the hallway, too.

"Do you think this could get him to stop?" my student asked.

“I don’t know," I said. "But I do think just like mean stacks up so does kind. So I keep trying, you know?"

She nodded in response. I meant every word.
***

Dear little brother,

You are not a lost cause. 
You are not a lost cause.
You are not a lost cause. 
You are not.

Okay?

***

Everything.

Hold fast to dreams 

for if dreams die

Life is a broken-winged bird

that cannot fly

Hold fast to dreams

for when dreams go

Life is a barren field

frozen with snow

~ Langston Hughes

_______________________________

Support is everything. It is. I come home from work some days and feel tired and exhausted. Like literally, completely spent. Then I sit and reflect and think and write. I talk to my colleagues and my husband and lean on them. I run into my students and see the belief, trust and support that they have in their eyes. Then I'm reminded of the reasons that we do the things we do.

And I feel recharged.

It was a random hallway conversation. I saw this student, Swaisha F., standing there in the lobby of the medical school one day. I realized that I'd seen her many times before but didn't really know her. And I will be very transparent in saying that I feel it is my responsibility to personally know all of the medical students at Emory who happen to be underrepresented minorities. Even if someone else doesn't think that, I do. And yes, I'd spoken to her a few times here and there but, again, I didn't know her. Until that day in the hallway.

The discussion was mostly light. And in it, I asked her questions about who her mentors were and what kinds of career aspirations were on her horizon. And she told me all of these things but when she did I noticed this inexplicable emotion coming through. I couldn't place it. But instead of subjecting her to some analysis, instead we just agreed to get to know each other better. And as we did, I got to understand more of what that heaviness was about.

Anyways. Around this same time, my friend and fellow Grady doctor, Stacy H. and I had just begun co-mentoring a colleague. And in those tag team meetings, we recognized that we are a hell of a team. First of all, we are friends. But second of all, my "hype man" tactics perfectly compliment her meticulous and even-keeled approach. I asked Swaisha to reach out to Stacy H., too. And she held up her end of the bargain. She did.

And from there, we became her rag-tag mentoring team. And no, we are not responsible for any of the things she has successfully accomplished. But we do stand ready, willing and able to remind her of who she is. We do.

Here is the best part:

Every affirmation we give to Swaisha is an affirmation we give to ourselves. I see her and I think: This is what it looks like when someone holds fast to dreams and doesn't let them die. And being involved in her medical education journey gives that same gift back to me. We remind her of who she is which hits us right back like a boomerang telling us of who we are. On a day when I was tired as hell and wanting to crawl out of the hospital on all fours, I saw her while walking into the entrance with Stacy. And we enveloped her in a group hug and all of us in that moment knew that it was symbolic of so much. So, so much. Things hard to put fingers on but that you want to grasp tightly. And that? All of it made me really, truly want to hold fast to what I am supposed to be doing.

All of this is so much bigger than us. My dad has always told me that and now, more than ever, I believe it. What good is any talent or accomplishment or opportunity if it's only about you? I guess my rambly point is this: Nothing is ever just about us. It never, ever is.

At least that's what I think.

Yeah.  So I look at this picture and I feel myself wanting to cry. Taken just yesterday right in front of Grady Hospital on a beautiful and warm yet cool and autumnal afternoon. A young woman of color who is striving to become a doctor is flanked on both sides by two of her mentors. Both of whom not only look like her but believe in her -- and already are doctors.

The light in her face--in ours, too--is triumphant and hopeful. And I swear I stared at this photo for a long time yesterday just imagining us, her two mentors, lifting her straight off of the ground and casting her high into the skies to soar like an eagle.

And her doing just that.

Support is everything. Belief is everything. And with both, dreams never die. They simply expand to include more than any of us ever realized they could. Any of us.

Yeah.

***
Happy Tuesday. Again.

Damn, I'm glad to be here. In this life, at this moment, I am.

Think about such things.

 Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable--if anything is excellent or praiseworthy--

think about such things.

Philippians 4:8

I approached you carefully. Not because I was nervous or any such thing but because when I saw you, I knew that you were probably sleeping. And since I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be a big fan of being jolted out of my sleep by the lights-cameras-action of doctors or nurses flicking on lights and calling out my name in an unnecessarily booming voice, I made a point of descending gently upon my bedside position.

That said, there is a such thing as coming in too quietly, though. Equally jarring, I'd say. One minute you're fast asleep and the next some face is peering into yours and jostling your shoulder. Your eyes open and -- yikes! A person--no people--surrounding your bed in a big semicircle as you try your best to adjust the drool that has leaked from the side of your mouth. (That same mouth that someone is going to ask you to "open up wide" before you've had a chance to freshen up.)

I found the happy medium. A soft knock on the wall after I passed that first bed to reach yours. Feet light but firm enough to make just enough noise to let you know that someone was in your room. And like clockwork, the mound of covers that represented you began to stir a bit. You rolled to your back and pulled down the blankets just enough for me to see your eyes. With a playful squint, you shook your head hard and then hid your face again. It was early.

"Good morning," I said with a chuckle.

Down came the curtain. This time, under your chin and signaling that you were now ready. "Good morning, sweet girl."

That made my face erupt into a big, wide smile. For every day of this hospitalization you'd called me that. Sweet girl. And something about the way you looked into my face so warmly whenever you did made me believe that you meant it.

"I see you're laying down flat. How are you breathing?"

You took a deep breath and let it out. "I'm breathing a heap better than I was before. 'Reckon I am breathing a lot better since I'm flat, huh?"

"Definitely."

You already began sitting up in preparation for my lung exam. Normally when my patient is lying in bed already, I like to examine the heart first, but I also try to go with the flow. And so I did.

"How they sound? Do you hear the cracklies?"

"Nope." I pulled my scope out of my ears. "Those lungs are clear today. Not a crackly in sight."

"Or earshot." We both smiled at your correction.

I went on with the exam as you assisted me. I called it assisting because you did more than just cooperate. You pulled down sheets and unfastened snaps on your gown. You parted your lips and took big deep breaths and turned in positions before I could even ask.

"I think if the procedure goes well today, we might be able to get you going."

"That sounds good to me. What time you think they gon' take me down there?"

I looked up at the clock. "I think in the next hour or two."

"Okay. I hope so. 'Cause I ain't ate nothin' since midnight. And you know I'm starting to get a little lunchy."

We laughed out loud at that word "lunchy." That was the term you'd told me on the first day I examined you. My stethoscope was on your abdomen and your bowel sounds were so loud and gurgly that I raised my eyebrows in response.

"I'm feeling kinda lunchy, Miss Manning," you'd said. "That's what you hearing. Go on see what's taking them trays so long, hear?"

And something about that word "lunchy" amused me so much that you said it over and over again just to make me smile. That and calling me "sweet girl."

And so. You went for your procedure. It went fine. And afterwards you were discharged from the hospital--but not until you'd had your lunch.

Before you left, you grabbed my hand tight and said, "You be good, hear? I appreciate you taking care of me, sweet girl."

"And I appreciate you, too. You have no idea how much."

That is what I said. Because that is what I felt.

And this? This is this the part I love so much about being a doctor. Nothing exotic or cutting edge. Just one person looking into the eyes of another person and letting them know that they matter. The relationship is deeply symbiotic; we need each other to survive.

The everyday, the people, the words and inside jokes like "lunchy" and the tender names like "sweet girl" spoken to woman who gets that it's a term of endearment and receives it as such. This is the best part and this is what I am thinking about this morning. And all of it excellent and praiseworthy--it is. And yes. It feels good to think about such things. And so I do.

Yeah.

***
Happy Monday.