Be a lion.

Ted Ross as The Lion in "The Wiz"

There is a place we'll go
Where there is mostly quiet
Flowers and butterflies
A rainbow lives beside it

And from a velvet sky
A summer storm
You can feel the coolness in the air
But you're still warm

And then a mighty roar
Will start the sky to cryin'
But not even light'ning
Will be frightening my lion

And with no fear inside
No need to run
No need to hide
You're standing strong and tall
You're the bravest of them all

If on courage you must call
Then just keep on tryin'
And tryin', and tryin'
You're a lion
In your own way, be a lion. . .

Come on. . . be a lion.

~  "Be a Lion" as sung by Diana Ross in "The Wiz"

____________________________

I have learned a few things after being in medical education for more than a decade. I've learned that there are many things that we have to offer our learners. More than just medical knowledge or concrete instructions on how to perform bedside procedures. A whole lot more.

Some of my colleagues are masters at helping residents and medical students understand complicated theories and pathophysiology. Others have a knack for teaching them how to cannulate tiny veins and arteries on the first try. And while I am no slouch when it comes to either of those things, I don't consider that my strength.

It sounds kind of silly, I guess. But me? I'm an encourager. I think I'm good at shining lights onto learners which ultimately gives them a safe space to let their own lights shine. There's something about seeing someone evolve from slumped shoulders and disappearing behind shadows. . . . into chest back, shoulders up confidence that excites me. And actually. . . encourages me.

More than you could ever imagine.

When I was an intern I spent August of 1996 rotating in the intensive care unit (ICU.) As I've said before, it was the setting that I found the most terrifying of all. My attending that month was . . . intense. He was serious about those patients and he had no qualms with tearing any and every person a new one who stood in the way of them getting as close as possible to a full recovery.

This was how our mornings went. We'd be standing there shaking like leaves and our attending would review the numbers on the ventilators. He'd then ask us about the overnight events (that our resident and fellow had advised us how to deal with) and then. . . .

"Aaaaaggghhhh!" Then he'd smack his face and shake his head. And that was the feedback.

Next, the fellow or the resident would begin defending the management and eventually he'd calm down. My fellow told me over and over again that he was harmless. That this was just his passion for patient advocacy coming out and that it was never personal. But despite all that reassurance, I was terrified.

Eventually, I became so afraid of this attending (coupled with this setting) that I would become paralyzed on rounds. I'd stutter and apologize. And seriously, the only thing that made me not look the most horrible of all the team members was the fact that he scared my co-intern even more. She even burst into tears two different times on rounds.

That didn't exactly make me feel better about being there, though.

I wasn't nervous only because of that attending. I didn't trust myself with these patients. I was too junior, too green to be writing orders on their charts or progress notes in their records. The resident, who was slated to be a chief resident, would pat my shoulder and remind me that we always had "supervised instruction." Still. I just didn't feel good about being there. Not one single day.

I wasn't fully organized. That was one of my problems. I wasn't sure how to keep track of all that data or how to retrieve it quickly when Dr. Intern-slayer asked me for it. There would be papers falling all out of my pockets one day. A giant clipboard with way too much stuff the next. And eventually, I settled on a stack of index cards that I spent more time fearing I'd lose than anything else.

But then there was this one night where I took call with the cross-covering fellow on call. She was only with me for the night--only there to cover me on call. Her name was Shobhana and she was highly competent, confident and smart. I knew that she'd been a chief resident prior to her critical care fellowship and often saw her in passing at conferences. Every time I encountered her, she was kind and attentive--if only for a moment in the hallway. Though I didn't know her well, that little bit of background was enough to make me feel safe on her watch.

Initially, we were busy that night. We admitted a few new patients and dealt with some active issues with the ones who were already long term players. Shobhana was right by my side for all of it, and I was deeply relieved. I double checked every single move with her and constantly apologized for bothering her with my questions. Eventually, things calmed down and we were sitting in the resident's workroom talking and snacking.

That's when Shobhana decided to go there.

"Kimberly? Why do you say sorry so much? You are a good intern. You water yourself down that way." And she said that as she pulled seeds out of a pomegranate, carefully popping each one into cupped hands to avoid staining her scrubs.

"I guess I didn't know I did that. And I don't know about me being such a good intern. I'm not totally horrible, but 'good' might be pushing it." I meant those words, too. I didn't think of myself as a good intern at all. At least not here I wasn't. More like one who wasn't an assassin.

"Why would you ever say such a thing?" Shobhana pressed.

"I'm nervous. I don't know enough. And I don't feel so organized." And right after I said that, my eyes welled up with tears. Her eyes softened in response and I started to full-on cry. "Ugggh. I'm sorry."

"Stop saying sorry! Listen. You've got to start seeing yourself differently. Knowing that you belong here because you do. So yeah. Read and get organized. Then you won't be nervous. But mostly, you have to be a lion." She patted her closely clipped nails on a brown paper towel that she'd brought over from the bathroom. It was covered with pomegranate drippings and seeds which, since then, have always made me think of her whenever I see that fruit.

"That's easier said than done." I let out a half-hearted laugh.

"Noooo. Not at all, sweetie," she replied. Abruptly she stood up. "Come on. Come. Let's get your nerves out."

So she looked at my system for tracking my patients and gave me some pointers. We printed out a unit census and, at three o'clock in the morning, started rounding in that unit. And Shobhana listened to me and coached me. She stopped me mid-sentence and gave me do-overs. Told me to stand up tall, lift my voice, and not say 'sorry.' She also affirmed the things that I was doing right with high fives and sistergirl applause. It was awesome. She easily spent two and a half hours with me that night. Pushing me, encouraging me, and helping me to get more organized with both my patients and my learning. And you know? Maybe it wasn't 2 and a half hours. But to me, it felt like an eternity.

I never ever forgot her kindness. It proved to be a pivotal moment in my medical education. And one that I have vowed to always pay forward.

This week I spent some time with a few learners who needed encouragement. All at different levels and all needing different things. No, I didn't inundate them with cutting edge medical information or anything of the sort. Instead, I simply tried my best to do for them what Shobhana did for me. Coached them. Encouraged them. Pushed them to be the lion that I could see inside of them.

Because in medicine, sometimes you've got to learn how to be a lion.

So I had one of those meetings today and on my way to it, I heard Diana Ross in my ear singing the words that I swear it feels like Shobhana sang directly to me that night in the ICU. Her voice was just like that music. Her hand claps and high fives made my confidence rise up like bubbles, lifting my feet from the ground. And just like when Diana Ross' Dorothy was first purring and then belting out those lyrics into the ear of that cowardly lion at some point all of it erupted out of him into his big, bellowing, celebratory finale.

"I'm a lion! In my own way!"

I've seen that before in medical students and residents. I've seen it in junior faculty. Hell, I've seen it in myself. A simple nudge. . . .giving someone the courage to be a lion. Yes! A lion. In their own way.

It's as important as the medical knowledge. Or the procedural skills. Teaching and helping someone to believe that they're as good as the potential you see in them is critical to making it in this field. Hell, it's important in most fields.

And just maybe some call that mentoring. But I'm not so sure. I think it's something more than that. It's one of those things that takes time and patience and a heart for people.

So no. I don't remember every medical fact. I can't tell you the odds ratios of every study in every journal. But I do have a heart for people and try to do my best to encourage anyone that I can.

Perhaps that's why I felt so tired this week.

Perhaps.

But you know? I wouldn't trade that part of my life for anything. Yes, it can be exhausting. . .but the pay off is so great. And I'm starting to realize that as long as I save some time to encourage myself, I'm good.

Yeah.

Look. I don't know what's going on with you right now. But truly I hope that you have someone in your life that's waiting side stage and singing softly in your ear. Inviting you to be a lion and convincing you that you can be one. Over and over and over again. . .  until finally you feel strong enough to step out into that spotlight.

And if you do or if you have, it's your duty to pay it forward to someone else. Just like somebody did for you.

If you don't, consider these words for you -- and apply them in whatever part of your life is calling for you to be a lion.

Come on. . . be a lion!

________________________________

The Lion's part:

I am standing strong and tall
You're the bravest of them all
If on courage you must call
Keep on tryin'
And tryin', and tryin'
I'm a lion
In my own way
I'm a lion

***

Happy Tuesday. Again.

And, of course, the song playing on my mental iPod. . . .please listen if you need to feel encouraged today.

None of your busy-ness.

Together? Leaving Grady. . .on a Saturday night? Uhhh. . .yeah.

It's been seven hours and fifteen days. . . .since I've exercised or really done much of anything for myself. I looked in the mirror yesterday and heard the words to this old R&B song called "Seems You're Much Too Busy."  The song says:

Seems you're much to busy
and I can't stand it
Seems you're much too busy these days
and I can't handle it

That's how I'm feeling this week. Like I just have too much going on. I'm amazed that I've even managed to write in the last few weeks considering that, technically, I do that for me. I guess that begs the question -- do I still see this as something for me? Does the fact that this has been quasi-maintained mean that I do, in fact, have my ducks in a row? Or does it mean that it has somehow scooted over into the realm of things I do for others?

Yikes. Those questions are too heavy for it to be this early in the morning.

Someone said it seems like I have it "all together all the time." All together? All the time? Ha. Nope. I so very do not. When I'm on wards, my boat begins to capsize. The balls I'm juggling start to fall. And usually those balls are the ones related to ME.

"How do you do all those things?" a friend asked me on Sunday as our kids splashed in a pool.

"Most days, I simply prioritize. But this week I'm not doing that so well." And to make my point, I lifted my leg and showed her the unfortunate stubble growing on my unshaved legs. Which, now that I think of it, was beyond what qualifies for stubble.

I even missed a hair appointment. And y'all know how I feel about the beauty shop.

Man. It seems I'm much too busy these days. . . for me. Do you ever feel this way? I do. Especially on wards. It's so love-hate. I love, love, love it. But the time commitment, the worrying, the teaching, the everything gets to be a lot.

Seems I'm much too busy these days. And I can't stand it.

But let me tell you--this will be rectified. I have some time off next week after the long weekend. Sure do. And in that time I will exercise. Drink some hooch. Listen to some good music. Shake my hips. Write some prose. Read something non-medical. Give a TED talk in my bathroom mirror about a whole bunch of nothing. Whatever it is, know this--I'm going to do something, anything for me.

Me.

***
Happy Tuesday.

Here's that song playing on my mental iPod. Enjoy.

Tiny flowers.

I'd run into her on the bridge coming from the school of medicine. During our regular pleasantries, the conversation evolved to career and residency plans. She had some questions, some things she needed to flesh out.

"Let's talk sometime," I said.

"I'd like that," she responded.

So on this day, a week later, we met for a late lunch. Actually, I was the one eating, but that was fine because my plan was for her to mostly talk and for me to mostly listen.

Her chosen field is not my own. Mine? Internal Medicine with a background in Pediatrics (that now is only practiced when trying determine whether or not to take my kids in for something.) Hers? The highly complex and competitive field of Otolaryngology -- or if you like to keep things simple -- ENT for short. Surgeons focused on teeny-tiny structures in very tight quarters. Highly complex. Very competitive.

And that's cool because, if you ask me, all women are "highly complex" and since she's worked hard in medical school, she's also a very competitive residency candidate. So that part was cool, too.

"What are your strengths?" I asked her.

She paused and let her wheels turn for a while. This was a hard question; I could tell. Not because she didn't believe herself to have any strengths, but just because it can be really hard to toot one's own horn if that isn't your thing. And most folks grow up to believe that such a thing isn't polite. Especially when you add in that little voice that tells you not to believe what is great about who you are. So I backed off of that and instead just asked her to tell me her story.

Simple enough.

So she froze for a moment and I stayed quiet until she warmed up.

Then she told me a story about her mother that almost made me cry. It floated out of her lips like some kind of song, and I swear, if she had sung it, it wouldn't have been any sweeter than just hearing her say it like she did.

"When I was in high school, I used to work in my mom's nail shop. My job was to paint designs on peoples' toes with a tiny paint brush and tiny paint bottles. My mother told me, 'Mina, if you take pride in your work, practice and pay attention to detail, you'll do the best job. Then people will come back to you because of this.'"

And so she spent her summers developing a talent for minuscule masterpieces -- one toe and one brush stroke at a time. She learned how to make the flowers look almost real. And people would look down at their feet and feel happy.

Then, they'd come back because it was obvious that she was one who took pride in what she was doing and who treated them like they were the only client she'd have that day.

"That's beautiful." It was all I could get out.

Man. I could completely envision her seated on a low chair, back curved and finger tips positioned over each toe with a tiny brush in hand. I imagined her mother walking by and coaching her in Vietnamese. I allowed myself to see her looking up into her mother's eyes like an apprentice and then trying even harder until she got it perfectly right. Yes. I could see it all.

My eyes welled up with tears after hearing that story. Mina looked back at me, her eyes glistening, too.  Then she smiled this sweet smile that nearly melted my heart.

So I took her picture so I wouldn't forget the moment.

Finally, I said with a big smile,"You will make a perfect otolaryngologist, Mina." Because after hearing that--her story--this is what I felt in the deepest parts of my soul.

Yes, Little Flower. You most certainly will.

Mina? Tell your mama that she done good.

***
Happy Friday.