Confirmation.

“And who knows but that you have come to your royal position for such a time as this?” 

- Esther 4:14 NIV

A door had closed before her. It seemed like there was no way out. Some way, somehow our paths crossed.

She was miles away on the eastern seaboard and had somehow found my email. “I went to Clark Atlanta,” she said over the email. And that was when I knew. This medical student looked like me.

No. She wasn’t at my institution. But something about that message grabbed me that day. Was it the first such email I’d received asking for my help or attention? No. But something about this felt different. It’s hard to explain.

I was in Jury Duty so things were still. Her email crossed my box during an idle period and, as fate would have it, afforded her my full attention. I don’t think that was by accident.

Nope.

Emails went back and forth for about 30 minutes. Then this lady with a flat voice spoke into a microphone. She rattled off some names in a monotone voice. “If I called your name, your case has been settled. Thank you for your service.” One of those names was mine.

Yup.

An unexpected window. What to do? Call her. That’s what God laid on my heart. Her number was at the end of the email. Before I could overthink it, o decided to be obedient.

What happened next—you wouldn’t believe it unless you knew me personally. But here is what I will say: I've always thought that that, just maybe, that one moment in time was pre-appointed long before I ever even thought of becoming a doctor. Maybe even before I was born.

The best part is that I could feel it in that moment. I could feel that the universe was telling me loud and clear: This is your Esther moment. And so I held on tight to that idea and pushed. Trusting and believing and touching and agreeing.

But then? Just like that, the door that I thought I could open for her closed. I fell to my knees crying that day. “I did what You said!” I cried. “I was obedient!”

A friend told me to be still. So I did.

And then, a door opened. Not the door I expected. An entirely different door opened by someone entirely different—but to whom I was connected. She opened that door in a whole different state. We hadn’t even been talking. I’d just been writing. And her reading.

Whew. It was so big, so divine that I still struggle to wrap my head around it. This wasn’t MY Esther moment. It was OUR Esther moment. A moment for which we were BOTH created.

Yup.

That girl from Clark Atlanta who cold-called me all those years ago? She walked straight through that open door and never looked back. Wait—I take that back. She only looks back to see who’s rattling the door handle trying to get in.

Today, as I was sitting alone quietly eating lunch at a soul food counter between rounds, guess who came up behind me and wrapped me in a hug? It was her. After all these years.

Dual board certified. An assistant professor and full time faculty member. Living the dream. At Grady Memorial Hospital of all places. Took everything in me not to cry into my black-eyed peas and collard greens.

“Wow.” That’s all I could say as she told me about all of the wonderful things she’d been doing.

“I will forever be grateful to you both. Forever I will.”

“And I will forever be grateful to God for letting us be there in that moment all together.”

She nodded and we hugged tight. Then I pulled her back, looked at her, and hugged her again. After that I snapped this picture to send to the other Esther so she, too, could feel all the same feels.

I do struggle sometimes with asks and recognizing my limitations. I can’t be everything to everyone. Sometimes I can’t be even a little something. But that moment taught me to just listen. Listen so that I know when I should.

Yup.

What an ordinary lunch at the Sweet Auburn Curb Market this started out as today. Just like that ultra ordinary day in Jury Duty back in 2012. Now I know that nestled in every ordinary moment is the potential for something extraordinary just waiting to happen.

And maybe—just maybe—you were created for a moment such as this.

Yeah.

__________
Happy Tuesday.

Juneteenth.

You didn't quit smoking. Nope. Not even after that big, long, drawn out discussion we'd had about you setting the perfect quit day.  "Juneteenth!" you announced with a big, loud laugh. You banged your hand on the desk and clapped your hands after.  I typed it right into the chart when you did:

QUIT DATE: JUNE 19, 2016

Then you added, "Perfect, ain't it? The day of emancipation, right?" And I nodded my head in acknowledgement, loving the idea of you being freed of the nicotine stronghold on the very day that our people came up from under the dark cloud of slavery.

"That day sounds perfect," I replied. And I said that because it was true.

But sadly that day came and went. And you didn't quit. Nope.

Your blood pressure was high today, too.  You promised that you'd take your blood pressure pills but when I looked into the pharmacy history, you hadn't picked up a refill for two full months.

Nope.

342. That was your blood sugar reading on the finger stick today. Which meant that you probably weren't taking you insulin either. (Even though you'd promised you would.)

And last was your weight. Your chief concern at the last visit was losing weight and quitting smoking. We'd talked and talked and talked all about it and you sounded so ready. So ready. Together we identified some simple tweaks that could be made to help you shed pounds and, I have to admit, I was just as excited as you.

Sure was.

But that didn't work out either. Instead of dropping a few pounds, you gained nearly ten. 9.73 to be exact. Which didn't fit the gameplan we'd discussed. At all.

So yeah. Essentially none of what was supposed to happen happened. And honestly, I'd be lying if I said that some piece of it wasn't frustrating because it was.

Yeah, it was.

And so. I creaked open the clinic room door to come see you. The undeniable scent of cigarette smoke wafted into my nostrils the very moment I stepped inside; it had found a crevice of every part of that room. I coached myself to not be disappointed in you. To not feel like you'd hoodwinked and bamboozled me into believing that this visit would be some celebratory party where I fist bumped you for your big emancipation from cigarettes and unhealthy foods. Yeah.

"Good morning," I started. I took the seat across from you and smiled. Trying my best to not sound condescending, I added, "It's good to see you."

I was kind of tired that morning. Isaiah had forgotten to tell me about a homework assignment he had until the very last minute which forced a late night/early morning kitchen table science combination. Zachary couldn't find his shoe and seemed hell bent on wearing only the pair that had the missing mate. Our dog decided he'd tear up a throw pillow overnight. And I'd run out of creamer that morning so had to drink black coffee which I did but did not enjoy one bit.

So yeah. I'd hoped for some good news from you.

"I didn't quit, you know."

I sighed and leaned my face into my hand. "Yeah. I know."

"I gained some weight, too. Even though I ain't had much of a appetite. I just ain't been doing so good." Your mouth twisted when you said that and I could have sworn I saw tears glistening in the corners of your eyes.

"What do you mean by that? By 'ain't doing so good?'"

That's when those tears became undeniable, spilling over your lashes and onto your cheeks. You offered a lopsided shrug in response. And this? This was different for you. Normally you were chipper and full of happy spunk. And even though I was not so thrilled about your failure to clear the hurdles we'd pinky sworn upon, at minimum, I'd expected some funny one-liner about why it didn't happen. But not this. Not tears.

And so. I just waited. I touched your forearm and waited.

"Remember my grandson? The one who was staying with me?"

I thought for a moment and then remembered him from a visit once. He'd driven his grandmother to the clinic one day and seemed rather unhappy about having to sit in on a discussion of antihypertensives and insulin. "I do."

"Well. . he. . he. . " You couldn't finish. Instead you just dropped you head into your hands and wept hard. Your ample bosom shook rhythmically along with your fleshy arms.

"Oh my goodness. . .did he get hurt? Is he . . is he alive?" My hands covered my mouth immediately after I said that. I hated to be so direct but I'd worked at Grady Hospital long enough to know that it was a fair question. Your home address was in a rough part of town and that grandson was in your custody after drugs left his mother unfindable and incapable of raising him. The same streets that took his mama, though, preyed upon him, too. And you knew that. You'd lamented about your concerns of him selling drugs on corners and getting mixed up with the wrong crowds. So yeah. That question wasn't unreasonable.

"He got locked up. Caught a murder charge. He gone, Miss Manning. He might as well be dead. He gone for his whole life. And he ain't but nineteen."

I felt my eyes throbbing with tears. I puckered my lips outward and swallowed hard to try to keep myself from crying, too. It didn't work. "I'm sorry," I whispered. The tears splashed disappeared under my chin before I could wipe them away.

"Me, too," you murmured back.

And that was it. We didn't utter another word about you blood pressure or your smoking or your blood sugars or your weight. We just sort of sat there and felt the enormity of how hard this life can be sometimes and pushed all of the rest of it to the back burner. And yes. Your blood pressure and weight and blood sugar are important. But your emotional well being is, too. You'd lost your baby boy after losing the baby girl who made him. Your aging soul didn't deserve this pain. The streets were winning 2 - 0 which meant you were 0 for 2.

Later that day I thought of you. Thought of your grandson and the significance of his age--19--and that date you'd so cheerfully chosen for your quit date--June 19 or, as you said it, "Juneteenth." That number was supposed to be a happy one, representing freedom and a brand new day. Instead, it turned out to be symbolic of pain.

I hated that.

Here's what you taught me, though. That sometimes even when there is some pressing shit to discuss, something else more pressing should take precedent. And that sometimes the reasons that people don't follow through on things is because they physically and emotionally cannot. That slowing down and paying attention to souls matters more than slapping wrists for missing marks.

This lesson is one I need in all aspects of my life. So thank you, my friend. And know that this morning I am quietly weeping into my coffee and holding your hand. Feeling sad that nineteen hurts for you and wishing there was something I could do to fix it all. Like offer you some kind of Juneteenth to rescue you, your baby boy and his mama from the shackles of your reality.

"Let's talk about all of that other stuff next time, okay?"

"I'd appreciate that," you replied.

I realize now that I appreciated it, too.

***
Happy Monday.

Something I learned recently.

Disclaimer: Random ramble. Feel free to stop here. 

_________________________________________________



Several years ago, I watched this episode of the Oprah Winfrey show where this woman--a school principal--had left her baby in a locked car all day while she was at work. Well, let me clarify. It wasn't actually a baby but more of a toddler who'd fallen asleep in her booster chair on the morning drive.

Yeah.

So this lady is talking and Oprah is looking at her all intensely-intently-empathic-like while she explains what-had-happened. She said something about how every single day her husband took their daughter to her pre-school but how, on this day, he had a scheduling conflict. And this woman goes on to tell Ms. Winfrey all about how it was her first day as a principal at this school where she'd worked for many years already and how happy-nervous-anxious she was about this promotion. She recounted her morning speaking of how she'd first made this pitstop on the way for donuts for the teachers. Then about how mostly she was just doing every day things like listening to the radio and checking her mascara for clumps. And this was before folks were all up on their phones and such so that wasn't even a factor.

Nope.

Then, I guess, she got all up in her head so much that she took the route she always takes and did the thing she always does when driving to that school. And the route she always took and the things she always did didn't include going to a pre-school on the way. So, yeah. She did all that like she always did it that day. The only difference being that she parked in a different, more high real estate parking space. Oh, and that her kid was still asleep in the back seat.

Um, yeah.

The rest is as disastrous as you might imagine. A colleague walks past her crossover SUV parked in that new fancy fangled space and moves closer just to admire the accomplishment it represents. But that person surprisingly notices something unusual inside. Yup. An unconscious toddler still strapped in a car seat. It was well into the afternoon by this point and in the heat of August. By the time they got outside and called EMS it was just too late. That baby had died.

Yeah, man.

So, me, being a person without kids at that point but a still a person, saw this and felt what a lot of people feel. Horrified. Sad. Shocked. Slightly nauseated. And just wishing-wishing-wishing that on just this one time that she could get a do over. That someone somewhere would have forgotten to bring a lunch box or some milk money or something. A chance to turn back time so that somebody, anybody could have just peeked in there and saw her child right after she'd parked. Or perhaps that even she would have reached back for something that rolled under her seat, noticed and then said, "HOLY SHIT!" Realizing she'd actually left her human child strapped in the car. Then, she could have just sat on the back seat clinging to her child, just weeping and weeping about what could have happened instead of what had happened.

Yeah.

Years have passed since then and here and there I've seen similar stories pop up like this in the news. Even a friend of mine had a friend experience this exact same nightmare with their child. But by the time I heard it those other times, I was somebody's mother. My thoughts about it all were slightly different but that same sinking feeling I felt inside was the same.

I recall one of the more recent ones a few summers back right here in Atlanta:

"Granddad leaves kid in car for an entire day. Story at 11."

"Who does that?" I heard someone say in the hair salon that day. "Like who in the hell gets so busy that they leave their own child in a car and walks into work for the whole damn day? That sounds completely crazy to me." The amen choir chimed in from under dryers or under the snip-snip of scissors and clink-clink of curling irons. "I know folks get busy, but damn!" A few chuckles followed and then just this weird silence.

And me, I mostly kept quiet that day because I thought about my own answer to that rhetorical question. "Who does that? Anyone could do that."

Like even me.

Wait. Let me be clear. Nothing is wrong. The kids are alright and no one has been shut up in a hot car without a way to get out. Nor has this almost happened to me so far.

Oh. I take that back. I did once drive toward interstate 20 to head to work and almost forgot to take Isaiah to day care when he was a baby. Harry usually dropped off so it was a routine change--and Isaiah had fallen fast asleep. I noticed well before I got to the interstate but I had passed the daycare already. Which tells me that my quiet answer inside was right. When routines get shaken up or we get distracted or in our own heads too much? Things can happen. And most of those things are near misses but sometimes, like the instance with that lady on Oprah, they are real, true irreversible catastrophes.

Yeah.

So I guess I'm all rambly-rambly about this because I'm trying to process a near miss that I had fairly recently. And for a lot of reasons I can't explain the exact details of what happened but what I can say is that it not becoming catastrophic is one of those things that is equivalent to someone yelling out to that principal-lady right after she got out of her car: "Hey! Ma'am! I think you left your baby in there!"

Phew. 

But. That's not even the striking part of this. Something else is. So stay with me, okay? I'm going somewhere, I promise.

Okay, so imagine the stakes being high like that. Like a baby being left in a hot car on accident. The kind of thing that could be perceived as somewhat negligent even though theoretically it's the kind of eff up that could happen to anyone. Yeah. That. Those things that happen when people get super distracted and are doing to much in their heads so allow some part of whatever else they're supposed to be tending to go into autopilot.

Yeah. Kind of like that.

So picture me as the person doing all of those things and some other completely innocent person minding their business. Hmmm. I think I need a metaphor. Uhhh, okay let's do this--let's imagine that completely innocent person is standing right on the tippy-tip edge of a giant cliff. But like a giant cliff that is usually safe when people are watching where they are going.

So yeah. A giant, giant cliff. That is usually safe.

Okay, so check it. Let's just say that what had happened was that I stepped left instead of right because I wasn't looking. And I wasn't looking because I was distracted. Not by something über-negligent (yet common) like texting on a cell phone or putting on mascara but still. Regardless of what I was doing, I own the fact that I wasn't paying attention. And shit happens when you don't pay attention.

And so as the story goes, my inadvertent step very, very nearly knocks this innocent person off of the usually safe giant, giant cliff. Yet somehow, someway that person manages to cling to a jagged rock instead of falling and is mostly okay.

So me, I look down the cliff and back at the person. Then back down the cliff and back at the person. My heart is pounding with relief and panic. It feels like my heart is like a banging gong for all to hear.

"Oh-my-god-oh-my-god-oh-my-GOD!" That's what I shriek when I see that poor person holding on for their life. And people are running over to the edge to help or look or just be nosey. . .  because something like a person falling off of a giant, giant cliff in front of a whole bunch of people is the kind of thing that causes people to do such a thing.

Yeah.

So people are freaking out. Like really, really freaking out. Including the better half of the cliff hanger person who comes tearing over in a frenzy. I mean, that better half thought that their love had fallen to the very bottom into the deep abyss of a valley so who could blame them? Not me. And see all of it was really messed up because everyone there was traumatized. Me included. So I just kept screaming, "Oh my GOD! Oh my GOD! Oh my GOD!" and "I am SO SORRY."

Because I was sorry. Very. 

Okay. I know this all sounds like some crazy, cryptic parable. And I'll stop torturing you with it, I promise. But I need you to hear it because I got some powerful lessons and I'm trying my best to process them. What happened next is the most shocking part of all.

Once the cliff hanger person got safely back on the ground, he let it be known that he was okay. And people sort of calmed down for two seconds but then they peered down that jagged peninsula again and realized how really, really bad this could have been. And, honestly, I do the same thing. Because near misses make you do that macabre instant replay thing, you know?

Yeah.

So here's the crazy part--I kept freaking out but the cliff hanger person remained unusually calm. And somewhere around my seven hundred and forty sixth apology, the cliff hanger person simply looked at me and said:

"It was an accident. I forgive you."

Now. I can't say it was bizarrely warm and fuzzy apology acceptance but just more . . I don't know. . .real. Like, when the cliff hanger person told me he forgave me, I believed him immediately. "I am okay," the cliff hanger said. "I am okay and I will be okay. It was an accident."

And yeah, there were a few more words exchanged but that was mostly it.

And that? That messed me up a hundred times more than the near miss. I mean, there's a lot of things that I do that some might think are special. But what the cliff hanger person did in this instance? Staying this calm after a potentially near-death experience? Man. Had that been me? Had a distracted and quasi-negligent person nearly catapulted me to my untimely demise from the side of a usually-safe cliff? I can't say that I would have been so gracious. As a matter of fact, I know I wouldn't have. My curt response would have sounded something like this:

"I'm fine. Now, please. Please. Just get away from me. As far away as you can."

That's probably what I would have done. Something exactly like that more than likely. But nothing like what the cliff hanger did.

And you know? Up until then, I would have been okay with that. As a matter of fact, I would have been proud of myself for not completely snapping and cursing the person out. I probably would have called some girlfriend to share my testimony of "staying cool" even though everyone knows that sharp indifference can cut deeper than the knife of full on anger.

Yep.

And so. In the midst of my near miss, my attention was grabbed for an altogether different reason--grace and human kindness. This person chose to extend me grace when I didn't deserve it. Or maybe I did deserve it, right? And maybe that person knew that and all of this was for me to learn that lesson. Either way, it was remarkable. Like super remarkable.

Man, it was.

Perhaps I'm not doing a great job articulating what happened to me and how deeply moved I was by this interaction. If I'm not, please just know that something super pivotal took place and it's not something I will soon forget. A person had a chance to be angry and venomous. But chose to be gracious instead.

Yes. That.

My kids witnessed it all. Me being distracted and nearly pushing a person off of a cliff. And they saw that person choosing kindness over spite. Even though anger or icy indifference would have totally been justified. Or at least socially acceptable.

There was once this renowned medical educator who often spoke of what he called "equanimity under duress." Up until that moment, that always sounded like just a cool-sounding concept and  thing to say. But on that day--the day someone met me with grace during a potential catastrophe--I saw it up close and personal. I sure did.

Merriam Webster defines equanimity as mental calmness and composure especially during difficult situations. And duress is. . . well, exactly what you are in when someone nearly knocks your ass off of a usually-safe cliff on accident.

You feel me?

And look. I won't even try to unpack the spiritual aspects of all of this for me. I mean, not here I won't. But because many of you have read my words and know me through them, you know that those parts are swirling in my head, too.

I guess what I'm realizing as I get older is that whether a person believes in God or a higher power or any such thing at all. . . grace and mercy are things we all need. And just like that lady needed mercy from the world and grace from herself to forgive herself for that awful mistake, all of us need the same every day. We sure do. Sometimes in the form of just cutting someone a little slack. And other times in those big and sweeping ways that part the entire red sea of chaos around you. A piece of me knows that we are all just one sliding door away from some earth-shattering catastrophe nearly every moment of every day. There are the near misses that we see and the others that we never even notice at all. But all of them are there.

Yeah, they are. And I am thankful for every near miss that I get the chance to recognize and from which I subsequently learn.

Yeah, man.

I still think of that lady from the Oprah Winfrey Show from time to time. I remember her tired eyes and wonder how she's doing or if her world was just too broken to ever smile again. I think about her husband, sitting on that front row with his antalgic smile, and wonder if their marriage was able to endure that loss. But mostly, I just hope that somebody somewhere extended her grace and mercy. Especially enough to help her believe she is worthy of giving the same to herself.

Sigh. I know that was a lot. Thanks for reading it all.

So what did I learn? Pretty simple. Life happens fast. Like super fast. So slow down. And be kinder than necessary. And if you can? Exercise equanimity under duress.

Yeah.

***
Happy Friday.

A change in perspective: On Cam Newton.

Okay, so here's the short story:

Zachary and I watched the Super Bowl together last Sunday. Because he loves football and is a true student of the game, he admitted that, while he had a great fondness for both quarterbacks on both teams, he was squarely in the Cam Newton/Panthers camp.

I think it's because my son and many kids like him identify with Cam. Like them, he was a rec ball football player growing up and, of course, Zack loves that he's from Atlanta. I had to snap his picture during that game to capture his scowl. He was not pleased.

As a side bar, I have to say that Zachary's full knowledge of the game was impressive. He called more plays than I'm sure the coaches did and had several suggestions for what the Panthers could do to right the front of the ship. Finally, on that last turnover, he gave up.

"I'm going to bed, mom," he said. "This game is over."

And he was right.

Later that evening, Cam Newton gave very surly answers in the press conferences. He definitely poked all of the bears who hate him and even swayed a few that love him to the dark side. I woke up in the morning and saw that social media was painted with mean, mean words about Cam Newton. Comment after comment--even from the true, blue Carolina Panthers fans--all scathing and foul.

When I got Zachary ready for school that next morning, I gave him the final score and other updates.

"Did anything else good happen?" he asked.

That's when I decided to tell him about that press conference. He asked to see it and I showed him that, too. I saw a tiny wave of disappointment wash over his face.  That's when I knew I needed to talk to him about the hometown hero Cam and all of the other things that somehow got conveniently forgotten after the media momentum took over.

So what did I say? Well. Mostly I kept it real. And then, after talking to him, I came inside, jumped on Facebook and typed out my thoughts on Cam. I clicked send and headed in to get dressed.

By noon there had been approximately 5,500 shares. Yup. By close of business, it was over 20, 000. The following day, I was even asked by a major news network to let them publish it on their blog as an op ed piece.

Who knew?


And so. Below is the post that I banged out onto Facebook Monday that ultimately was shared over 35,000 times. Morals of the story for me are:

1. People who write a lot can write good things in short time frame.
2. FaceBook and social media are no joke.
3. Still not sure how I feel about being viral.

Anyways. Read below.

___________________________________________________________


A CHANGE IN PERSPECTIVE ON CAM NEWTON.

Picture this:

You are born and raised on the south side of Atlanta, Georgia, where you spend your earliest years playing recreational league football with your brothers. Early on, you stand out and are noted to have special talent and an unusual combination of a throwing arm, an eye for the field, and bulldozer running ability. On you go to high school, where you are lauded as the best thing since running water and Estee Lauder for your remarkable talent. Division I schools go berserk, offering you racks-on-racks-on-racks of scholarships.

You decide to become a Florida Gator and do quite well for a freshman. But, like many young people in that environment, you make a few bad choices that land you in some trouble. The trouble reaches a climax and threats of expulsion. Your rising star feels like it is falling. You transfer from the multimillion-dollar SEC show to a junior college.

But even at that JC, your talent comes exploding out of you. One NJCAA championship later, you are back on the SEC recruitment bubble and, this time, you shift your shade of blue and orange to become an Auburn Tiger. Though marked with some controversy, it turns out to be a good move. You become the Heisman Trophy winner, you win a BCS National Championship, and are the first round draft pick in the NFL draft. This was the dream you'd spoken of since you were playing rec ball in the SWATS (Southwest Atlanta.)

You become the face of a youngish team, the Carolina Panthers. You get endorsements, praise and fans galore. You use your influence to give back to communities and chasten your body to be better than even the best you've ever known. You become the face of every kid who suits up for those Saturday games and give hope to the ones who are hitting speed breakers along the way. You set your eyes on a shiny prize to culminate what you've been working for your entire life: The Super Bowl.

The year 2015 comes and you play the best season of your life and arguably a season better than most quarterbacks in the NFL will ever know. Your explosive smile can't be hidden, your youthful exuberance oozes out in the form of dances and celebratory gestures that build your quest for your team's first ever Lombardi Trophy to a fever pitch. And like the sign of the true greats, people hate you and people love you with equal fervor. But it's OK, because you can taste it. This is your moment. The show has come.

And so, under those lights and with the cameras you, the rec ball kid that beat the odds of going from SEC to JCC to SEC again to NFL finally gets the chance. This is your wedding day, the pinnacle of your 26 year-old life and you run out of that tunnel not only with your fans but with every single child whose story mirrors yours strapped onto your strong, muscular back. It's for all of you and you know it.

But something happens. Nothing goes as it is supposed to. Things unravel and mistakes are made. You fumble in the end zone, get stripped of the ball repeatedly and, ultimately, your team loses the game -- the game that you have been imagining for your entire life and the very one that was so in your grasp that people urged you to "go easy" on the opposing team. In the back of your head, you know what your Christian mama would tell you: "What God has for you is for you." And you know that this wasn't what He had for you this time.

But it still hurts. Bad.

Now. See all that and then moments after, picture speaking to throngs of reporters. No, this isn't a discussion of just a crappy game. This is a man who is dejected after losing what was, quite literally, his life's dream. If you were close to that -- I mean, so that you feel it in your bones -- would you dance? Would you smile? Perhaps. And perhaps, were you him and that dream that was shut up in your bones slipped from your grasp, you'd have the maturity to take your lumps and be a good sport -- which, I agree, would be the right thing to do.

But:

Take a moment to ponder your greatest wish. The one that goes back further than you can remember and the one that you can't get out of your head. Now, imagine an entire world watching as you get right up to it, and then add to that legions of people who not only look like you but identify with your story. Then see it all crash down before you on national television, with cameras flashing. What expression would be on your face? How would you speak or what would your mannerisms convey? At 45, mine might be different than they were at 26.

I told my son that Cam Newton made a mistake in that press conference, that he was immature and a bad sport and shouldn't have behaved that way. But then, I told him of all of the things I just mentioned. I told my son -- my rec ball kid who loves Cam -- that he is just a man and that what we see is one who was so disappointed that he lost his impulse control. That if Cam had just thought about the fact that he was the league MVP -- someone with a 15-1 record -- and about all of the children that he made smile that he'd realize that he had nothing to be sad about. That said, every NFL player wishes for a ring and can want one bad enough to make a huge faux pas. He is still the same guy that put in all that effort to beat insane odds, and that I'm still okay with him being his fan. I told my son, for context, that Cam Newton is twenty years younger than his mother and father and that young people do some dumb things and learn from them -- his parents included.

Be careful with your Cam Newton narrative. His father is not Archie Manning and his path is a story of triumph and resilience. That will be the overarching take-home message that I tell my son about the guy who smiles and "dabs" -- not that he was a bad sport.

This morning as we waited for the bus, my son said, "I'm glad for Peyton Manning. This was a good way for him to go out. I'm sad for Cam Newton, but he will get over it. It looks like he wanted to cry, and if I was him, I would want to go be by myself so I could cry, too."

To which I replied: "You know what, son? Me, too."


***
Happy Saturday.

Let me be my best.

"Yooooo! Why won't you just let me be great?"

~ Kanye West

Yesterday was my last day of my Thanksgiving-month stint of attending on the hospital service. Since November 30 fell on a Monday, my last day awkwardly coincided with the first day for the third year medical students starting their Internal Medicine rotation at Grady. And since the last day of the month before the teams switch is usually a day of tying up loose ends, it's certainly a less than ideal timeframe for any learner to just be joining.

Yeah.

So late in the morning, I joined the team in the workroom and immediately noticed a new face. The moment we made eye contact, the new student immediately erupted into big smile. Which made me smile, too.

"Hey there! Are you the student joining our team today?"

"Sure am!" He stood up and shook my hand. "Hi Dr. Manning! I'm Bailey!"

Now. Let me tell you the first things I noticed about Bailey:

1. He was bright-eyed.
2. He truly looked glad to be there.

Yeah. That. 

Oh, perhaps most importantly, he had what my daddy has always called a "nervous disposition." Let me explain. A nervous disposition is a good thing. It describes this readiness to engage, this body language that conveys being amenable to whatever might be asked of you because that's why you're here. Kind of like the difference between sitting on the edge of your seat with your spine straight versus being sprawled out on the couch, you know? Essentially it's a non-lazy openness that leads to opportunities--especially in the medical education setting.

Yup.

And that? That I noticed immediately about Bailey. And let me just say that, for the record, I had never heard anything about him before nor had I had any deep interactions with him prior to this. But that very, very first impression I had of him? It was positive. Extremely positive, actually.

So yeah. That got me to thinking. Thinking about learners like Bailey and several others who immediately make it known that they are there to learn. No, not just to get a high grade, but to actually care for our patients and learn.

Sigh.

This is going to sound rambly because I'm trying to flesh my thoughts out here. And though in that very short time I had with Bailey yesterday I adored him, this isn't so much about Bailey. But it is about the individuals like Bailey. Or better yet, for the ones less like him who miss learning opportunities because they don't get this.

And so. That gets me to the "this."

Mmmmm. Okay. So a few years back, I had this student on my team. He was nice and mostly professional. He showed up on time and finished the tasks for which he was responsible and was never rude or indifferent. When I was talking he wasn't texting or yawning. And, for the most part, was fine.

Yeah.

But on the same team there was another medical student, too. And you know? Pound-for-pound the students were pretty equal as far as knowledge base. They were both extremely bright and impressed me with what they knew on a daily basis. But. The second student was distinctly different.

Distinctly.

Let me explain. It wasn't a knowledge thing or a nice thing or a professionalism thing. It was just that the second student was a more . . . . gracious learner than the first. Yes. That.

His interest was conveyed through more than just his specifically assigned work product. It was in his body language, his questions, his dedication to trying to understand and learn. And like Bailey, in his nervous disposition.

Yeah.

I remember being at home each night eagerly preparing my teaching exercises for that team. That second student was always at the front of my thoughts. I realized that his level of enthusiasm brought out more in me as a teacher. I tried harder and was more intentional. I came up with creative, new ways to teach old lessons. And every day, he ate it up and asked for seconds.

Yup.

The other student? He ate it, yeah. But mostly he feigned this plugged-in expression. And, okay, it may be unfair to assume it wasn't authentic but I'd be lying if I didn't say it always felt a little contrived. Like he was doing that because it was what you're supposed to do and not because he truly, deeply cared about what was going on each day.

Does this even make sense?

Anyways. On Friday, a first year medical student I met recently in the med school lobby sent me a text. She asked it I'd allow her to join me on rounds. And let me be clear and place this in context. This was Thanksgiving break for the first year students. It was also a Saturday. My team would be managing patients admitted overnight and it was sure to be a busy, challenging time. But I didn't dissuade her from coming. I didn't because I already knew that, by definition, any student who is willing to come to Grady Hospital on any Saturday--let alone a sparkling, sunny one during a vacation--would be a gracious learner and would add to the learning climate.

I was right.

So I guess this brings me to my point. The most intentionally engaged learners get the most out of any learning opportunity. Without question. Not just because teachers (and patients) will like them more (which is very true) but because of something more than that. Those kinds of learners make teachers better. It pushes us into a zone of development and makes us go harder.

And let's be straight here: That other learner did nothing wrong. But he didn't necessarily nudge me to do anything out of the box or uniquely tailored for him as a learner. And I guess I'm just thinking that even when folks aren't egregiously disengaged, their neutrality can permit you to throw it in cruise control, you know? Working only in the comfort zone and not pushing anything more than pencils instead of envelopes. Mmmm hmmmm.

Which reminds me of something really cool I heard recently.  .  . .

With Sameer H. and Alanna S., November 2015

One of my former small group advisees, Alanna S., is now on the Emory/Grady faculty. And check it--she was on wards last month and her med student was--dig this--one of my current advisees.  Yeah, man. So Alanna from Small Group Alpha spent two full weeks teaching Sameer H. from Small Group Delta on the wards at Grady. And my heart being about to explode every time I saw them isn't really the point of me telling you this, although that was the case for sure. Anyways. My point was something Alanna told me about her time working with Sameer that struck me and, perhaps, sums up all that I've been trying to get at in this uber-rambly post. After telling me about how great it was to work with Sameer, she went on to say this:

"He let me do my best as a teacher." 

And that? That is it. Right there. Alanna's gracious learner gave her a gift. A gift. To do her best. And to be her best. And you know? We all have opportunities to do that for people. We can all let someone be great and create a space of them to potentially be their best.

At least that's what I think.

Oh, and I wish I had time to talk to somebody about how conversely our responses to others can also set the stage for someone to do their worst, too. Or be their worst. And, I mean, if I had time I'd unpack on that. That is, if I had time I would.

Mmmmm hmmmm.

Anywho. I had this meeting yesterday afternoon on that last day of wards that started at 4pm. But since I knew that I'd only have one day to work with Bailey, I quickly made up my mind to push back my arrival time to 4:30 specifically to give myself more time to spend time rounding with him. And when I did, I initially thought it was for Bailey, you know? But what I now know is that it wasn't. Just in the blink of an eye from shaking his hand in those first seconds, I knew this student would afford me the chance to do my best.

Yes.

And this? This is something I'll be thinking of for a while. It's something I'll be talking to my small groups and my family about, too. And you know? I'm not sure if this can be taught or even if it needs to be. What I mostly think is that it's already inside of us to be gracious in that way, you know? It's just a choice that can become a habit if we're lucky.

Oh, and if you aren't in medical education? Know that this is really just a metaphor for life and people and relationships. You may already realize this, but I figured I'd say that in case you didn't.

I'm inspired today to try to create environments that let people do their best. My disposition is nervous and I'm ready to jump at the chance to do my part to fan the flames of someone being their best, too. 'Cause guess what happens when you let people be great? It makes you a little greater, too.

Yeah.

***
Happy Tuesday, y'all.

Inchworm.

This one time in front of Grady. (photo shared with permission)

Inchworm, inchworm 

Measuring the marigolds

You and your arithmetic 

you'll probably go far

Inchworm, inchworm

Measuring the marigolds

seems to me you'd stop and see 

how beautiful they are

This morning I was in the Primary Care Center seeing a patient with one of my favorite residents. The patient was there for a follow up and despite being on medication already, her blood pressure was high. She was already on one medication for it but it appeared that this wasn't enough. And the plan my very able resident had put together was evidence based and perfect reasonable. He wanted to add on a diuretic--or a water pill--to her regimen.

And that was mostly cool.

Except. She was wearing a ring with six different colored gem stones. And next to her chair was a red metallic cane with a black rubber stopper on the end. Though mild enough to not warrant joint replacement, the osteoarthritis in her hip was significant enough to cause her to use that walking stick for assistance in her ambulation.

"You want to give her a diuretic?"

"That or a calcium channel blocker. I mean, had she not been a diabetic, my first line monotherapy would have been a water pill, you know?"

I nodded and jutted out my lip.

"That's reasonable, right?" This resident--who is now a senior--was asking this as a rhetorical question. He'd been at this long enough in this clinic to know that it was perfectly reasonable to start an African-Anerican lady with normal kidney function on a water pill for her blood pressure."Dr. M, what do you have against hydrochlorothiazide?"

I chuckled and shrugged. "Nothing, man. I was just thinking about her Mother's ring with the six birth stones and her fancy red cane, that's all."

He squinted his eyes at me for a beat and then pressed his lips together. "I get what you're saying, Dr. M. But she gets around really well with that cane--seriously, she trucks it. Honestly, I think she can make it to the restroom--even with a water pill making her have to go a little more."

"Okay. But did she have six vaginal deliveries? Because that's a game changer." I raised my eyebrows after that question.

"You know? I don't know. But my guess is yeah, she did. Hmmm. . . .okay. Gotcha."

So that resident went back and chatted with that lady. And he learned that, like many women who pushed out six babies, even without arthritis making it harder to get to the commode, urge incontinence was a bit of an issue. Or better yet--it was a major issue. Given that fact, a water pill wasn't something that she felt too excited about  and since there were other options, we went with one of those instead.

Yep.

You know? I noticed that ring but never had a big conversation about it. I just saw that it had those six stones and that it said "MOM" on it. And I did point it out and call it pretty at which point she said that her children had given it to her more than twenty years before. And that she'd always loved it.

And I could see why. I really could.

Yeah.

Two and two are four

Four and four are eight

Eight and eight are sixteen

Sixteen and sixteen are thirty-two

You know? I am not the smartest person in my hospital by a long shot. I forget all the details of certain medical facts and have to look up stuff that many other people have long since committed to memory. I blank on the names of research trials and read probably just as much as a resident to jog my memory or teach me new things when I'm on the hospital service.

But.

I do love people and, for that reason, I notice them and the stuff around them. I do.

Today when I parked in the garage at Grady for that clinic session I was a little late. This older gentleman who appeared to be also heading into work at some office part of the hospital system held the elevator for me which I appreciated. And when I got on, he looked right at me and said in the warmest, brightest way, "Good morning!" And the way his eyes twinkled under his salt and pepper eyebrows, I immediately knew it would be just that.

His shoes were shined. I knew it because my husband shines his shoes and irons everything he wears each day, so I sort of appreciate it when a man is attentive to such things. For a minute I felt slightly embarrassed when he caught me looking at his feet. But then I decided that it wasn't a big deal that he did.

"You shine your shoes,." I said it with a confident smirk.

He threw his head back and laughed deep and hearty. "That I do."

"My husband gets his shoes shined every chance he gets."

"Sounds like my kind of gentleman. Military?"

My eyes enlarged. "Wow. Yes. Previously in the army."

Just then the elevator opened. "Same here," he replied while gesturing for me to exit first.

"Alright then, sir. You have a great day."

"It's already done," he responded and waved good bye.

And that was that.

Right after that, from the corner of my eye, I saw one of our residents helping this lady figure out the payment system on the new electronic parking meters. They were both leaned over and peering into that contraption studying the LED lights and trying to make sense of it all. It looked like it was taking a lot of time but he was patient,  I could tell just from his body language. I could tell she appreciated it. I did, too.

It had been raining for the last couple of days. The concrete was still brown and damp and the grass was glistening. The air felt more autumnal and crisp which I liked. The heels of my boots were clicking on the asphalt. I'd decided that I'd move into my fall-season attire regardless of the weather. So I was glad that, on this day, the climate seemed to be on the same page with that decision.

As I hustled by, I saw that a broken umbrella was lying on the grass, probably the aftermath of a gust of wind or from some frustrated person who'd reached their wits end with a dollar store special. It looked salvageable if you asked me.

"I like your boots!" That's what this man sitting on one of the smoking area benches called out to me between puffs on his cigarette. And it was kind of sweet, too, because the way he was smiling at me felt sincere and not fresh.

"'Preciate that!" I called back.

"Go 'head, then, Bootsy Collins!" He laughed loud and so did I. Because I know who Bootsy Collins is. And him saying that was pretty funny.

And that was that.

So yeah. I do this every day. Like, I walk through and around Grady and I just look and notice and take stuff in. The sights, the sounds, the scents, the all of it. I see flowers on window sills and allow myself to appreciate the tiny miracles happening in that place every day. And now it has become a habit. Which I love.

See, medicine is so serious, you know? I mean, you're trusted with caring for human beings and for making decisions that could hurt them if you aren't careful. You want to make the right diagnosis, prescribe the right treatment and stay up on all of the latest medical literature. And that--all of that--requires a level of precision, focus, and diligence that makes it hard to notice much else.

Yeah.

But medicine also opens you up to humankind in the very best ways. Especially at a place like Grady.  There are some days where I get so bogged down with the medicine and the details that I forget that part. I neglect to notice the birthstone ring or to have a little small talk about whether or not the Falcons are better than the Saints. When I'm in that place, I miss things. No, not life or death things, but still things that just might change the trajectory of everything. Like the freckles sprinkled across a patient's nose that could create a space for us to start calling each other "cousins" since I have them, too. Which would be bad since sometimes I might be the only "cousin" or family that patient has. So yeah, whenever I get like that, I know it's not ideal. Like, even if the medicine is accurate and evidence-based, without the humanistic component it never reaches the gold standard.

Does this even make sense? Lord, have mercy. I know I'm rambling.

But yeah. It's kind of like that inchworm, you know? Measuring these gorgeous marigolds and never once marveling at their beauty whilst making meticulous measurements. I have always loved that song and sing it to my children to this day. I sing it as a reminder because these same lessons apply to every aspect of our lives--particularly family. So busy focusing on the to do lists that we don't take in the experience. So consumed with making sure our kids are clean and have homework ready and are safe that we don't enjoy them. Yeah. Kind of like that inchworm.

Two and two are indeed four. And four and four indeed make eight. But what about the marigolds?

At the very end of that clinic visit that patient told me about her grandchildren. Three of the eleven that she had were now in college. And that was a big deal because neither she nor any of her six children had attended college. And I told her that she should be proud and she replied that she was indeed very proud. I also loved when she said, "I'm especially proud that I raised the kids who are raising my grandkids."

Yeah.

After clinic when I crossed the street, it was drizzling again. I popped open my umbrella and began hustling toward our faculty office building. Then, I caught a glimpse of a man in tattered clothing walking down Jesse Hill Jr. Drive in the opposite direction. He was holding what I am sure was the same umbrella that I'd seen earlier on the lawn that morning. . . .and it was keeping him dry. And when he saw me looking in his direction, he waved at me and then called out in my direction, "I like your boots, doctor!"

And in an equally booming voice,  I replied, "Bootsy Collins!"

He stomped his foot three times and laughed at that. He even slapped his thigh for emphasis. Which I think might have been the best thing I saw all day. In fact, I know it was. Because this probably homeless gentleman had something to protect him from the rain and he also had enough joy in his soul to still smile on a wet and wintry day.

I loved it all.

Inchworm, inchworm 

Measuring the marigolds

You and your arithmetic 

you'll probably go far

Inchworm, inchworm

Measuring the marigolds

seems to me you'd stop and see 

how beautiful they are

I hope I never get too caught up in the arithmetic of life. Because these marigolds around me? Man. They're too beautiful to overlook.

Yeah.

***
Happy Saturday.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . my two favorite versions of this song. My kids and I sing both parts just like this. First, Danny Kay and the Muppets.



And the classic Sesame Street version which I love for it's literal interpretation. 

Mother.

*names, details changed to protect anonymity. . . . duh.

 "It was a gift I ain't never seen coming. But as special and precious to me as being raised by her."

~ Ms. Ables

I saw this Grady elder one day in clinic on an ordinary weekday. It was a simple follow up for diabetes and hight blood pressure and high cholesterol and not much more. She was adherent to her medication regimen, kept appointments, and was up to date on all of her age-appropriate cancer screening. It seemed that she was in good shape.

Even though Ms. Ables was in her seventies, from looking at her smooth brown skin you couldn't tell. Her crop of silver curls was the only tell-tale sign that she probably earned a senior discount in Publix and Kroger. She had a beautiful smile, too. It was big and vibrant; so wide that you could see the gold edges of the partials she wore. But somehow it all just made her more pleasant to the eye. I liked her immediately.

"Is there anything you're particularly concerned about today?" I asked. Of course, the resident physician seeing her with me had already asked her this same question but I thought I would ask again for good measure.

"Well. . . hmmm." She twisted her mouth for a moment and chose her words carefully. "I feel like I lost a lot of weight over the last three years. And I guess it's good for my medical conditions but I just thought I'd mention it since I ain't been doing nothin' to lose that much weight."

As soon as she said that, I clicked into the weight flowsheets in her chart. The last three visits appeared to be pretty much two to three pounds in the same range. She saw me doing that and added, "It's been gradual. Nothin' real, real obvious. It's only when I run into somebody who ain't seen me and they say, 'Dang! You lost a lot of weight!' or 'Girl, you look good! What you do?' I don't even have the heart to tell them that I ain't done nothing."

I nodded at her and, following that prompt, moved back a few years to see what she'd previously weighed. Sure enough, I saw what she meant. Three years ago, she was 228 pounds. And now? She was a solid 180 soaking wet. "Wow. You have lost weight."

"Told you."

I looked up at her and pressed my mouth into a straight line. I mean, her screenings were all without evidence of cancer. Her blood work was pristine, too. Her address hadn't changed nor had her medication list. This was weird. "Have you been on any diets? Or given anything up since then?"

"No, ma'am."

I leaned my chin into my hand and squinted an eye. "Well, you're definitely right that it's been gradual. And it obviously started somewhere around 2012. Can you think of anything that has happened since then that could explain this?"

"In '12? Hmmm. No. Not as I know of."

"Okay," I responded. And honestly, I wasn't sure what else to say. I mean, anything life threatening that would cause weight loss of this amount would have fully been declared by now. But more than 40 pounds was a lot of weight to be losing without trying.

A whole lot.

Her mood and affect were light and normal. She definitely didn't strike my resident or me as depressed, but I've paid enough attention to some very strong people affected by depression and anxiety to know that this means nothing. Out of necessity people find their best "game face" and strap it on for moments such as this. And so. I went ahead and did a simple screen for depression which, for the most part, came up negative.

For the most part.

When asked her the question about changes in her appetite, she said, "It's there, but I just don't eat as much these days."

I didn't beat around the bush and came right out and asked. "Why is that?"

I needed to know. I mean, was it a money thing? Or an access thing like living in a food desert or not having transportation? Was it a dental issue--which is super common in indigent populations--requiring her to get a tooth pulled or to be fit for dentures? I wanted to know.

Turns out, it was none of those things.

"I eat to live now and that's it. But I used to live to eat." The side of her mouth turned up and some inexplicable emotion washed over her face. She cleared her throat and went on. "My mother and I used to have dinner together every night. She was a great cook and taught me all she knew."

I just stayed silent, nudging her to go on. She did.

"When Daddy passed on about fifteen years back, Mother came to live with me. Not 'cause she couldn't do for herself or nothing. Just because she liked being with people and such. Mother was like that. She liked people and company."

"That's great."

"Yeah, it was good for both of us. My kids' dad and I split a long time back and my kids were all grown and on they own. I was glad to have her move on in."

"Sounds special."

"You know? It was. It sho' was. And Mother? Whew-weee, she loved food." Ms. Ables shook her head then swallowed hard. "Jest loved it. Everythang about it. And nawww, she ain't never got real heavy or anything. But food was her thing. And a good meal with everybody together enjoying it? Now that was her favorite." Her eyes had already begun welling up with tears that she blinked back as hard as she could.

I decided not not to overthink it and bit with the obvious question. "Did your mother pass?"

"Yes, ma'am. She went home jest before Christmas in leb'm." I liked the way she and many of my Grady elders pronounced the word eleven as leb'm. And I also liked the way death was described as "going home."

"I'm sorry."

Ms. Ables sighed hard. "Yeah, baby. Me, too. Once Mother moved in, it was just us for some time. We was both up in age so look like we was jest two peas in a pod, me and her. And since she loved food and cooking so much, we made dinner side by side in the kitchen and ate together every night."

"Wow," I said. At this point Ms. Ables was sweeping tears off of her cheeks. I pushed a box a hospital-grade Kleenex in her direction. Watching her cry made me feel this dichotomous mixture of sorry I'd asked about her mom and yearning to hear more about her. Now that I know how good it feels to talk about someone you love--especially when they're no longer alive--I stuck with embracing the latter. "What kinds of things did your mom like to eat?"

Ms. Ables placed her hand on her bosom and laughed hard and deep at that question. Immediately I felt glad I'd asked. "Chile," she sucked in a big drag of air and chuckled again. "Mother liked it all. And see, since she was one of them old school cooks, she knew how to make everything from scratch. But the reason I'm laughing is 'cause later on she got into them cooking channels. And I tell you she'd have me in the store and down by that curb market with her looking for all sorts of stuff. I mean anythang you name, Mother and me tried it out. Right there in my kitchen."

Shit. This is the kind of thing that always makes me want to cry. I mean, I can't even type it well without crying so you can only imagine what I was like when I was there. But surprisingly, I held it together. That is, until she said this:

"And no matter what, Mother had me set that table jest like I did as a girl. And you know? I would. I set it just like she taught me every single ev'nin. And Mother believed in eating on your good plates. We ain't never had no china or nothing. But we had some nice stuff and we used it every day, me and Mother. We sure did."

And that? That did me in. Man. I tried my best to smile at her as the fat tears rolling down my cheeks mirrored the ones that had been sliding down hers. Because now? Now, I got it. I got why this woman, who used to live to eat now only eats to live.

"I'm sorry," I finally whispered while patting my eyes with tissues from the same box I'd just handed to her a few moments before. And I said that because I was sorry. "It's just . . . that. . .it's just a beautiful image, Ms. Ables. You and your mother dining together like that. I can see it."

She froze and closed her eyes for a moment. Her breath hitched briefly, then she gave her throat a clearing. Ms. Ables' eyes were somber when she opened them to look at me again. "So guess it do make sense why my weight fell off, don't it? 'Cause now I just eats to live and that's it. I mean. . . " Her voice faded off and crackled a bit. I could tell these words hurt but she pressed on. "Now I just like to get meals on over with, you know? I picks something real simple to make, too. 'Cause a real complicated recipe make me miss my mother too much." She looked frustrated when the tears started to return.

All I could do is sit there. Sit there with my eyes on her and not flinching as she honored her mother and told her story.

Ms. Ables looked skyward and then dropped her head. "Lord Jesus. Mother, I miss you so much. I mean every single day, Lord knows I do."

Now she was weeping. And let me tell you, it broke my heart into a thousand tiny pieces. I reached for her hand and she let me hold it. "Take your time, Ms. Ables."

And you know what? She did.

"You know? I still eat on the good plates, you know? Jest 'cause I know Mother would want that. And my life a good life. I go places and do stuff and enjoy my life, too. But it's just that meal time. Something about sitting down to a meal that I believe is probably gon' hurt my heart until I take my last breath. 'Cause that? That I associate with Mother. And I doubt I'll ever reach a point where I don't feel that way. And that's okay with me."

I decided it was okay with me, too.

So there you had it. This is why my patient had lost more than forty pounds in three years without trying. And you know? I'm realizing more and more how much you can learn about people by asking the right question and then--the real key part--by actually listening to what they say in response.

More discussion revealed that Ms. Ables was indeed enjoying a very good quality of life outside of meal time. We completed a PHQ-9 depression assessment, too, and she didn't meet criteria for depression with that one either. Ms. Ables just missed her mother. Plain and simple.

We wrapped up the end of the visit and tied up the loose ends. I reached over and gave Ms. Ables a big hug and she hugged me right back. And all of it was authentic and good. Truly it was.

I thanked her for introducing me to her mom and that made her smile. Then, one of the last things she said before I left was this:

"This probably sound silly to a lot of folk. I mean, look at me--seventy-four years old and crying over losing my mama like she ain't never get a chance to grow old. Mother made ninety-four. Ninety-four! And she was in her right mind that whole time, even up until her last days when she just fell on asleep one day in her chair and didn't wake up." I stepped away from the door and sat back on the edge of the chair when she said that part. Then Ms. Ables rested her eyes on mine and finished. "But here's the thing: Mother wasn't just my mama. She was my friend. And I loved growing old with her. It was a gift I ain't never seen coming. But as special and precious to me as being raised by her."

And that? That I knew I'd have to place on a post-it note in my heart to come back to later. Because until then the idea of living long enough to become an elder with your parent was something I'd never even thought of. I guess because it calls for planets and birthdays to be aligned just so, but still. I now know that hearing that will surely change the way I view loss in those who get the chance to experience that uniquely special phase together.

Sigh.

See this? This is Grady. A world of people and lives and lessons and love. Of Ms. Ables and Mothers and so much more. And me? I'm just glad to be here, man. So, so glad.

Yeah.

***
Happy Wednesday. And thank you, Ms. Ables, for showing me yet another dimension of love between mother and child.

This reminded me of this poignant word that Billy Bob Thornton shared on the show "Master Class." Some piece of me relates to this, too.