Needs assessment.

*Names and details changed to protect anonymity. . . .you know what's up.

Tell me more! Tell me more!

Grady Wards Fall 2011:

Finished up my history and physical exam of this ninety-something year old Grady elder and decided to make a little small talk.

"Mrs. Porter, are you from Atlanta?"

"Sho' is. Born and raised right here. Well, really more like Avondale, but you know tha's still Atlanta."

"Definitely."

"Been comin' to Gradys all my life. You know, back then Avondale was all colored."

"Is that right?"

"Sho' was. But it always was nice, you know?"

"Yes, ma'am. Avondale is still a pretty cool neighborhood if you ask me."

"Mmm hmmm.  It do pretty good."

"Children? Did you have any children?"

"All my kids they dead."

Thought about the fact that people who live to see their ninth decade may have to face the dreadful possibility of outliving their kinfolk. Put that on a post-it in my head to revisit later.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Mrs. Porter.  So. . .how many children did you have, ma'am?"

"Well. . .outta my own womb I had seb'm.  But then there was two more that I raised like they was mine so altogether tha's nine."

Took down the post-it and tried hard to get my head around outliving nine children. Realized I couldn't so put it back on the wall in my head for later.

"Wow.  That's amazing. Were the other two nieces or nephews? Or younger brothers and sisters maybe?"

"Oh, naw. They was from my husband. See, he had to chil'ren that wadn't with me in between them seb'm we had."

Wait, huh?

"Your husband had two children while. . . .uhh. . .okay."

Wasn't sure what to say next.

"Yeah. Two of our kids less than six months apart."  She laughed out loud like this was real, real funny.

At this point just sitting there confused. She kept on talking.

"See, when he was in the army, he had one baby by one lady and after the service he had another from this ol' nasty woman. You know them mamas wadn't no count so I went on and raised them myself. Sho' did. See, back then, womenfolk didn't get all bent outta shape 'bout stuff like that. Fightin' over they men and such. Naw. We jest welcomed 'em on in and took care of 'em like they was ours."

Please believe it--she was 100% serious. Do you hear me?

"You know 'cause a man got needs. And you know, depending on wha's goin' on with you and yo' body and such. . you know, like if you with-child and feelin' sick or still got the baby on the ninny a' somethin' like that you know? You ain't always up for no rompin' round.  But what can you do? A man got needs, baby."  Said this with a nonchalant shrug.

Loving. This. Story.

0_0

"Mmmm hmmm. They was some good kids, them two. Even if they didn't come out my own womb they was mine jest like all the other ones was. But they mamas?  Now tha's another story."

"So . . . you didn't really mind that your husband had babies with someone else even though you were married?"

"What you gon' do? Once the baby on the way what you gon' do but love it?"

I wasn't thinking about what I could do to the baby. Instead I thought of choice places to squarely stick my foot on said husband's body. Tried to get with what she said.  Hmmm. Okay, awww hell naw. Next I fixed my facial expression once it dawned on me that I was giving Mrs. P the hairy eyeball.

-_0

"Mmm hmmm. 'Cause see, a man got needs. And if you ain't up to meetin' his needs then tha's what happened 'fore they had all these ways to stop you from getting with-child. Nowadays I guess it ain't such an issue."

0_o

"Mmmm hmm. What other questions you won't to know?"

Smiling big and wide.  "That's all I really wanted to know for now."

"Okay, baby.  Now get on out my room so I can get me some sleep, hear?"

"Yes, ma'am."

And that was the end of that.

Sandy got that memo.

Moral of the story:


Ladies! Quit your belly-achin'! A man has needs. Needs, I tell you! 


*Uuuhhh, be right back.*

***
Happy Tuesday.


I have a feeling Sandy wasn't leaving her situation up to chance. . . I'm just sayin'.

We came. We walked. We conquered.

 Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes,
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Moments so dear.
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes
How do you measure, measure a year?

In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights
In cups of coffee
In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife.

In five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes
How do you measure
A year in the life?

How about love?
How about love?
How about love? 

Measure in love.

~ Seasons of Love from the Broadway Show "Rent"

Man I love that song. I could not get it out of my head today. Could. Not.

So today was the AIDS Walk and it was amazing.  Just amazing.  Everything about it.  Me and both of my small groups present and accounted for. Which is really a big deal.

Hold up.

Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get sixteen medical students at different levels of training in one place at one time when it isn't a mandatory school function? On a sparkling, perfect day? That they DON'T have class?  Answer:  Hello? Very to impossible!

But they were there. All sixteen of them. Most of them because it's an important cause. Some because I asked them to be there and expressed that it was important to me.  And others for both reasons.  . . . yeah. You know. . . I remember what it was like to be a medical student. I remember having sunny days off and feeling extra stingy with them.  The last thing I wanted to do was be somewhere with an attending! I'm sure not that much has changed. For that reason, I deeply appreciated their presence. I really did.

You know what else?  Some of you donated to the AIDS Walk on behalf of our team. And I want you to know how much that meant to me, too.  For a person who has never seen me in three dimensions to use their hard-earned cash to give to this little effort. . . . .it's . . well. . amazing.  I'm so thankful for that. I really am. You know exactly who you are. . . and so do I.  Thank you.

Yeah, so it was a beautiful day. I mean beautiful.  The energy was phenomenal and  people were in such high spirits.  Pieces of the AIDS Memorial Quilt were out and that always moves me in my soul.  A woman spoke into the microphone about her personal experience with HIV/AIDS and shared all about how she was an overcomer. She looked younger than me and I felt really proud of her and inspired by her bravery. At another point during the walk, the Spelman College Glee club was walking along and singing together which I also loved.  Loud and proud and strong and harmonious.  Which now that I think about it perfectly punctuated how I was feeling.

No day but today!

It was awesome. It really, really was.

When I walked back to my car, I thought about the money we'd raised, the memories we'd shared, and felt so happy.  It was a long walk back to the car and I was alone. Which was fine, because actually the streets were teeming with people, so I wasn't full alone. Anyways, I was in my own head. . . walking and daydreaming and thinking. . .and almost tripped over this guy rolling up 10th avenue in a wheelchair.  That part of the street had a brick path with lots of uneven areas but he seemed to be doing his thing. I kept walking for a few paces with the pack and felt that little something inside that said, Stop.

And so I did. I stepped to the side and watched him for a few moments and also watched the others who passed him. He was pleasant and happy and wearing a "Volunteer" shirt so honestly? None of these folks were wrong to pass him by.  But something in me wanted to meet him -- not in that Good Samaritan way either. I just figured, hell, I was going the same direction so why not ask?

"Sir? You seem to have this under control but if your arms are anywhere near as tired as my legs I thought I might see if I could help you with a little push."

And you know what he said?

"Thank you so, so much. I'd really like that."

And so I did. He agreed to hold my bag on his lap and I agreed to push his wheelchair. What a fun guy! He was super chatty and super cool so we walked all the way up to Juniper just a-laughing and a-sharing and enjoying each other's company. We talked about AIDS and who we knew that had been affected by it and we even talked about how animal prints are all the rage now. (He was that kind of guy.) He said I could "totally wear leopard print up in the hospital" and said "long as the heel ain't all high and skanky." Ha. He described his cerebral palsy as "a trip, chile" but still he just "keeps it movin', baby." He spoke in the third person a lot, too, which I completely enjoyed. So glad I got to walk up 10th with him and even gladder I didn't miss out on that encounter because it was great.  Really, really great.

Anyways. That's all I got today. I guess all of it together is just making me feel glad to be here. Yeah, man. Life is good.

***

And all I could hear in my head playing on my mental iPod afterwards was this:


***
And here is just a little sample of all that lovely we got to hear from the Spelman College Glee Club. I appreciate them for letting me move my mouth in the middle of their pack pretending like I could sing, too!  



***

People like us.

Stopping to smell these is never a waste of time.

There's a little cafe in the medical school that sells coffee, tea and quick bites to eat.  At one point it was on the first floor, right as you entered the building, and eventually they shifted it to a shmancier location upstairs.  Seeing as I LOVE  coffee, it should come as no surprise that, no matter where it happens to be located, I frequent the spot quite often.

Every time I go there, the same woman is working behind the counter. Every single time. And now that I've been coming in there for quite some time, our exchange is always easy and familiar.

"Hey, there Doc!"

"Hey, pretty lady! What's going on with you?"

"Not too much.  How them boys o' yours doin'?"

"Same ol' same--crazy as ever!  All three of 'em! How about your daughter?"

"Girrrl. She's good.  Think she's grown but what else is new!"


And then we laugh and chat some more while I add creamer and sweetener. .  . . and while I linger over stirring it all in.  I've always liked people. All kinds. But especially her kind. The kind with ready smiles and brains that remember the fine details of who you are without much thinking. A lot like this man who works in one of my favorite restaurants, Saba in the Emory Village, who knows what I like to eat. He always remembers and says, "Your favorite salad with no bleu cheese, right?"  And I smile and nod yes. Even when I don't want that because him recalling that, out of allll those people that enter and exit all week, makes me feel special.

Anyways.  Today I'm reflecting on those kinds of little subtleties in interactions between people. Those fleeting exchanges that seem so tiny individually but, when stacked all together over time, are massively important.  Like to that guy in Saba, he's just being pleasant when he says that to me. I doubt that it's some master plan to make me feel special. But that's exactly how it makes me feel. I always ask about his beard because two years back he told me that he grows it starting in September so that he can be Santa Claus in the Emory Village.  He seems to appreciate me remembering that.

I won't spend much time talking about how little digs or casual mean-ness stacks up, too.  Unkind words, eye-rolling and exasperated sighs.  Not such a big deal when isolated, yes. But they can add up, too. And then there's indifference. Sure--calling someone an idiot or a jerk is so intentional that no one mistakes it for anything other than nasty.  (Even if it's said in jest or followed by "bless her heart.") But what about ignoring people? Completely walking by them or paying the same person every day at the coffee stand or giving orders to the same nurse and never taking a pause to find out who they are?  That coalesces into something big, too.  At least that's what I think.

Anyways.

Well, let me get back to the woman in the medical school cafe. So the other day, I was up there getting some coffee and there she was in her standard spot.  This time, there was  a maintenance employee (that I'd not met previously) there chatting with her. As I walked up, they both greeted me and I returned the favor. We shared a few pleasantries and I gestured for them to carry on their conversation, apologizing for interrupting. Instead, they brought me into their discussion.

"Hey, doc," she said to me, "Did you make it to Dr. Hurst' funeral? We were just talking about it and wondered how it was."

I paused for a moment and looked at them both.  The man--a tall and muscular middle aged gent with a youngish face and a complexion almost identical to that of a pecan. The woman--a thirty-something year-old heavyset lady whose bright smile sharply contrasted the deep espresso of her skin.  Both speaking a language I know well; that kind of dialect that's hard to explain but that is so familiar to me, a fellow African-American person, that it feels like house shoes.

"No, Ms. Stephanie. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to make it," I finally replied.

The man shook his head. "I didn't even realize it was last weekend. Man! I sho' woulda been up in there. That was my man, Dr. Hurst."

He was your man? Dr. Hurst?

"I know," she chimed in.  "He was a good, good man.  I wish I had known the day and stuff 'cause I woulda went, too."

And I just stood there astounded at all of this. Let me explain why:

Dr. J. Willis Hurst was literally a living legend at Emory for many, many years.  He came to Emory in 1950 and was probably one of the most recognizable names in Cardiology in the world. In his career, Dr. Hurst was Chairman of the Department of Medicine, President of the American Heart Association, the author of publications too numerous to count including the most widely used textbook of Cardiology (The Heart), was the able physician that cared for U.S. presidents, and was the "gold standard" for medical teaching for many.  Quite frankly, even though he happened to be at our institution, he was the Sir William Osler of his time.

In other words--Dr. Hurst was kind of a big deal.  Not even kind of. He was a big deal.

(When your book gets translated to another language, you automatically are a big deal.)

It was easy to see what his death meant to all of us medical educators. He was the one who'd laid our blueprint, the man who, through his example, showed us "what to do."  I met Dr. Hurst several times, and although I didn't get to work with him one-on-one much, I always admired him for the aforementioned accomplishments. But this? Hearing this exchange between these two individuals told me that there were things about him I didn't know.  The kinds of things I actually respect the most.

"How did you know Dr. Hurst?" I queried them both.

He spoke first. "Well, me, I been workin' here for almost 18 years.  Dr. Hurst saw me smoking one time and he always used to talk to me about my heart and smoking.  Always.  He would stop me and chat with me, but you know, not in that mean way.  And then when I quit, he always still talked to me about how good it was that I did. I liked that. He was a good dude."

"I liked that he always remembered my name," she chimed in. "Every single day when he was still in the med school, Dr. Hurst used to come and sit right down and talk with me for a while. For real. Every day.  Even when he was in the wheel chair. He would talk to me about my heart and about my weight. Always teaching."

"He was always teaching!" laughed the gentleman.  "That dude loved talking about the heart!"

That dude.  Loved that reference.

"Well, you know, doc. I used to be more than 300 pounds.  Sure did.  Dr. Hurst told me he was worried about me and he kept on encouraging me to lose some weight. He was so nice about it, too. I lost more than a hundred pounds."

"Yep, and you know Dr. Hurst was the one who encouraged her to do that."  He looked at her and smiled. I smiled too.

(picture and story shared with permission)

"I know I wouldn't've never lost that weight if he hadn't kept on me.  I liked knowing that even though he was so busy and, you know, powerful and stuff, he always seemed like he had time for me."

"I feel the same way.  Tha's a good way to put it. He always had time.  Always, no matter who you was. It's good when people stop and see you."

"Wow," I said. I repeated his statement for emphasis. "'It's good when people stop and see you.'"

And we all just stood there together meditating on those words.  I glanced at my watch and realized it was time for me to get downstairs to teach small group.

"Hey, y'all, thanks for telling me about that.  And I'm sorry that we didn't do such a good job remembering the other people that cared about Dr. Hurst. I will remember that in the future."

"That's okay. I bet you nobody woulda thought Dr. Hurst spent so much time with people like us," he replied.

"People like us?"

"Yeah," he continued, "but that's okay. We knew who he was and we got our own memories just like the doctors and patients do. He was teaching us and seeing about us too."

Something about his words knocked the wind from my chest and made me feel on the tippy-tip edge of crying. I froze in place for a moment and let it resonate.

I released a big sigh and checked the time again. "Okay, y'all. I can talk to you guys all day so let me get going."

She smiled and said, "Alright then, doc. See you next time!"

Before I left, I reached out my hand to him and said, "By the way, I don't think we've formally met. My name is Dr. Manning."

"I know," he answered. "I know."



***
Happy Friday.

Get up, stand up.

 *minor details changed

image of Alvin Ailey dancer

 "Get up, stand up

Don't give up the fight."

~ Bob Marley

***
Yesterday at Grady: 

Passing through the Grady atrium on the way to clinic. Diet Coke in one hand, PowerBar in the other. A fairly obese, middle-aged woman passes in front of me quickly moving through the hallway with a walker. She's wearing walking sneakers and has a fanny pack strapped to her waist. Sassy and peppy and full of urgency. This lady had things to do, people to see. I step out of her way.

Hmmm.

She looks like someone I've seen before. No big deal. Errr. . . that is, until she turns and ice grills me. She halts the walker and points straight at me.

"Hey! It's you! There you is!!"

Lady folds arms and scowls at me. Kind of looks a little mad. Okay, more than a little mad.

"Uhhh, hello."

"I been waiting to run into you. I know you remember me, mmmm hmmmm."

Pretty sure she is giving me the hairy eyeball. She said that like I owed her money.

"No, ma'am. I'm not sure I do."

"Yeah, you do, too."

"No'm. I don't. Refresh me. You do look familiar, though."

"You might not remember me 'cause it's been a minute."

"Hmm. Okay. . . "

Can't place her. This is getting awkward.

"Yeah. You ain't seen me in two years 'cause I told y'all to go to hell."

Eek.

"Uhhh, okay."

"And you was in charge that day, so I know you remember."

Silence.

"Now you remember me?"

"I . . . I honestly. . .uhhh. . .hmmmm. . ."

"You changed what my doctor was gon' do. Yeah yo' ass. You the one that came back with my doctor and changed everything up.  Tha's when I left and told y'all to go to hell. All y'all."

Yikes. Face getting hot. Trying to be cool. Maybe some humor?

"Hmmm. Usually I remember getting told to go to hell."

She doesn't laugh. Then something clicks.

"Hold up. . . did you. . .like. . .lose a bit of weight since then?"

"A bit? A BIT? I lost almost fifty pounds since you last seent me."

Now vaguely remembering her. But not being told to go to hell. Squinting, searching.

"Now you remember? Ooooo. You pissed me off so bad." Gritted her teeth on so bad for emphasis. Pointed at me. "You was so high on your horse, too.  Like you wasn't budging and I kept explainin' and you kept on with yo' plan. Pissed me off."

"High on my horse? Wow, ma'am. I'm sorry. That's awful."

"Yeah. I was like to hell with Gradys. My doctor had already told me what we was gon' do and here you come. You with yo' plan."


Eek. Eek. Eek.

"You know what you did? Do you remember, doctor?"

Wish I did. But have a feeling I'm about to find out. Want to find a rock and crawl under it.

"No, ma'am. I. . .no. . .I don't remember.  This is really kind of embarrassing."

"The motorized wheelchair."

"The what?"

"The scooter, 'member? My doctor was still a intern doctor and had did the form and everything but needed you to sign with your qualifications and all that. He didn't have no license yet." She shook her head. "But you come in and shut the whole damn thing down. Shut it all the way down. Talkin' 'bout some, 'You don't need a motorized chair' and some 'It's jest gon' make you gain weight and you need to be walkin'.' Damn, you pissed me off!" She clenched her teeth again. "Basically you was sayin' 'You fat and YOU of ALL folks need to be walkin' not ridin' in no scooter.'"

Mortified. So very mortified.

But then something weird happened. The uncomfortable and angry deadpan she was offering before became a smile. It erupted like a beam of sun through clouds.  And then came a chuckle.

Huh?

I furrowed my brow, unsure what to say. Her face grew serious.

"You was tryin' to help me that day. I know that now." Looks down at her body.  "See, I know I'm still heavy and all, but if I had set in that motor scooter, I wouldn't be able to walk at all. I was so mad at you 'cause you wasn't backin' down. No matter what."  She reached for my arm and smiled. "You made me go to that physical therapy and use a walker. You didn't care if I was mad at you, either. And even though it hurt my feelings, you was right when you said that me being overweight was not disabling like I thought."

My mouth just fell open. Why did I feel like crying?

"I lost fifty pounds. From walking where I needed to go. Just walkin' 'round my house. Goin' to the store and over to the laundromat. No where far. Jest basic places, you know?"

Hand was on my chest. Just listening. She had the floor.

"My joints, they was achin' but you know, it got better, doctor. Ooo wee! I was cursing your name, too! But I needed that. I needed to move my body. And now, when I see folks that can't do nothin' fo' theyselves 'cause they ain't moving at all, you know, settin' off in them chairs? I know you was right. I always hoped I'd run into you so I could tell you."

Kind of feel like crying. For real.

"Thank you, doc. I really do 'preciate you being real with me that day.  I really do. You know, some folks do need them chairs. But you said that I wasn't one of them folks.  That wasn't easy, but you stood your ground. Now, I got me a testimony."

Wow.

I reach out and give her a big hug and she hugged me right back. One of those hugs that lasts a while because it's really a dialogue. Do you know that kind of hug? Where you pull back, smile, and then hug again? Yeah, that kind.

"Alright then, doc.  It was good seeing you."

"Same here."

She gripped the walker and prepared to leave.

"Umm. . ma'am? That day. . .was I. . .like, rude to you?"

She laughed loud and hearty. "Naw, baby. You was jest firm, tha's all. Okay, maybe you coulda been a little gentler on me, but you wasn't rude, though. It jest caught me off guard you standing up to me like that. But you know? Sometime you got to fight fire with fire."

"Hmm.  Okay." Hoped I wasn't too rude. Or high on my horse like she said before. Hmm. Decided to put that on a post-it in my brain to revisit later. "Hey--are you back at Grady again?"

"Yeah, baby, I'm back. This time for good."

Aaaaahhh.

"Alright then, baby."

"Alright then, ma'am."


After that? I just stood there in the atrium and watched as she walked away.

***
Happy Tuesday.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . .

If looks could kill.

Top Ten: Andy Rooney-isms.

Andy Rooney of 60 Minutes

Andy Rooney's final broadcast was shown on CBS' 60 Minutes last Sunday. The curmudgeonly king of the random observation and the guy who, if you ask me, is the original blogger, made his living by simply speaking his mind. Matter of fact, Jerry Seinfeld should probably credit ol' Andy for giving him the idea to make a show about nothing. Because Andy Rooney taught us that talking about nothing is really something. Imagine that.

Paying homage to the great Andy Rooney, I bring you this week's top ten. . . .which is nothing but my random questions, observations and thoughts about things going on around me. Or as my classmate in med school used to say, "A whole bunch of nothin'."

I added Mr. Rooney's final segment at the end of this post. This really speaks to my thoughts as a writer. It's hard to believe he is 92 years old. Take a moment if you can to watch it--especially if you do anything creative. I bet you his message will resonate with you, too.

Thanks for showing us how to do it, Mr. Rooney. (And we promise not to bother you in public should we run into you.)

*By the way, this post was inspired by my dad who turns 68 today. He's always been a huge fan of Rooney and was the one who turned me onto the segment back in the day. Happy Birthday, Poopdeck!


***

#10 No Pundit Intended.

Pundit. The pundits said this and the pundits did that. Pundits. Pundits? This word is one I don't get. I always have to look it up. Turns out that it means "authority or expert" on some topic that "shares their opinion with the masses through media, etc." Every time I hear this word I feel like it's unnecessary. Kind of like "insurgents." Seriously.

#9 Show me the money

What is UP with little kids and money? My children have recently taken to liking money. Why? I do not know. I mean. . .I am a poor righteous teacher in a public hospital so LORD KNOWS they aren't getting it from me.

They find it on the floor of my car, in the couch cushions, and on our nightstands and seriously? They hoard it. Like for real. Is this a phase? I am told it is. Especially Zachary. And he's not even five!

My kids don't buy things yet. They can count money but other than that they just like having it. It slightly disturbs me. Tell me this is a phase.

What's that about?


#8 Taking turns.

What is the deal with four year old amoeba soccer? This is where eight four year-olds run in a giant pack after the soccer ball for one hour while the parents sit there clapping all giddy-like. There is this crazy culture where you cheer and clap for everything that every person does, even if it includes picking their nose or pulling out a wedgie while someone flies by them with the ball. Hold up. Tell me, y'all. At what point do we get to stop cheering for the opposing team? And what is REALLY up with somebody telling the kids to "hold off for a minute" so somebody could have a turn at getting a goal? Get a turn?

0_o


Aww hell naw! Today they rolled the ball dang near into the goal for the other team. But here's the problem. Zachary and another kid on his team have older sibs. They've been watching and waiting, and begging "put me in coach!" So now that they're in? Oh baby, they're in. And in it to win it. No amoeba soccer for them.

So yeah. They roll the ball right at the goal in front of this kid on the other team who'd been blowing spit bubbles and making grass angels. She was supposed to make a goal. I mean, it was her turn and all. But Zachary missed that memo and promptly bent it just like Beckham, kicking that sucker right over her head. Directly to his teammate who got his full Pele on--- scoring for the white team!


Yeaaaaaahhhh Babbbeeeeeeee!!!!!!

Yes, Harry and I are the obnoxious parents cheering waaaay too loud for this to be 4 year old soccer.

(Is it normal that they're only four but they were doing the backwards victory jog complete with a high five while setting up for the next ball?)

Hmmph. Whaaaat-ever.

#7 Crumbsnatchers.

Here is something fascinating I learned at work. I discovered that there is this universal dictionary/wikipedia that black folks are privy to. It includes (for those over thirty-five) the lyrics to "Rapper's Delight", "La Di Da Di", and all of the songs in the movie "Sparkle." (If you have no idea what I'm talking about, this can only mean one thing--you are not a thirty-plus year-old black person born and raised by black people in the U.S. ) Now those things I just named are generation-specific. But some things? It doesn't matter how old you are or young you are--if you're black, you'll know it.

Case in point: "Crumbsnatcher." The universal dictionary also includes the word "crumbsnatcher." I mentioned this in clinic to someone who had no idea what I was talking about. "You know, crumbsnatcher!" I said. I couldn't believe it. Everyone knows what a crumbsnatcher is. Well, apparently not.

I asked some black folks in and around the clinic--100% knew exactly what I meant. In fact, I have yet to meet any sho nuff and bona fide African-American person who hasn't heard and used this word. Do you know I asked nearly thirty non-black folks if they knew what a "crumbsnatcher" was and they all said no?

Wait, I take that back. One person said, "Isn't it that thing they use in restaurants to clear the table?"

And I was like, "Uuuuh, that would be a crumb-CATCHER."

0_0

Okay. If you are black, you already know what a crumbsnatcher is. I would love to hear your two cents. But for real? Somebody non-black please (without using urban dictionary) prove this theory wrong by telling me you'd know how to use "crumbsnatcher" in a sentence. . . . .

Come on. . . .what you got?

Disclaimer:  Non-black people who are married to an African-American person or who have worked at Grady for more than fifteen years are disqualified.  Conversely, black people over thirty-five who have never heard of the movies "Sparkle", "Mahogany", or who have never had their hair braided on a porch are also disqualified as well as questionable--unless they can answer yes to the question below.*

*Did your daddy have one of these parked in his hair while barbecue-ing on one of those half barrel trashcan grills during your upbringing? Okay, then you get an automatic reactivation of your membership card as this trumps all of the aforementioned.

#6 Expecting the Unexpected

What the heck is up with people asking people if they are pregnant? What the. . . .?

One of my friends (who is NOT pregnant) was asked if she was pregnant by one of the nurses last week. This woman is NOT overweight and she does NOT look pregnant! But any of us who are thirty and up know that if you aren't properly focusing on your abs, any one of us can be one exhalation away from looking three months preggers.

New rule: Unless you see the BABY CROWNING, don't ask. Matter of fact? Don't ask then either.


#5 No shame in the game.

If you eat McDonald's and smoke Marlboro's, do you carry your Marlboro's in your front pocket and eat your Mickey Dee's in the clinic room while waiting for your doctor?

Damn.


#4 Problem solved.

"Doctor, when I take my finger and press it real, real hard right here, it hurts really, really bad."

"What made you press there real, real hard in the first place?"

"I 'on't know. I just did one day. And it hurt really, really bad.

"Alright. So here's what I want you to do. Don't press there. And if you must, just don't do it real, real hard."

"Okay then, doc."

(Thank you very muuuuch! I'll be here all week.)

#3 Bad ass.

Harry and I were at Fellini's Pizza with the kids on Friday. There was this little boy running all over the spot and climbing up on the booths. He eventually climbed up onto the narrow strip at the top of the bench between two booths. Standing. Up there. Treacherously teetering on this wooden seat back and scaring us all to death while his parents laughed and ate pizza.

Harry looks over at me and says, "Now, tell me what happens when that little bad ass boy falls on his head?"


*WHAM!*

Wait no more, Harry.

#2 Port-a-party

What is it about little kids needing to use port-a-potties? Today we were at soccer and Zachary, of course, announces that he has to go to the potty. But he says it with a straight face and without the dance so I froze in terror.

I held up my fingers-- l or V? (one or two)

Two fingers. "Boo-boo, Mommy. I need to go boo-boo!"

L--awd. *wretching*  (sorry, just threw up in my mouth a little bit.)

Please. Tell me what in the entire world is grosser than a.) taking your kid to a port-a-potty, b.) hoisting them into the air so their bottom doesn't touch the port-a-potty, and c.) the sound of number two plunging three feet downward into the big sea of port-a-sewage? Answer: NOTHING.

(thump)

Me fainting at the thought of it. Eeeeew. Ewww. Eeeeew!!

#1 Hey Kool-Aid!

On the Grady elevator last week. A baby starts crying and her mama tells who appears to be her friend this:

"Reach in that bag and hand me that bottle with that red Kool Aid in it."

0_0

Friend does not flinch and hands said Kool-Aid bottle to the baby. Who, of course, laps it up.

"She like that Kool-Aid!" friend exclaims.

"Yeah, girl. That's all she ever wants."

0_o

I was swerving out of my lane so bad it was unreal. I tried. I tried so hard to mind my own business. But I did this thing Harry really can't stand--where I start with the b.s. question to open the door to get to what I really want to say.

"How old his she?" I asked.

"She nine months."

"First baby?" I continue.

"Yes, ma'am."

As Harry would say, Here we go.

"Oh . . .okay. Well. . .be careful with that Kool-Aid. It has a lot of sugar in it, you know. And at nine months, all you need to really give her is either formula, breast milk or water to drink."

I could see Harry shaking his head now.

"I don't put all that sugar up in my Kool-Aid like some people do. I always use the measuring cup and only put in one cup."

>_<

"Okay, then. She's a really cute baby."

Back to my lane.

***


Bonus one:

Awww, ma'am!

This young guy is walking over the bridge from the med school in front of me last week. He keeps looking back at me and walking, like he knew me. He appeared to be a student somewhere at Emory and he was of color, but I didn't recognize him at all. Finally at the end of the bridge, he looks back at me and speaks.

"Excuse me, ma'am? Ma'am, I just had to tell you-- you are absolutely stunning. That's all I wanted to say. You're just. . . . a really striking woman, ma'am."

I kind of blushed and mumbled a thank you. And added a little pep to my swagga-docious step.

Then, a few moments later, I replayed that whole thing to myself.

• three "ma'ams"
• one "stunning"
• one woman
• one "striking"

Hmmm.

What does this mean? I am thinking this means I was like a hot mom. (Not to be confused with a "hot mama.") Which I am unsure how to feel about. Oh well. At least he didn't call me "jazzy"--which is Harry's term for older women who were probably, and I quote, "really hot back in the day." 

*sigh*


***

Check out Andy's final "last word" below.

Stay hungry. Stay foolish.

Steve Jobs, Revolutionary and Dreamer 1955 - 2011

"Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life. 

Don't be trapped by dogma 
which is living with the results of other people's thinking.

 Don't let the noise of others' opinions 
drown out your own inner voice.

And most important, have the courage 
to follow your heart and intuition. 

They somehow already know 
what you truly want to become. 
Everything else is secondary."


~ Steve Jobs, Stanford Commencement Address 2005

Now that's what I'm talking about. This man never even graduated from college.  He was a tremendous success but credits it all to being "hungry" during some of his biggest failures.  Steve Jobs, the creative mind behind Apple Computers and Pixar Animation died today at the age of 56.  He lost his life to pancreatic cancer. 

Today I'm reflecting on what happens when people dream and live out their passion. I am inspired by Steve Jobs' story and his life.  As I type onto this MacBook Pro, check for comments on this iPhone that will likely get replaced this month with the newer version, and finish reading a piece of fiction on my iPad tonight, I am marveling at the power of what one imagination, when combined with the enthusiasm, support, and elbow grease of others, can do.  

Oh and what's up with this font, you ask? Well. . .we have him to thank for cool fonts like this italic one. Who knew that a calligraphy class he took back in the day would lead to this? You never know how something will help you later. . . .

"When I was 17, I read a quote that went something like: 'If you live each day as if it

was your last, someday you'll most certainly be right.' It made an impression on me,

and since then, for the past 33 years, I've looked in the mirror every morning and

asked myself: 'If today were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am

about to do today?' And whenever the answer has been 'No' for too many days in a

row, I know I need to change something."

Alright. So what are you doing? Are you living your life or someone else' life? What's your intuition telling you? What's that inner voice saying? Well???

Time is limited. . . .choose carefully.

Rest in peace, Steve Jobs. And heartfelt prayers for those you leave behind.

***

"Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish." Steve Jobs' message in 2005 that is as good a word as any I've heard in any church. Check it out and be inspired.

**P.S.  Nate G., you channel Jobs' spirit in so many ways. Stay hungry . . .stay foolish. . . . you inspire me, too. You so very do.***

And now playing on my mental iPod. . . . .as I think of a revolutionary mind. You say you want a revolution? Then get crackin' on your dream!

This makes me cry.

"You is kind. You is smart. You is important."

~ Kathryn Stockett, The Help

I called my dad in California the other day and simply said, "Dad? I need you. I need your influence and your help and your everything today. And I really wish you lived here. Today, I really, really do."

And then I got off of the phone because I had a meeting and didn't want to start crying. He said a few words back to me and let me go.


I cried anyway.

No. There was no catastrophe. Not at all. It was just one of those days. I just wished that he could be sitting at the kitchen table with Isaiah like he did with me way back when. See, my dad and my mom? They are just hard-wired for making kids feel good about themselves. Particularly when it comes to school. Mom is just north of Atlanta, so we get her influence abundantly and often. But when combined with Papa? It's the one-two punch.


I think I'm a good mother. I do. I love my kids and love my husband and work hard to let them know each day how cherished they are. But mothering isn't always a cake walk and I am coming to deeply respect all that my parents did with the four of us. All that they poured into making us hard workers and bright, inquisitive human beings. It isn't always easy. Or intuitive. I'm seeing that first hand.


On that day, I just wished I could have my Dad's influence. The man in him, the wisdom in him . . . the deep of his voice and that special thing God equipped him with for dealing with children. No, not just the influence that trickles over from me since I was raised by him . . . . but his daily influence on my child.

You know? It's funny. There's something in my father's presence that makes kids want to work harder and sit up a little straighter. Firm but loving. Encouraging but expectant. I've not fully captured it in words, but this is probably one of the main reasons I send my children to California each summer to be with him. I'm fortunate to be married to a man who also values this. I want them to have a big dose of that presence while it is here. Because it meant everything to me.

And it still does.

"I need you, Dad."

"I'm here." That's all Dad said. And then he got off of the phone.

My friend Angella L. has a special knack for capturing ordinary yet special family moments in simple photographs. Ever since I met her, I've tried to do more of that. This picture was taken at my kitchen table this evening. Isaiah and Papa practicing spelling words and math problems over Skype. Skype. Dad infusing that special ingredient of his into my manchild and my Isaiah sitting a little taller and working a little harder because of it. Exactly what I was wishing for. And it was Dad's idea.


This? This image will make me cry for the rest of my life. One, because I know that parents don't live forever and two, because parents aren't always as "into" the grandparenting thing as this. I'm so thankful! I realize that this is a blessing. I so, so do. All of it. Having parents and grandparents and having them willing and able and selfless enough to participate in your life in such tangible ways. Mom volunteers once a week at the boys' school and does the same at the school my brother's children attend. And Dad? He does things like this.

Yes. We are blessed.

Look at this picture. This explains who I am. This is my mother. This is my father. This is my family. This is "I'm here."

This is who I am.

I am kind. I am smart. I am important.

Yeah.

***

Manscaping and highbrowisms.

*Warning:  100% non-medical post ahead. Proceed with caution.

The last few weeks have been pretty crazy. Crazy, do you hear me?  Craziness at home, craziness at work, craziness all over the place. Whenever my life gets crazy, some of those quasi-important-to-me-but-not-really-important-in-the-grand-scheme-of-things items get placed squarely on the back burner. They bubble and overflow and sometimes even scorch on the bottom. But when life gets too crazy, that's just the way it has to be.

What things qualify? Oh lots of things.  But one in particular that I have really let get out of hand during these past few weeks was eyebrow grooming. Yeah, I said it. Eyebrow grooming.

So. In the craziness of all this craziness,  my brows started looking a little something like this:

What you know about Andy Rooney and 60 minutes?

Okay, okay.  Maybe not quite as bad as ol' Andy Rooney's are, but you get the idea. Anyways.  As some of you may remember, thanks to one of my greatest Grady adventures of all time, I have this amazing place I go to here in Atlanta for eyebrow grooming. It's this place that uses thread to neatly shape your brows to natural-but-not-Curious-George-looking perfection.  And if you don't know the story behind me and the eyebrow threaders at Hair Images, if you have absolutely nothing important to do with your time, read this.

Now. I know somebody somewhere is reading this thinking--really? Eyebrow grooming? What could be more unimportant? Oh, and someone else who is new to this blog is like, "Wait--I thought when so-and-so told me to check out this blog she said it was about medicine and other medical coolness?"

First, I'll say that--yes, eyebrows are not exactly life-or-death. But for whatever reason, up until I met the Karate Kid, I had been in hot pursuit of the perfect eyebrow groomers. And the key to the perfect eyebrow groomer is one that makes you look neat and natural but not surprised.

Hello?  You still with me?  Good.

Okay. As for the new person reading this blog, sigh. . . .okay.  I may as well come clean and let you know that while a good deal of the material found on this blog is medical-adventure related, a fair amount isn't at all. But in my defense. . . .I think life and all of the observations we make in it go together like a big tossed salad. Like, noticing something in the grocery store or the hair salon isn't that different from doing a double take in the hospital during a physical exam.  

Uhhhh, okay. Where was I?  Oh! Eyebrows.  Okay, so finally on Friday, I get some free time to tend to eyebrow grooming. I grab my Nook e-reader and head over to Hair Images for a walk-in appointment.

Now let me tell you--this place stays packed.  It used to be the well-kept secret of all of the gorgeous Indian and Pakistani girls in Atlanta, but eventually everyone else caught on. (All of my Indian and Pakistani sisters are nodding right now going, Mmmmm hmmm!)  Even if you have an appointment, the wait is bananas, so you have to come ready to be patient.

What's made it even worse, though, is that NOW it isn't just the dreadlocked sistas and the blonde sorority girls getting in on the act. Now there's DUDES up in the spot, too. Yes. Dudes.  And not just the androgynous types or the Ru Paul types, either. I've seen the most regular-looking joe hunched over with elbows resting on wide open knees and thumbing through magazines. Periodically looking up and wanting to yell out, "Hey! I got next!"

Confused, are you?  Let me let you in on a little secret.   . . . .shhhhh. . . . they call it. . .wait for it. . . .ah hem. . . .

Manscaping.  (Sorry. Just threw up in my mouth a little bit.)

Yeah. Manscaping.  Shaping up those renegade eyebrows and sometimes even waxing ears. No. I ain't kidding.

Now before you even ask--the answer is NO. The B.H.E.  is not a manscaper, but I can honestly say that if Harry did have a monobrow, I doubt that he wouldn't at least consider it.

Okay, so I'm telling you ALL OF THAT to tell you about what happened when I was getting my brows done Friday.  I walk in and the lady I usually see isn't there. I've been coming long enough to know who is the next best thing, and who to avoid. So I survey the situation. There's the new lady who seems hit or miss, the lady who used to do my brows but who I really think needs reading glasses because she kept leaving big holes in my brows and then there's the lady that has the station next to my lady who does a really decent job. I sign up for the lady-next-to-my-lady and took my seat to wait.

But wait--there's more!

Right beside HER is this other woman who I did try once when my lady (and the backup lady) were gone. She left my eyebrows so thin that I looked ten years older (and like a black version of Pamela Anderson's scary brows.)

Anyways. I call her the butcher-brow lady and have waited a full extra 45 minutes to avoid her. And everyone she does gets the thin treatment. Lucky for her, some folks seem to like that Pamela Anderson-just-got-electrocuted-Curious George look so she gets her share of clientele. Good for her.

Anyways.

So check it. I'm reading my Nook e-reader and minding my business when this hyper-masculine yet hyper-hairy dude comes in and sits beside me in the waiting area. I glance over and notice that he definitely has the unibrow thing going on so he's in the right place. He was good looking, too. I know I'm married and all, but I can still say that this guy was pretty easy on the ol' eyeballs--unibrow and all. I couldn't place his ethnicity. . . .Persian or Armenian or Sicilian? I wasn't sure.  He was wearing some kind of keg party frat shirt and looked a little uncomfortable with all of the estrogen in the room.  But, baby?  That unibrow needed attention--he wasn't going anywhere.

Okay, so y'all! You know what happened next. Of course you do!

Like this, but less shmancy

Now, the way this spot is set up is basically with five chairs on the right and five on the left. Everyone waiting can see everything that's going on (with the exception of these private rooms where allegedly the waxing goes on.) Anyways. . .So lady-next-to-my-lady calls me and I go to her chair. I'm laying in my seat with my chin tilted up ready to get my eyebrow groom on.

That's when it happened. Yes, it did. The butcher-brow lady calls Frat dude!  It was like she called his name in slow motion. . . . .

"F---r---aaaaaa-----ttt D--oooooooo-d!" (insert vacuous echo here)

Gasp! I almost sat up in my seat when I heard her call him; I felt like it was my civic duty to warn him that this woman does not believe in "cleaning up the strays" and "shaping things up."  Lady-next-to-my-lady freezes and gives me the hairy eyeball (no pun intended.)  I settle back down and (literally) start praying for Frat boy's siamese brows after deciding that jumping in front of butcher-brow lady's chair would be inappropriate.

Lord, please don't let her over thread him. Please don't let her overpluck him.

I strain and hear him mutter a few lines about "just make them look neater" and "you know, the middle part."  She cheerily obliges.  I narrow my eyes and curl my lips because that's exactly what she said to me before she had me looking like a seventy year old woman. Poor Frat boy. I continued my prayer.

Lord, for real. Don't let her butcher his brows, okay? I mean, if that's Your will and all.

So, I lay there until my eyebrows are done. I sit up and look in the mirror. Not as good as my-lady but it's the next best thing and waaaay better than when I got there.  As she hands me my ticket, from the corner of my eye I see butcher-brow lady handing Frat dude the hand mirror. What happened next scratched the needle all the way across the record. I heard him growl under his breath--but not so low that nosy me couldn't hear him:

"What the f%#@!?!?"

I swung my head in his direction and saw what the expletive was about. And boy was it warranted.

OM-expletive-G. This was a disaster. His brows were--as my friend David calls it-- "all the way snatched!" 

Okay, so obviously God had bigger things to deal with because that prayer didn't EVEN get answered in my favor. Well. . . on second thought. . . maybe I should have been more specific. Frat dude's eyebrows weren't nearly as bad my Pam Anderson-scary-Curious-George disaster of 2009. . . in fact they were lovely. . . .had he been a woman.  Perfectly arched and perfectly groomed. But too perfect for a dude's dude. Overly intentional in their appearance, in their exquisite precision, and the absolute antithesis of what a dude wants in his manscape.  

"I can fix it," she said to him.  And I was thinking exactly what he said next.

"Fix it?!?"  

Awww hells nawww! 

Dang. Frat boy looked like he was going to cry up in there. And you know? He had good reason to. Those brows were a hot mess. For real. I mean the dude looked. . . .well. . .the dude looked like a lady.  Poor Frat dude. Poor, poor Frat dude. I felt so bad. Like I should have stopped him, but I was trying (for once) to watch my own lane.

To make matters worse, his girlfriend or whatever she was walks in as he is paying at the counter. She stands there studying his face as his face grows redder and redder.  Finally, she can't take it.

"Dude.  Your eyebrows look. . . .oh my gosh, dude."

She snickered a bit and covered her mouth realizing when she saw him looking tearful that this was not a good thing to say.  And out they walked. Her staring at him with her hands over her mouth and him sulking out like he'd just been branded on the cheek with the scarlet letters PTDQ (for part-time drag queen.)

Wow.

I still feel kind of bad, y'all. Should I have stopped him or was it none of my business? And is it awful that I wish I'd gotten a picture of his brows and that I couldn't wait to blog about it? Awful, I know.

See? These are the important things I have to think of when I get some time off from Grady.

***
Happy Sunday, y'all. 

P.S.  Harry insists that I did not do my civic duty and that I should have intervened. But I'm saying--what was I supposed to do? Say it right in front of butcher-brow lady?  He laughed so hard that I thought he would be sick and kept saying, "Babe, you're dead wrong! You're supposed to help people--you're a doctor!"  (And then he laughs louder and harder.)

Hmm. I guess.

***

The Last Leaf Has Fallen.

J. Willis Hurst, MD  

(Sunrise 1920 ~ Sunset 2011)

Today is a sad day for the medical community and especially at Emory.  After a long life and influential career of caring for patients and teaching us how to do the same, the iconic clinician-teacher, Dr. J. Willis Hurst, has passed away.  

As a teaching internist at Emory, I am proud to be among those who carry on his ideas and remember his influence as we teach the residents in the very Internal Medicine program named for him--The J. Willis Hurst Internal Medicine Residency Program. I feel fortunate to have been at Emory during his time on faculty, and even more fortunate to help carry the torch that he worked so hard to keep lit in us all.

This morning I am quietly reflecting on Dr. Hurst and his legacy in patient-centered care and medical education. I am sharing a few of his own words, followed by some quotes that he personally found influential. 

"The truth has always been difficult to identify.
Unfortunately, there is every reason to believe that
the future identification of the truth will be even
more difficult than it has been in the past. This is
because there are currently more nonscientific
forces that clutter the mind than there have been in
the past. There is also evidence that such forces will
be accelerated in the future. Accordingly, the identification
of the truth is destined to become the
physician’s greatest problem."

~ J. Willis Hurst

***

A few of his favorites:

"I am a part of all that I have met."

~ Alfred Lord Tennyson, 1842

***

"We may affirm absolutely that nothing great in
the world has been accomplished without passion."

~ Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, 1832

 ***

"Be not the first to whom the new are tried,
Nor yet the last to lay the old aside."

~ Alexander Pope, 1711

*** 

"Your compassion for your patients—trying
to do the best for them—must be the major motivating
force in your effort to remain competent."

~ Dwight C. McGoon

***

"Press on; nothing in the world can take the place
of persistence. 

Talent will not; nothing is more common
than unsuccessful individuals with talent. 

Genius will not; 

unrewarded genius is almost a proverb.
Education will not; 

the world is full of educated derelicts. 

Persistence and determination alone are
omnipotent."

~ President Calvin Coolidge

***

"Like love, talent is useful only in its expenditure,
and it is never exhausted."

~ E.P. Tuttle, Sr.

***

"Clay lies still, but blood’s a rover;
Breath’s a ware that will not keep.
Up, lad: when the journey’s over
There’ll be time enough to sleep."

~ Alfred Edward Housman, 1896

***

Rest in peace, sir. And rest knowing that your legacy never will.

***

Hurst, JW. Quotations on the Wall. Annals of Internal Medicine. 1999;131:551-554.