Strange Fruit.

artwork by Diana Bryan - "Strange Fruit"

There's this thing about blogging that is very different than writing for any other venue. Like. . .book authors write and yes, all kinds of people read their work. And. A few of them even write so well that other folks write reviews or whatever on places like Amazon.com or somewhere sho nuff and bona fide like The New York Times or People Weekly. (Yes, People is bona fide.)

But see. . .before you can get to that point, you first have to write something. Then rewrite it. Then revise it. Then re-revise it. Then get somebody to represent you. Then get that person to get someone agree to publish it. That person will then tell you that, oh, you need to revise it. And then re-revise it. In case you haven't realized by now, all that takes some time.

But blogging is different. You think of something. You write about it. And with the click of a mouse (or tracking pad) you hit "publish." Then--BOOM--just like  that, your words are published and ready for the world to read.

Now besides the obvious things like immediate feedback through comments and stats. . . there's this other phenomenon that I have come to recognize as of late. See, with blogging you start to have these friends that read your words without fail. And though I bet that a lot of people don't necessarily read every blog every day, most will tell you that just about every blogger (bleccch, is there a better word for person-who-writes-a-blog than "blogger?") has a small number of people that they know for sure read nearly everything they write. So even if you have 772 public followers, somewhere in the back of your head, you realize that you have this little round table of knights gobbling up your words no matter what you happen to serve up.

Some are the type that immediately leave you a comment--which is awesome. But you know. . .over time. . I've learned that some of your main knights never, ever comment because that's just not their thing. In fact, two of my most faithful knights at my round table Lesley M. and Carol R. might just shoot me an email if the spirit so moves them, but comment in the comment box? No way.

And that's cool. Because I know they read and that's enough. It warms my heart just knowing that much. I've said it before and I will say it again--I deeply appreciate anybody reading what I write. Even one post per month.

Now. Here's the point of all this.  The point is that once you start knowing who your knights are, they become a consideration in the things you write. No, I don't change what I'm writing or censor things. . . .but I do find myself thinking, I wonder what my mother (Shugsie) will think about this post? or Aw, man! I can't wait to get Sister Moon's take on this one! Sometimes I write a slang word and think, Uh oh, will my New Zealand Lucy get this?

And ofttimes I open a comment or an email and find out the answers to those questions immediately. Other times, I just think about the people reading and wonder things. And sometimes thinking about my reader-friends and how they might be reacting to things makes me think of my posts differently. I go back and reread them and then imagine it from another person's perspective. Weird, I know.

So.

Here's the thing that this process has brought me to today.

A couple of days ago, I revisited an encounter I'd had a while back with a patient who'd been previously incarcerated. As many of you already know, I was stunned to discover that he'd had swastikas tattooed all over his body from the penitentiary days.  He was embarrassed and remorseful about them, and even more ashamed of his prior involvement in a supremacist jail gang. I thought about his feelings and decided to do what I could to normalize the situation. Hearing on my mental iPod the Redemption Song the whole time.

Now.

I reread that and all the kind comments that followed and found myself thinking. I thought, As horrible and awful as swastikas are to see up close and personal. . . . the truth is. . . what they mean symbolically is not to ME what it might be to someone else. Specifically a few members of my round table.

So I thought of them this morning. I thought of Neil W. and Lesley M. who are of Jewish faith and who might immediately well up with tears when anyone anywhere mentions anything about the horrors of the Holocaust that, yes, sure did happen.

And so I asked myself. What would have been that symbol for me? Like. . .what if instead of a swastika on that man's back, I'd instead seen a black man hanging like some strange fruit from a highly detailed noose on a poplar tree? What if my own loved one somewhere a few generations back had been that strange fruit hanging in a summer breeze while people snarled and applauded below? What if? What if on that tattoo he'd had an intricate portrayal of African men and women stacked up in rows on slave ships from the middle passage? And what if underneath all of that in BIG BLOCK LETTERS he had the N-WORD written repeatedly next to the words "GO BACK TO AFRICA, COON!"

Would I. . . could I. . .have come back to shake his hand? Even if he didn't mean it anymore and even if I knew for certain that he'd been in that warped-ass world of the federal pen? Well? Would the Redemption song have still been playing for me on my mental iPod or would I have needed to run and open a window to get some air? The truth is that I don't know. I really don't.

I spoke to Neil W. about this today and asked what he thought. I knew he'd read the post because he sits squarely at my round table so I thought of his perspective. And I know for certain that he has a heart of pure platinum and the patience of Job.

"I would have taken care of him and that's it," Neil replied. "I don't think I would have been able to do much else."

And that was telling. Very telling.  So I closed my eyes and thought of those images of human beings being shoveled into mass graves. I saw Anne Frank with her quiet eyes and even more, imagined the real, life family members who literally lost lives and futures all at the hands of people represented by swastikas.

Damn.

Let me be clear. I still don't know what I would have done if what I'd seen had been something as painful to me, an African American person, as the swastika might be to a Jewish person. I don't for sure. It's hard for me to say whether or not at this point in my life I would have simply stuck to business only or still done the same thing. And no, I don't sit around comparing horrors and persecutions to see whose people win because I know for certain that nobody wins when it comes to that. I guess I'm just glad that I have all kinds of people at my round table to getting me thinking about all kinds of things. Including how they feel.

So yeah.

This is a useful thing about this blog. I think the knights of my round table make me a better doctor because I think differently. And that's a really, really good thing.

So to each and every knight sitting at my round table, I say thank you. To those I know, to those I don't know, to those who comment, to those who never comment, to those who open this up in Google reader, to those who scroll through iPhones and iPads, and to those who sneak a peak at work or in class--thank you. Because thanks to you, this black woman with Southern ties from Los Angeles who goes to soccer games on Saturdays and church on Sundays gets to hold hands with you. . . who may have absolutely everything in common with me. . . or nothing at all.

But here? Here is where we meet and think and talk and hang out. We teach, we learn, we care and we grow. . . together. That's our common denominator.

And I 'preciate y'all. All of y'all.

***
Happy Tuesday-almost-Wednesday

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . .Lady Day sings "Strange Fruit". . .and hearing it, combined with the image above, made me cry. Hmmm.

Fast Forward.

My dad always says he wishes he could record Isaiah and Zachary's conversations for a reality radio show. I am starting to think that he just might be on to something.

From the backseat of my car on the ride from school yesterday. . . .

Isaiah:  I don't like it when people keep asking me if I am going to have a girlfriend or if I have a girlfriend. Papa and Daddy always say that. And I don't want a girlfriend so they shouldn't say that.

Zachary:  Yeah, Mom. We don't want a girlfriend.

Me:  When you get older I have a feeling you guys might change your tune.

Isaiah:  No. I'm not going to have a girlfriend. I'm just going to have a wife. That's it.

Zachary:  Me, too. Just a wife and she's going to make me some coffee.

Whaaaaaat?

Zachary:  And pack the lunches.

Daaaaaaamn.

Isaiah:  Mom? Would you be mad if my wife has long hair?

Zachary:  My wife might be a firefighter. Or a doctor.

Isaiah:  Well, mine is going to have long hair and sometimes put it in a pony tail.

Zachary:  Mine is going to have short hair. Or maybe brown hair.

Isaiah: Maybe she'll have short, brown hair. And freckles.

Zachary:  Freckles!

Isaiah:  Mom? How did you get freckles?

Zachary:  Eeeeew, then you have to kiss her under the mistletoe!

Isaiah:  Hey mom? Can we drop our kids off over here?

Zachary:  My kids are coming over here every day!

Isaiah:  I think we are going to have two boy babies but also two girl babies.


Zachary: Yuck. My wife is only going to have boys babies from her tummy.

Isaiah:  They actually come out of the mommy's butt. Not her tummy.


Zachary:  Out of her boooty??? Eeeeewww!

Isaiah:  Hey Mom? Do moms cry when boys get married?

Zachary:  You can wear a tuskedo when you get married. But you need to get a haircut.

Isaiah:  Mom? Will you be sad when we get married?

Me:  Only if you don't have a job. And you try to move in here.


***
Happy Tuesday.

S.O.S.

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

Just a castaway
An island lost at sea
Another lonely day
With no one here but me
More loneliness
Than any man could bear
Rescue me before I fall into despair

I'll send an SOS to the world
I'll send an SOS to the world
I hope that someone gets my
Message in a bottle

Message in a bottle

~ The Police "Message in a Bottle"

The story was straightforward enough. This forty-something year-old gentleman had been admitted to our team for chest pain. It started as a "twinge" and then evolved to more of a pressure. He was smart enough to not ignore any of it or do what many forty-somethings with chest discomfort often do--chalk it up to indigestion or acid reflux.

"My father died from a heart attack in his forties," he said matter-of-factly as I stood on his right side that morning on rounds. "And I think his brother before him did, too."

"Wow," I responded while nodding my head.

He pushed his hands down beside him and scooted upward in bed. I saw his biceps bulge when he did that, and looked at his date of birth to confirm his age again. Other than the deeply embedded crows' feet exploding from the corners of his eyes, he looked young for his age.

"Yeah. I'm not sure what either of them did about it, but the minute I felt something in my chest I came on in."  He ran his fingers through his reddish-brown hair to push it off of his face. It looked like some fairy had dusted Mr. O'Malley with freckles from head to toe. Even his lips were speckled with tiny brown spots.

"That was a smart thing to do," I affirmed with a smile.  Mr. O'Malley looked up at me and returned the favor. I decided that I liked how his almost invisible strawberry blonde eyelashes framed his eyes. I'd never seen eyes like these. Some unusual shade that appeared baby blue one minute and greenish-gray the next.

And so, I did what I usually do. I recounted the story that I'd just been told by my team and inserted a few more questions of my own as the team stood close by listening. Two interns, two medical students and a senior resident all focused on Mr. O'Malley and his words.

He was an excellent historian, so it was easy to create a fluid story board for his present illness. Chest pain that started at rest while watching television on his couch around 7 PM. Had just eaten some pizza from Papa John's delivery and washed it down with two Budweisers. That was about it. Nothing too crazy. "Matter of fact, it was Bud Light." We all chuckled at that clarification.

Beyond that concerning family history, the rest of the history wasn't too bad.  A previous smoker, but not any more. Very active, even played full court basketball several times per week up until about three years ago.

"What made you stop shooting the hoops?" my resident chimed in from the foot of the bed.

He glanced down for a moment as if thinking for a split second before answering that question. "Oh. . .uhh. . I was incarcerated at the time. I spent twenty years in federal penitentiary."

The room fell awkwardly silent. If you listened hard enough, you could hear the collective sounds of our conscious' reactions.

Twenty years? Daaaaaamn.

He closed his eyes and raised his eyebrows while nodding. Freckles were on his eyelids, too. He cleared his throat to break up the tension and said, "Yeah, so that was kind of time consuming." One or two nervous laughs tumbled out of our mouths. He curled his speckled lips and added in the students' direction, "Yeah, and don't believe what they tell you. I'd recommend medical school over the Pen. Definitely." This time we all laughed together, appreciating his willingness to ease things up.

My resident spoke up to keep us on task. "Well, Mr. O'Malley, the good news is that it doesn't look like you had a heart attack. We looked at your EKG and your lab tests and it all looks good."

"That's good to hear."

"Sir, have you had any more chest pain since you've been here?" I asked.

"No, ma'am," Mr. O'Malley replied.

"Okay," I continued. "Right now, the gameplan is to get you a stress test today and if that looks good, we should be able to discharge you this afternoon."  He nodded and held out a thumbs up. That's when I noticed the tattoo on the side of his right thumb. Some sort of intricate symbol that I couldn't quite figure out. He caught me noticing it and a strange expression came across his face that told me not to ask about it.

I reached for his right hand with mine and felt his pulse with the other. For some reason I intentionally covered that unexplained tattoo with my thumb as I held his hand. I feel certain that something in those chameleon-colored eyes washed over with appreciation for that gesture.

"Well, I guess it would be good if I examined you, now wouldn't it?" I teased. "Here I am giving you the plan and all I've done is arm wrestle with you!"  The team sounded like a laugh track behind me, but Mr. O didn't laugh at all. In fact, he looked worried. Unusually worried.

What the heck is going on? 

I paused for a moment and tried to figure it out. I had no idea. Scared I'd find something they didn't? Fearful that my need to examine him meant that I was hiding something that hadn't yet been discussed? I couldn't tell.

"Sir, you know, in teaching hospitals we always put our heads together about every patient. I don't want you thinking that me double checking the physical means something bad." I decided to make that disclaimer, hoping this might explain the terrified look on his face.

"Umm. . . noo. . .that's cool. I mean, I realize that."  His eyes darted from person to person and then back at me. I could tell that he was willing himself to be calm, but it wasn't working. His face became white as the sheet over his lap and his un-inked hand moved protectively over his abdomen.

What the hell? I couldn't figure out what was wrong.  Was he angry? Had I offended him? What? What was this initially cool dude so freaked out about?

I looked into his pleading eyes and tried to communicate with them. He was trying hard to give me a message and I wasn't getting it. "You okay, sir?" I finally asked. When he nodded in the affirmative, I reached for the top of his hospital gown and prepared to unfasten the buttons across the shoulder.  I noticed his forearm tensing up over his abdomen as I unsnapped the last snap and prepared to expose his chest. Carefully, I began to fold down the corner, but then froze for a moment.

What the hell was going on?

His face had now melted into a pool of dread and shame. I didn't know what the hell that was about but I knew for sure that for some reason he didn't want me to see his chest. And so, I did something I almost never do. I reconnected the gown and placed my stethoscope directly on top of his gown, fully ignoring one of my biggest pet peeves--listening to people through clothing.

I auscultated his covered heart, knowing that my medical students were all giving me the hairy eyeball and secretly preparing to call me a hypocrite for breaking my own rule: "S.O.S! That means 'SCOPES ON SKIN!"  

Next, I asked him to sit up for the lung exam. The gown gaped open in the untied areas exposing little pockets of skin that I could see from first glance were also covered with tattoos. I slid my stethoscope behind his gown--this time listening directly on his skin--and asked him to take a deep breath.

Inhale. . . exhale.

Methodically, I moved my scope off of that space and inched downward. That flick of my wrist unraveled the tie and the gown fell wide open revealing his entire back. Covered with more freckles and tattoos indeed. 

He immediately stopped midbreath and so did I.

Daaaaaaaaamn.

I almost said that out loud because finally I understood his trepidation. And got that message loud and clear.

Fortunately I was the only one back there to see what that gown was hiding. His entire back had become a canvas decorated with a giant tapestry of absolutely horrific black swastikas and black letters.  I couldn't make out any of the letters--something on it was in German? I didn't know. . but those swastikas. . .those swastikas were unmistakable. And terrifying to see that up close.

Daaaaaaaammmmmn.

I was so stunned that I didn't know what to do. So those three seconds of him midbreath and me frozen with my stethoscope trembling on his back felt like an eternity. That's when I decided to stick to the basics.

"And another deep breath," I continued. And he gave me breaths as long as I requested them.

After that, I simply tied up the back of his gown as normal as I could.

When I finished the exam, I faced him again and locked eyes with him. I knew for sure that what I saw in those eyes looked apologetic and ashamed. So I grabbed that right hand again and covered that little thumb ink once more, now knowing that it too represented something that probably wasn't so loving toward me, my Asian resident, or my Jewish medical student and intern. "Everything checks out fine." 

He squeezed down on my hand, his nail beds flushing bright pink. "Thanks." That was all he said with his mouth.  But that hand shake and those chameleon-eyes said a lot more.


Later that afternoon, I came back to see him prior to his discharge. The stress test was pristine and he was good to go.  I started off all business, talking about his follow up plans and seeing if he had any questions. He obliged me, but we both knew we had some loose ends to tie up.

"Twenty years is a long time," I finally said breaking the ice.

"Yeah," he quietly responded while looking down. "I was only nineteen when I got there. And. . .that world. . . . that world is so twisted up. You start thinking. . .  and believing things . . . .crazy things. . .that. . . .just. . .I mean. . .yeah. . .and then you come out in the real world and you . . . yeah."

"You got those in the pen?"  I called out the elephant in the room. Swastika tattoos weren't something I saw every day in real life. And I won't even front--having my stethoscope on top of one was scary as hell.

"Yep. In a gang. Like one of these gangs that becomes the only family you know to survive in a place like that. But when I got like thirty five I started realizing that I didn't hate nobody like that. Like in my heart I knew that wasn't true, you know?"

"And here comes this black lady doctor whipping your gown open in front of a group of onlookers."

"Man. I was so glad you didn't. You just don't know. I feel so ashamed of all this. Then when I saw you and saw that you was a black person? Man."

"I hear you. So. . . the chest ink is worse than the back?" I asked incredulously.

He nodded. "If you can believe that. And I'm telling you. You don't even want to see that shit, either. You really don't."

I decided to take his word for it. "You could probably get them all covered up, you know. Or removed."

"I know. It just costs a whole lot and I don't have a lot of extra money like that. Plus not everyone is hot to hire an ex-convict, you know."

Point taken.

"What's the thumb tatt?"  I at least wanted to know about that.

"Gang sign. But anybody who's done hard time would know what it is if they saw it, though. Soon as I get some money, I'm covering this one up first--'cause it's on my hand. Good thing most folks haven't done hard time or else I'd really be in trouble."

"You could rock a Michael Jackson glove. . . .you know. . .cover it up with a little sequined glove action until you can get it removed." I smiled as goofy as possible until he laughed out loud. That was all the nudge I needed to do a few MJ moves for him, including a leg kick.

Mr. O shook his head. "Doc, you one funny lady."

"Thank you very muuuuch, I'll be here all month!" I could tell he appreciated my lightness. And while there's nothing light about a swastika, I guess I just wanted him to know that we were cool and that I believed in redemption.

His face grew serious. "But for real, you got some good instincts, too. Thanks for paying attention."

"Thanks trying to communicate with me," I responded. Now that I think about it, it was kind of like a message in a bottle. . . floating on the surface. I snapped my finger and added,"Hey--what color are your eyes, Mr. O?"

"My grandma always said they was like a chameleon. Depend on where I am and what I'm doing." 

"Gotcha."  I looked at my billing card, circled "discharge" and prepared to leave.

"Hey, doc?" he said as I started toward the door. I stopped and raised my eyebrows. "You know. . . .like. . .  I don't hate you, right?"

I gave him the most high-beam smile I could. With a happy nod of my head I replied,"Good, sir. Because I don't hate you, either."

I hit him with one more MJ move complete with a point and headed off to see my next patient.

***
Happy Sunday.


Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . . The Police singing one of my favorites--"Message in a Bottle."  I couldn't embed it so click here to listen. 

Also on my mental iPod. . . this song (which I could embed) "Redemption Song" by Bob Marley.

Double stuff.

Look, y'all. I'm a busy lady. I have some etiquette-related queries that I need answers to and I don't have time to hunt down Emily Post or Miss Manners.  Besides, who needs them when you have a whole world of blog readers with real-time insight, feedback, and . . .ah hem. . .manners.

So help a sister out.

Okay, so check it. While I would like to believe that I have a fair amount of class, sometimes I am not sure if I'm doing things that are . . .well. . .classless.  See, my thing is. . .I'm a fairly practical person. And I am learning that practicality can sometimes get you the hairy eyeball when it comes to etiquette.

The deal.

My son Zachary turned five on October 23 and this wonderful event was punctuated by a big ol' birthday celebration in our backyard.  The party was well attended by lots of wonderful people, and those wonderful people came bearing wonderful gifts.

Alright. So I will admit that I have just gotten to completing all of the thank you cards.  But before you give me a hard time, at least give me credit for the fact that I did, in fact, complete them. I followed the rules and wrote down what each person gave him, including the name of said item in each and every note.

Go Mommy!

Now. Let me give you a minor piece of background information on Team Manning and birthday parties around these parts. We essentially don't have a party unless the birthday can be divided by five. In other words, those who wondered if we had neglected to invite you to Isaiah's sixth birthday party know that you missed nothing. We DO make certain that something special happens for your birthday. . . .like cupcakes in your class or a friend over for a playdate. But unless you are turning 5, 10 or 40. . . .you'll be doing that celebrating with immediately family and one or two of the homies.

But the birthday party years? We make up for lost time and get real festive. Jumpy castle action, temporary tattoos, and all that.  Matter of fact, we even make sure the grown folks have some things to keep them happy.  (Remind me to tell you about how at Isaiah's fifth birthday party Harry and Isaiah's godfather Shannon made snowcones for the kids and "grown-cones" for the adults. Oh, and let me just tell you, those "grown-cones" were an ABSOLUT hit. Heh.)

So where was I? Oh yeah. Zachary's thank you cards. So yeah, it's been just about a month and a half and I am just getting ready to send them off. But here is now my question. At least 75% of the folks who came to this gathering (which was a big ol' family gathering with a whooooole lot of people) are people we intend to send Christmas cards to. So me being practical, I said to Harry this morning:

"Would it be completely class-less for me to put the sealed thank you card for Zachary's gifts into the holiday cards I'm already mailing to the same houses?"

And Harry said, "Sounds smart to me. Postage adds up, man."

"So you wouldn't find that completely ghetto-unfabulous if someone had a thank you card tucked into a Christmas card when you opened it?"

"Nope. But you have to realize, babe. I'm not bourgie like that."

Aaaaah.  "Bourgie."  Pronounced "BOO-ZSHEE." Short for "bourgeoisie."

This word often comes up with my people, particularly amongst the ones that have moved on up like George and Weezy.

So I responded to Harry, "I just don't want folks talking about me."

And he replied, "See? That's the difference between you and me. I don't care about things like that. At all."

"But it's not that I care. It's that I. . . I don't know."

"Well, to me it would seem stupid to double the number of stamps you use because of that. It's like me coming to your house for something and not bringing something I needed to give you because that wasn't the reason I was coming there. That's stupid."

"So, can I ask you another question? What if someone comes over your house and hand delivers a Christmas card or a thank you card? Is that cool?"

"Mmmmm, now that might be a little trifling."  Harry turned the page in my People magazine that he always pretends not to read and then looked up at me. "What?"

"Why is THAT any different than double stuffing the Christmas card?"

"I don't know. It just is."

"Well, that's absolutely no help whatsoever," I shot back with my brow furrowed.

"Then you shouldn't have asked me."  He yawned and squinted down at the page of People. "I used to like her but not any more."  I glanced over and saw him looking at Scarlett Johanssen. He looked over at another page with Jennifer Anniston walking down the street. "I still like her, though."

"Well, I like Bradley Cooper and George Clooney still."

"George Clooney? I thought you liked Bradley Cooper and Will Smith?"

"I like Bradley Cooper, George Clooney, and the 'I am Legend' version of Will Smith only."

"Oh.  She's still number one. Even with this baseball cap on. Lord."  He held up a picture of Halle Berry in the park with her daughter.

"Number one?"

"Number one in that fake-paparazzi kind of way. Not like the way you are." He looked up and smiled.

Mmmm hmmm.

"Uuuuh, okay. Well, you better hope I never meet the 'I am Legend' version of Will Smith. That's all I'm saying."

Yessirrrrrr.

(Don't worry. Jada Pinkett Smith has nothing to worry about. But as much as I detested that creepy movie, I did love that scene above.)

Hey. I only added on the end of that conversation because I wanted to know what the etiquette is on spouses sharing daily commentaries on who is super-hot and who in People magazine "does it" for them.

Anyways.

What's up with the double stuff thing? Hairy eyeball worthy? Yay or Nay? Weigh in, people. I need you.

***

Happy Sabado.

Slip sliding away.

Slip sliding away

slip sliding away

you know the nearer your destination

the more you're slip sliding away.

~ Simon and Garfunkel

_________

You'd been sleeping for what seemed like three days. Your admission diagnosis was for a common reason--"altered mental status"--but what would happen next wasn't clear.

The first day they brought you in with soiled pants and underwear. Your body was limp like a rag doll, or better yet, like some sort of carnivorous animal shot with a tranquilizer dart and chemically restrained. Strong in body, muscular like the king of the jungle. . .but still and quiet.

Someone pushed their pointed knuckle deep into your sternum hoping it would arouse you but  . . . nothing. Another doctor came and mashed hard on your finger nail with an ink pen while a medical student watched. "Noxious stimuli," the doctor said. "This helps me see if he responds to painful stimuli." The student nodded in acknowledgment.

That first day, you didn't respond to much of anything. Your loss of continence combined with the gash on the back of your head made someone think that maybe you'd had a seizure. That was enough to get the Neurology team in to see you. It was also enough to prompt several tests to be run on you including a spinal tap and an MRI. 

By the time I got there, you had moved from somnolent to "groggy."  Heavy eyelids, slurred speech, words that came out as nonsense--but this was better than how you reached the ER. I glanced at your arms and found them sprinkled with red dots like confetti. Next I saw the middle-aged woman whose pained expression from the bedside chair clenched the diagnosis for me:

Drugs.

You were too out of it to participate in that conversation, so on my first visit I just spoke with your mom. Watching how her lower lip quivered when she told me of your long battle with substance abuse and depression hurt me deep in my heart. Sips of alcohol in middle school. Then some marijuana. A few wild friends nudged you into harder things like powder cocaine and prescription pills. Before you knew it, this became too difficult to manage. You needed something quick and predictable to see you through the complexities of your mood disorder and your physiologic dependence.

"Heroin will help you not be sick." This was the word on the street so you clenched your teeth and got over that fear of needles that you'd had since your boyhood.

And from there things went crazy.

This was the story your mother gave me with her quivering lip and tired eyes. This wasn't the first time she'd been here.

When you finally woke all the way up, I happened to be there rounding. You were astounded at the fact that you were in an adult diaper and you asked about your mother right away.

"Oh my God. My mom--was she here?"

I nodded. "Her and, I think, your sister."

"Did my mom. . . .agghhh. .  . .was she crying?" you asked while smacking your palm to your forehead. I noticed your fingernails then. Painted black.

"Not really crying. She was just kind of. . . ."

"Trying to talk with her lips trembling? She only does that when she's trying not to cry."

I didn't want to answer that so I just stood there staring at you. That was enough, though. You dropped your face into your hands. "Fuck!"  You balled up your fist and pounded it onto the bed.

I reached out and gripped the hand rail. I wasn't sure what to do.

"She's done this with me so many times. I'm so tired of dragging her through this." You punched the bed again, this time startling me.

"She didn't seem mad. I mean, she just seemed concerned," I finally said. I wanted you to feel better and this was all I could think to say.

"That's the freakin' problem. She's not mad. She freakin' forgives me and prays over me and lets me back into her house. And it's fine at first and then I fuck it right up."

I bit the inside of my cheek awkwardly. I didn't really know what to do, so I just sort of stood there like I'd been frozen with some kind of remote control.

Your situation was different for me. I mean, yes, I have seen people addicted to intravenous drugs but in Atlanta at this hospital, it's definitely not the method of choice. I was used to hearing about relapses of crack cocaine and tales of bodies being sold to get hands on it. Bodies neglected from the full time job of smoking tiny white rocks in little glass pipes. And empty promises to get out of hospital beds.

You were this college educated person with blue blood lineage. The one whose behavior screamed black sheep but whose mother loved him like a precious lamb.

"Is it the craving. . .like. . feeling sick that makes you keep coming back to it?"  I asked this really dumb question, yes. But only because I was curious.

"It's the hating myself, really." You looked down at your arm band and twirled it on your wrist. "That's what makes it so hard when somebody is trying to love you through it. It's really, really hard to have someone loving you like that when you don't love yourself."

"Why do you think that is? I mean, that you don't love yourself?"

You pause for a moment and laugh. Your eyebrows raise and with a tiny shake of your head you replied, "Now that's the million dollar question, isn't it?"

I guess that was when I realized how dumb that question was, too.

"I'll get myself all clean and then it goes full circle. Feeling like I don't deserve to be happy."

"Hmmm." I tapped my fingers on my lower lip as I listened. Maybe it was out of nervousness or maybe it was to keep myself from saying the wrong thing. "Have you been talking to the psychiatrists still?"

"I do. I mean, I always do. It's so messed up. . . you know? I realize that this isn't normal, you know? I know the drill. . . talk it out. . .get to the root of the pathology. What happened to you? What fucked you up as a kid that now has you extra-fucked up as a grown up? See? That's what's so messed up. I can't put my finger on that thing. . . that one awful thing that allegedly started all of this."

"Pathology." "Allegedly." You were obviously highly intelligent and your insight was unreal. And you were right. I had no idea what the answer was to all of it.  So I just sat there listening because honestly, I'm not a psychiatrist and I don't exactly know what to do with all of this information or even the first place to start psychoanalyzing any of it.

"Wow, that's deep," I said instead.

"Yeah, that's one way to look at it," you replied. Just then you looked down at the adhesive from the IV taped to your arm. Next to that was a scar from the IV drug use poorly disguised by a tattoo. You caught me looking at it and shook your head. "I bet you're thinking, What a waste."

I looked at you and thought about my words before speaking them. "That's not what I'm thinking at all."

You chuckled and covered the scar with your hand. 

"I'm thinking I wish that you didn't have to be in this situation. You or your loved ones. I'm wishing I knew the key to making this go away." 

"I know the key," you responded. That kind of surprised me. You put up your thumb like you were going to hitch-hike and then turned it in on your chest. Next came a  big sigh and you added, "That's the problem." 

I narrowed my eyes and nodded. "Do you pray?"

"Naah. Not my thing. That always seems to come up, but I don't know. It never has soothed me or made me feel anything." 

I chose not to respond to that, recognizing that my first question on the subject was enough. 

"So. . . .it looks like you're recovering from the overdose. I spoke with your mother and she says she's willing to bring you back to North Carolina with her."

"Of course, she did." 

"How do you feel about that?"

"Undeserving." 

I reached for your hand and squeezed it.  You let me.

"You're a pray-er aren't you? I can just tell you are. You probably have Jesus on the mainline, don't you?" 

I smiled and released a little laugh. "Hmm. I guess that's fair to say. I think he even has a text package these days."

"Wow, man. L-O-L and O-M-G, literally," you retorted. That idea amused us both.

We sat there with our eyes locked and our hands locked, too.

You spoke first. "Well do me a favor, okay? Pray for me, will you?"

"I will." 

"You promise?"

"I promise."

"And my mom, too, alright?"

"Got her covered." 

After I finished up my exam and the necessary elements of the visit, I gave you a hug. Tight like the way a mother hugs a son. Something tells me that you felt that part of it. I sure hope you did.  

That night I prayed for you. And never saw you again.


***


Now playing on my mental iPod. . . 



Someone special reminded me of this story the other day. Today, I am praying for you, too.

Computer love.

A box. A simple brown box. But inside? Nothing simple at all. Inside of that box was all kinds of holiday cheer, do you hear me? Enough to get me doing the full on happy dance complete with break dance moves.

Yes.

My dad has taken my rotten apple MacBook No and . . .gasp. . . . replaced it. Yes. My father has replaced his 41 year-old daughter's laptop. 

But that's not all he did.

He found an awesome refurbished one, which to me feels both like perfectly new and like I'm doing something good. Talk about win win, man.  And. AND, AND, AND. He got every last thing off of my MacBook No hard drive and miraculously has it ALL on this upgraded MacBook Whoa! Down to even the last things I downloaded in my downloads!

Okay, Dad? You = The Best.

Awwww shoot. . . . . I feel it happening again. . . . pardon me while I break out in my happy dance again. This time complete with the cabbage patch, the running man, and the troop. (Feel free to shout "Go Manning! Go Manning!" in that sing-song-y, chant-y way folks do when they want you to keep dancing.)

Or . . . . better yet, let me slow it down to this:



Oh man! That's the perfect song for my mental iPod right now!

(Picture me making googly eyes while rubbing my MacBook Whoa and also doing a quasi-seductive little dance in my ratty robe and Ugg boots. . . .)

Man. I am laughing my head off right now. See? This is why I should never have a morning off.

 

Sigh. 

All is well with the world.  What's going on with y'all today?

***

Happy Friday.

(Oh, and in case you need a visual for my happy dances, please check this video out of one of my favorite former Grady pharmacists kicking some old school dances. Yes. This dude is not only a brilliant PharmD, but also has moves to rival J. Lo in her Living Color days, for real. Although I'm not nearly as good a dancer as he, this is an excellent representation of how I displayed my elation last night. Woo hooooo!)

Peanuts.

Pondering Peanuts. . .

"We recommend that you get a flu shot today, okay? Is that alright with you?" my resident asked Mrs. Coley at the end of their encounter.

"A flu shot? Oh naw. I don't take no flu shots." That answer came out too fast. It sounded like she'd had plenty of practice shooting this request down in her sixty seven years.

I immediately chimed in. "Is there a particular reason why you don't get a flu vaccine, Ms. Coley? Like are you allergic to something in it?"  I was prepared to give her the benefit of the doubt. Her chart had clearly indicated no allergies, but I figured I'd ask anyway.

"Naw. I'm jest allergic to what y'all peddling, that's all. That flu shot make you sick. Sure do. Last time I took it I got the flu."  She leaned down to tie her shoe and then grabbed her purse off of the desk zipping it closed. "Can I go on and go now?"

"I know you probably have heard this but the flu doesn't actually give you the flu," I continued.

"The hell it don't! I don't never get sick and I took that shot one year and next thang I know I was sick. Sniffles and all that. Never again. Uhnnn uhhh, no way." She pressed her lips together and turned her mouth down for emphasis.

"Did you miss work?" my resident asked. He was ready to dive in and prove that her little congestion was no where close to the sho' nuff flu.  But she completely had his number.

"I been retired. And naw, I didn't miss no work. But it slowed me down enough to be a pain in the ass and to know I ain't never taking one again."

I smiled in her direction until she finally met my eyes. Mrs. Coley narrowed her eyes at me and chuckled. She knew this wasn't over. "What you got to say?"

"Ms. Coley, you know I couldn't just leave it be." We laughed in unison. "Seriously, though, a lot of people complain of feeling like that. But having the sniffles is no where close to the real, deal, true-blue flu. And when you start getting up in age, it can be really serious if you get it. Like, hospitalization-serious."

"Who you calling 'up-in-age?'" she teased and then got a bit more serious. She buttoned up her coat--a gesture that also made it clear that she'd already made up her mind. "I hear you, Miss Manning, but I'm alright, baby. But I don't want no flu shots never." Mrs. Coley slid her gloves on her hands crossed them on top of her pocket book. This conversation was over.

So after all that, I just nodded my head and conceded. No need to push the issue.

Mrs. Coley paused for a moment and I guess, felt we deserved a little more explanation. "See, doc, I'm from the country. Where I'm from it jest seem like none of that happen to nobody. The flu. . .pneumonias. . .none a that. Mama had us right in the house and next day was back to work most times. Sure was. See some of this stuff y'all be pushing on us jest don't make sense to me. I ain't never heard a nobody having flu back then and sure as hell ain't seen nobody not able to eat a damn peanut."

"A peanut?" I interjected. I thought I'd missed something.

"What the hell is going on with all these chil'ren that can't eat a damn peanut? No peanuts in this, no peanuts in that! Made in a factory NEXT to a peanut! What the hell! You know two a my grandbabies can't eat no peanuts or even a peanut butter sandwich-- and another one of 'em can't even have a chocolate bar else he'll swell up. A chocolate bar!" She shook her head hard.  "See, I think if y'all would jest let folks alone we'd be better off. Seem like it's something in them shots."

You have to admit that her points were interesting. Now first before someone takes this somewhere heavy--I'm not talking about the whole controversy around kid vaccines. I'm just referring to her points in general. My dad has had similar things to say to me in the past--specifically about how things have evolved. Poopdeck (my dad) is one of eleven kids and on his block there were like three other families with ten plus kids. He says not-a-one of them was allergic to a doggone thing. Nada.

They do both have a point on that one.

So, like, what is up with all these epi-pen requiring allergies? How come that seems to be a non-baby boomer phenomenon? And why can't her grandson eat a chocolate bar and exactly what the hell has happened that's made bringing a home-baked cake into school equivocal to poisoning somebody?  Heck if I know.

I'm sure somebody somewhere has some really technical answer to this that even I, a physician, would have a rough time getting my brain around. I guess I just get so used to pushing those United States Preventive Services Task Force recommendations like "You need a flu shot" on people that I don't always have a chance to stop and ask these kinds of questions.

See?

What I was thinking of saying to Ms. Coley was yeah, I realize nobody took flu shots back then, but those same folks came in from the fields with their rheumatic fever-scarred hearts (that we can now prevent) and laid babies down on their bellies to sleep instead of on their backs (which we also know better about.)  For some of these things we medical folks are on to a little something.  (I wasn't going to tell her about the year that I spent seven full days in bed back in 2000 after getting the flu. Even though I had indeed gotten immunized that year. Errrr yeah.)

But I didn't say any of that. Instead I just sat there respectfully with my resident and listened to her position. Before I knew it, the subject had been changed and that was the end of that. No flu shot and no further discussion.

Hmmm.  

I'm not sure what exactly has jacked us up so much in the last few decades. I'm pretty sure it's not the influenza vaccine, but Mrs. Coley definitely got me thinking all sorts of things like why peanuts and chocolate have become the devil. I guess the point is that I don't think that we have all the answers. Our patients are insightful and their questions can--and should--bring us pause.

President Jimmy and his peanuts.

The late great George Washington Carver . . . the man who took peanuts to a whole nuva level.

  ***
Happy Wednesday, y'all.

No offense. . . .

. . . but this is why I will always love home more than work. Always, always, always.


(Oh, and if you'd choose work over home? Man, I suggest you slow down and smell some of these.)

***

Full.

Yesterday I

• Woke up extra early to have a moment to myself at the kitchen table -- peaceful.
• Dived on top of Isaiah's bed and next, Zachary's bed covering them both with early morning kisses -- delightful.
• With Harry's assistance, had the boys ready for school in record time and paused to appreciate having a dude with hands that are very much on the kid-deck -- helpful.
• Drove to work listening to the radio which seemed to keep playing Mr. Herman Cain's public announcement about his wife, stepping out of the race, and all that -- lawd. . . .painful.
• Looked at an emoticon-laced text message from my younger sister with multiple kiss-blowing happy faces -- thoughtful.
• Jumped right in at the clinic where the residents all were working hard. One gentleman was stuck in a ton of traffic and asked the resident doctor if he could still be seen. Even though the patient was over one hour late and it would make his doctor work straight through lunch. His doctor said, "I believe him; I'll see him."  -- dutiful.
• Saw a woman helping her ninety-something year old mama up onto the examining table. She said, "I always bring mama to every single visit 'cause she took such good care of me."  -- respectful.
• Smiled as I watched everyone in our clinic session interacting with one of our brand new Grady faculty doctors -- it was her first day. Every few moments, someone would turn and chat with her or ask if she was doing okay.  One resident said, "We just want you to feel welcome."  -- mindful.
• Finished up the session early and actually got out of Grady at 5 PM on a Monday -- unusual.
• Saw one of my F.P.'s standing on the corner as I walked out smiling at me. I love how her deep brown skin contrasts her fine white hair, so I told her.  . . .beautiful.
• Listened to the radio a little more and wondered who might be the next president -- frightful.
• Called Harry to hear about his day -- uneventful.
• Got to each of the kids and asked Isaiah how his day went and he specifically said, "Wonderful."
• Broke bread with my family as our Christmas tree flickered behind us. The kids said their rhyming grace and Isaiah said, "Did you know that if someone lives in a shelter and it's full that they might have to sleep in a car? I learned that in school one day."  And Zachary said, "What if you don't even have a car?"  And after that, nobody said anything.  -- insightful.
• Settled the kids down, settled myself down, and curled up on the couch with my e-reader. Put that down instead and watched almost two and a half hours of pre-recorded episodes of the Real Housewives of Atlanta -- sinful.
• Chatted with Harry in bed until I started to feel my lids get heavy. Listened to him speak of the economy but in the same breath say how fortunate we are to have all that we have.  Glass. . . .half full.
• Said a prayer in my head and replayed my full day. . . . . . ignoring the parts that were painful or fretful. . . and allowed myself to fall asleep feeling joyful. 

***
Happy Tuesday.

Now playing this morning on my mental iPod. . . . a song I sing often to my kids. . .and that makes me think of my hardworking husband.

Where is the love?

Ryan White (December 6, 1971 – April 8, 1990)

 "Where is the love 

you said was mine o' mine

'til the end of time?

Was it just a lie?

Where is the love?"

Roberta Flack and Donny Hathaway singing "Where is the Love?"

_____________________________________________
This world is crazy. For real. Like real, real crazy.

I was trying to decide yesterday. Go there? Or not even go there? Meh. I decide to go there.

Here is the there.

You may or may not have heard this in the news, but I'm a nerdy doctor at a public hospital so this grabbed my attention. Alright, so check it.  In Pennsylvania, there's this not-for-profit school in Hershey that the chocolate bar mogul started back in the day. Anyways, they have a state of the art facility and bring kids who are academically able yet financially unable into their building for a chance at movin' on up Jefferson's style.

You with me so far? Cool.

Alright. So this school does good things and I am not disputing that. In addition to having all these bells and whistles for these pre-K through twelfth grade kids to partake in, they house them, too. Yep. It's a boarding school. And although I have never considered boarding school for my kids, on one day when I was super bored, I looked up how much they cost--and trust me, they cost a GRIP.  So, yeah. The folks behind this school waive that GRIP and bring deserving children there for a first-rate education.

That's cool, right?

Well. Here's what went down recently that got this boarding school in Hershey, Pennsylvania on my radar. This thirteen year-old boy who happens to be a scholar athlete and all around great kid (from what I read) applied to this school.  His mama, like a lot of mamas, is a little light in her pockets and surely appreciated the possibility of seeing her hard-working boy have the great fortune of going to this elite boarding school. On paper? He was a good fit.  Great student. Even an athlete. And yes, there was need.

But.

One small issue.  He is HIV positive.  And because of that little inconvenient truth, this chance-giving school ix-nayed his acceptance. They didn't even lie about it either. They flat out kept it real--which you must give them props for--and said that they could not allow him in their school because he posed a "direct threat" to the other 1,800 students in their student population.

Wait, huh?

Yeah. He got denied entry into a school in 2011 because he is HIV positive.

Well. Turns out that's not really a cool (or legal) thing to do. So this kid and his mama decided that they'd sue this school. And they filed their law suit this past Wednesday--just in time for World AIDS Day.

But the school? Oh they stood their ground. Pretty much saying that because they are a boarding school and a "unique learning environment" they can't take the chance, albeit a remote one, of putting others at risk. Yep.  The superintendent even got on CNN and stood the school's ground even more. Hell no. He won't go.

Did I mention? This kid takes antiretroviral drugs, too. In other words, he's under a doctor's care and does what he's supposed to do.  He's in great health and is just trying to do his thing to get ahead in this world.

But that's just too bad. Because if it's up to them, he ain't gonna be doing his thing there. Not on their watch. Around their kids. God forbid he accidentally bumps one of them in the hallway or the bathroom. Oh helllls naw.

So the potential concern is as follows--at least this is what the superintendent said on CNN.  She said that the issue is that there is some chance that at some point this boy might have sex with one of those one thousand eight hundred and something other kids and just maybe when he does, he will not use a condom and in turn infect them with his poisonous bodily fluids. Oh, and I almost forgot. He'd need to say to hell with his HIV medications to make this already remote possibility even worth discussing (and even then it would still sound crazy.)

Can I just state that the chances of one of the eighteen hundred kids in that school getting hurt, disabled or killed in an automobile accident are FAR greater than the individual risk they have of this (hello? responsible!) child exposing them to HIV? And surely--SURELY--they transport those students in cars or buses don't they? Uhhhh, okay. I guess the risk has to be socially acceptable.

Okay.

I at least give them credit for publicly recognizing that sexual intercourse is the most common way people get HIV in the world. Hell, at least they didn't publicly go running from the cafeteria screaming that he might give their forks and knives the cooties.

Sigh.

Now. Let me get on my nerdy soapbox and say just a couple of nerdy academic things that some folks reading this may or may not know:

1.  People who take antiretrovirals are less likely to transmit the virus. Yep. A big ol' study proved it. Gave people treatment and turned them loose with their HIV negative partners. The ones who were on meds were NINETY-SIX plus percent less likely to give it to their partners. Yep. The HPTN 052 study, in case you just needed to Google it.

2.  People who know they are HIV positive modify their behaviors. Yep. Turns out that if you KNOW you have HIV, you are more likely to protect others. Imagine that.

3.  (In case they didn't know.) You can't get HIV from kissing, hugging, sharing forks or any other casual contact. Oh and what about a nosebleed? Well, I guess if he stood over someone with blood pouring from his nose into their openly exposed bleeding wound, then yeah. Perhaps there could be risk.

4.  Saliva has no significant amount of HIV in it. This means that when this kid is ready he (and any other HIV positive person) can get their full French-kiss on with no concerns. Yep. Sure can.

5. Oh, and there are, like, 250, 000 plus people in the U.S. who are HIV positive but don't even know it. Which means even if you think you don't know anyone with HIV, chances are you're wrong in that assumption.


Yep. Those are the facts. Straight from a reputable source--a medicine nerd who has worked at a public hospital for over a decade with all sorts of "communicable diseases" -- including HIV. Which also happens to be in the same city as the Center for doggone DISEASE CONTROL and PREVENTION. Yep.

But so much for all of that. This is factual information and obviously this was not a decision made based upon that. Instead, it was based upon fear. I think we have learned over many, many years that facts and logic don't readily overcome fear. At all. And that fear is a powerful driver for some of the stupidest decisions of all time.

Alright (imagine me rolling neck and shadow boxing) I'm getting loose here, y'all.

And since I'm all the way loose (insert knuckle cracking and more shadow boxing here) why don't I just "unpack" another part of this story.

First let me digress and give my friend and fellow Grady doctor David M. credit for me using that term "unpack." He's a qualitative researcher that happens to be an HIV doctor, too--and he tells me that when researchers have a variable that is probably affecting a clinical outcome, that that variable needs to get investigated. . .or "unpacked" . . . .at some point.

Oh, and did I mention? He's young, gifted and black.

Well. Let me just unpack the fact that this 13 year-old HIV infected boy just happens to be African-American.

Gasp!

Yep. I said it. And consider it officially "unpacked."

Now. Let's just all close our eyes and imagine this deserving student as an angelic little doe-eyed thirteen year-old girl with a porcelain complexion and eyes like pools of cerulean water. Do you think this might change how this situation was viewed at all? Might it alter the level of threat from bright red down to a cool shade of yellow?

Or.

Would there have even been a case to be had at all?

Hmmm. Don't answer that. Let's just agree that it sucks that we live in a world where the answer to this is questionable. But since I'm loose, I'll just call it just like I see it. And here's how I see it. I sure do think that the amount of empathy felt for this child is somehow affected by his race. And the belief that he will run all over this campus spewing forth blood and semen everywhere he goes is, I think, somehow shaped by somebody's perception of people--especially male people--who look like him.

Perhaps maybe even unknowingly this is the deal. I don't even want to imagine that it is totally egregious and tied into some warped view of all black males as irresponsible hypersexual animals. Because that is exactly what he'd have to be to cause even a remote amount of plausible risk by having him in that school. Even if he's an honor student.

It's an ugly variable to imagine, isn't it? But a variable that must be unpacked all the same.

Alright, I know that part was getting uncomfortable so I'll pack it up and move on.

Ryan White was this really brave kid who got HIV from a factor 8 blood product transfusion needed for treatment of his hereditary hemophilia. When he was diagnosed in 1984, he was given 6 months to live. He was expelled from his Indiana middle school because he was HIV positive. Ryan was pretty much a courageous bad ass and he fought this decision in a very public legal battle. He even got some high profile people in his corner like Michael Jackson and Elton John. All that press changed him overnight from an unknown Joe Schmoe (literally) from Kokomo to the poster child for HIV and AIDS. Oh and Ryan and his six months? He lived another five years. Mmm hmm. He showed them.

But that was in 1984. And HIV was poorly understood then.  

Then, right?

Um, yeah.

See, here's the thing. There are some times when someone having HIV poses a risk. Like, say. . . .you are sexual partners with someone who has HIV and you don't know. Then hells yeah, you need to know and be able to protect yourself because there's a sho' nuff direct threat. But this? This?  Come on, man.

What bothers me the most about this is that it almost doesn't seem true. I liken this to those instances when I, a black person, think that most people are cool with black folks and how far they've come--and then something really crazy happens like Kramer from Seinfeld saying the n-word repetitively or someone hanging a noose from a tree in a Louisiana high school that says. . . uhh. . . hello? Or even when Mel Gibson had that cringe-worthy anti-Semitic rant. See? Things like that make me say:

"Damn. And here I was thinking things was cool."

Sorry, kids. Some times you just got to unpack the facts.

Now. I know for certain that there are many, many, many people who don't feel that way. That have no issues or qualms about black folks or Jewish folks or Muslim folks or gay folks or any kind of folks for that matter. And I know for certain that a lot of y'all reading this love all folks. (Unless, of course, you're Ms. Moon and we're referring to that Herman Cain--wink, wink.) Otherwise. . . . I know, I know. Not you.

But.

Everybody isn't you. I made the mistake of reading the ABC and CNN message boards on this topic. Looking to see what other American people had to say about this whole "sitch-i-ay-shun" (as my dad says). And OH, they had PUH-LENTY to say on it. Well. It turns out that a whooooole lot of people were one hundred percent KOOL and the GANG with that school's decision to say no way. So KOOL, in fact, that one of them even sent me a scathing email telling me how wrong I was to "put peoples' children at risk" after I spoke about it on television. (At least I didn't unpack the race variable!) Okay, okay. . . . I'll be the first to admit that it wasn't too hard to see where I stood on the subject. But I really, really wanted to believe that most people think this is as preposterous as I do. (I, at least, know for sure that there is a fully educated lawyer-dude somewhere in Mississippi that officially does not.)

Arrrgggh!

Where's the empathy, man? Where is the love? To hell with the fact that the boy got HIV in utero and not even because of something he accidentally or irresponsibly did. And to hell with the fact that his life expectancy is EXCELLENT.  Matter of fact, a lot points to the fact that many with HIV who are under care like he is, live long enough to die from causes other than HIV. It's fine if that's the facts. So long as he ain't in the same boarding school as THEIR kids.

Uhhh, yeah.  

Now I bet Ryan White is rolling over in his 1990 grave saying:

"Damn. And here I was thinking things was cool."


Sigh.

Tuesday, December 6, 2011 would have been Ryan White's 40th birthday.  Had he been diagnosed in 2011 instead of 1984, he would have lived to celebrate it. Hmmph. Some celebration.

I'm interested to hear your thoughts. Please. Weigh in.

***
Shout out to my friends and fellow Grady peeps who have dedicated their careers to making sure that the Ryan Whites-- and the Ryan Blacks -- of the world live to see as many birthdays as possible. Thank you, thank you, thank you for all that you do.

Grady doctor, friend, and all around wonderful person--Wendy A.

and of course my other fellow Grady doctor, friend, and rock-star, David M.

***
 And now playing on my mental iPod. . . .The Last Song. . .written by Bennie Taupin and sung by Elton John in memory of one of the bravest souls that ever lived--Ryan White. . . .

. . .and of course, Donny and Roberta asking the question that I'm still wondering, too.