You announced that greeting to me while craning your head out of the door of a clinic room. Me, I was hustling and bustling through the hallways trying to get things situated for the afternoon session. I glanced back in your direction and couldn't help but slow down.
"Hey sir! What you know good?" I spoke to you in that easy and familiar language that we both know so well.
"Awww, I ain't no count!" And then you laughed out loud, slapped your knee, and then winced a bit. "Woooo! I bet' not stir ol' Arthur up."
Arthur. As in Arthur-itis.
I stopped in the doorway with a stack of papers in my hands and smiled at you. Today you were alone instead of with your daughter. This was fine because even though she sees about you, you "do for yah'self." Your dark leathery complexion has weathered the storm of your "eighty-some-odd" years quite well and I decide today that I love it all. Including those milky, bluish rings now filling the irises of your aging eyes. An interestingly beautiful contrast against that coffee-colored complexion.
Yes, I love it all because it represents so much of what I love about Grady. Storms weathered with beautiful contrasts.
"I don't think I recall you havin' so much gray hair, Miss Manning!" You announced this in that unapologetic way that only the Grady elders can. "But tha's alright. I still think you a pretty little thang."
Pretty little thang? Ha. That's what I'm talking about.
I carefully watched you as your mouth moved. Cheeks with deeply chiseled lines and scarce remains of what was once a beard pasted around your chin and cheeks. The teeth in your mouth looked to be the ones you were born with; large and rectangular but now with a tannish hue and old school dental work gleaming from the sides. Your neck with its redundant skin is supported by shoulders that have remained unusually broad and strong.
"Chopping wood," you said. "Asked my grandson to do it, but he ain't no count." We both laughed again.
You've taken the liberty of removing your coat, folding it neatly on top of the plastic bag you'd carried in that day. And like the perfect patient that you are, you'd also removed every single one of your medication bottles from that same bag and lined them right up on the table.
"I stopped coloring it," I added in reference to the gray hair again. "Too much trouble, you know?"
"Yeah, I hear you. I never got too much gray but I thank I woulda took the gray over losing it all!" You cackled while rubbing your shiny hairless scalp. Then you slapped that knee again and woke ol' Arthur up again. "I jest went on and shaved on off. It never really came back after that."
"Less trouble though, right?"
"Reckon it is!"
I saw your cane leaning against the wall. Weathered but still quite functional. Just like you.
"Knee still giving you a lot of trouble?"
"You know? Not as bad since they inject that medicine in it. But you know, these ol' knees been good to me so I manage just fine. This right one like to get stiff in the mornings. He get to loosenin' up as I get up and around though." The pronoun reference to your knee warmed my heart. You warmed my heart even more. I knew I could stand there talking to you all day so I decided to move on.
"Alright then, sir. Your doctor is checking your lab work and will be in here in a few minutes."
"Okay then, baby. Good seeing you, alright?"
"You, too, sir."
"And Miss Manning? Keeping a smile on your face make you look prettier than any old hair dye can any day."
That's what I'm talking about.
One of the nurses overheard that part as she came in to check supplies in the room. I looked over at her from the doorway. "You hear that? That was a good word, huh?"
She laughed and replied, "Ummm hmmm. But I think I'm gonna smile AND dye my hair."
Random non-medically related rambling ahead. . . .
The weather was crappy here this weekend. Overcast and dreary. Too wet to really hang out or do much. Too warm to enjoy your cold weather fashion.
Oh--you didn't know? The only good thing about cold weather is cold weather fashion. Mmm hmmm.
What the weekend was good for was snuggling. Zachary and I got some superior snuggling in on Saturday. Isaiah was at a play date and Harry was in and out running errands.
The snuggling was Zachary's idea which made it win-win considering how dog-tired I was. He decided that we'd take a nap together because he "was exhausted after his basketball game."
Oh you didn't know? Five year old full court hoops is exhausting people. Exhausting.
image from the Epic Saturday snugglefest, courtesy of Harry's cell phone
Oh!
You aren't going to BELIEVE this. Wait. Let me say it how I really want to say it. Y'all ain't gon' believe this! Yes. You have to hear this mess that happened right here in the Atlanta area this year. As in 2012-this year. You will think I'm making it up, but I promise you I am not!
Okay, so check it. How 'bout this school in Gwinnett County, Georgia sent some homework home with some third graders that said something like this:
"A tree has 56 oranges on it. If eight slaves pick an equal amount of oranges, how many oranges would each slave pick?"
What-what-whaaaaat????? (insert wrinkled face here)
Oh, and if that wasn't enough. . . . how 'bout this one:
"Frederick gets two beatings per day. How many beatings does Frederick get in a week? Two weeks?"
Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat???????
No, people. I am not making this up. Nor am I exaggerating.
Yeah, Denzel. I thought this was some bulljive, too!
Can I please tell you that this happened last week? As in January of 2012 last week? Can I also tell you that Gwinnett County is less than thirty minutes north of where I live and happens to be where my mother lives? Bananas. Just bananas.
So I know you are wondering what I was wondering--what were they thinking? Oh, well according to the spokesperson for the school, this was an attempt at a "cross-curricular assignment." Oh come on, y'all. . . .don't be so sensitive. You know. . . . a little social studies mixed in with the math. Come on! Isn't that exactly what someone wants their third grader to get in school? A little imagery of somebody's great-great-great granddaddy getting treated worse than cattle in the numerator and somebody's great-great-great grandmama getting impregnated by mas'a against her will in the denominator?
Umm, okay.
That's all I'll say on that. And someone asked why folks still have to give "the nod."
Oh! Quick question--should doctors tell other doctors that they're doctors? I mean, when you go to a hospital or something, should you come right on out and disclose your doctorhood? This is what I am wondering.
I was visiting a friend in the hospital last week and was slightly annoyed by how the doctor explained things to my hospitalized friend. But it's not like I fronted like I was just one of the homies. That guy knew I was a fellow physician because my friend told him so. But still--I was wondering what's the rule on that. What do y'all think? Maybe he gave that crappy explanation because he thought I would fill in the blanks. Maybe.
What else? Oh. Yeah!
I went to the eyebrow threaders today. I was looking a woolly mess and was very sad to learn that my favorite threader-lady had moved to Chicago. Say it ain't so! It gets worse. Lady-next-to-my-lady wasn't there and the only other people there were butcher-brow lady and some lady that I didn't know. Now clearly I wasn't going to butcher-brow lady so I took a deep breath and gambled on new-lady.
Epic FAIL.
Okay, not EPIC. But definitely a fail. In addition to my eyebrows being asymmetric, I also have a slight bit of Curious George action going on. Not quite as bad as the Great Manscaping Debacle, but still. I just should have come back later for a more predictable eyebrow job.
Yeah. So if you see me and I look surprised to see you--it's just the eyebrows, not you.
Is it normal for Target to be a form of therapy? Some people drink when they need to blow off steam. Some work out. Some eat an entire tub of ice cream. Me? I resort to what I like to call the T.T.R. (therapeutic Target run.) This is when you go to Target absolutely needing nothing whatsoever. Just because.
Well today I needed some Target therapy to ease the annoying parts of my week. I even went to Target Greatland which is kind of like making it a double.
Today I walked in through the out door (because that's what you do on a T.T.R.) and hit the dollar bins. Not because I wanted something. Just because I wanted to look at them. Next was the children's clothing. Nothing much there. I scooted over to look at the drug store make-up which I must admit is one of my favorite things of all. Two L'oreal lipsticks later, I headed over to get some snacks because I think I might be snack mom soon for Isaiah's class or Zachary's basketball team. Of course I look at the clothes for women. Miraculously, nothing really caught my eye. In the end, I left with kid snacks, two lipsticks and a pair of gnarly gloves that allow you to use your smartphone while wearing them.
Oh, did I mention? A successful T.T.R. shouldn't exceed $25. It's an art, I tell you.
Oh yeah. When I was looking at the air fresheners and fabric softeners, this woman walked by me and smiled. Her smile was almost flirtatious. Then she stopped, smiled again and then turned around to come back to me.
"Excuse me," she said cheerfully, "Do you mind me asking you a question?"
Now. This woman appeared to be in her late twenties and was dolled up in a trendy little outfit. Her hair was in perfect ringlets and her makeup looked like it had been applied at a department store makeup counter five minutes before. In her hand was a fancy pocket book with some sort of designer scarf tied around it. Her smile was strikingly white and she was grinning so wide that you could see both the top and bottom row of those fluorescent sparklers.
Quick! What do you think happened next?
Do you think she hit on me? Was she lost? Did she mistake me for Halle Berry? (What? It could happen!)
Well, let me tell you. I knew exactly what she was about to say before she even asked that question. Yep, I sure did.
And so, I took a chance and countered, "Only if I can ask you a question first."
And she kept that high watt smile going and replied with a cute little wrinkle of her nose, "Absolutely!"
That's when I knew for certain where she was going with this drive by.
And so I asked her: "Do you work for Mary Kay?"
Yep. That was my million dollar question. And that bottom row of teeth disappeared for the first time as she nodded in the affirmative.
Arrrggghhh! Have I told y'all about how for some reason I'm a Mary Kay Cosmetics Saleslady magnet? It's the craziest thing! They almost always walk by me. Stop. Smile. And then double back and ask the exact same question every time: "Excuse me--do you mind me asking you what you do for a living?"
I am not kidding. This has happened to me in malls. In Targets. In restaurants. And even once next to a lady on a plane. In my head I'm always saying, "Wait for it. . .wait for it. . . ."
Man. I don't know whether to be deeply flattered or deeply offended because clearly I am meeting some sort of Mary Kay Lady criteria. Not kidding.
Anyways. I let homegirl know that I wasn't interested in getting in on the Mary Kay action so she kept it moving. Before she even got to her first pitch. I just hate wasting people's time, that's all.
Maybe I should hold out for that pink cadillac that high sellers from Mary Kay get!
Me and the B.H.E. had a wonderful date night on Friday. We picked up some burgers from this new burger joint in the Morningside area and then came home and watched a movie on demand. The movie was called "Hall Pass" -- have you seen it? Absolutely laugh out loud funny. Kind of naughty at times though. Just saying before somebody rents it from a Red Box and hates me afterwards.
What else? Oh. Last night I was walking out of Barnes and Noble and this woman says to me, "Excuse me are you single? I have a match making service and thought I'd ask you."
Seriously? Seriously.
A matchmaker? Lawd. If it isn't Mary Kay ladies it's a matchmaker. Ay yi yi. . . .I need a makeover.
Hmmm. . .what's next?
Oh. Is it bad that my kids wore their pajamas for the entire day today? Is it even worse that their "pajamas" consisted of soccer shorts and t-shirts so technically those pseudo-peejays became their clothes for the day? Horrible, I know. It was Isaiah who brought this to my attention.
That's all I've got. What's up with y'all?
***
Happy Sunday.
Oh and one more random. . . I love this commercial and all of the ones from Obama's fatherhood initiative. Sure is a lot more positive than math problems about slave beatings. . . um yeah.
*Names, details, etc. changed to protect anonymity. . . y'all know what's up.
"But now it's alright. That's okay.
You can look the other way.
We can try to understand
The New York Times' effect on man
Whether you're a brother
or whether you're a mother
you're stayin' alive. . ."
~ The Bee Gees' "Stayin' Alive"
_____________________________________
It was chaotic. People running and pointing and reaching and grabbing. So many moving parts. And so all-of-a-sudden, too. This wasn't supposed to happen. I mean technically it could happen at any point. But it wasn't on my radar. Or anyone's radar.
And neither was she.
I'll never forget that day. This lovely phlebotomist was on the ward preparing to draw blood for that four hour time block before it happened. Smiling with her wide smile--unusually striking because of the large diastema between her two front teeth--but stunning and beautiful in its imperfection and in how she owned it. Every time I saw her, I always made time to chat and laugh, mostly because that smile of hers warmed my heart. Gap and all.
So this is how I remembered the timeline from that afternoon. That easy exchange with the phlebotomist standing in front of her rolling cart of Vacutainers punctuated the start of the time clock.
"Hey lady!" I greeted.
"Hey there, doc! You cut your hair some more?"
I rubbed by hand over what little hair I have and chuckled. "Probably since the last time you've seen me. You know? I'd buzz it right down like a little boy if I thought my husband wouldn't disown me!"
And just like that she unrolled that high beam grin on me while simultaneously unrolling a rubber tourniquet to use on the next patient. She caught me looking at her wispy hair--also a short style--but with long bangs swept behind her ears and held snugly with bobby pins. "Yeah, chile. This is about as far as my husband will let me go."
"I like it. It suits you." She blessed me with that perforated grin once more, letting me know that it was time for her to get back to business. Off she went into that room, easy and confident--perfect ingredients for someone charged with the task of finding tiny rolling veins under redundant skin folds.
I could hear similar pleasantries being exchanged between her and someone inside the room with a tone that sounded relaxed and familiar. She was more than likely talking to the daughter of Mrs. Gentry--the patient in bed two--who had been dutifully at the bedside throughout her mother's entire hospitalization.
I went back to what I was supposed to be doing which, at this moment, was typing a note into a portable "W.O.W."-- workstation-on-wheels. I waved at a group of rounding residents and students walking by and gave a fist bump to one of the environmental services workers. I yawned and returned yet again to my task.
I must have zoned out because what happened next caught me by surprise. One minute things were calm and mundane. The next, people were moving all around with a sense of urgency. When the phlebotomist had gotten to bed two, she found Mrs. Gentry to be unresponsive and with cool extremities. She yelled for a nurse to come help and Stan, the nearby nurse, leaped into action.
"Get a crash cart in here!" he bellowed to the other nurses while placing the heel of his hand into the center of Mrs. Gentry's sixty-something year-old chest. "And call a code. NOW!"
By the time I got into the doorway, the team of residents that had just passed by, along with a Cardiology fellow, had already swarmed the scene and a code was underway.
Chest compressions. Monitors being connected. Meds being drawn up. Lines being emergently inserted. And Mrs. Gentry lying there listless like some kind of lifeless ragdoll.
"What's the story? Does anyone know this patient?" The Cardiology fellow had taken over as the leader of the code and tried to grab some history while getting her heart in motion. Those words flew out over the room to whomever had the answers.
"She was. . .I mean I was. . . Oh my God! I thought she was just sleeping!" her daughter squeaked out in response just before someone else spoke over her with a booming voice.
Of course she knew the patient. He wasn't talking to her. He was talking to everyone else.
"Sixty-seven year old female with a known history of coronary artery disease status post two stents placed last year and ischemic heart failure who'd been admitted for acute decompensated heart failure. I think her ejection fraction is around twenty percent and this is hospital day three." That description offered by the intern was firm, loud and controlled. "Slightly elevated potassium this morning but otherwise everything lab-wise was okay."
I noticed the beads of sweat popping out on Stan's brow as his stiff arms rhythmically worked to revive Mrs. Gentry's heart. Right on beat, almost like a pendulum was swinging to help him. That or he was hearing what they teach you in Basic Life Support to sing in your head to help you keep a steady compression pace--"Stayin' Alive" by The Bee Gees.
"Hold compressions!" announced the Cardiologist. "Checking rhythm. . . . .pulseless electrical activity! Resume compressions!"
More voices. More chaos. More people in white coats swarming around the bed.
"Shit! I can't get this guidewire to pass!" The twisted face of the gowned and gloved resident speaking these words showed his frustration. He'd been charged with putting in the central venous line necessary for giving lifesaving medications but wasn't succeeding. "Dammit!"
Members of the critical care team had come in from the intensive care unit and flooded into the room by this point. One of them stepped in to take over for the frustrated resident. Before you could say Rumplestiltskin, that guidewire was passed and the line was being flushed with saline.
More chest compressions. More voices. More people. More medications, now being pushed through a working line fast and furious. Controlled chaos all around.
"Hold compressions!" That Cardiology fellow had the kind of quiet confidence that was needed in these types of situations. All eyes on the monitor to check the electrical activity of the heart at this point.
"V. Fib! Prepare for cardioversion!" he announced--still sure and controlled as he gave his interpretation of the monitor: ventricular fibrillation.
"That's still PEA! I don't think that's shockable." These were the words spoken (loudly) by a member of the critical care team to the code-leader. He had just arrived from the ICU where running codes is their thing. But he wasn't running this code. The Cardiology guy was.
Eek.
"Look, what do you want me to do?" pressed the nurse holding the paddles over the patient's chest. Her eyes were on the Cardiologist who was standing there with folded arms and a now furrowed brow.
"Exactly what I just said. Prepare for cardioversion. All clear!" All of those moving parts and moving people stepped back from the bed as those paddles pushed down firmly on Mrs. Gentry's chest.
I remember the first time I saw someone get defibrillated with an electrical current. I was a third year medical student and was right there front and center doing the chest compressions. My arms were exhausted and I was nearly out of breath; I couldn't tell if it was from the actual act of pumping a chest to "Stayin' Alive" or just the adrenaline pumping through my own veins. Those paddles went down and someone shouted "CLEAR!" and that patient got a big shock.
Well, sort of. His body made a tiny flinch that looked nothing like codes I'd seen on "E.R." No high arching torso flying upward and then landing back onto the bed like some kind of deep water fish recently reeled out of water. Disappointing.
So Mrs. Gentry's shock was equally disappointing but for different reasons. That shock didn't bring her heart back to where it should have been and what was worse was that there was now a question about the heart rhythm altogether.
Clear again. Shock again. Meds again. Nothing again. Intubated by Anesthesia. Shocked some more. More meds pushed but nothing improved. That roomful of chaos that initially looked like some rapidly swirling twister was dying down. . .swirling slower and slower. . .a spinning top that was losing its spin. The frantic bodies were moving with less deliberation; the voices now twinged with the sound of defeat.
"Do you want to call it?" spoke the paddle-holding nurse to that Cardiology code-leader in a voice that was as tender as it was tired.
Call it. Stop the hope. End the twister.
"Ummm. . . .let's try some bicarb," the Cardiologist finally said with a quiet clearing of his throat. Anyone in that room senior enough to have run a code knew that this was the worst part. Calling off the fight.
Bicarb. Yes. Let's try it. The pharmacist began drawing it up and that tired twister spun a little more.
That's when I saw something from the corner of my eye. Backed against the wall wedged between an IV pole and the wall-suction shaking and weeping and looking horrified. Mrs. Gentry's daughter. Who had been standing in the room and present for the entire code.
Shit.
It was like every person in that room began to move in slow motion and become blurry amorphous blobs. Her eyes were wide like saucers and she was clutching her mother's purse against her chest probably out of shock more than anything else. Those saucer eyes were darting around the room, bouncing from voice to voice and horror to horror. Aimlessly tossed about like some sort of ball in a pinball machine.
Shit.
No one was holding her hand or rubbing her shoulder. No thoughtful soul had eased her out of the room or compassionately bearhugged her as she kicked and pleaded to stay. No, not one person at all. Not even that charming gap-toothed phlebotomist with her easy laugh and steady hands. Instead, we had all let Mrs. Gentry's daughter melt into the background and become a fly on the wall of what would likely represent the worst day of her life.
I heard it over and over like a nauseating chant. . .
"Life going nowhere. Somebody help me
Somebody help me, yeah.
Life going nowhere. Somebody help me, yeah. . "
It was like she had been singing that refrain to "Stayin' Alive" the whole time and no one had been listening. Not even those who weren't doing anything but standing there watching.
Mrs. Gentry wasn't my patient but I'd chatted with her and her daughter in passing. I'd cracked a joke with them on that first hospital day about her stack of Word Find books and had even made small talk when I saw them both doing bible study together on the bedside tray table. No, she wasn't my patient but I felt like I had somehow failed them both.
Sometimes there are so many people inside of a code that if you arrive even one minute into it, you feel useless. You count up the cooks in the kitchen and make a decision--join in or not? Then, if you don't join in, you might decide to wait near the door in case someone needs you to make a fast break down the hall to grab some kind of supply. And if there's someone there to do that, sometimes. . . you just stand there watching. . . .which is what I did on this day. Humming to the internal beat of "Stayin' Alive."
How could I have neglected to look to see where her daughter was?
How could I have just stood by as a foot-tapping voyeur without catching that part?
But it was chaotic. People running and pointing and reaching and grabbing. So many moving parts. And so all-of-a-sudden, too. This wasn't supposed to happen. I mean technically it could happen at any point. But it wasn't on my radar. Or anyone's radar.
And neither was she.
"Time of death: Four thirty-two P.M." said the Cardiology fellow. He called it. Finally. And just like that, the chaos ceased and like many twisters there was nothing but debris and destruction to show for it.
The only sound in the room was the whimper of Mrs. Gentry's daughter, now burying her face downward into that weathered pocket book. Holding on to this piece of her mother. . . smelling her smell and holding on to her energy. Those whimpers morphed into some guttural moans; sounds that I wish I could say sounded unusual. But at least an earnest medical student had thought to wrap her in a hug. Still young and non-jaded enough to follow some instinctive rules of empathy. And to still be intensely bothered by the sight of this kind of grief.
Thank God.
People filed out. A death packet was completed. Hushed words were spoken to the family. Everyone went back to work and doing whatever they had been doing; the phlebotomist went to draw some blood from the patient in the next room. And that was it. Just like that, a mother, a grandmother, a bible-reader and a word-finder was gone.
Even though that happened a long time ago, something about that scene still haunts me. I hate knowing that this is how someone has to remember losing their mother. I hate that. Even more than that, I hate knowing that someone in that room could have done something to make that memory different for Mrs. Gentry's daughter. . . through a simple touch . . a kind word of explanation. . .by gently guiding her out of that code-algorithm tornado . . . .or . . . .something. Anything. Something. But not just nothing.
Most of all, I hate knowing that that someone could have been me.
The primary team of doctors was talking to Mrs. Gentry's daughter and son-in-law when I walked by. I wanted so badly to interrupt and tell her how sorry I was and even lingered for a few moments hoping I could. But then I realized that those words would be for me and not her.
After all those years of hearing the beat to "Stayin' Alive" in my head during codes, I finally heard the words. And now. . .for Mrs. Gentry and her daughter. . .I always will.
*** Now playing on my mental iPod. . . .
*And to my friend who lived through a similar horror and reminded me of this story. . . .
I will remember to keep others on my radar and teach others to do the same.
Why are these women here dancing on their own?
Why is there this sadness in their eyes?
Why are the soldiers here
Their faces fixed like stone?
I can't see what it is that they despise
They're dancing with the missing
They're dancing with the dead
They dance with the invisible ones
Their anguish is unsaid
They're dancing with their fathers
They're dancing with their sons
They're dancing with their husbands
They dance alone
They dance alone
~from Sting "They Dance Alone"
______________________________________________
Reflection is a powerful tool. It grounds you. . . reminds you. . .awakens you. . .inspires you. I have spent many days closing my eyes and trying to walk in the footsteps of those who came before me. . . which, for an African American woman working inside of Grady Hospital, hasn't required a far stretch of the imagination. I have pored through books about the middle passage, slavery and Jim Crow horrors--because this is a part of the history of my people. And it helps me to appreciate my life more.
Neil W., a fellow Grady doctor and good friend, shares here about his reflections on a piece of his family's history. Neil, like many people of Jewish faith in the U.S., is the descendant of Eastern European ancestors. The journey of his people to this country was often one of sacrifice and pain. With the help of his cousins and other family, Neil has carefully excavated facts and connected the dots between the true story of his maternal ancestors. . . a bittersweet journey of tragedy and triumph.
This story? Yes, it is of one family. But this family tells the story of someone else's family, I'm sure. Someone reading this will recognize these places, these horrors as if their very name had been inserted instead. And. Some reading this will learn of these facts for the first time. And that's okay. Because like we said before, getting each other is a good thing and getting down to the nitty gritty of history can be a good place to start.
And yes. Sometimes. . . . . history will teach us everything.
and pass this memory as a sacred testament to future generations."
Dr. Elkhanan Elkes, Community Leader of the Kovno Ghetto
Recently I traveled to Buenos Aires to attend a medical conference, then took the opportunity to visit my family in neighboring Brazil. Normally the prospects of gallivanting through South America would’ve had me flying high, but as the trip neared I felt conflicted. My 22-month old son Matthew had become quite the little man and our strong bond was growing with each and every day. Leaving his side for a whole week seemed almost too much for me to bear.
Matthew takes his morning run
Just before my trip, I received a priority package from my uncle Elliott, who was retiring and moving out of his long time Chicago home. Being the keeper of the family tree that I am, he’d decided to send me his collection of family pictures & memorabilia.
The convergence of these seemingly disparate events forged a powerful reflection, reminding me of just how fortunate I am to be living here—in this time, in this place. To understand my sentiment you have to know the story of my family; it begins in Eastern Europe around the turn of the 20th century.
Lithuania
The Grobman Family
My great grandparents, Isaac and Elke Grobman, and the generations that preceded them lived in the largest city in Lithuania called Kovno (in Polish) or Kaunaš (in Lithuanian). Throughout history the Jews of Kovno were periodically exiled by the town’s leaders and were forced on many occasions to leave. They didn’t need to go too far however, as they were allowed to settle in an impoverished district across the Neris river called Slobodka (Vilijampole is the formal Lithuanian name). It was in this village or “shtetl,” that Jewish life and religion took hold.
Isaac and Elke had 5 children, the youngest of whom was my grandmother Fruma (often changed to “Florence” by emigrants to the United States.). Several months after her birth in 1915, Isaac died at 36, from complications of diabetes, leaving Elke to struggle in poverty as a single mom. Around this time World War I broke out and the Jews of Kovno suffered terribly as they were expelled (regardless of illness or handicap) from the city of Kovno. It was a difficult way of life and Elke tried desperately to provide a better opportunity for her family.
In 1928 the oldest Grobman child, Leo, along with his wife, had an opportunity to teach a recently created language called Esperanto (touted as the universal secondary language) in Brazil. And so they set out to South America for a better life.
The following year, my grandmother got an opportunity to leave next. Her aunt (Dobra Grobman), had emigrated to the United States two decades earlier, settling in The Bronx, New York. She was contacted and agreed to care for my grandmother--at least temporarily--as plans were made for an arranged marriage in Chicago (by whom I do not know).
I could only imagine how difficult it must’ve been for my grandma to get on a boat alone, at the tender age of 14-- not speaking a lick of English--and then travelling thousands of miles to a new world and family that she'd never met before. If I close my eyes, I see a clear picture of her with tears in her adolescent eyes as she said goodbye to her mother, 2 sisters (Hinda and Hana) and her brother Dovid (Yiddish for David).
Given their proximity in age, Dovid was the big brother who always watched over my grandmother. He was a kind soul and anyone who had the pleasure of meeting him considered him a real “mensch” (Yiddish for a person of integrity and honor). My grandma would miss the security of his presence and her mother’s wisdom the most.
Ellis Island.
My grandmother arrived at Ellis Island and was met by her Aunt and cousins. She did, at some point, travel to Chicago but pulled the plug on the arranged marriage soon after the rendezvous. (I remember asking about it years ago and her referring to the guy as a wimp, “not for me.”) Anyone who knew my grandma understood she had a penchant for telling it like it was.
She came back to The Bronx, worked manual labor jobs scrubbing floors and sent whatever she could back home (items such as cigarettes, gum and candy were hot commodities that had a high trade value). She then met my grandfather Abe, whose family had emigrated from Poland.
Dapper duo, my grandparents circa 1933
A few years later they married in 1935. Their first child, Rhoda (my mom) was born in December of 1939. Three months earlier, on the other side of the Atlantic, the German army steamrolled into Poland, marking the beginning of the Second World War.
Despite these concerns there was much to be thankful for. Lithuania had enjoyed an independent 20 year period after WW I and despite waves of anti-Semitism, the Jewish community in Kovno had grown, comprising a quarter of the city’s population; many were respected professionals, skilled artisans, and small business owners. My grandma wrote home with excitement, proudly displaying pictures of her new bundle of joy. My great grandmother playfully wrote back; handing out motherly advice, like not to sleep with the baby in bed for fear of rolling over. There was other good news as well: Hinda and Hana, each had two children of their own and Dovid had a newborn son. Leo also was making a life for himself in Brazil and now had two children as well. The family was spread apart on 3 continents but remained close as ever.
Soon after Germany’s invasion of Poland, Soviet troops (a result of the connivance between Hitler and Stalin) once again marched into Lithuania, executed large numbers and deported many to Siberia. Despite the significant number of Jews among the victims, Lithuanian anti-Semites spread propaganda that this was Jewish “revenge” against Lithuania.
The Soviet Union’s annexation of Lithuania lasted approximately a year, until June 22, 1941, when the German armies crossed the Soviet border and invaded.Most Lithuanians welcomed the Nazi occupation as it meant freedom from the brutally oppressive Soviet regimen.
One day after the German attack, the last Soviet forces had left the city, but the Germans had not yet arrived. In this temporary power vacuum, an “independent” Lithuania was proclaimed on Kovno radio. Lithuanian nationalists and pro-Nazi partisans patrolled the streets, robbing, beating, humiliating and killing Jews. On June 25–26 a massive pogrom took place in Slobodka, savagely killing over 800 Jews. On the next day, in a sadistic spectacle, dozens of Jews were beaten to death in two garages in the center of Kovno. The most well documented of which was the Lietikus Garage, which occurred in broad daylight as an audience of several hundred cheered and clapped enthusiastically as 68 Jews were killed one-by-one with iron bars.
Two weeks later the Jews of Kovno learned of the establishment of a ghetto in Slobodka-Vilijampole. My family had already been living in Slobodka and the conditions there were poor; small wooden houses, with no running water or adequate sanitation. The majority of the Jewish population however, (nearly 30,000) lived in Kovno, and would have to cross the Vilija bridge into the ghetto, which would be divided up into a large and small section. A quarter of the population of Lithuania’s largest city would now be crammed into just a few blocks. Anyone defying these orders would be killed.
On August 15, 1941 the ghetto was “closed,” encircled by barbed wire and heavily guarded. Living in my family’s home already were my great-grandmother Elke, her children Hana, Hinda, and Dovid, along with their spouses and all the children. I’m sure others were required to pack into their residence as well, as the living space available in the ghetto averaged a mere 10 square feet person.
Cramped quarters in Slobodka
Life in the ghetto was brutal. It functioned essentially as a forced labor camp for the German military. If you couldn’t work, you were another mouth to feed and expendable. Rations were meager and most starved. Those who could work outside exchanged whatever valuables they had left for food. Every Jew inside and outside the confines of the ghetto was forced to wear a yellow star. Three days into the closing off of the ghetto, 534 people were killed in the first series of anti-Jewish operations, called “Aktion” in German.
Then on October 4th, the Small Ghetto was liquidated and half of its occupants (1800 men, women and children) were taken to one of a series of Forts (Fort IX) that surrounded the city and were executed. The hospital for contagious diseases was set on fire and burned to the ground with its patients and staff locked inside.
On October 28th all Jews were told to assemble in Demokratu Square. Sergeant Helmut Rauca, the head Gestapo officer, along with S.A. Captain Fritz Jordan, began what was referred to as the “Great Action.” Each of the 30,000 inhabitants of the ghetto had to pass before them. While they tried to make reassurances that the process was only to sort the labor force, most knew otherwise. This was a decision as to who would live or die. Below is an eyewitness account:
“From the beginning it became evident that Rauka was judging the people basically from their physical looks, their clothing, cleanliness, and size of the family. The younger, stronger and better-dressed people, with smaller families, that had less children or aging parents, were sent to the "good" side. The elderly, the ill, the weak looking people, families that did not have a man as the head of the family, families that were badly dressed or didn’t look clean, he sent to their death. There were hair-raising scenes when the murderers would decide to separate between families. Parents from children, and husbands from wives. Heart rending cries of despair could be heard throughout the huge place as families were torn asunder. The square began to fill up with dead bodies of the old and the sick who couldn’t endure anymore the rigors of the day and gave up their ghosts. Only the two henchmen were tireless, standing the whole day eating sandwiches and drinking coffee brought to them by their orderlies. Finally when Jordan and Rauka got the word that ten thousand men, women and children were now in the small ghetto, they called it a day.”
I can only imagine what my uncle Dovid experienced as he waited his turn in line. He was a strong man with a chiseled physique--over 6 feet tall and 200 lbs, and he looked every bit able to care for his family. My aunts were also married so everyone had a head of the household. To the best of my knowledge, everyone in my family survived this death selection. Tragically, the near 10,000 who were destined for death were taken to the Small Ghetto, then led to Fort IX the following day, where they were executed and thrown into freshly dug pits.
The “Great Action” stunned and sent the ghetto community into despair, as everyone knew someone who had been murdered. Comparatively, the following two years was a period of relative stability as Jews labored away in hunger and fatigue for the German war machine. At home in The Bronx, my grandmother was busy raising my mom and had just given birth to her second child in 1942. Her anxiety grew as she heard rumors about the German atrocities and had completely lost contact with her family.
Jews in the ghetto strived to maintain some form of normalcy. Two schools of about 200 students each were set up in supremely crowded conditions. The Germans closed this down a year later but clandestine private education continued. Another ghetto hospital opened and made use of whatever supplies were on hand. There was no maternity ward as pregnancy was made punishable by death.
On November 1, 1943 the SS (German secret police) took control over the Kovno Ghetto and it was officially transformed into the Kauen Concentration Camp. With rumors of other ghettos being liquidated and with the SS carrying out brutal and mass deportations to Estonia, most felt as if the camp’s days were numbered. Parents desperately tried to find reliable and accepting Christian families to smuggle their children out. Others attempted to build hiding places in case another killing time were to come. During late 1943 and early 1944, a resistance movement took hold. Money to buy arms, to provide transportation and to bribe guards was raised in the camp. Hundreds of Jewish partisans escaped to the forests of Lithuania and continued to run operations.
The Germans eventually became aware of the relationship between the underground and the ghetto police (Jews assigned to keep law and order; in exchange for privileges such as protection from deportation). On March 27, 1944, 130 members of the ghetto police were tortured, and after efforts to get more information were unsuccessful, 36 were killed at Fort IX. On the same day began the nightmarish 2-day “Children’s Action,” in which approximately 1300 victims—children under the age of 12 as well as those over 55—were dragged from their homes and hiding places. It is during this event that the children of Dovid, Hinda and Hana (my cousins) were all killed—except for one, Isaac.
The depths of desperation and despair my great aunts and uncle must have felt are unfathomable. They had already survived inhumane conditions, dodged bullet after bullet, only to have it come down to having their children forcibly ripped from their clutches. What else could there have been to live for?
Life, if you can call it that, dragged on for several more months in captivity until the midsummer of 1944, when the Soviet armies again entered Lithuania. With the threat of the advancing Red Army, the time had come to liquidate the concentration camp. Over a 6-day period from July 8—13th the Germans evacuated the camp, burning it to the ground with grenades and dynamite, then deporting most of the remaining Jews on boxcars to the Stutthof camp in Prussia. There the men were separated from the woman and sent to the Dachau concentration camp in Germany. The time had come for my uncle Dovid and his two brothers-in-law (one of whom survived) to say goodbye to the Grobman women. I am certain they too, had to be forcibly torn apart. As they uttered their goodbyes, they surely hoped and prayed to see each other again.
It never happened.
Elke and her daughters Hana and Hinda were later killed. Three weeks later, August 1, 1944, the Soviet army liberated Kovno, but it was too late.
My uncle Dovid arrived at Dachau physically and emotionally tormented. He summoned an inner strength however, and pushed onward. Perhaps it was the hope of seeing the remnants of his family or maybe it was bearing witness to the atrocities that had befallen his people. Over the next 10 months he managed to work and stay alive.
As American war planes streamed overhead and bombs pounded the ground in April of 1945, the Nazis stepped up their killing. I don’t know the exact details, but at this point my uncle had grown weaker and weaker, nearing death. He may have been left for dead and tossed on a pile of corpses or perhaps during a mass execution he managed to avoid being shot and fell first. Whatever the circumstances, he was barely clinging to life when American forces came rolling into Dachau on April 29, 1945.
Upon their arrival, the GIs could not wrap their minds around what they were witnessing. Battle hardened men became sickened and nauseated by a site of horrors that defied description. While government officials in the U.S. had long knew of the genocide of European Jews and other “non-Aryan” peoples (the politics of rescue are a book in of itself) those on the ground had little in the way of forewarning. Bodies lay everywhere; thousands and thousands of corpses that had not made it to the crematorium. One GI saw slight movement on a mountain of corpses and shouted for assistance. Together they dragged out a 60-lb. pound skeleton—my uncle Dovid.
My uncle was then taken to a Red Cross Hospital where he eventually regained his strength and made a full physical recovery. Many inmates survived liberation but were not as fortunate, as their illnesses were too severe. After being released from the hospital uncle Dovid was sent to a displaced persons (DP) camp. There he met Feige, whom he had known in Slobodka. Feige had also suffered tremendously in the ghetto, marching 3 miles each way to the Aleksotas Military Airfield (which still exists as a civil aviation terminal at Kaunaš), then laboring as many as 15 hours a day and marching back. She had been married with several children too, but they were all gone. In their grief my aunt and uncle found love and companionship and soon married. While in the DP camp they had twin girls. It was a common occurrence to see children born in the DP camps, as couples were defiantly fruitful. Additionally, experiencing a new beginning and infusing joy into one’s life quite possibly may have been the only way of remaining sane.
Back home in The Bronx, my grandma immediately assumed the worst. How could she not? The Jews of Lithuania had numbered 244,000 before the war. Now there were only 6,000; almost 98% had been killed. Think about those numbers for another second. The odds of survival were bleak.
Losing her whole family had thrown my grandma into a state of unimaginable grief, but life had to go on. She had a family of her own and was pregnant with her 3rd child (Uncle Elliott, who sent me the family memorabilia). Then one day while collecting mail outside of her apartment, she opened a letter which read:
Dear Florence Rubenstein,
“There is a displaced person in a European refugee camp by the name of Dovid Grobman from Slobodka, Lithuania, who lists you as a family contact. If your maiden name is Grobman and you are indeed the Florence Grobman that he is referring to, please contact HIAS officials at….”
My grandma hit the ground, pregnant belly and all and began wailing. Neighbors came running to offer assistance. Joy soon rang out as my grandma, through heavy sobs repeated, “Dovid’s alive, he’s alive.”
The Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society (HIAS) helped to facilitate my uncle’s arrival in the U.S. The Society has a long history of aiding displaced persons (read how there may not have been a Google without HIAS (http://www.nytimes.com/2009/10/25/us/25donate.html).In order for my uncle to gain entrance into the country, my grandparents had to complete a ton of paperwork, ensuring the government that my uncle would find meaning work and not be a societal burden.
Then on that fateful day, after being apart for 20 years and thought to have been gone forever, my uncle, aunt and their two children Rita & Eleanor, stepped off the S.S. Ernie Pyle at Ellis Island. What a reunion it must have been. Several news agencies covered the story and followed my family back to the The Bronx. I remember seeing pictures from the NY Daily News at our house, but for many years I could no longer find the newspaper articles. I had given up looking for them and hoped that someday they would somehow reappear. Little did I know uncle Elliott had also kept a copy.
Photo from the New York Daily News Mar 24, 1948: Stepping off the S.S. Ernie Pyle at Ellis Island
Photo from the New York Daily News Mar 24, 1948: Arriving at my grandma’s apartment in The Bronx
Upon arriving in New York, Uncle Dovid and his family proceeded to live in my grandparent’s Bronx apartment. My mom, who was 8 years old at the time, recently described to me what life was like. She, along with her two brothers, were moved out of the second bedroom and had their beds placed in the hallway or living room. Nine people (four adults and 5 young children) proceeded to live in a 2-bedroom, one bath apartment. Of course there were sacrifices, like waiting for the bathroom or having little privacy, but they made do. My mom was old enough to understand that her uncle had suffered a great, unimaginable tragedy, but that’s all she knew, as it was a topic off limits for discussion. However, the sorrow was all around. From her hallway bed she would occasionally hear the night terrors as my uncle slept; the heavy sobs and groans piercing the doorway of the bedroom.
After several years, working and saving, Uncle Dovid and his family moved to St. Albans, Queens, and continued to work in grandpa’s haberdashery business. I have fond memories of my uncle, the most vivid is as a young boy when he would stealthily hand me spending money, then make me promise not to give away our secret until he was long gone. He passed away before my tenth birthday and I never had the opportunity to learn about any of the family history which I just shared. My aunt Feige, lived well into her 80’s and only recently passed away.
Survivors: Uncle Dovid and nephew Isaac
The Story of Isaac’s survival
Isaac was born in 1926 to my aunt Hana. He was the first Grobman grandchild and was approximately 3 years old when my grandma left for the U.S. The following year, Uncle Dovid sent her the picture above of his nephew (Isaac) and him. A little over a decade later in 1941, Isaac, now 15, attended a summer camp in Palanga (a popular Lithuanian resort town along the Baltic Sea). That move, unknowingly, saved his life.
As news spread about the German invasion, there was no going back home to Slobodka; Isaac never saw his parents or his 4 year old baby brother Melech (a Hebrew-Yiddish first name meaning “King”) again. The camp directors evacuated the children to Russia where at first they were taken in by an orphanage. Isaac then worked tirelessly at a factory, making weapons for the Russian army. After the war he returned to Kovno only to discover that none of his family had survived. He was drafted into the Russian army for a 4 year term then immigrated to Israel. Eventually he traveled to the U.S. in the 1970’s to reunite with Uncle Dovid (by then called “David”). My mom had the opportunity to travel to Israel for the first time 5 years ago to visit with him. Unfortunately he was in declining health and passed away several years later. I am deeply indebted to Isaac; although I never had the honor of meeting him, much of what I am now telling you comes from him in response to my queries. As painful as it was to relive, he gave his daughter Frida a detailed account of his life back in Slobodka. Frida was then nice enough to meticulously jot everything down and email it to me.
Of course, it would’ve been simpler to have asked my grandma these questions during the thirty years we shared. However, every time I would broach the subject it was like releasing a spigot of tears. I quickly realized that it was more compassionate to remain ignorant regarding my family’s history than to put someone who I loved dearly through so much pain.
However, from what she did tell me, the pictures, my mom’s recollections, Isaac’s account and my study of the Holocaust, I have been able to piece together the details. My grandma passed away in 1995 during my second year of residency training. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about her in some way. Her love for her children/grandchildren, outlook on life and tireless work ethic are just a few of her legacies that live within me.
"One day we'll sing our freedom
One day we'll laugh in our joy
And we'll dance. . .and we'll dance. . . "
~ Sting
Better Times: Celebrating my medical school graduation with grandma and the rest of the family at Carmine’s in Manhattan, May, 1993.
I would like to thank my mom’s second cousin, David Fishlow. David, at the age of 5, was at the fateful family reunion in 1948 on the dock of Ellis Island. His family however, moved out of The Bronx soon after and lost touch for the next 50 years. We serendipitously connected online, given his strong genealogy interest and met for the first time the following year during a visit. I am indebted to him for his detailed stories about his trek back to Lithuania and visiting the site where the old house stood in Slobodka.
Lastly, I'd also like to thank my Brazilian cousins who have welcomed my visits to South America with open arms and warm hearts. My great uncle, Leo passed away years ago and another link to the old country was lost. My cousins however, have been eager to come along on this journey with me as we discover more and more about our family’s history.
After the medical conference: Visiting with my Brazilian cousins who still bear the Grobman name (Sao Paulo, Brazil)
Here with my mom, Rhoda.
Epilogue
While the trip to South America and the family photos summoned these powerful memories there’s another even more persuasive reason for me to finally document my family’s history—I am now a dad.
My uncle’s children were 4 and 2 years of age at the time of their deaths and part of me rationalized that their young ages somehow mitigated the emotional trauma both he and my aunt experienced. Now that I’m a father, I see that in many ways what they went through was even worse.
In the short time that my son Matthew has been here, I can’t remember what life was like without him. At so young an age, he’s developed a personality, can communicate what he likes and dislikes, and everyday seems to reach another milestone. I have spent hours instructing him and playing ball with him, placing my hopes and dreams upon him for every possible success. And that’s the point; to have those hopes and dreams shattered, to have your child ripped from you, crying out, with you powerless to “make things all better,” is the worst thing on earth I can possibly imagine.
When I arrived home from South America I entered the door to find Matthew playing with his toys. He looked up, gave me a big smile and then returned to what he was doing. I dropped my luggage, snuck up on him and gave him the tightest of embraces, ever so grateful to be living here—in this time and in this place.
The next generation: Matthew at several weeks of age (making his WebMD debut), my wife Tamara and Kim. A big note of thanks to Kim for making my trip to South America possible, covering my work for a whole week!
***
Now playing on my mental iPod. . . a song inspired by a different historical tragedy (executions in Chile) but with a melody that moves from tragedy to triumph. . .reminiscent of what Neil's grandmother must have felt when she saw her brother Dovid . . .alive.
Honestly? I write this blog to share the human aspects of medicine + teaching + work/life balance with others and myself -- and to honor the public hospital and her patients--but never at the expense of patient privacy or dignity.
Thanks for stopping by! :)
"One writes out of one thing only--one's own experience. Everything depends of how relentlessly one forces from this experience the last drop, sweet or bitter, it can possibly give."
~ James Baldwin (1924 - 1987)
"Do it for the story." ~ Antoinette Nguyen, MD, MPH
Details, names, time frames, etc. are always changed to protect anonymity. This may or may not be an amalgamation of true,quasi-true, or completely fictional events. But the lessons? They are always real and never, ever fictional. Got that?
