Don't need no baggage.

US Rep. John Lewis, now

"People get ready, there's a train a comin'

You don't need no baggage, you just get on board

All you need is faith to hear the diesels hummin'

Don't need no ticket, you just thank the Lord."

~ from People Get Ready

This week was interesting. I saw the pendulum of life swinging back and forth. Light and then darkness. Highest highs chased down by low lows. But not so much in the sense of joy and pain or sunshine and rain, really.  Instead, this week I saw the most beautiful parts of humankind right beside the ugliest. It was simultaneously heartwarming and heartbreaking.

U.S. Representative and civil rights leader John Lewis came to speak at the boys' elementary school this week. The teachers were amazing and reflective in preparing the children for the visit. Those educators were brave in their discussions and those children were appropriately serious in learning of some of the darker parts of American history.

civil rights activist, John Lewis, then

One of the faculty from the boys' school said this in a blog comment:

"I teach at your children's school and today we have the honor of having US Representative John Lewis come to talk to the 3rd - 5th graders. In the computer lab this week I have been sharing with the students a little slice of Mr. Lewis' life and his role in the Civil Rights Movement.

It is not an easy thing to talk to 8, 9, 10 and 11 year old children about things that went on in our country not very long ago. It sometimes is literally difficult for me to talk about it without a catch in my throat.

However, like I tell my students, that to take the easy route and not talk about these things, these painful things from our history is to do a huge disservice and dishonor to the men and women who did stand up, who got arrested; got beaten; got killed so that our country could fully live up to its claim of being the land of the free."

Interestingly, the post that this faculty member commented on included this photo--in which I just noticed includes a young John Lewis on the left.

Another teacher told me that Mr. Lewis got down on one knee just like he was doing in this picture taken several decades ago. Yes, he kneeled down and connected with those kids in a way that moved her deep in her soul. It resonated with those third, fourth and fifth-graders, too.

Little did we know that he had so much practice.

And this was beautiful. That visit, the children, the lessons, the everything. Mr. Lewis giving a testimony as one of the living, breathing people that was there. Right there.

Mr. Lewis on the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, Alabama.

Yes, he was there and now they were, too. Him and all of those educators determined to hold up the light and to keep that dark part of history in the past.

No, I wasn't there to personally hear Mr. Lewis, but I know that it was beautiful. I sure do. Beauty pulled out of the aftermath of ugly times. Beauty in humankind.

In this same week, I did something that I've never really ever had to do. I took down a blog post. No, not because I was thinking of having the story published somewhere or because I modified it in some way. I removed a post that felt cathartic to write and even more so to go back and reread. I had to because it revealed to me an ugly part of humanity that troubled me too much to walk straight through.

Many who come here often read the post to which I am referring; the story of this subtle yet painful racism that I perceived when scolded by a man in a pizzeria about the behavior of my children (and a group of others.) Not surprisingly, the story yielded a good number of comments from veteran readers and new readers. Some were in full agreement with my reaction to this man, and a few were not.

And the fact that some were not was cool with me. I even asked my friend Sister Moon what she thought of this and she said in so many words that as long as the person doesn't sound too crazy or offensive then yes, it's okay to not completely agree. (And those who read her, know she keeps it 100% realer than real.)

So I posted those comments right along with the others and responded with what came to my head and from my heart. But then something happened. I received a couple of other comments that weren't subtle at all and that could not--like my take on that man in the pizza parlor--be open to interpretation.

One referred to a photo of my children and said the they will be on their way to jail soon. Yes. Jail. This was the comment on a lighthearted post about banter between a 5 year old and 6 year old in the back of their mom's car. That they will soon be in a penitentiary. Because this, according to the quasi-anonymous commenter, was their destiny as black boys.

Yes.

Another suggested to me that the man in the pizza parlor was trying to teach me about social norms. The very social norms that, in his or her opinion, I had moved to a predominantly white neighborhood to partake in. (Forget the fact that I moved closer to my job.)  That person went on to say that by bringing our kids into that establishment, we robbed that environment of what many there pay to enjoy. And what I left my "own neighborhood" to get away from.

W-ow.

I got one or two other even more overtly offensive comments that I simply read once and then deleted. I realized that the post was obviously linked by someone somewhere and that this unusually ugly traffic was not doing my heart good. And this blog? I write it mostly to provoke thought and reflection-- but even more than that and along with that, I write it to celebrate humanity and human-kindness. Which almost always does my heart good.

Gag.

I know, I know. It sounds so sappy, right? But seriously? It's true. My usual party line when folks ask me about writing here is that "it's free therapy." I say that, but it's so much more than that. It's a place where we all show up with our brown skin, white skin, olive skin, thick skin, and our thin skin and feel alright. Where the believers rub elbows with the make-believers and the dis-believers, and where the elders pull up chairs right beside the teens.

It shrinks the world for me, too. When I read someone's comment and see words spelled like "favourite" and "realise" I smile big and wide. Realizing and realising that someone far away from me has something in common and that we are all so much more alike than we are different.

But those words I read this week. . . .oh, those nasty, venomous words. . . they fought hard to unravel that peaceful feeling and poison my mind. Troubling my waters and threatening me with some paranoia that I usually don't carry in my heart.

And so. I made a decision. I deleted every last one of those hateful comments. Then I tucked that post away in draft form. And yes, I know that the curious of you will want to either read the post (if you hadn't yet) or especially (hands rubbing together grubbily) see those comments word-for-word.

As for the latter, I assure you, you did not want to see those words. It would have done to you what it did to me. Left you with a feeling of dis-ease, akin to walking about with a hard pebble inside of your shoe. . . the kind of thing that makes doing something as everyday as walking feel uncomfortable and unnatural.

Yeah, like that.

Of course, I understand that people who leave comments behind a cloak of anonymity are. . .insert your favorite insult here. But still. They have hands that start up laptops and type over them just like me. Which means they exist and have feelings and beliefs and opinions.

Opinions such as:

"They got one foot in the penitentiary already, all they need is saggy pants."

Yep.

Sorry for putting that pebble in your shoe. But today? I'm shaking it right out. 'Cause me? I don't need no baggage. No, I don't.

And.

I just have to believe that human beings are inherently good. I just have to. Even if I am wrong about that, I have to hold that belief in my chest pocket as the gospel.

To survive, I must.

So I've said it before and will say it again: thank you for reading. Thank you for helping me to keep these beliefs in my grasp -- that human beings are more alike than different, and that yes, there is still human-kindness nestled deep down inside of humankind.

Yes, there is.

And you know?  That's my favorite part of it all. (And my favourite part, too.)

That's all I got today.

***
Happy Friday.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . . Zachary's favorite, favourite version of this song. (Curtis Mayfield, second place and Eva Cassidy, third.)

Yes, we can.

mustard seeds

I saw this patient today who was dying. Not dying in the immediate sense where people were running and shouting and drawing up meds and charging up paddles. No, not like that.

But still, he was dying.

Mr. Ward had been seen at another hospital with what he described as a "sour stomach" and "feeling weak." A few tablespoons of baking soda and a little milk of magnesia hadn't helped. Two CT scans and one biopsy later that pain in his stomach proved to be something of much greater concern than the "ind'gestion" he'd initially told them he thought it to be. This was cancer.

Cancer not only in his abdominal cavity but also deep down in his bones. And this kind of cancer is not the kind that can be wrestled to the floor by chemo or pinned to the mat by radiation. At best, those things could keep certain symptoms at bay but, short of a miracle, Mr. Ward was dying.

At this visit, he was joined by his daughter. She looked devastated by the news and he was quiet and peaceful. With glistening eyes, she asked questions about her father's condition. And with each answer, she said, "Thank you, doctor." Even though her mouth was appreciative, her morose expression made it clear that she would rather not hear what we were saying about her father.

But not him. He was as cool as a fan.

"What all y'all got to do to get this on behind me?" he asked matter-of-factly.

"Well," I started, "the best place for us to focus is on how you feel. How do you feel?"

"I feel like I want to get this on behind me. That's how I feel."

His daughter looked at me carefully and then spoke before I could answer. "Daddy, your body is very sick. It might not be that simple."

"What you talking about? Tha's why I'm at the doctor!"

"But Daddy you. . .you have cancer going through your body."

"There you go! Don't be sayin' nothin' to me 'bout that ol' cancer, neither. Look like the minute somebody go and start calling something cancer it jest get worser." Then he turned toward me.  "Jest tell me what all y'all need to do and I'll be there."

"Are you in pain, sir?" I asked.

"I have a little bit of pain on my side. Other than that, I'm alright."

"Okay," I answered. "We can help with that pain, okay?"

"That sound good to me," he replied. He rubbed his thumb across the front of the soiled baseball cap resting in his lap. That hat looked like one he'd worn every single day for quite some time. In red, white, and blue it had big letters sewn into the front:  OBAMA.

I smiled at him and thought for a moment about that hat and the fact that he'd lived to see Mr. Obama take office. Something about that offered me a bit of comfort in the face of all this bad news. I paused, thinking carefully what to say next.

In the silence, his daughter let out a large sigh and straightened up in her chair. Instinctively, I reached out for her hand. She let me.

Something about that gesture struck a cord with Mr. Ward.

"They got a medicine for this, right? I mean, y'all got something that can knock this on out, right?"

"Mr. Ward, sir? We have things to help you feel better. We don't have something to completely make it go away."

Now his daughter's eyes were brimming with tears. He looked from side to side--first at her, then at me, over to her, and back to me.

"Then what do that mean?"

"Every person is different, Mr. Ward. Most people who have this kind of cancer. . .um. . .they. . " Something about the way he was staring at my mouth made me feel nervous about my choice of words. I hated the thought of robbing him of his peace. But I needed to be honest.

Sometimes the easier thing to do is punt the hard questions like this over to the cancer specialists. To simply give the most vanilla answer you can and leave the slow singing and flower bringing to them. And in many instances, when things aren't exactly clear, that's acceptable. But his query was not about five year survival or percentages. It was a simple question to which I knew an answer.

"Mr. Ward, sir?" I exhaled and tried again. "This kind of . . .um. . cancer. . is a kind that works really hard to shorten your life. Even when we fight against it, this particular kind flicks us away like gnats. So a good thing to do is to make sure you feel okay, you know? Like make sure you're not in pain and feeling all bad."

"And jest die?"

I swallowed hard and looked back at his daughter. She decided to help me out. "Daddy, it's all up in your bones."

"Sir, I. . . " The minute I started talking he swung his head back from his daughter to me. Something about the look on his face told me to stop talking.

"What you need to know and you need to know is that that ol' tumor ain't the only thing in these bones, you hear me?" He pointed from side to side at each of us then patted his chest. "Like Jeremiah say, 'It's like a fire shut up in my bones!' I got faith. Even if y'all don't. I got faith in the Lawd and what He can do."

His daughter looked down at her hands like a child. Even though she was easily in her forties, she quickly regressed when her father spoke firmly. Finally, in a tiny voice she pleaded, "Daddy, you want His will. That's what you want. That don't mean I don't have faith, Daddy. It don't."

"Well, you HAVE not 'cawse you ASK not! See, that's the problem with y'all young folks. Yo' faith ain't even like a mustard seed!" He held his two fingers up to demonstrate the minuscule scale of that metaphoric mustard seed. Then Mr. Ward shook his head and then looked back at me. "So when I'm 'posed to see the cancer doctors?"

"Um, you see the main cancer doctor or oncologist on Monday and you have the appointment with the Palliative Care doctors tomorrow."

"What do 'palliate care' do?"

"They focus on your symptoms. Make sure that your pain is controlled and lots of other things."

"Is that the same thang as the hospice?" Mr. Ward asked with eyes narrowed.

"No, sir. It isn't." Which technically was true. At least, sorta kinda.

"Alright then." He slid his tattered Obama cap on top of his head and gave his arms an exaggerated fold. His daughter was staring at him still, her face filled with emotion. Mr. Ward did a bit of a double take and then rolled his eyes. "Come on, here, and finish up 'cawse both a y'all depressin' me!"

We wrapped up the visit and Mr. Ward and his daughter went on their way.

Throughout the day, I thought a lot about Mr. Ward and his take on his diagnosis. I let his words on faith (or even attitude depending on what you believe) marinate with me and wondered where the line should be drawn between that and reality. I still don't know the answer.

Sometimes I find the overly pragmatic patient even more disturbing. And I'm not sure why.

I guess I wrote about this encounter because it made me think about faith and attitude and myself. I say things to people that include "the facts" and have gotten into the habit of habitually buffering it with words like "This is only the information we have available to us medically. There are definitely times--depending upon what you believe--where it becomes clear that we don't have the final say on the outcome."  And that always seems to be met with nodding heads and "Yes, Lords" especially at a place like Grady Hospital. Which always seems to make me feel better about what I'm saying.

But does it really matter how I feel about what I'm saying? My guess is somewhat--but it matters much more how the patient feels.

As far as Mr. Ward goes, that over-worn baseball cap with the 44th president's name embroidered across the front of it seemed to say what he wished I had:

"Yes, we can."

***
Happy Thursday.

He replied, "If you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you say to this mulberry tree, 

'Be uprooted and planted in the sea,' and it will obey you."

~ Luke 17:6

A golden opportunity.

Couch kids in the morning are hard to leave!

The kids were out of school on Monday and Harry and I both had to work. I felt like such a loser considering that their school calendar comes out a year before yet I neglected to request that day off.

Uggh.

Fortunately, I have a wonderful older sister who lives in town and who just happens happens to teach in the same county. This meant that she was off, too and very, very lucky for us she was willing to spend her off-day with her nephews. Score.

But.

The issue wasn't the childcare as much as it was the missed opportunity. It was a gorgeous day and that day would have been a golden opportunity for me to go to the park or go for a walk with the boys. So I was bummed. Super bummed that I didn't get to spend that day with my kids instead of having to go to work. That morning when I woke up, I didn't want to go.

Not at all.

When I got to work, I was dragging and blah. I told my colleague Carmen M. how I was feeling. We always talk about our kids at the beginning of the clinic session and she gave me the empathy I was looking for.

"We have plenty of faculty here today. Maybe we can let you go," she offered.

It was a very sweet offer and I appreciated it. But my time is no more precious than hers and my love for my children no greater either. "I'm sure that we all have a list of things we'd rather do today," I replied, "but thanks anyway."

Blah.

Eventually blah got a little bit better. Like always, things picked up in clinic once I started seeing patients with the residents. It ended up being a good session because I not only got to work with Carmen, but also two other people that I don't work with regularly. And all of them are junior -- within their first two years on the faculty.

On this day, I watched them, my junior colleagues. They each had different styles and strengths. And each of them taught me something without even realizing it.

But especially, I paid attention to Carmen. We work together often, but on this day, I really paid attention. I watched her from the corner of my eye talking and teaching and explaining and role modeling. And it was really heartwarming to witness because Carmen and I go way back to when she was novice medical student on my team several years before. And now here we were shoulder to shoulder teaching together as faculty members in the clinic.

The beauty was that she is still every bit as altruistic and earnest as she was then.

At the end of that session, I bumped into Carmen as I prepared to leave. My morning had started out blah and being with her that day had done my heart good -- I wanted to tell her so. When I got ready to speak, I was surprised to find her face full of frustration and her normally chipper personality slightly less so.

"You okay?" I asked her.

She paused for a moment with glassy appearing eyes and then shrugged. "I think," she spoke carefully, "I think I just feel overwhelmed today. Like I'm trying to change certain things and. . . " She let out a big sigh to regroup.

"And what?"

"And I guess I feel like I don't make any headway. Like I'm not really having an impact."

I looked in her face and saw that she meant every word. Then I thought of all that she'd taught me on this day and all the days we'd worked together before including when she was a medical student. I put both of my hands on her shoulders and faced her.

"You've had an impact on me," I told her. I repeated myself for emphasis. "Carmen, just know that you've had an impact on me." And I said that because it was true.

We stood there in that hallway with our eyes locked and it spoke volumes. And it was good because for the first time that day I was truly glad to be at work instead of mad or indifferent about it.

And you know? I walked out of the clinic feeling alright. Talking to myself and saying things like, See? It was good that you were here after all. 

This is truly how I felt and it showed as I walked through the hall and toward the exit.

When I stepped through the door, the sun was shining extra bright and the sky seemed extra blue. I looked up and felt that sun on my face and that was good, too.

I took a few steps to begin heading to my office, head up, heart in a good place. My favorite personal anthem playing on my mental iPod -- "Golden" by Jill Scott.

"I'm taking my freedom
pullin' it off the shelf
puttin' it on my chain
wearin' it round my neck

I'm takin' my freedom
puttin' it in my stroll
I be high steppin' y'all
lettin' the joy unfold. . ."


So this was playing in my ears and was the beat to which I walked. Yes. Me, the sun, and good thoughts swirling in my head. Asking myself heavy questions about what I'm supposed to be doing when and how to be who I was born to be. Heavy questions, but in a light way. Feeling good and glad that I was in that hallway at that very moment with Carmen.

Yeah.

"Dr. Manning! Dr. Manning!"

A voice rang out across the pathway in front of the main hospital entrance. It was easy and familiar, not urgent or worried. I swung my head toward the sound and I saw an unfamiliar face.

"Dr. Manning! Aww man! I can't believe I ran into you!"

The very first thing I noticed was that the man speaking to me was riding in a wheel chair. But this was quickly overshadowed by his bright and genuine smile and the warm twinkle in his eyes. Walking beside him were two young boys very close to my children's ages.

"Hello," I responded. I was a little bit embarrassed because his tone suggested that we knew one another. And also because I was pretty far into my head with Jill Scott before he called my name.

"Dr. Manning, you don't know me but my wife. . . aww man. . .my wife is going to be tripping when she hears that I met you!"

And I smiled right back at him and looked over at those handsome boys. "Are these your boys?"

"Yes! I think my wife said she once sent you a picture of them?"

That's when it clicked. I immediately knew who she was.

"StaceSenior! Your wife is StaceSenior! Oh my gosh!!" I gushed.

He laughed out loud and nodded."Yes! My wife is Stacey!"

I chuckled to myself when it dawned on me that I was calling her by a blogger sign-on name. "Oh my gosh! Yes, Stacey!"

And I just stood there smiling all goofy and giddy-like because his wife--not him but his WIFE--reads my blog and thought enough of it to tell her husband about it. And then have him remember enough to recognize me from across a courtyard.

StaceSenior. Yes! She comments regularly and has become what my friend Sister Moon calls a "dear virtual friend." (Which makes sense because I consider Sister Moon one of those, too.) Stacey doesn't have a blog of her own but reads mine. Reads all my quirky stories and streams of consciousness faithfully which I totally appreciate.

Man.

I was so glad to be in that place at that time. I said it out loud just so I wouldn't forget it.

"I'm so glad to be right here right now!"

"My wife is in the car waiting for us. I just had to stop up here to pick something up. Can't wait to tell her we met!"

"In the car? Where?" I pressed.

"Right over there," he answered while pointing. And wouldn't you know he was pointing exactly where I happened to be going.

So we headed that direction and I chatted with Stacey's sons while her husband rolled beside us tickled at the fact that he had indeed found, in all of the giganticness of Grady Hospital, the crazy gradydoctor-lady who authors the blog she affectionately calls "the little blog that could."

"There she is right there!" he announced while pointing at a woman sitting behind the wheel of a sedan.

I tip toed beside the car and then knocked on the window startling her. I stuck my face near the window and she laughed loud and hearty.

"StaceSenior!" I exclaimed.

"Dr. Manning! Hey!"

And just like that we hugged each other. And that was natural and right and genuine.

I told her that I didn't even realize after all this time that she was in Atlanta which made me just as excited to see her as she was to see me. We chuckled and chatted and hugged once more before I left. Her husband watched with a happy smile and those adorable kids stood by politely.

And it was good. All good.

When I got home, my sister was there and my kids were in great spirits. They love being with her and it showed. They had done math and read books and cleaned up and messed up all over again. And I was glad that they had.

In bed that night I reconstructed my day. Not wanting to go to work. Being there with my junior colleagues and especially Carmen M. Seeing a former medical student flourish into someone I now call my fellow Grady doctor. And standing in that hallway long enough with her to exit that door when I did and meet Stacey's husband and kids. Then getting the added treat of seeing a virtual friend in the flesh and not finding it the least bit awkward. And lastly being reminded that it takes a village and that my sister Deanna is one of the very best parts of ours. Every moment a golden opportunity.

Yeah.

I fell asleep strumming my freedom and reflecting on living my life like it's golden. Because I was exactly where I was supposed to be that day.

And it was good.

***
Happy Tuesday.

And on my mental iPod. . . my personal anthem. . . .

Top Ten: Twenty is the same twenty.

A date night with the BHE in 2011

Warning: Non-medical, non-important post ahead. Proceed with caution. (Or to my archives on the right if you prefer something deeper.)
_____________________________________________

Alright. So check it. Last Friday evening we had child care for the whole night. The BHE and I had a lovely date night -- fairly standard date night activity: dinner and a movie.

But.

Dinner was late. Like 8:30 or so. Which meant that the only movies we could catch started in the ten o'clock hour. So we clinked our wine glasses and decided to go for it since our kids were at a sleep over.

And so. We went to Phipps Plaza to check out the movie of Harry's choice since it was his turn. And "his turn" always means one of the following categories:

• action
• war
• things blowing up
• fast car chase scenes
• Jennifer Aniston
• things blowing up
• soldiers
• soldiers blowing things up
• gladiators
• any movie similar to the movie Gladiator
• Braveheart
• any movie similar to Braveheart
• things blowing up
• somebody being a spy
• somebody spying on Jennifer Aniston
• somebody with a vendetta
• somebody blowing somebody up over a vendetta about Jennifer Aniston

Well. As it turns out, Jennifer Aniston is all in love these days and doesn't seem to be doing much work. So we decided on the new Denzel Washington movie called "Safe House." Oh, and in case you're thinking of seeing it? Trust that it hit every single one of Harry's categories except for gladiators and Jennifer Anniston. Otherwise it was a slam dunk.

One problem though. The only showing left of "Safe House" at Phipps Plaza started at 10:50 PM. And. We had just eaten.

Chile please.

We were KNOCKED OUT in that theater. Do you hear me? Those explosions and special effects served as nothing more to us than a gigantic sonic-booming alarm clock without a snooze button. Our repetitive startling into wakefulness got to be so comical that finally we just had to call it a night. We had to before somebody started snoring. Or got whiplash.

Oh. Did I mention? There were still about thirty to forty-five minutes left in the movie. And it was literally the climax. We have no idea how it ended.

Um, yeah.

When we got into the lobby (which was empty) we couldn't help but LOL at how ridiculously lame we are. I mean. . .who does that? Like who pays five trillion dollars for a feature movie and then walks out on it--not because they are highly offended or because it's such a bad movie--but simply because they're. . .well. . . kinda sleepy? Who does that?

Answer: People over 40, that's who.

All this business about 40 being the new 20 or 30 being the new 20 or anything being the new anything is a terribly unfortunate trend. (Just ask Demi Moore.) 40 is not even the new twenty. I don't care what size jeans you can fit into. Period. End of story.

And so. Inspired by Friday's epic failure-slash-comical attempt at late-night gallivanting, I bring you this week's top ten:

TOP TEN EVIDENCE-BASED REASONS WHY THE ONLY "NEW TWENTY" IS TWENTY -- SORRY, Y'ALL.


#10  --  Closing up shop.

People in their twenties do talk about birth control--that's a known fact. But they rarely spend their time talking about permanent forms of it.

Real discussion overheard in the hair salon:

"Girl, I told him it's his turn."

"Really? My man said he ain't letting nobody go near him with no knife. I went ahead and got mine tied up during that last c-section."

"Mmmm, well you better than me. I made him an appointment with the urologist and was like, 'It's all you, boo.'"

"Did it give him problems with his. . .you know?"

"Aww hell naw!"

"Hey! You know they got something now where they burn your uterus with a laser. No pregnancy and no monthly, girl! Dead serious!"

"No way!"

"Sho nuff!"

"Does it hurt?"

"They knock you out."

"Damn. . . .no monthly? Is it covered by Aetna?"

"Ooooohh Aetna?  Girl, I don't know about that. You know Aetna is a trip."

"Dang, that sounded like the bomb."

#9 Busting a move(ment)

When I was in my twenties it seemed like everyone I knew had perfectly working innards. Even if they didn't, at least they all had so much going on that bowel movements never seemed to be a topic of conversation. I don't recall anyone discussing which foods or supplements would help you get thing going nor do I ever remember hearing my friends refer to themselves as "regular."

But once you are in your mid-thirties and beyond, it seems like for about 67% of people -- the bowels go on strike. Picketing in your bathroom shouting "We shall not be moved!"

(Ah hem. I am NOT in that 67%, thank you very much.)

So yeah. You know you ain't twenty-something anymore when you don't feel the least bit embarrassed about buying Fibersure or Benefiber or hearing your spouse make disgusting jokes and announcements like the ones that I may or may not have heard in the last 48 hours:

(preceded by exaggerated hand clapping)

"Alright! Looks like these Browns are gon' finally going to make it to the Super Bowl!"

*sorry, just threw up in my mouth a little bit.*

Verdict:  Even if you are "regular" -- you are officially out of your twenties if you have discussed or thought of bowel movements any in the last 72 hours.

#8  -- Two for the price of one.

When you're out of your twenties you start getting real particular about what makes an outing "sitter-worthy." If the plan is just to talk junk with your girlfriends and open up Costco or Trader Joes' wine, it's hard to see why a whole BABYSITTER night should be wasted on that. Having your kids and their kids at the same time cancels everything out! First, turn on the Wii or bust out some Legos for the kids. Second, open up that vino and enjoy it with some kind of dip that one of you made from a recipe out of "Real Simple." Third, Sit around and talk about permanent forms of contraception.

Verdict:  If somebody is washing dishes and discussing their bowels on your Saturday girls' night, you are 100% beyond your twenties.

#7  --  Same page.

Childless people in their twenties find it kind of cute when someone periodically meets them out for lunch with a kid in tow. Well, not us. Me and my friends have this simple rule that we all abide by:

When I don't have my kids, I don't want to see yours. Either it's a kid-friendly situation or it's a grown-folks gathering. Period.

There's nothing worse than winning rock, paper, scissors with your spouse for a kid-free pass only to get ambushed by that last minute text from a friend saying that they are bringing their kid along. Aww hell naw! Look. . . I need to be able to talk about grown-folks topics without spelling out the expletives. And to be able to eat without scooting a booster seat closer to the table and cutting up somebody's food. Unless of course we have already agreed that it's going to be that kind of evening.

Isn't that terrible for me to actually say?

Well, too bad. It's true.

Verdict:  Kid times and Kid-free times need to be respected. For reals. And if you have a last minute change of plans, the rule is that you have to tell the friend so they have time to get their kids, too, and SAVE their precious kid-free pass for later.

Not. Kidding.

#6 --  We card.

Have you ever noticed that people well out of their twenties become extremely interested in age? Like, when I used to read People magazine as a twenty-something, I could give a crap less about whether Heidi Klum was in her thirties or Halle Berry was almost fifty. But just cross that thirty threshold. Man. Even it you don't realize that you care you find yourself scanning that first paragraph for the part that says:

"Manning, 41, says her husband is the BHE."

What's funny is that the magazines all know this now so they give us ages even when it is TOTALLY irrelevant to the story.

Paula Deen, 56, baked a hummingbird cake. Nicole Ritchie, 31, loves black eyeliner. Bobby Brown, 45, kissed Whitney's casket. Bobbi Kristina Brown, 18, wishes y'all would stop talking so much crap about her daddy. Aretha Franklin, 71, was supposed to sing at the funeral but was under the weather. Dionne Warwick, 68, didn't realize that Aretha couldn't make it. Will Smith, 45, looked really hot in I am Legend.


Ah hem. You get the picture.

Verdict: For whatever reason, we card people when we get out of our twenties. This can be especially encouraging or discouraging depending upon who and what the topic happens to be.

#5  -- Your ideal Britney.

I've said this before but will say it again -- when you get out of your twenties--and especially after you drop a baby or two--your ideal body image changes.

I like to think of it in Britney Spears' stages of hotness:

Ideal Britney for person in high school or in their twenties

Post baby ideal for real! I see this and think,"You betta WORK, Miss Britney!"

Left: What our husbands see no matter what.  Right: What we see (give or take 10 inches)

That picture of Britney in the black would make me immediately scan the article for her age so I could feel better. Ha. If it says seventeen, I'd say, "Figures." If it says thirty seven I'd say, "Photoshopped, mm hmmm." Ha.

Verdict: Growing older gives you more nerves and more curves!

#4  -- Hair? There? Everywhere.

Twenty-somethings think about things like highlights, bangs, and products when it comes to hair. Get well into those thirties or cross over the 40 rock then that all changes. Yes, you care about highlights, bangs and products. But you also spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about the hair that shouldn't be there (if you're a woman) and the hair that should be there (if you're a guy.)

The whole thing is jacked up.

Verdict:  If you keep a pair of tweezers in your car and if me saying this makes you laugh out loud, you are definitely not in your twenties anymore.

#3  -- Baseboards.

If you actually know what they are and give a damn whether or not they are clean, you are no longer in your twenties.

Verdict:  Grown folks approach cleaning up different than the young-uns.

#2  -- Two step.

What is the deal with all people over 35 doing the "two step" whenever they dance? This is where you snap and nod your head while stepping from side to side in front of your partner. Then you see some young person dancing so hard and so well that you lose the beat and realize that you look like a person with exactly zero rhythm.

Now. Let's just say you DO have mad skills on the dance floor still but are over 40. The problem with that is that if you unleash your moves too much, you look ridiculous. Even if you are doing it right. Harry calls it "Old brutha in da club."  He always says that that's who you never want to be. How to know if that's who you are? If your kids look at you like this while you are dancing:  0_0  -----> You need to go back to the two step.

Anty-who. The only caveat is a resort vacation or the wedding reception  or cookout of a very close friend. Then and only then are you authorized to drop it like it's hot while doing your two step. For all other times, stick to what you know.

Verdict: The only thing worse than the "two step" is being the "old brutha in da club."

#1 -- Doing you.

In your twenties there are so many things that make it hard to "do you." For starters, you're likely broke as hell so that always makes "doing you" tricky. Second, you are either very junior on your job or still in school. Which takes me back to reason #1.  But the main thing is that you just haven't lived long enough to eff enough things up yet and learn from it.

Now I do know some super mature twenty-somethings who technically seem like they are much older. But most of the time, the person thinks they are in this place but really have no idea what being a forty-something really entails.

In other words, the best thing you can ever do is. . .you.  About to turn thirty? Own it, chile. Knocking on forty? Work it, honey. Well into your fifties and pushing up on sixty? Baby, give you best "two step" and when nobody's looking, go on ahead and drop it like it's hot. Because doing you includes accepting you. And accepting all of the years you have under your belt.

Verdict:  Twenty is still twenty. Thirty is still thirty. Forty is still forty. And word on the street is fifty is when all the fun starts.

No matter what age you are. . . .

Just WORK it. . . .

OWN it. . . .

and if that's not enough. . . . go on ahead and drop it like it's hot. :)

***
Happy Monday

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . .this always makes me want to work it!

Ode to the Grady Elders.

 In the good times

and in the bad times

in the happy times

and in the sad times

Having you there

made the difference

Just having you there

~ from The Mississipi Mass Choir 

"Having you there"

Grady Elder
________________

I get to be here
because of you
and I love being here
because of you
and that's the God's-honest truth

yes, ma'am, it is
and no, sir, I ain't just saying that

you hold in your hands
the wisdom of the ages
your knowing eyes
surrounded by tiny skin folds
that, to you, "show your age"
but not to me

I see layers and layers
of been theres
and done thats
of uphill climbs
and intrepid faith
of mountains moved
or torn down altogether

yes, I see it all
and especially
I see love

when you open your mouth to speak
I have learned to close mine
and hear your words
and savor your voice
every part of it
sometimes wobbly like elementary school cursive
or gravelly like tires rolling over old-school asphalt parking lots
or even
perfectly smooth like grandmama's  hand-stirred batter
but always worthwhile
and always worth hearing

always
because you have taught me that
listening to a person's voice
is the best way to give them one
yes, you have
and yes, it is

even when I'm tired
I still know that
it is a privilege
to care for you
to laugh with you
and cry with you
to learn from you
and just be with you

yes, ma'am, it is
and no, sir, I ain't just saying that

you teach me what the books cannot
the things that matter most
and give me pieces of your dreams and struggles
to take with me
to the places you couldn't go

all I really want to do
is make you proud
so proud that your heart takes wings
and begins to fly
believing that your struggles were not in vain
and that my triumphs
are yours, too
because no, they weren't
and yes, they are

yes, they are

thank you
for sharing with me
your been theres
and your done thats
your uphill climbs
your intrepid faith
and
for moving those mountains
or tearing them down
long before I got there

yes
you hold in your hands
the wisdom of the ages
and I get to experience it all
wrapped in knowing nods
tight hugs
physical findings
funny sayings
and easy, unfiltered banter
I get to experience it all

and I 'preciate that
and even more
I 'preciate you

Yes, ma'am I do
and no, sir, I ain't just saying that

***
Happy Saturday.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . . 

Out of the deep.

One of the students rolled up on me yesterday and said, "Hey Dr. M! Your blog has been CRAZY DEEP these days. Man!"

And I'm sayin'. That med stud totally meant that as a compliment, but seriously. . . . for whatever reason the word "deep" is one I don't like connected to me. It seems like you're trying to hard. In fact, one of my favorite sayings is, "It's just not that deep."

So check it. Today? I bring you the world's LEAST deep post ever on a Hump Day mornin'.  Nothing but unedited randomness, which I assure you will not be "deep".

*Yawn*

So where to start? Hmm. Oh, Dia de San Valentin. Let's start there.

Valentine's Day was kind of cool. The BHE is on this kick where he wants the boys to know "how to love like a real man." Hmm. Take that back. It's not a "kick" really. It's more like this ongoing thing where he is always declaring to the kids that "a man" does this and "a man" does that.

Like help out his wife.
And get her some pretty flowers if that's her thing.
And tell her she looks pretty even on the days when she doesn't feel that way.
And pay some bills.
And not just lay around doing nothing.

Mmmm hmmmm.  The BHE told the little future BHE's that you "can't treat your wife special only on Valentine's Day but that doesn't mean that you shouldn't do something special for her on that day, too."

You betta preach, Bro' Manning.

Yep.

Oh, what'd you ask? You said what did I do for the BHE on that day? Okay, glad you asked because I was going to ask your thoughts on this.

Alright so check it. I gave a lecture and did some writing for this shmancy National Organization and instead of giving an honorarium ("cash-money" as I like to call it) they said they give a gift.

Errr, what?

Well, that's fine because I do so much stuff SANS HONORARI (my fancy way of saying without an honorarium) that I was lightweight surprised that they thought I was expecting one.

Well. Turns out that gift was a -- shut YO' mouth -- iPad2. Whoops. That's AN iPAD2. Sorry, Mom.

So the thing is this: I have an iPad. An iPad UNO, no less, but a perfectly working iPad of my own. The BHE, however, declares himself a no-gadget dude. And though he is constantly swearing up and down that this is who he is, he like TOTALLY is always up on somebody's iPad "for just two seconds."

Mmmm hmmm.

So you know where this is going, right? Or do you? Okay, I'll tell you. The BHE got an iPad for Valentine's Day.

*eyeroll*

NO! I didn't take the iPad2 for myself! I gave him the spanking new one with FaceTime capability and ALL THAT new stuff. It even came with that funky magnetic cover. He tried to conceal his happiness but he was WAY happy.

Question: Would you have kept the iPad 2? Was it bad to give him something that didn't cost me money?

Well, I know the second answer for our household. Harry immediately opened his eyes wide like saucers and said, "YOU DID NOT GO OUT AND BUY ME THIS AT AN APPLE STORE DID YOU??!"

In other words, "UNLESS you got this on 'the hookup' I'm taking it back due to the expense."

And not "the hookup" in the terms the twenty somethings think of. But "the hookup" you know about if you grew up in the hood and are over the age of thirty. Or unless you are an old soul under thirty (ah hem, Jameil.)

I think it's funny when a spouse buys a really expensive gift and acts like it's not all one money pile. And just because I think it's funny doesn't mean I'm against an overpriced baubles or handbag, people. But seriously. . . in my head I know--it's one big pot we're dipping from. Well, sort of. Even if you have separate finances, all roads lead to the same home.

Which reminds me. Do y'all have separate finances? We sort of do. But sort of don't. It works.

Oh yeah. And what do you all think of re-gifting? You know--like if your kid gets seventy trillion gifts on their birthday, is it okay to re-gift to someone else? Especially kid things? Do any of you do that or do you just put them away and allow them slowly through the year?

Man. I may or may not have busted out some birthday bounty under the Christmas tree. And just maybe one Isaiah A. Manning promptly called my ass out on it.

"Santa did NOT bring that. That's from Zachy's birthday."

Alrighty then.

Well. Even if y'all don't re-gift. I save all of the bags and tissue paper. I don't think I've bought a gift bag in five years. Dead. Serious.

0_0   ---->  what?

Anywho. What else? Hmmm.

Oh! Did y'all know that tilapia isn't really so good for you? Damn. No wonder it's so cheap. Turns out that the way they are raised on the farm or whatever they get fed a bunch of crap. That crap then makes an already not-so-nutritious fish less so. You know how salmon has the omega 3 fatty acids? Tilapia has some kind called omega 6. Not so good for you, actually. Not horrible. Just not your best choice.

Better choices are things like salmon and tuna.

I used to love salmon but during my first pregnancy I developed a complete aversion to salmon steaks. Ick. Funny thing is that the BHE did, too. I used to hit up Sam's club or Costco and get a big bag of salmon. Now we can't even stand the sight of it. Neither one of us regained our "salmon tooth." Wait. I take that back. I still like salmon croquets and lox. But the steaks -- ickity-ick.

Did that happen to any of you when you were preggers? What about your better half. Or baby-daddy. Take your pick on how that person is described.

What else?

Oh. I went and got a pedicure and the dude working on my foot was obviously new. Like NEW-NEW. It's bad because I'm really secretly sexist with pedicures and don't generally want a dude working on my toes. But the real issue wasn't his Y chromosome but instead the fact that he was new. Very new. Working all slow and nervous-like. And I could tell from the very first moment he sat down. Looking all around for stuff like he was confused.

I'm sayin'. The foot-experience is sacred to me. I find it very relaxing and his newbie-ness was blowing my experience. I thought about asking for another person. Just maybe a lady that had been there more than two minutes. Because I am really thinking I was his first "real" customer.

Then I realized that I am a teaching physician. I remembered that a lot of patients are super gracious with my novice students and so I shut my pie-hole and tried to relax. I kept saying in my head, "See one. Do one. Teach one."

Dude was only one step beyond "see one." So yeah, I chilled and let him. He cut my toenails down waaaay too low but whatever. I meant to tell his attending manicurist to supervise better next time.

What else? Oh this. When I was a medical student I was presenting a patient and said that he had no "dypnea on exertion." My attending promptly lambasted me for pronouncing the 'p' in that word "dyspnea."  For you lay folk, dyspnea means "difficulty in breathing."

So anyways. That attending screamed on me and said, "The 'P' is SILENT! It's DIS-NEE-AAAH!!! Like the way you say PNEUMONIA not P-NEUMONIA, got it????"

And I got it. So much so that I have said it that way ever since.

Until yesterday when just maybe I corrected someone for saying it with a 'p'. And just maybe I slightly lambasted them, too. Albeit with a smile.

Turns out that students now have things like "dictionary.com" and "merriam-webster.com" to immediately check your facts. And. They even can push a button to hear it pronounced. And it is pronounced:

DYSP-NEE-AA.

The 'p' is not EVEN silent.

Awkwaaaaarrrd.

Ha. All I could do was laugh. Which I did and do often. Bwah ha ha.

The lesson there? Uhh, no lesson. I still like saying things loud and wrong instead of soft and right. Ha.

I'm sayin'. This was the least "deep" post ever. And this was my goal.

I hope you have a wonderful day and that you don't develop any dysPnea.

Heh.

*****
Happy Wednesday, party people.

And now, the most random thing ever, this song that is playing on my mental iPod. I blame my friend Psonya for this because she put it in my head today. And now, I've tagged you and put it in yours. (You can thank me later.)

And crown thy good.

"I'm talking 'bout America

Sweet America

God done shed his grace on thee

And he crowned thy good 

(He told me he would)

with-a brotherhood

from sea to 

shining sea."

~ America the Beautiful (as sung by Ray Charles)

 _____________________________

When I walked into the room, I felt it. This palpable heaviness that I couldn't put my finger on. The woman waiting for me in the room was staring straight ahead and didn't even flinch when the door opened.

"Good morning," I spoke quietly.

Her head swung toward my face and she offered a tiny nod. "Good morning," she replied. After that greeting her gaze drifted off to where it had been before I entered the room and her face was an expressionless mask of complex emotion.

For a few moments I simply watched her. Skin of such a strikingly dark hue that it almost appeared black. Dark like night; a shade so uninterrupted and pure that it clearly hadn't originated on this continent. Her delicate hands of that same complexion rested in an idle stack on top of her lap. I nodded back.

"My name is Dr. Manning. I am the senior doctor here today and wanted to come and introduce myself to you. Your doctor told me a lot about you, but I hope you don't mind me speaking with you for a bit."

And to that she nodded again.

This was a straightforward follow up visit. A quick check to make sure that the issues from her last visit were continuing to move in the right direction. I chatted with her briefly about what had transpired before and since that last visit. Next, I did a focused examination with the intern seeing her that morning. Things were well. She looked good. There wasn't much more to do.

But still, there was that heaviness. Not necessarily heavy all over. More heavy like some kind of lopsided down comforter where all of the feathers have gathered in one area. Not necessarily oppressively heavy, but heavy still.

"What questions do you have for us today?" I finally asked.

"Questions? I have none."  Her voice was thick with some kind of accent. Likely peppered by her native African tongue. Each word was careful and formal; almost as if she was consciously translating them word by word from her first language into English. Separated by double-spaces and perfect in their annunciation.

I decided that I, too, should be deliberate about my next words. With her, I also recognized the need to keep things as formal as she which isn't necessarily my style. I followed her lead, but still wanted to know who she was.

"Where did you grow up? Your accent is lovely." I chose that word lovely because it was decidedly formal and also because her accent was just that.

"The Congo."  She cleared her throat and sat up in her chair. Then she looked back at me and waited to see what I had next. It felt like an invitation, so I accepted it.

"I've never been to Africa," I gently replied.

"Africa is beautiful," she quickly interjected. "Full of richness, sounds, nature, life. You must go."

The Congo (National Geographic image)

You must go.

Beautiful and formal and meaningful. Just like her posture and hands and her gaze. Sorting through my words, I chose these next: "You're right. I must."

She smiled for the first time after I said that. Her strong white teeth were so straight that they almost looked like dentures. And seeing them against the midnight of her skin nearly took the wind from my chest.

"What brought you to Atlanta?" Careful. Deliberate. Quiet. Formal.

"Atlanta is in America. I came to America." That answer was loaded. Her face washed over with some fleeting grief. I knew then that this might be part of that heaviness I was feeling in the room.

"I would guess it's been a big change for you." I waited for a second and sifted through my words again. "Have you . . .Do you like being here?"

Uggh. So much for my careful words. That felt dumb the minute it escaped my lips.

"I came through a lottery system. They enter your name and if you are lucky you get the visa and the green card to come and work in America. Everyone wants to come to America. It is the dream."

Loaded again. My intern sat on the footstool of the examining table and listened. I followed her lead and waited for the patient to continue.

"In my country, I had a good job. I worked for a company. Not manual labor or any such thing. But a good job and I could care for my family. My whole family was there and they were so happy when I won this lottery. I came with my two sons to this country in 2008." She sucked her teeth and looked away. Then staring right back at me she said, "I did not win anything. I lost."

Damn. 

I pressed my lips together and looked for the right thing to say. I stopped being careful and decided to just be my normal self. "It wasn't what you imagined?"

"No. Not at all. You come here for this America Dream. The dream that you can be anything and do much more and much better just by coming here. But this America Dream is not what I thought. I know it isn't what anyone in my country thinks."

We sat there riveted, watching her mouth move as her body remained as stiff and formal as before.

"It was better for me at home. Here, I cannot find work. At first, I could. Cleaning jobs, bagging in the Kroger store. But then it got worse. Nothing here for me to do."

"What about your sons? Has it been good for them? Better for them?"

"They were already teenagers. It was hard. They do not look like people here so people were not nice. They came home and said, 'Mam-ee, they treat us like we are aliens from another planet.'" She sucked her teeth hard again and this time rolled her eyes. "And they are smart boys but not A students. So a college scholarship was not there. They are looking for work, too. It is bad. Very bad. And I cannot afford to go back home. No money."

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

"It isn't what they tell you. My country is beautiful. The people work hard and I wish I could go and tell them, 'Appreciate this. Love that this is your homeland and you belong.' That is what I would tell them all."

And so we just sat there in that heavy. Cloaked in the reality of something that I never had to think of. Smothered by those layers of complexity that I initially felt but for which I had now gained insight.

Finally, my intern spoke up. "What will you do?"

And even though that question seemed vague, that patient understood it as the direct question her doctor intended to be. She drew in her chest and straightened her spine once more. And finally with a slow motion blink of her eyes, she paused and then prepared to speak. With that same fiercely searing gaze and her formal staccato English she firmly declared:

"I will survive. It is all I know to do."


And this? This, too, is Grady.

   

"'til all success

be nobleness

and
every gain divine."

***
Happy Tuesday.


Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . .

Road Trip.

One mommy + one daddy + two little stinky boys + nine-and-a-half hours-in-the-car + four different states + lots of snacks + one hard-working DVD player + two Star Wars Clone Wars DVD packs + "thank God you guys are boys so we can just pull over right here" + "Eeeww Harry! Nobody will be 'using a cup until we stop'!" + a whole lot of laughter + a whole lot of singing + a whole lot of talking +  a whole lot of friends + a whole lot of good times =

A whole lot of uninterrupted family time that may not now but likely will later be just one part of a whole lot of wonderful childhood memories.

Which made that crazy-long drive a whole lot of worth it.

***

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . . and bringing back memories of our childhood road trips as a family. Best family road trip song ever.

Stronghold.

Giving up 
is so hard to do
I said I've tried
But it just ain't no use

But my light of hope 

is burning dim

But

But in my heart I pray
That my love and faith in the girl
will bring her back someday

~ from Donny Hathaway "Giving Up."

"Sit down on that chair, hear? What did I say?"

This sixty-something year old woman furrowed her brow and pointed her finger sternly at the two toddlers fidgeting in the chair beside the examining table. A little boy and a little girl -- certainly no older than three and clearly a big handful.

"Gran'mama, I'm hungry!" the little boy whined.

She didn't say anything in response. Instead she reached into her pocketbook and pulled out a little box of animal crackers and opened it up. Next she whipped out a little package of travel tissues and quickly secured one tissue in each hand. Holding both up to each child's nose simultaneously she directed them. "Blow."

*phhhhhttttttthhhhh*

Those little toddlers did just as they were instructed. This grandmama meant business.

I had just stepped into the clinic room with one of the residents when I caught all of this. And honestly? It wasn't exactly unusual to see a patient with children in tow. I kept things light and made a little small talk.

"Hey there, Ms. Ashton. I think we may have met before -- I'm Dr. Manning and I work with your resident doctor." I reached out hand shook her hand even though she'd just had a snot-filled Kleenex in it. "I see you have your grands with you today, huh?"

She made and exaggerated eye roll. "Honey, I got my grands with me every day--y'all stop dropping' all them crumbs all over the place, hear?" The obedient toddlers shifted nervously in that shared seat.

"Are they twins?" I asked. Partly because I was still making small talk but also because I was just curious.

"Mmmm hmmm, chile. And they a handful, too. Sweet little babies, but they a handful for sure. Cain't you tell?"

We all laughed, the resident, Ms. Ashton and me.

"You keep your grandbabies during the day?" I chuckled and reached out for the little girl's hand. It warmed my heart when she let me.

Ms. Ashton grabbed the box of animal crackers and dusted the crumbs off of their laps with her other hand. Her wide hips shook as she swished her hand and caught crumbs into the box. She returned to her chair and let out a sigh. "I keep my grands all the time. They stay with me 'cause my daughter cain't take care of 'em herself."

I widened my eyes and prepared to back off. I cast a quick glance in the direction of my resident because none of this had come up when she'd presented the patient to me. The look on her face suggested that this was news to her, too. I suppose she'd simply assumed that a kind grandmother was watching two of her grandchildren.

"Her mama got a stronghold. Hooked on that crack mess. So the state was gon' take her babies but I said, 'Naw, we don't do that in this family.'"

"Stronghold." Sure, Merriam-Webster has its own meaning for this word, but coming from a Grady elder, I knew exactly what this meant. A stronghold. The term the elders use to describe an addiction or gripping weakness; usually referring to how powerless it renders its victim.

I remembered that woman today. I remembered her not because of the medical problems we treated her for that day but because of our very brief conversation about her daughter. She went on to say a few words about her daughter and her addiction--always referring to it as a "stronghold."

"It's out of your hands. That's the thing about a stronghold. All you can do is love 'em and pray. Getting' mad at 'em don't help nothin'. So you jest love 'em and pray. Other than that it ain't much you can do."

***

This past weekend we went to visit some of our closest friends, Shannon and Michelle, in Virginia. The weekend was full of joy and laughter and memories and all of the things that time with old friends affords. Saturday was full of celebration. Their youngest child, Colin, turned five and we spent the day swirling in kid-centered fun. The night involved sugar-hyped children and dance games on Wii consoles. Wonderfully trapped in the basement where no one could get into much of anything. Which for us grownups meant clinking wine glasses and adult conversations. It was the very best kind of time.

At some point after a few too many laughs and after the Pinot Grigio had just about worn off, a couple of us wild and crazy kids decided that nothing would better than some Dunkin Donuts coffee for the after party. So my friend Nikki G. (who was one of the only ones who'd passed on the Pinot) agreed to drive and off the two of us went on an 8 PM coffee run. On a Saturday night. Which, okay, now that I think of it, sounds like a very lame and forty-and-up thing to do.

But I digress.

Anyways. Here we are all loquacious and happy like some twenty-somethings who are just leaving the club. LOL-ing and OMG-ing. And full of life and vigor and joy as we danced our way into that empty Dunkin Donuts. And, yes, it was totally empty because, as it turns out, America might run on Dunkin but Dunkin Donuts is not EVEN the hot-spot on a Saturday night. At least in Alexandria, Virginia it isn't.

But for me, it was the place to be because I felt light and free and relaxed. My kids were having a great time with great friends in a safe place around people I trust. And at the very same time, Harry and I were, too. The older you get, the more you appreciate these moments. Yes, you do.

So yeah, Nikki and I bust into the spot all giddy and goofy--her just because and me because I'm out of town/away from work/and okay, perhaps with some remnants of Pinot Grigio--and it was a perfect moment. It truly was. I even had on Zachary's Paul Frank monkey hat which made us laugh even more. And that made it just that much more perfect.

"Dude! Since when do they have plasma TVs up in Dunkin Donuts!" I joked. Still laughing and giddy. With my monkey hat on.

But then, just as Nikki prepared to counter my observation, we look up at that screen and see this:

And just like that we stopped laughing. Both frozen in our tracks, staring at this literally sobering news. Because we both knew that this was one of those "where were you" moments. So we just stood there in silence for a few seconds letting it sink in. 

Whitney Houston Dead at 48.

"NO WAY!" I immediately yelled out. 

"WHAT!?" Nikki screeched a mere two seconds later.

CNN. That's reputable. Wait, huh? Whitney? Whitney Houston? Our Whitney? Dead? According to CNN? 

"NO WAY!" 

"WHAT?!" 

And then we just paced back and forth, looking at the flatscreen television and repeating those same words over and over again.  NO WAY! WHAT?!

Then I turned my shock toward the poor, unsuspecting South Asian man behind the counter. "WHAT HAPPENED TO WHITNEY? WHAT DID THEY SAY HAPPENED TO WHITNEY!?" 

And yes. I meant to put it in all caps because I was speaking loudly and was probably being a close-talker to boot. Hearing that Ms. Whitney Houston was no longer alive was disorienting. So much so that I decided that Mr. Dunkin had some kind of hot off the presses information that we hadn't yet learned. I mean, seeing as he is up in there with that flatscreen on CNN all day. 

"YO! What they say happened to Whitney?!" I demanded again. And yes, I meant to write "what they say happened" because honestly? This is exactly what I said. I mean, somebody had just said that Whitney Houston had died. This was no time for standard English.

where I was when I heard

So Mr. Dunkin just shrugged in this weird way that looked partly like he had no idea what I was talking about and partly like he was deeply afraid that this was about to be a stick-up. I believe that my interpretation of that shrug is spot on. 

So we go from pacing to just standing there with our arms folded shaking our heads. Then we both get tearful for a moment as the same images keep showing over and over and over again.

Whitney is dead. No, wait. Whitney Houston--our Whitney Houston--is dead.

That's when that word popped into my head:

"Stronghold."

So apropos, that word. I thought of Whitney Houston's mother, Sissy. I imagined her daughter, Bobbie Christina. I even thought of Oprah Winfrey applauding her big comeback and punctuating it with a two-part episode in her final season. 

Stronghold.

I thought of every single woman who has ever sang a song or wanted to have a big and unforgettable voice and how by definition she had to look up to Whitney Houston. Because regardless of her struggles, her voice was unmatched. 

That voice made her very rich and very famous. But despite her talent and fame and fortune, she wasn't immune to that stronghold. And just like Ms. Ashton said that day, it was nothing her family could do. Hell, it was even too big for Oprah Winfrey herself to love her through. 

Ms. Ashton spoke a good word that day between passing snacks and wiping noses:

"It's out of your hands. That's the thing about a stronghold. All you can do is love 'em and pray. Getting' mad at 'em don't help nothin'. So you jest love 'em and pray. Other than that it ain't much you can do." 

Ain't that the truth.

So today I'm reflecting on Whitney Houston--our Whitney Houston-- and her stronghold. I'm also reflecting on Sissy Houston and Bobbie Christina Brown and every single Sissy and Bobbie who have ever had to stand by helplessly in plain view of their loved one being strangled by some kind of stronghold. 

Because the worst part about it is that it's out of your hands.

A lot of us were disappointed in Whitney. I guess we thought that with a voice like that, that she was superhuman and supposed to do more with her legacy. Seeing her erratic behavior was so hurtful yet we still loved her and accepted this version of her. That's the thing about a stronghold. 

Yes, we loved her and saw her as a golden girl. We wanted a scapegoat  so we even blamed Bobby Brown for a while, but over time it became apparent that she was ill. And even if Bobby sat next to her acting quirky and high on Barbra Walters' show, he still had his own stronghold. And Whitney's belonged to her. 

No, I don't know the specifics of Whitney Houston's cause of death. But I have lived long enough and worked at Grady long enough to know that even if it wasn't specifically related to drugs, it still was. We had waved good bye to the old version of her some years ago. That lanky, confident songstress with the poise of an opera singer and had forced ourselves to get used to this new person in her place. That's the thing about a stronghold. It's like watching a slow death. . . . even before someone dies.

I have seen people escape strongholds. Very few--but I still have. 

I've seen Ms. Ashton a few more times since that first meeting. Every time those grand babies are in tow. And most of the time, we've moved on and chatted about mundane things as if her lost daughter was just "one of those things" that you know of but tried not to think of. But you quietly promise in your heart to pray about it because the love is the part you can't forget.  Even when they're gone. 

Kind of like we did with Whitney all those years.

That's the thing about a stronghold. We hold on, too.

***

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . "Giving Up" by Donny Hathaway. . . .the song that always reminds me of strongholds -- and especially the people loving someone through one. His haunting voice and the musical accompaniment seems like it was recorded for this very moment, I swear. Please. . .please listen to this one,okay? Thanks.