People keep asking me. What do you do for four whole weeks while your kids are out of town? I have lots of one-liners that I use to respond, but the truth is that other than admittedly working a bit too hard (not having to pick up kids can do that to you). . . . There is something else that I always do. Something that I don't get to do when my children are in town.
What's that something, you say? Well, I'll tell you.
It's "things on a whim." Without a plan for a sitter. Last minute getting-together. Longer-than-normal phone conversations. Lazy patio chat-fests over adult beverages all around Atlanta in swanky in-town neighborhoods.
On Wednesday, my friend and former Grady chief resident Julie J-M. texted me.
"What's up with you? I needs me some Kim Manning time!"
And normally that would have meant checking with Harry and kid calendars and such. But it was 3 o'clock in the afternoon and I was done for the day. Neil W. has been covering my in-patient service for the week of intern orientation so I was available. And actually wide open.
So I replied:
"Are you down for Murphy's in the mid-day? A little vino might be keen-o."
To which Jules replied: "Sho to the NUFF!"
We were, like, the only people in there. But that's okay. It didn't stop us from having fun.
We even had coffee afterwards. Julie called it "an upper after a downer." Something about a doctor saying that to another doctor sounded kind of questionable. Ha.
Oh yeah! Julie won her first major teaching award this year from our residents. The Golden Apple Teaching Award at the Atlanta VA Medical Center. I was super, duper proud of her because we go way back like car seats.
So we laughed. We celebrated. We caught up.
We listened to each other. We reflected.
But most of all, we did the thing that makes you your best physician--made sure to have a life. A life outside of patient care and work constraints and deadlines. A life full of rich friendships and full-bodied Malbecs and fighting over who will pay the bill.
I tried to beat her to it, but she was stealthy.
And now I am reflecting on this, one of my favorite things. . . .
This pin reminds me to go "back to the bedside." Always.
Good morning.
I should be getting dressed for work right now but needed to get this out of my head and into this space. Three awesome things happened to me recently with regard to this blog. Thought I'd share.
Yesterday was the second day of our new interns' orientation. Imagine it --a room full of doe-eyed recent medical school grads all gearing up to be paged and referred to as "doctor." Surely they are all scared shitless.
I know I was.
Anyways.
Well. I was sitting in the back of someone's lecture yesterday and at the end this intern comes up to me. He introduces himself and then, in a rather soft spoken voice, explains to me that he was torn between Emory and another program. And that someone suggested he read my blog about Grady Hospital.
"That's how I made my decision--from reading your blog," he said matter-of-factly.
I thought my heart would explode.
I thanked him profusely. He then told me that the person who told him to read my blog was someone from the other excellent program that he was considering. The program director, even. Yes. The profesora in Pittsburgh.
So I must say this:
Profesora? You are like an angel in my life. I cannot imagine not being your friend and trying to navigate being a professional without you in my corner. Thank you for constantly being on my side and reminding me of who I am. Thank you for being a role model and for inspiring me to always go "back to the bedside" with my learners and with myself. Our friendship makes me better -- both personally and professionally.
Next.
Another intern tells me that she was here for a visiting rotation and heard me give a lecture on "Professionalism and Humanism." She said she never stopped thinking about it and found my blog immediately after. Then she simply thanked me for writing it.
Sigh.
Lastly--and wonderful though admittedly less important to me than the aforementioned--I was invited to be a panelist at "BlogHer '12." I have since learned that this is kind of a big deal. Pretty stoked about it, actually.
Yeah, so I'll be in New York for that in August. Kind of exciting, right? Makes me feel so bona fide.
But not nearly as much as what those two interns said.
Sigh.
Okay. That's all for now. I have to go.
Thank you so much for being a part of this community with me. Really.
Today is a beach day and PaPa got us some new swimming trunks but also with a swimming shirt. We went to the store with PaPa and this lady asked if we were twins. And I said, "No, I'm the big brother!" and she just kept on laughing but I don't know why 'cause I wasn't telling a joke.
Mommy? Me and Zachy do NOT look like twins 'specially since I am a whole head taller.
You know what? I think that lady was trying to flirt.
My team was surprised when I named you my F.P. that day.
"Him?"
This is what they said in unison as I narrowed my eyes defensively.
"Yes, him!"
"Him?" my resident repeated for emphasis. "Yes, him. Maaaan. . . .we're down like some kindergartners at nap time!" I threw my head back and laughed at my wittiness. Sure did.
They didn't get that joke. But that's okay because I did.
Nope. They didn't get it or you like I did. In fact, they looked around and shrugged their shoulders because of all the patients we were caring for, having you as my front runner in the F.P. race wasn't exactly what they would have predicted.
Not you.
You weren't a Grady elder (and everyone knows how much I love the Grady elders.)
You weren't super, duper, syrupy sweet.
Your bed wasn't flanked by a family of colorful characters.
You weren't even a wise-cracking, cantankerous grump (also paradoxically favorites of mine.)
Instead, you were mostly buried under your covers when they came to see you, requiring a knuckle to the sternum to even arouse you to be examined. Your treatment required intravenous antibiotics but your limited resources and unstable housing made setting up such a thing at home out of the question. So you hunkered down under a stack of covers where the only thing distinguishing you from a lump of laundry was the active IV line disappearing under that mound.
Certainly not F.P.-worthy at all.
The first day I, too, got "sleepy" you. So groggy from street life that you refused to even sit all the way up for me to examine your lungs. A roll to the side revealing the bony Loch Ness monster-esque humps of your prominent vertebrae. Other than estimating your body fat composition to be less than 1%, that exam was limited and not very helpful.
On day two, you were hidden in covers once again. I tapped your shoulder gently and waited for you to awaken. Nada. Your body was warm and your breakfast tray had been eaten clean. These were reassuring signs of life.
"Hel-looooo. . . Sleeping Beau-teeeee!" My voice was sing-songy and my hand jostled your shoulder ever-so-softly.
Something about that "Sleeping Beauty" line amused you. You peeked one eye at me from under the cover. I could tell from that eye that the icicles were melting.
Now.
What you didn't know is that I've watched more of my share than I should even admit of America's Next Top Model and, see, that one peek-a-boo eye was doing what Miss Tyra Banks calls "smizing" or smiling with the eyes. You know. . .it's when someone's eyes smile without their whole face joining in.
Kind of like this:
This actually looks like more of a smolder, but it is what I got when I Google-imaged "Tyra Banks smizing."
Anywho.
So yeah. Smizing. That's what you were doing. That.
So I called you out on it. "You think it's funny that I called you 'Sleeping Beauty?'"
And you smized some more, this time showing the other eye, too.
"I see you smizing at me. Come on and wake up so I can see about you."
And something about me using Miss Tyra Banks' lingo made you laugh all the way out loud. It would be the first of many big, fluffy laughs I'd share with you during this hospitalization. You pulled back the blankets and told me that you were a "closet Top Model fan," to which I responded, "Shhhh. . . me, too." That made you laugh even louder. Next we agreed that Miss Tyra could be rather irritating and that the show took a turn for the worse four or five cycles ago. We both admitted that we'd stopped watching it back then.
But not before we learned of what it meant to "smize."
Ha.
So every morning, we'd start by smizing at each other--you from under the covers and me with my hands over my face. Then I'd examine you and we'd crack some jokes and teach each other some things. Like the day I asked you why you always referred to Tyra Banks as "Miss Tyra Banks" instead of just "Tyra." You told me that this is what "the children" call divas like her and then you clarified that "children" were young, black same-gender-loving brothers like yourself. You also told me that "kids" could be used this way, too.
But mostly by "kids" and "children" only.
Oh yeah and others who got the "Miss" title from the children were:
Miss Beyonce Knowles Miss Diana Ross (Yaaaaaassss!) Miss Patti LaBelle
and of course Miss Aretha Franklin, honey.
Yeah. So every day it got better and better. And our smizes got sillier and sillier. Broadway hands and all that.
It was awesome. And downright hilarious. Which was welcomed since you were stuck in the hospital for so many days.
All that smizing sealed your place as my F.P. Hands down.
"How'd you get so chummy with him?"
That's what one of the interns asked me after we left your room on rounds a few days later. He'd heard us ribbing each other and yucking it up so much that he wanted in on our secret.
So against my better judgement I told him all about Miss Tyra Banks and the "smize."
And, of course, he didn't get it. At all.
But that's okay, though. Because you did.
Man. I love this job.
***
Happy Wednesday. From Miss Kimberly Manning, honey!
Lesley M (my fellow closet-ANTM fan) . . . .this is especially for you. . . ha ha ha. . .
Every morning when we get up here, PaPa makes us do some book-reading. Every morning no matter what. Before swimming, TV or any 'lectronics.
Isaiah can read chapter books and today it a little bit felt like he was showing off. But that's okay because I am only going to the kinner-garten and he is going to the whole second-grade. So I don't care if he can read a chapter book.
PaPa said I'm a good reader 'specially to be going to kinner-garten. But you know what? By the time I'm going to the whole second-grade I told PaPa that I'm gonna be able to read the Harry Potter books.
Oh man. I've been working hard. And a lot. I need a good random post to blow off some steam. Nothing deep. Nothing heavy. Just a few--okay maybe more than a few--monumentally unimportant things swirling in my head (outside of medicine) right now.
Here we go.
It is summertime in Georgia. So you know what that means? It means that the giant palmetto bugs aka ginormous cockroach bugs have come up from underground to scare the crap out of those who fear bugs.
Before you say it I know that they are technically in the cockroach family. But calling them that 1. scares me and 2. mistakes them for the tiny, icky ones that infest people's homes. The big flying palmetto bugs don't usually infest. But they do manage to get indoors whether you like it or not. And I agree that you mostly see them outside. But. I don't care how clean you keep your home or how excellent your pest control service is--if you live in the sho' nuff South, you WILL have the bejesus scared out of you at some point by one of these suckers. Yikes.
Dude. Depending upon where you live--they just might FUH-LYYYY! Not. Even. Kidding. Fortunately, when I left Tuskegee, Alabama I left the flying variety. But the first time I encountered a flying, ginormous cockroach after growing up in Los Angeles? I went to the nearest pay phone on my dorm hall and called my parents.
"Must. Come. Get. Me."
(They never did.)
Big. I'm talking big-big. Some are big enough to lean against a wall and speak to you in a low husky voice. Saying, "You mind turning some AC on up in here? And giving me a light for this cigarette?"
0_0 ---------> "AAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!"
Oh, you didn't know? The ones here talk. Sure do.
Which reminds me.
Maaaaaan. I was at this kid gathering and me and a bunch of moms got to talking about the giant palmetto bugs of the southern United States. So I say, "It freaks me out when those things get into my house! Yuck!" And this mama (who fortunately wasn't a good friend of mine) looks over at me and says, "Hmmm. I see them occasionally outside but I've never seen one inside of my home, thank goodness."
0_o
Can I please tell you what I was SCREAMING inside of my soul at that moment?
"CHILE PLEASE!! LIAR! LIAR! PANTS ON FIRE!"
But I didn't. Instead I just gave her the hairiest sideways eyeball e-ver.
Uuuuhhh, yeah. Okay.
The kids are away at Camp PaPa so that means some grown up time for me and the BHE. What does that mean? Hmmmm. It means holding hands and making all sorts of plans. It means chilling on patios at swanky Atlanta restaurants sipping adult beverages. It means being able to oblige someone when they invite you somewhere at the last minute.
But, of course, you know what it mostly means, right?
SLEEP.
Deep, luscious sleep. The kind you get on a honeymoon or while you're waiting for anesthesia to wear off of you. Nobody busting in doing the pee-pee dance at three AM.
Which reminds me:
What's up with little kids feeling the need to announce all forms of body evacuation? Mine do go independently but they always, always have to tell me first. And not because I told them they must. They just do. Especially at three AM.
What else?
I was watching the O.W.N. network last night. I was watching and thinking, "As much as I love me some Oprah, I can't believe that I have watched this channel only like. . .negative two times since it came on."
Look. In Atlanta, the O.W.N. network is on channel 131. Which, if you ask me, is extra random. I would think that someone like Oprah could have snagged a better channel. In fact, one of the radio personalities here said it should be called the "On-your-OWN" channel since it's so damn hard to find.
Heh.
Yesterday this patient said to me -- NOT KIDDING -- "I think cellulite is a kind of sexy. Just a little bit. Not a whole, whole bunch of it but just a little is kinda sexy."
0_o
And let's just be clear -- the context was Kim Kardashian who was strutting her stuff on the channel he was watching with his girlfriend. The girlfriend says, "She got cellu-LEET!" And that is when he made that statement about low-grade cellulite being "kind-of-sexy."
Mmmm hmmm. He sure did.
I looked at that twenty-something year-old girl and told her, straightest face ever:
"I suggest you marry him A-S-A-P."
Ha.
She wrinkled her nose and told me that "she don't have no cellulite." To which I quickly retorted, "Aaaaah, but sweetheart you will. Trust me on that--I'm a doctor." And we all laughed out loud.
Hmmm what else?
Damn, I love coffee. It's such an experience. People who don't drink coffee--do you have any idea what you're missing? My Grady bff, Lesley M., does not drink coffee. Neither does her husband. This perplexes the hell out of me. No . . . coffee in the morning?
*thump*
Just fainted at the thought of it.
Harry was watching a special with George H.W. and Barbara Bush on HBO yesterday. From the special, they seem nice enough. But my thoughts when pausing to watch this had nothing to do with red states, blue states or politics (which the special had little to do with either.) Instead, I was left with this monumentally unimportant thought: What is UP with Barbara Bush looking so, so, so, so, so much older than her husband???? It's more than just the grey hair. She really looks like she could be his mama. No, for real.
Is that mean? Yikes. Sorry.
I'm sure it wasn't always that way for her. At least, I hope not. This just made me hope that the BHE and I age at a similar pace. Looking like you could be your husband's mom is not like " a little bit of cellulite." In other words, it's not kind of sexy--at all.
Dude!
I made some microwave popcorn the other day that had a hole in the bag. In case you didn't know, the whole thing burns and smokes when that happens. It smells so extremely horrible and sets your smoke alarms all off. This was especially bad because Harry wasn't home so when he walked in he was like, "WHAT THE EFF?!?"
I said, "Oh you didn't see my text? I told you I tried to burn down the house with some microwave popcorn."
His reply:
0_0
Oh! And I almost forgot. We had a great time on Father's Day. As soon as I got home from rounding, we went to lovely restaurant in an awesome revitalized neighborhood in Atlanta. Then we went over to this area called Atlantic Station and walked around a bit followed by some excellent people-watching. And let me tell you, people: People-watching with Harry is hilarious. Hilarious, I tell you.
And lastly, a random YouTube commercial that made me laugh out loud.
These are the important things I look at when I'm not stamping out disease at Grady.
Yawn.
I guess I'll go to work now. That was fun. Hope you day is, too.
***
Happy Monday.
Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . because sometimes this is all I want to do.
I just figured something out. If I look up at my PaPa with my eyes really, really big then he will give me 'zactly what I want. Like some cookies for breakfast. Or some Skittles before dinner. One time he let me put whip cream in my mouth just 'cause.
It's going to be a great summer.
Love,
Zachary, Age 20 months
P.S. I am telling you in case you want something from him later.
Here's the thing. The only the thing that could make me love this man more than I already do is watching him father our sons. Because this man? This man is a kick ass father.
Kick. Ass.
What does that mean? It means that he participates fully and willingly in their lives. That means everything from giving baths and clipping fingernails to building Legos and coaching teams. It means teaching them to ride bikes and answering their questions and not watching what he wants to watch on television because they're in the room and just maybe whatever it is he wants to watch isn't for their eyes. No one has to coax him or guilt him into being in the mix. And he doesn't care what anyone has to say when it comes to putting his family first. Harry sets standards for them to live up to and works himself harder than any person I know because--to quote him-- "They deserve to have a legacy."
And.
He loves me right in front of them every single day. With meaning. With authenticity. With intention. And me? I'm all about that. Loving with meaning, authenticity and intention no matter who you are or who you love. Or where you are.
You know? Loving like you mean it and making the necessary sacrifices to be who you promised to be sends a mighty message to children. Mightier than anything you can buy or say.
And the B.H.E. does all of those things. Not perfectly. But with perfect imperfection.
Yes. I know that having this is no guaranteed thing. I do. So I'm so, so grateful.
So very.
That's all I got. That and some well-wishes to any other fathers that might be reading this.
Oh, and one more thing. . . Harry? I hope you know--they already have a living legacy in you.
Today Papa took us to the Redondo Beach pier which, in case you didn't know, is on a real ocean. This reminds me--why don't we have the real ocean in Atlanta? Papa says that they call this "land-locked." Somebody needs to unlock Atlanta before we get back.
Love,
Isaiah, Age 7.
P.S. Zachary ordered a Sprite at the IHOP today. Even though you don't let us have soda. But I didn't. That's all.
**** Get the background on Camp Papa here. Happy Father's Day, Papa!
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?
