Watching them sleep remains one of my favorite pastimes. First I hover and just watch. Then I lean in and inhale, taking in the scent of their skin, their hair and that little boy smell that lingers if it was too late for a bath. Reflexively, I plant kisses all over them. Forehead, cheeks, forearms, hands, fingertips. They shift a bit and eyes flutter. Then settle back down.
Shhhhhh.
I whisper, "Do you know how much you are loved? So loved. So cherished. I love you, I love you, I love you."
Bodies squirm but then go back into a content slumber.
At some point in the night, I sneak in and do it again. And just maybe again.
My goal is to let them sleep while it is time to sleep. And to protect them from things that go bump in the night or things that make people scream during the day.
Look who took a field trip down to The Gradys today?
Tounces, the driving Mom!!
How cute is it to give a lecture and have YO' MAMA come to watch you? AND she was cheesing all big and proud the whole time--just like this. OMG. How cute is she?
No. Seriously. How cute is she?
Don't even try to tell me that you've seen anything more adorable than this today. Because I will tell you that you are lying.
Mmm hmmm.
And look how festive she looks! All holiday cheery and all.
Love it. Love her.
You know what? I just realized something. No matter how grown you get, having your parent at your holiday program just never gets old. It does not.
Zachary last week at his Holiday Program.
And okay. Maybe this wasn't my holiday program but still. I got to give a lecture at my job today with mother watching. And I could tell that it was making her acutely proud.
God, I love my husband. I do because he absolutely loves me for me and puts up with every single drop of my crazy.
Yes.
He is also treated to my awesomeness. But y'all already knew that. Ha.
Anyways. A couple of weeks ago I was having a bad day. Still reeling from this new normal and trying to manage not only myself but the life things that still keep happening regardless of what else is going on. Getting kids here and there. Trying not to look impatient as new readers read books to me and channeling patience while completing projects. All in the backdrop of a whole bunch of other swirling things like work and planning services and paying bills.
Yeah.
I usually don't have bad days. But the reason why this day was kind of bad-ish was actually a little simpler than you'd think. It wasn't the every day minutia, really. And honestly, though gut-wrenching, it wasn't the new normal logistics either. It was the combination of those things with one seemingly unimportant little thing.
I needed a haircut.
Yep.
Horrible, I know. But in all of this upheaval, I had missed my appointment to see Sakinah not once, but twice. It certainly wasn't because she hadn't been trying to accommodate me. As a matter of fact, she called, texted, and even had others do the same. Telling me that she'd even come to my house if I needed her to--a simple offer that I will never, ever forget.
Anyways. That morning, I washed my face and looked at myself in the mirror. My hair was unruly, puffy and just. . . . yeah. So at that very moment, I picked up my phone and texted Sakinah, asking if she could fit me in that day.
"Of course," she replied. "Just call whenever you are ready."
And that was great. So my plan was to go in the afternoon because I'd had a little extra time after lunch. All I needed to do was get in and out before it was time to pick up the boys from after school care, so I figured it would be fine.
After lunch I started doing some work. One thing led to another and next thing I knew it was three o'clock. Sakinah is pretty fast, so I figured all would be well. I gave her a quick call and she was easygoing as always. "Come at around four. I should be ready for you then," she told me.
The salon is very close to Grady. So, in my procrastinating head, I had planned to slide in there at about 3:15 and escape by five-ish to go and scoop the boys. "Around four" was a curveball--though not an unreasonable one--that would mess up my plans.
Grrr.
Since the BHE has been working on this new business venture, I wanted to avoid asking him to leave work early because of my . . . uhh. . .hair. So I just sat there in my office. Rubbing my hand over my woolly head of hair and feeling myself getting fretful.
That's when my cell phone rang.
"Hey babe. Just checking on you."
It was Harry. And for whatever reason, the minute I heard his voice, I broke down and started crying. Hard.
"What is it, babe? You okay? What happened?"
"I . .. I . . .I just need to get my hair done. I do. I just. . . ." and I dropped my head into my hand and shook it because I knew it sounded ridiculous.
"Did you call Sakinah? Why can't you get your hair done? Should I call for you?"
"No. . .she can take me at around four. . . .but . . .I just need. . . this is so stupid, I know. . . I just need a haircut and a relaxer and it takes time and. . . .I just. . " "What?" he asked.
"I won't be done in time to get the boys from after school care." Then I held the phone away from my face because I was going into an ugly cry. And I knew how ridiculous I sounded. That made me cry even more.
Harry stayed quiet for a bit. Then he said, "I'll get the boys. Get your hair done, babe."
"No. You need to be at the restaurant. And you need to do the things you need to do to keep the lights on in our house. My hair doesn't keep lights on."
He chuckled. "Yes, it does. When you look good, you feel good. It's hard to do things well when you don't feel good. It's okay, babe. I got you."
He's got me.
I felt this big plume of relief blow out of me. Because he got me--and he gets me. Me. My hair. And all of my crazy that's been swirling inside of this new normal.
"The afterschool time is hardest for you, huh?" His voice was gentle.
I thought for a moment and then answered. "Yeah. It kind of is."
Deanna picked up the boys every day from after school care. So I didn't have to rush because she was always there. There were things I got to do and finish up and not worry about and my kids got to sit at the table and learn cool things every night--all thanks to her. But even more than all of that, I got to see her when I got home. I got to see her.
So, yeah. After school time is hardest. It is.
"It's okay. Go and get your hair done. And get a manicure or whatever it is you get at the nail shop, too. Take a minute, okay? I'm cool."
And he was. So I did. I took that minute. I sure did.
When I walked through the door that evening, Zachary looked at me from the kitchen table and said, "You look good, Mommy!"
Harry just smiled and added, "Yeah. Mommy is hot."
Come with me my love To the sea, the sea of love I want to tell you How much I love you
Do you remember when we met? That's the day I knew you were my pet I want to tell you How much I love you
Come with me To the sea, of love
Do you remember when we met That's the day I knew you were my pet I want to tell you How much I love you
Come with me To the sea, of love
Do you remember when we met That's the day I knew you were my pet I want to tell you How much I love you
I want to tell you How much I love you I want to tell you How much I love you
~ Originally performed by Phil Phillips
***
This is just a great song. Sure. The lyrics are pretty simple. And somebody is being called a "pet" as a loving affirmation. But still. Who can argue with a dude who's inviting you to a sea of love?
Not me.
Yep. This is a great song if you ask me. And the only thing better than a great song is a great remake of a great song. I love this mullet-ociously delicious version by Robert Plant in the post-Led Zeppelin days. Complete with this one-hit wonder group called . . . wait for it. . . .The Honeydrippers. So, so 1980's corny.
I love it.
And what can I say? Since my reference in an earlier post to all of the people who came to support our family over the past few weeks as a "sea of love" I haven't been able to shake this song from my mental iPod. Now you won't be able to either. (Or Robert Plant's mullet.)
*You're welcome.*
***
Go mullets. Happy Monday, y'all.
Mr. Plant and the Honeydrippers circa 1982 . Y'all don't know nothin' 'bout this!
And Mr. Phillips singing the original circa 1958. Good times, man.
First. A quick picture of Zachary who lost one of his front teeth while I've been here in California. Is it normal that this made me cry? Look at mommy's moo-moo-ski looking like a big boy! Le sigh.
Second.Elizabeth, even though we didn't meet while I was home, I was thinking of you a lot since you're here in Los Angeles. Next time, I really want to plan to meet for real because you're awesome.
For reals.
Third and last. And the reason for this post:
Just a quick update to those who've email subscribed via the non-working Feedburner. I have done my very, non-technical best to import all of your email addresses into a different subscriber service. I'm using MailChimp -- I have no idea how it will go so don't get too excited. (I am kind of proud of myself, though.) Please holla back and let a sista know if you get here via the subscription I sent. It looks like you'll have to click the link to actually link to the posts, but still, for those who prefer an email, this will hopefully work.
Hopefully.
Fingers, like, super-crossed. And don't forget to hit me back and let me know if this works.
Woot! Woot! (Oh, that's just me celebrating in advance and thinking positive. Because that's what I do.)
The second and final part of our Deanna's Life Celebration is behind us now. And now that the dust is settling on all of these gatherings, can I just say this? It was beautiful. All of it. Every piece. Every part of it.
And now, for those who were there only in spirit, I've gathered my wits enough to bring you there. Sorry I don't have many pictures. Let's just agree that me walking around the services with my iPhone snapping photos might have been slightly awkward. But I will admit that some part of me wanted to. Mostly for all of you. And also for me to look at later and remember.
But don't worry. I captured a lot of images in my head and saved them all in my mental iPhoto library.
Yep.
Okay. So while it's all fresh in my head, I'm ready to take your hand and walk you through it. Especially those who couldn't be there physically. Or those who were there but, for whatever reason, weren't there in the way they wanted to be. Because that happens sometimes.
But.
Chronicling all of this is also for me. Because those who've read here for some time know the answer I always give when people ask me why I started this blog--those words I stole from Toni Morrison when she was asked why she wrote "The Bluest Eye": "So I could read it."
Yeah. That. Still. But so you can, too. (If you want, that is.)
So where to start? I'll break this into two parts and start with Atlanta.
Part of the sea of love
All of our family was there. Aunties, uncles, cousins, play cousins and all of those friends who've now become family. Including several of our over thirty-some-odd first cousins. Many of whom have aged unbelievably gracefully and who embody that old adage "black don't crack." My two "big cousins" pictured below--Heather and Shari Lyn--are both well into their fifties.
Seriously? Seriously.
First cousins
Whoops. I digress.
Yeah, so my point was that the family was there in full force. That includes the children. We knew they had to be there because they needed this just as much as we did. They smiled and wept and smiled again and wept again right along with all of us. They played with their cousins and hugged waistlines.
Man. I'm so glad that we didn't keep them away. So, so glad. In fact, it never crossed our minds to do that. Which reminds me. Can I just pause to say what a tremendous blessing it is for them to have been SO close to a family member who isn't a parent or a grandparent? So much so that they'd emote over their loss in such strong and open ways as all of these children? Just. Wow.
You know? Each one of those kids has their own, separate memories of their own, separate relationship with Deanna. And you know what's even better? Every member of "the six pack" is old enough to carry those memories into their adulthood. All the way down to six year-old Zachary.
Ahhh. Yet another provision.
Dang. Just digressed again. So where was I? Oh. Atlanta.
Yeah.
So . . . . in Atlanta, we started out with our Delta Sigma Theta ritualistic homegoing celebration. This final act of sisterly love in our sorority was surely the part I personally worried about the most. At least from a potential-for-emotional-breaking-down-and-ugly-crying standpoint.
Whew.
See, Deanna was so, so active and committed to our sorority that this--the process of seeing her transition into that celestial chapter of Deltas who've gone before us--was going to be a lot. Plus Deanna always found those ceremonies to be super moving. The last one I'd attended was with my sister and she wept and wept. Even before we got to the sadder parts. "It's just the beauty and symbolism of it that always gets me," she once said. So I already knew that being in a room with all of these voices lifting up into the sky at once--in shared love for both Deanna and our beloved Delta Sigma Theta--would be hard.
So was it? Uh. . . that would be a solid "fo sho."
Ha ha. But mostly it was beautiful, that part. It was. You know? I walked in and felt okay. I was struck when I looked around and saw the sea--and I do mean sea--of Deltas assembled in that room. Over 400 of them. For Deanna.
Hold up. For Deanna?
Damn.
It was too much. The wind flew out of my chest and my mouth just fell open to cry but nothing came out. Every single wonderful memory of us and all that we'd shared as Delta sisters and also biological sisters came pressing down onto me. I felt my legs getting wobbly but before I could even think of falling, my linesisters jumped from their seats to surround me. They wrapped me in a big circle of love and let me know it would be okay. Rubbing my face and holding my head. Standing by me as a sister should. And you know what? They sat right there with me through that whole ceremony. Ebony and Joy and Marra and Crystal and so, so many more.
The ceremony is open to the loved ones who aren't Deltas, too. So others got to witness our sisterhood and I think that would make Deanna happy. At one point, JoLai became very emotional and my linesister Marra flew over to her side so fast that it defied even lightning.
So, yeah. My linesisters were amazing. Over twenty of my own sands were flanking me, standing by as their sisters' keepers. My #6, Falona, even flew in from Denver, Colorado--all the way to Georgia. Denver, Colorado, y'all!
And all of that? All of them being there with us and me and seeing about my babysister and holding me up meant the world. The world.
Aaah. All I could think of was my sissy's words -- "the beauty and the symbolism of it."
Yes. Yes. And yes.
Those Delta women marched in looking so regal, y'all. I felt my heart swelling at the sight of all of the love represented by the ceremony participants. And lucky us, a lot of special people in our lives just happen to be Deltas, too, so they were in the key parts.
People like Deanna's best childhood friend since fifth grade--our soror, Deborah. Like my best childhood friend since second grade, Kimivette B., whose Delta letter Deanna personally wrote. And our college friend, Sharon P. who pinned Deanna when she became a Delta and the one who wrote her letter. There was Stacy B., the dear, dear soror-friend that originally met Deanna over the internet but later came to be one of her very best in-real-life friends, too. Then there were all the members of our current chapter--Stone Mountain-Lithonia Alumnae Chapter. Royce and Bev and Crystal and Simone and Toni and too many to even count. They sang and served and loved and celebrated.
They sure did. Beautifully. Symbolically. In the way that moved Deanna the most.
Yeah.
So the very next hour was the celebration of life for everyone. Man. Person after person flooded in to join the sea of Deltas already assembled in the fellowship hall. Y'all. There were easily over a THOUSAND people there. In celebration of Deanna. In support of our family. Collectively. Individually. And you know? All of y'all were there, too. In spirit, I know that you were.
So yeah. It was like a sea of love. A sea of love! For real.
Okay, so we'd be here all day if I listed all the special faces who came. Old friends, new friends, coworkers, medical students, Grady doctors, and many, many more. My dear, dear Grady wonder-twin, David M., surprised me by coming from Philadelphia to celebrate with us. And y'all already remember how bad I showed out when he left Grady and Atlanta! Ha. (I won't even go into how much seeing him meant to me because it will make me do the ugliest of ugly cries, complete with snot bubbles.)
So yeah, that was great. Seeing all of those people, that sea of love. That, too, was beautiful and symbolic.
And the speakers.
My big brother started us off and man, I didn't envy him. He had to go right after the photo montage--whew! But Will did great. He sure did. Sure, he got a bit choked up, but then he locked eyes with his sweetheart Fran. She coached her man to go on and he shook it off and honored our sister as the sibling who knew her the longest. He sure did.
When he came off stage, he had a moment. Frannie stood to embrace him and he cried such a pure cry in her arms. That was hard to see. But you know what? The most endearing thing happened next. When Will sat down, Isaiah leaned forward and looked at his uncle. Harry was between them and Will cast those tear-filled eyes right back on his nephew. Isaiah, in his old soul way, simply extended his hand toward my brother. Without one word. According to Will, the moment that Isaiah closed his little hand around his, clamped down and held my brother's gaze was divine. It was something he said he'll never, ever forget.
Sigh. That boy. He's been here before, I tell you.
Next. Beautiful words came from our sorority sister, Beverly, who even brought some of the cute baby things Deanna had crocheted for her twin baby girls. One of the members of Deanna's book club, Tijuana, also shared some beautiful reflections. That was awesome, too.
Ha. I'd be remiss if I didn't mention our very, very dear college friend-turned-family member, Bert D., and his absolutely unforgettable part. Bert, being his absolutely eloquent (and unpredictable) self, started with a poignant proverb. Next, he launched into a formal resolution-proclomation-thingie from our alma mater, Tuskegee University. So yeah. That part was really cool.
But that ain't the memorable part. Ha ha ha.
Dude. How 'bout Bert finished up with the story of his thirtieth birthday where he (crazily) decided to take thirty shots of Jack Daniels. Of course, you might imagine that this celebratory plan was fraught with peril. Well. When Bert fizzled out at a respectable shot #22, Deanna stepped in and took shots 23 through 25, then enlisted others for shots 26 through 29. She handed the glass back to Bert, who took shot #30. So yeah. Bert tells this story and you know? It was all good because we all knew and loved Deanna and knew that, even though we weren't there, that all parts of this sounded accurate and very much Dee.
Then this: Bert reaches into his blazer, pulls out a half pint of Jack -- and then a shot glass. He then commenced to pour a shot into said shot glass, held it up and declared, "And this shot is for Deanna!" Sure did. Right down the hatch, right then and there.
Let me tell you -- there is NO person who would have found this more amusing and entertaining than Deanna LaShaun Draper! Ha ha ha. And let me just add to this imagery by telling you that the previously crying Will stood to his feet and applauded that shot.
Man. What can I say? It was just that kind of celebration, y'all.
Yes. We were in church. But I dug it when the officiant said, "Hey ain't nothing wrong with a little communion!" Ha. Now that's what I'm talking about.
Bet y'all ain't never seen anybody take a shot of JACK at a homegoing. No. You. Have. Not.
The BHE says that it was one of the best things he's ever seen.
Ever.
Anyways.
"The Middles"
Then came Will's daughter, Gabrielle, who bravely spoke to that giant ocean of people about her cherished auntie. She's the third of the other Draper four, and, like me, is the middle daughter. She was unbelievable and so poised. Man. There was not a single dry eye in that piece. Not a one. Even the BHE broke down, and y'all know that dude cries only once per decade.
My favorite part was when she said this:
"My Auntie Kimberly told me that as the middle children we have to be stronger for those older than us and those younger than us. I believe that I'm doing that right here, right now."
We were all so proud of her. Her Auntie JoLai came up with her and held her hand while she spoke. She had one little sun shower, but with JoLai beside her she quickly pulled it together. She sure did.
Deanna used to say:
"If it ain't your spiritual gift to be singing, you need not be singing, okaaaaay?"
Then she'd give this mischievous giggle. And that always came after someone got up and tried to sing a song that should have been blending into the choir instead.
So yeah. I passed that sentiment on. And the singers? Un-freaking-believable. They couldn't just sing. They could SANG. Stomp yo' foot, clap yo' hands, shout hallelujah SANG, too.
Lawd.
This is just one of the lovely songs that one of our sorors sang. And did I mention that every song was sung by our sorority sisters? Even a Delta chorus sang--and boy, did they SANG.
Oh! I almost forgot. JoLai and Daddy gathered a bunch of photos and I made a video that really captures her essence. Admittedly, that made us all a little misty. That's what poor Will had to speak behind.
Yep.
Mom and Dad asked me to give the eulogy. Or "not-eulogy" as I call it because "eulogy" is one of those words like "funeral" that make my parents feel sad. So yeah. That's the last time I'll say that word here. So what I did was the part that spent more time celebrating her through words.
Yeah. That.
And you know what? I felt so happy to publicly honor my sister this way. I mean, I have given talks all over the place, taught in hospitals and classrooms for years and stood before both live audiences and massive televised ones -- but somehow I knew that this would be one of the most important speeches I'd ever give in my life. Like, perhaps every bit of public speaking ever was leading up to this one moment in time.
Hmm. I'm going to put that thought on a post-it note in my head for later.
Anyways. My point is that I didn't feel sad. I felt blessed and grateful to have her in my heart and to have known her. My sister. My Ruth. I could stand up and tell a sea of people about her like it was some sermon on the mount. Introducing her to those who didn't know her and uplifting the ones who did. That made me feel more glad than sad. It did.
Plus, she always liked me to speak and often made me do things for her committees, etc. for sorority functions. Ha ha. I guess that made me feel stronger, too, because I knew I'd have her blessing. I knew I needed to do this the right way and in a way that would please Deanna more than anyone else.
Well, I take that back. I wanted to please Deanna and my parents, too. Because in all of this, that has been paramount to me. Seeing about them and making sure that all of this was okay with them.
Yeah.
So with a smile on my face that was genuine and not forced, I told that room of people about Deanna. And since she loved my blog and especially the "top ten" posts, I distilled it into "The Top Ten Things I Know For Sure About My Sister Deanna." Indexing those things was therapeutic and uplifting. And funny. Because that was my sister. Funny. Fun. Joyful. Giving. (And the kind of person that would inspire somebody to take a shot of Mr. John Daniels in the pulpit.)
Ah hem.
Zachary kept giving me these super eager thumbs ups from his seat on the front row every time I caught his eye. And Isaiah ran up to me to give me a huge hug when I finished. He said right in my ear, "Mommy, you did really, really good and I know Auntie would be proud of you."
Yeah. That boy. He's been here before, I tell you.
Maybe I'll make a post of what I shared that day. It would make a kick ass top ten, now that I think about it. But I promise that it will be for another time because this post is already ridiculously, oppressively long. Ha ha.
Oh well.
Did I mention? Grandmama was there. Ninety years old and right there seeing about her own baby, my mama. That was a hard sight. It was because what could be more unnatural than making it to your tenth decade and living to see a grandchild go before you? Now that? That's just effed up and all out of order. So that was rough to see.
But.
My grandmama is a strong lady. Super, duper strong. And after ninety plus years, Grandmama understands the circle of life better than anybody. And you know? She was peaceful. Really, really peaceful the whole time. I suppose her peace made us all feel a little more of the same.
At least it did for me.
I know you want to know about my parents and how they are. They are doing surprisingly well. I love that they're transparent about their feelings and that we're all just grieving in our own ways. We're loving on each other and sharing and just doing the things that families do.
And the kids? They are resilient like kids are. They are talking about Deanna and crying when they feel sad and laughing when they feel happy. They speak of her like the force she was and always will be in their lives. Fearlessly and without trepidation. Things like, "Auntie taught me how to crochet this scarf" or "Auntie would be mad if she saw you walking around with your shoelaces untied! Tie your shoe!"
And I love that. So much. I do.
So that day, like most days with Deanna, was a day of love. I'm so glad that you got to take my hand and be there. I promise to come and pick you up for the California one, too, okay?
Oh. And keep on thinking of us and praying for us, okay? We will still need that. And to every person that felt a scab of their own getting unroofed when this happened -- because they either lost a sibling themselves or another dear loved one -- know that I'm thinking of you, too. Because you know and I know that the heart makes room for joy, pain, sunshine and rain. Our own and that of others, too. All at the same time even. It always does if we let it.
I love y'all. Man. I sure do.
***
Happy Sunday. And here is the video--because that's part of you being there, too.One of the last pictures of Isaiah captures the way he looked at his Uncle Will. (You might have to make it full screen because I couldn't figure out how to make it fit when I embedded it.) VENI, VIDI, VICI: CELEBRATING DEANNA! from Kimberly Manning on Vimeo.
And this, one of the solos sung by one of our sorors who indeed has a spiritual gift for singing.
Pain in our own lives does not make us immune to it in others' lives. Just as joy in our lives shouldn't either.
We are aware. We are confused. We are saddened. Even as we are here in California to prepare for a second memorial service for our own loved one, still, we are all of those things. Just as the heart makes room to love many people, it also makes room for us keep our joy, pain, sunshine and rain all at once. The heart is an amazing thing.
Mental illness sucks. So does grief magnified by an image of fear. Fear in the eyes of the person you lost and love. Man. I am recognizing right now that, despite our own pain, that it's surely exponentially worse to have to contend with extra things like that, too.
See this?Now this is just so fucked up that there's nothing more to even say on it. And yes. It deserved that f-bomb because that's exactly what it is.
This is when faith is hard. Yes, I still have mine. I do. But the part that makes this all hurt even more is that someone who was holding onto theirs by a tiny thread might officially let go now. That sucks, too.
And no. I'm not trying to open up a complicated faith discussion over this so please don't mistake it for that. It's just what's on my mind and what I am pushing around in my own head.
Oh, that husband of mine. You know how much I love him already. Sure. I call him the "BHE" because, to me, he is the best husband ever. He's a great dad, a great son, a great brother, and a great friend, too. He sure is.
He's also easy on the old eyeballs. Ah hem.
But y'all! Have I told you about what a kick ass business man he is? I can't remember. Have I? Well. If I haven't then let me just take a minute to right that wrong. And if I have then, dammit, it bears repeating. Because I think we should always be quick to tell it on the mountain when we love someone and when we're proud of them. Don't you?
Yeah.
(That's the bad ass BHE up front)
So check it. I may have told you about how Harry used to be in the military. He enlisted in the U.S. Army as a college freshman and has the G.I. Bill to thank for his higher education. Harry was actually on a career military trajectory but decided to take an honorable discharge around the ten year mark. I mean, this dude had become Ranger-qualified (think super, duper bad-ass Black Hawk Down) and was a part of the Old Guard (think hard core, stern-faced dudes marching in during inauguration and at The Tomb of the Unknown Solider.) Yeah. So. . . .that's kind of a big deal.
It kind of shocked the Army folks when he decided not to re-enlist at the decade point. But those who'd known him for years weren't surprised.
At all.
Case in point:
When the BHE was nine years old, he asked his parents for. . . .wait for it. . . a snowblower for Christmas. That was what he wanted as his "big gift." Why? Oh, quite simple, people. He grew up in Cleveland, Ohio. And in Cleveland, Ohio there is snow blocking walkways and driveways. That snow needs a-blowing. That's where a young Harry Manning came into the picture--happy to handle it for anyone in the neighborhood--for a fee.
Mmm hmmm.
Can't you just picture him trudging through the snow as dawn was breaking--oh, because this had to be done before school, y'all. And have you done the math yet? That made him a fourth grader.
It gets better. So fourth grade Harry blew that snow and earned that dough. And guess what he did with that money? Bought toys? Bought video games? No, ma'am. That boy saved it up for the next big purchase that summer. Which was. . . .wait for it. . . wait for it. . . .a lawn mower complete with the clipping catcher.
Yes. A lawn mower.
Because clearly that snow melts and underneath it is grass. Which needs mowing, of course. And again, this is where young Harry the Handykid steps in to hook up anyone in the neighborhood.
For a fee, of course.
So yeah. In addition to being a snappy dresser and extremely hot, this man is entrepreneurial spirit personified. He's fiscally smart, has great leadership skills, is good with people and has amazing vision. I learn so, so much from him about managing people (and managing myself.)
Anyways. He has had all sorts of businesses over the years. His main thing for the last decade has been his real estate investment and property management business. But you know that entrepreneurs are always thinking and moving. Thank goodness he's not impulsive.
Harry believes that the best businesses are built on relationships. Whether it's an investor or a consumer--he always says that once you build a solid relationship and people know that they can trust you--and your product--that they'll be back. Even during an economic downturn. That's proven to be very true with him. The places where he could have cut corners or done less he never did--because that wouldn't be good for the relationship. He says, "People remember how you treat them. And sometimes the little things say more than you can."
Preach, Bruh Manning!
That's been quite applicable to me with patients and learners, too. It's a good model to follow. Think about the details. Put people first. Look them in the eye. Listen. Right the wrongs. And his number one rule of all-- Don't make a bunch of excuses. Just do what needs to be done.
Or as he says it, "The Colonel doesn't give a shit about what the privates did or didn't do. Just get it done and be responsible for it. End of story."
Ha. Ain't that the truth.
Yeah. So that brings me to one of the BHE's newer endeavors. Oh! And what a tasty endeavor it is!
Mardi Gras Cafe!
It's this creole restaurant near the Georgia Dome in the historic Martin Luther King west side corridor. The story behind it is rather simple. A really cool youngish guy was initially renting the space from Harry for what would be this restaurant. Well. Will, the youngish guy, quickly recognized that his landlord had a whole lot of business sense and experience. And Harry realized right away that Will had not only an amazing work ethic and energy, but also a real gift for cooking sho nuff and bona fide creole food.
Mmm hmm.
And so. Mardi Gras Cafe was born. Will as the magic fingers behind the delicious food. And the BHE as the business partner slash mentor on the inner-workings. And anyone who knows Harry knows that this means getting his hands dirty.
"You have to be there until things get going," he told me. "Showing the consumers that you value their business. Asking how it was and making them feel welcome. That takes work but it's the only way to do it--especially in the beginning."
I smiled when he told me that because I remember the very successful shoe repair and alterations shop he had for years. It was nothing for him to come in during busy times and work that register, check in those shoes and shake a hand or two. For a full day, even. But we already knew that he ain't above getting in there and doing some of the less glamorous things. It's how he rolls.
So yes! Mardi Gras Cafe. Oh my. That food? Lawd. It's love all up IN it.
All the good stuff, too. Like real, true gumbo made with a perfect
roux. Overstuffed po'boys, red beans and rice, smothered pork chops (for
the pork lovers--not me), hand cut fries, fried turkeys, and much more.
Heavens to mergatroid!
My favorite thing on the menu right now? Well. At first it was the gumbo. I dreamed about it after trying it for three days. Is that normal? But now? OMG. It has to be this grilled tilapia po'boy sub. O-EM-EXPLETIVE-G. It makes you want to wake your mama out of her bed to slap her as hard as you can.
Oh. Shoot! Forgot to mention my other addiction there--the bread pudding. It is covered with this delicious bourbon sauce that makes you want to break down and cry. And me? I thought I'd had bread pudding before, but clearly I had not. Damn. Wish I had a picture of that.
I also thought that cajun food and creole food were the same thing. According to Will and his mama who is the master mind behind the recipes and is from Opelousas, Louisiana--they are NOT EVEN the same. But to me, whatever it is, it's good. It tastes like love and time went into it. Their creole food, that is.
So yeah. For my Atl-iens, you've GOT to try this spot. For reals. Not because it's affiliated with the BHE. But because the food is freaking amazing. And! That thing called Zifty -- you know, where they will deliver your food from nearby restaurants -- they do several Mardi Gras deliveries per day. So even if you can't get over there, please-- consider ordering something and getting Zifty to deliver it. Or just go up there because it's a hop, skip and a jump from downtown and the Georgia dome.
I had my team dinner there the other night. We were like some stuffed ticks, man. Soooo yummy. They even have this party space upstairs which is super swanky, too. My team just chilled in the restaurant part, but that upstairs is bananas, y'all.
Now.
Let's be clear. I will be pacing myself on the food there. Don't think that I will now promptly gain 20 pounds due to this latest BHE endeavor. I just discovered that the grilled fish and sauteed spinach is a lovely, flavorful low-carb option for me there. Ha!
Oh! And the other thing that the business guru teaches me is that you shouldn't "get high on your own supply." That means you pay for what you get to keep yourself honest and to make sure that you aren't hurting your own gig. So I'll have you know that I have gladly paid for every little morsel that my lips have touched. And, since I am cheap thrifty, the fact that I've returned tells you that the portion-to-cost ratio is not oppressive nor is it a deterrent.
Okay. So here's the address for y'all to peep it out. (It's across from the new Super WalMart.) Mardi Gras Cafe 886 Martin Luther King Drive Atlanta, GA 30314
And a few pictures of the swanky upstairs space because it's really cool. Oh, and before I forget -- our dear friend Katina B. of Benenate Design did the design. She designed our home, too. She's amazing.
Thinking of having a gathering with my sorority sisters one day soon. Or something.
Yeah.
So shout out to the BHE and to all the business people out there. Shout out to good food and hard work and remembering to build relationships. And shout out to love because that's what has to be the main ingredient in any and everything that works.
"Her main complaint is wrist pain. I know her blood pressure is sky high, but you always say to find out what the patient's agenda is. Her agenda is to stop her wrist from hurting."
That's what my intern told me as we both faced the computer screen. Her blood pressure--sky high, yes--was in bold numbers across the window displaying her medical record. I had worked with this intern for a while now so our discussion of this patient was easy and familiar.
"That is pretty high," I said.
"It is. But she didn't take her medications this morning. Didn't want to have to pee on the MARTA train. I mean urinate."
"Got it."
"She took them in the waiting room. I'll retake the blood pressure in a bit. I think I'm going to add some amlodipine."
I scrolled through the note he'd written and paused on the examination. Dragging the mouse, I highlighted where he'd written "1 to 2+ pitting edema" under the extremity examination. This was my nonverbal reminder of that common side effect seen with drugs in the same class as amlodipine--leg swelling.
"Oh. Yeah. That." My intern looked over at me and nodded.
"How bad is it? The swelling?" I asked.
"Not bad enough to stop us from controlling her blood pressure with amlodipine."
"What about a beta blocker?"
"That's a thought."
I nodded.
"Her wrist hurts pretty bad. That could be raising her pressure. That and the fact that she didn't take her diuretic this morning."
"Good point."
"So, yeah. I did the . . .uhh. . .what is it called? Finkelstein's maneuver? Yeah, it was positive. Big time."
My mind wandered for a bit. I recalled Deanna with her repetitive crochet motions whimpering to me about a tender wrist. Her medicine-nerd sister instructed her over the phone to fold her thumb into her palm and then flex her wrist toward the floor.
Ouch!
Ah hah! A positive Finkelstein's maneuver. Over the phone. Who's better than me?
"My sister once had this from crocheting all the time. Too much repetitive motion, you know?"
"Your sister that you told me about last week that made the scarves?"
"Yep."
We paused for a moment. Not quite long enough to be considered an awkward silence, though. More like a deferential one.
"Oh. And you know what? I diagnosed her with the Finkelstein maneuver by phone."
"Rock and roll."
"Yep." I closed one eye and remembered something. Snapping my finger I added, "You know what? I just thought of something. My brother, Will, had this, too. He's a veterinarian and he sutures a lot." I demonstrated the rhythmic motion of a surgeon's hands. "He was miserable."
"What'd you do?"
"The same thing you should do for this patient. That is, if you're right." I laughed at my own joke. He did, too.
"A splint?"
"No, sir."
"An injection?"
I pointed at him and that was it for my affirmative. "Right wrist?" I asked.
"Nope. Left." He was typing into the computer and trying to get the last of the note in.
"Is she left-hand dominant?"
"Uhhh, hmmm. I don't think so. Well, actually I didn't ask."
I liked his honesty. "Okay. Why'd this happen? What's she do for a living or for a hobby?"
My intern looked back at me and twisted his mouth. "Actually, Dr. M.. . . I don't know that answer."
"Fair. You just want to be sure you aren't mistaking this for DeQuervain's tenosynovitis when it's really something else. My sister had this in her right hand--the one she held the needle in. My brother is a southpaw. We injected his left wrist. Both had a clear mechanism, though."
"I get what you're saying."
"So the question is--what's she been doing with that left hand to get her wrist hurting so bad?"
"I should have asked," he said quietly.
"You will next time," I replied with a big smile.
Because he will.
And so. We went to her room together and he introduced me to her. When he retook that blood pressure, it was a bit lower--at least no longer "sky high"--just like he'd predicted. She endorsed the same story of not wanting to urinate from her water pills while riding public transportation. Then she jumped straight into that wrist.
"Are you left-handed?"
"No'm. I'm a righty."
I nodded. I had her do the Finkelstein's maneuver once more.
Ouch.
Positive.
"What have you been doing? This is usually something that people get in the hand they write with."
"Lifting mama."
"Pardon?" I wasn't sure I understood.
"I got to lift my mama a lot during the day. To get her cleaned up. To sit her up to eat. And all that."
"I see."
"My right wrist was hurting me so I ended up doing more with the other hand. I also be doing Mama's laundry. Folding clothes, all that."
"Mmmm."
That's what I said because this Grady elder was old enough to be the "Mama" she was talking about. Well into her golden years and fully deserving of an ottoman upon which to prop her feet and fuzzy slippers, too. Definitely not any heavy lifting.
"How old is your mama?"
"Ninety four."
"Wow. That's a blessing."
"Sho is. But Mama a big lady. It ain't easy."
"I bet."
Next we talked about injecting her wrist with steroid which she appreciated. We followed all of the proper steps and together we gave what we hoped would give her relief--a steroid injection. We talked about an additional antihypertensive and the visit was nearly done.
"Who helps you with your mama?" I asked.
"Nobody."
"It's just you?"
"Naaaw. I'm one uh'fourteen. But they ain't no count."
"Mmmmm."
"Maybe I can ask our social worker about respite options?" My intern was speaking to me and not the patient. But he was looking for ways to make her life easier.
Respite? I hadn't thought of that.
"Good idea."
And as it turns out, it was more that just a good idea. It was a great idea. Our social worker helped our patient by arranging some respite care to assist her. And home health people to help her lift mama. She even arranged some transportation to get her to Grady Hospital so she wouldn't have to take the train.
She left with a big smile on her face. We took her blood pressure one last time and you know what? It was just about back to normal. It really was.
Instead of a blood pressure pill helping, the intern had found something else. Somebody to help her with lifting Mama. And a ride to Grady so she wouldn't have to fret over needing to empty her bladder. That brought her pressure down better than even amlodipine could.
After all that talking and teaching, what she needed was far less technical than I'd thought. For her wrist, for her blood pressure. For it all. She just needed some damn help. More than anything else.
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?
