How it got there.

 

"When we checked your urine drug screen, there was cocaine in it. It's possible that cocaine can work against your heart and may explain why you had that pain in your chest."

"That just can't be possible. I haven't had no drugs, Miss Manning. I promise I haven't."

"Okay. Well, look. Usually the drug screen is positive if you've had cocaine in the last seven days. Somehow, some way your body has gotten cocaine in it in the last seven days."

"Somebody must have slipped it in my drink!"

"Cocaine? In a drink?" I felt my eyes rolling and immediately realized how incredulous and exasperated that last statement sounded. My mouth was already two beats away from saying, "Dude. Do I look stupid to you?" I wiped my face and sighed to regroup. Because that wasn't really the most appropriate approach.

Or the most professional one.

"I need new friends. Why would they do this to me? Put cocaine in my drink like that and almost kill me?"

My eyes wanted to roll so, so bad. My lips wanted to curl, my hand wanted to perch on my hip, and damn, my backbone wanted to slip. I stared at him and he stared back. His eyes were shifting and his body language was nervous. He'd initially presented himself as one who was vehemently against all drugs. Like, no way, no how would he ever have anything to do with them. I realized what I was seeing now. He was embarrassed.

Aaaahhh.

"You know what, sir?  I am thinking that it's probably not easy to have people asking you about things like crack cocaine and all of this stuff when you don't feel good. I've never tried cocaine, but I think I'd feel funny about telling people if I had." He furrowed his brow. I got to what I was trying to say. "My point is that I just want you to get better. And I want to be honest. So--real talk--some cocaine could have made your chest hurt. Your stress test and everything look okay so we don't need to do more. And really, the part about how cocaine got near you is personal. I just needed to talk to you about it because it factored into our decision making."

He nodded. "I feel you."

"Good. I want you to be nicer to your body. Your heart doesn't like cocaine. However it got there, your heart doesn't like it."

"It is weird for somebody to ask you if you did some crack."

"I can see that."

"It's not really my thing. I mean, not now it isn't."

"Okay. That's cool."

"I like how you talk to people."

"That's a kind thing to say. I appreciate that."

"I'm gon' take better care of myself. Make some better choices."

"I'm glad."

I shook his hand hard and smiled.  Because this time I believed him.

***
Happy Saturday.

Phantom limb pain.

"I'm not right," he told me.

That was his response when I asked him why he wasn't taking his medicines and doing the things he was supposed to do to be well.  This was his fourth hospitalization in the last twelve months. I wanted to know why he was being mean to his body by completely refusing to chasten it.

"I'm not right."

"What do you mean by 'not right?'"  I wanted to know.

"Since I lost my boy, I ain't been right. It's almost been ten years, I know. But still, my heart feels so sad that sometime it's hard to do anything."

Oooph. That socked me in the chest. I didn't know what to say.

"I know, Miss Manning. I got to do better and I will. I just be feeling like what's the point sometimes."

"You mean like you don't want to live?"

"Naww. Never that. It's just real hard to be all the way happy that's all. Then you wonder what's the point in doing all this stuff when you can't be happy anyway?"

"What happened? To your son, I mean?"

"Shot. Somebody shot him dead. Not even thirty years old neither."

I looked down in deference. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah. Me, too."

The room fell silent.

"He looked-ed just like me. Just, just like me." He stared out of the window and shook his head. "Just like me."

I imagined him sitting beside us, the spitting image of his father. I kept my mouth shut and simply watched and listened.

"It's like getting your leg or your arm amputated, you know? Losing a child. Like, you figure out how to walk and maybe even run, but it ain't never the same. You always walk with a limp.You learn how to laugh and if you really work at it, you can blend in like you ain't even lost your leg, you know?"

"But you did," I replied. "You did lose it."

"Damn right you did. Minute you wake up in the morning, first thing you reminded of is that you did."

I nodded.

"Sometime it just ache so. It ache in a way can't nobody fix."

"Phantom limb pain," I murmured.

"What's that?"

"Pain where the leg once was. That's hard to touch or describe but it's there."

"It don't go away. Not all the way it don't."

This was heavy. And he'd caught me off guard with all of this. I wasn't prepared to have such a discussion. Not today. Not now. But now I was inside. He'd opened this door and let me in whether I wanted to or not.

"What was your son's name?"

He smiled and pointed his thumb at his chest. "He was named for me."

I smiled in acknowledgement.

"You know what? Sometime. . . losing my boy make me sometimes feel like I lost my all my fight right along with him."

I stared at the floor and blinked hard so I wouldn't cry. My heart was pounding hard because I was hoping with all my might that my mama and my daddy aren't feeling that exact same thing today or ten years from now.

Losing their fight right along with Deanna.

That's when it just came out. "I just lost my sister. In November. One day here and gone the next."

He looked up at me and held my gaze.

"The hardest part is watching my mama and my daddy. It's different for the parents. They know how you feel."

"Damn. I'm sorry that anybody got to know how this feel."  His eyes were welling up with tears now. And he wasn't fighting them. "It is different for the daddy and the mama."

I reached for a box of tissues and handed it to him. I didn't bother saying anything else because there weren't any good words to allay the pain of what he described. Not a single word.

That silence and that Kleenex opened the floodgates. He dropped his head into his hands and wept. Wept like all of this had just happened ten days ago instead of ten years ago. And it all made sense to me. Now more than ever.

"Miss Manning? Pray for me, hear?"

I placed my hand on top of his and clasped his fingers."I will. I promise."


So tonight I did just that. Prayed for him. Prayed for them, the ones that know what he knows. I prayed for them all. For something to ease the phantom limb pain. And for something, anything to help them to keep their fight.

***
Welcome to the weekend.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . .

What lies ahead.

 

An intern on my team was presenting patients to me this morning. I listened to her carefully and watched her mannerisms. She was methodical and thoughtful. So I took it in and got the story that she'd dutifully put together for me to hear.

Then when we went into the room, I noticed her body language. Mindful of the human being before her in this vulnerable position. Eyes on the patient and not darting from side to side. Gently nodding and intentional in demonstrating how much this patient deserved her undivided attention.

It was beautiful.

"Your doctor will tell you the plan for the day, okay?" This is what I told the patient as I stepped aside and allowed her to step forward.

And step forward she did.

Her voice was calm. Each word was laced with such respect that it made me take pause. And the truth is that we had a lot of work to do. A whole lot more patients to go and see on these rounds and, thanks to her and this moment, I recognized that slowing down to fully honor the patient requires a sacrifice that sometimes gets lost. But not on her.

I appreciated the lesson.

I pulled her aside in the hallway later and told her. "I can tell that you deeply, deeply care. It is obvious that you see this as a privilege. It is, you know. Thank you for reminding me of that today."

And her face flushed bright pink because this caught her off guard. But it was true so she needed to hear that.

Here is what I want you all to know:

There are some young caregivers coming along that care. I mean really-and-truly-deep-down-in-their-souls care in the purest and most genuine kind of way. That is what I witnessed on rounds today at Grady Hospital.

And man. I was so glad that I did.

***
Happy Thursday.

(Image above courtesy of Cathy M.)