What HE said.

I've heard and read so much commentary on this topic. And have had my share of several conversations on it, too. But now instead of talking I'll just point them to this. Then I'll say, "What HE said."

As a Grady elder said to me last week when we discontinued his insulin:

"Now that's what I'm ta'm'BOUT!" 

***
Happy Icy Snowy Sleety Day.

Random Repost: Top Ten Ways to know the nurses hate you.

Every now and then I run across an old post that I'd completely forgotten about. And so. That inspired me to occasionally re-share a throwback post with you.

Funny I should run across this one today. I recently saw one of the nurses giving a doctor the thirty-second stare every time he said something. Which doesn't guarantee but could possibly mean that, well, the nurses hate him.

Just maybe.

Kind of made me reminisce about one of the most EPIC-ly failed commentaries I've ever heard an intern say to a nurse. It happened circa 1996 on a med/surg ward in Cleveland, Ohio after my friend (who shall remain nameless) punctuated his request to a surly senior RN with the following statement:

"That's an order -- not a suggestion."

Oooph.

This is really me as an intern in 1996 overhearing that.

Man. They hated his ass after that. Talk about a long few years.

 His final residency stats with the nurses:

• Number of phone calls he got in the middle of night: Seven hundred and sixty two trillion
• Number of times it was emergent: Two
• Number of stool softener and tylenol orders that mysteriously fell off of medical admin record in the middle of the night or busy call: Nine hundred and seventy seven kabillion
• Number of IVs that curiously fell out at three a.m.: four hundred fifty four gazillion
• Number of attempts made by senior nurses when they heard it would help him: Zero
• Number of eyerolls per hour when near any nurse on the unit: Too numerous to count
• Number of cups of coffee and extremely cold Diet Cokes thrown away for being left at the nurses station: five point seven trizillion
• Average number of seconds before said coffee or extremely cold Diet Coke was pitched in the trash "you know for OSHA reasons and Joint Commission rules" after being sat down on the nurses station:  one point two nanoseconds.
• Number of bagels, cookies, perfumed lotions, sticks of chewing gum or pieces of pizza offered in the rest of his entire residency: Negative four.

He should have read this. But then again by the time a person sees these signs it's probably too late to be saved.

************

February 10, 2011

Top ten ways to know that the nurses hate you  (especially ICU, ER and inpatient nurses):

This one's for you, On Call RN. . . .

Way #10

They scowl and answer every single one of your questions with, "Wh-aat?"

Way #9

They don't save you when you're getting ready to majorly screw up in front of the attending (unless of course it involves a patient's safety.) Otherwise, you're on your own. Oh yeah, and if they really hate you, they ask a question on rounds in front of the attending that they know 100% for sure that you don't have the foggiest notion how to answer. (Note: Usually involves dropped balls or screw ups on your part.)

Way #8

They page you every hour on the hour between the hours of midnight at six A.M.

Way #7

They don't offer you any of their food. (The nurses always have the best food--especially ICU nurses!)

Way #6

They approach the attending or the fellow with all of their questions or suggestions instead of talking to you.

Way #5

They approach the medical student with all of their questions and suggestions instead of talking to you.


Way #4

They start off all conversations with you by saying the words, "Look, I'm not sure if you realize it, but. . . "

Way #3

The nurses lounge gets quiet every time you enter.


Way #2

The nurse stands there staring at your for thirty seconds after everything you say, kind of like you're stupid.


and . . .drum roll please. . . . the #1 way to know for sure that the nurses hate you. . . . . .

They tell you.

***

Pearl of wisdom from a doctor who has usually made good with the nurses:


Love thy nurses. Why? Because NURSE = butt-saver, hands-on-deck, extra-brain, person-who-remembers-next-step-in-a-code, shoulder-to-cry-on, cheerer-upper, differential-diagnosis-suggester, back-into-reality-smacker, team-mate-extraordinaire, knower-of-fine-details, wind-beneath-tired-wing, wingman-or-wingwoman, explainer-of-drips-that-you-are-clueless-about, teacher, and best of all, friend. 

So here's to all the nurses. . . . . .and to those of us who work with them.  May they always share their food with you and never hate your guts!

***
Happy Monday. Feel free to anonymously share this with someone who hasn't gotten the memo that we need our nurses to survive.

Best in Show.

I think I began seriously considering being a physician in high school. Perhaps I'd thrown around the idea at some earlier point, but as far as really, truly wrapping my mind around doing it? That didn't happen until later.

But it wasn't like that for my brother.

For as long as I can remember, Will, my brother, knew that he not only wanted to be--but that he would be--a veterinarian. When we were little kids drawing on that cornbread paper that rips easily, his pictures were always of him taking care of dogs and cats--as a veterinarian. Okay. Maybe I don't fully remember him doing that part but the being a vet part? I absolutely do. The way he stuck to that narrative eventually became so strong that we all stuck to it, too.

No question. Will would be a veterinarian. Period, end of story.

The other day I was visiting with one of my fellow Grady doctor BFFs Lesley. It was a gorgeous morning that we both happened to have off. We're neighbors so I popped over to her place that day and I got to meet her family's newest addition--"Huddy", a (super adorable) German Shorthair Pointer puppy. And, even better, I got to join her to take him on a walk.

Anyways. Lesley's been taking pets to Will's veterinary practice for years. She knows first hand what it's like to see my brother living his dream. And so. We zig-zagged along (as one does when walking a super-energetic puppy) and talked about how Will became the veterinarian that he is.

"So. . .was he just always an animal person?" Lesley asked. "Like, did you guys have tons of pets?"

I squinted at the bright sun and answered. "I think he always loved animals. But especially the idea of taking care of them." I thought for a moment before going on. "Yeah. It's like, I don't ever remember a time where he didn't say that he was going to be a veterinarian."

"Wow."

"Yeah. Probably before he could even spell the word 'veterinarian'. And what's even more interesting is that he not only said he'd be a veterinarian--he always said he'd go to Tuskegee to become a vet. Always."

"That's pretty amazing," she said. "What about the pet part? Did you guys have any growing up?"

"Now that's one of the weird parts. I mean. . .we sort of had pets. Like cats mostly and, I think, once a dog for a while. And I know that he probably wanted a dog when we didn't have one. But we weren't a major pet family per se."

"Huddy! Don't bite that!" Lesley reached down and pried a random glove from the puppy's mouth. "So he just sort of knew he'd be a vet."

"Yep. And when he finished high school no one ever wondered where he'd go. We all knew that he was going to Tuskegee as a Pre-Vet with plans to go straight to Vet Med school once he finished undergrad. In fact, he got early entry after his third year of college. And no one was the least bit surprised."

"Wow."

"Yeah. Kind of awesome, right?"

"Very. Huddy! Don't chase that chicken!"

"What's a chicken doing in the middle of the suburbs?"

"Urban farm, I guess."

"Hmmm. I don't think Will's practice sees chickens. But then again, I'm not sure. I'll have to inquire about that one."

"Ha."

*nothing against chickens

Anyways.

Well. The story of my brother the veterinarian gets better. He indeed achieved that dream and, while in vet school at Tuskegee, met the love of his life. He married my sister-in-law Fran--also a life-long destined-to-be-a-vet person, and ultimately went into practice with her.

Now.

After becoming a vet and working for someone for a while, Will began having a new vision. That vision? Owning a practice--the kind he believed all pets and clients should have. He started speaking into existence his idea of a pet-centered, client-centered veterinary hospital unlike any in which he'd worked. He wanted to assemble a team of empathic animal lovers who knew how to treat not only their furry patients but their owners, too. He spoke of a highly professional environment where corners weren't cut and where service was paramount. Will imagined a tender place for families whose pets were nearing the end of life and a joyful environment for welcoming new pets like Huddy and educating their families along the way. And the even crazier part? He wanted to build it from the ground up.

Yup.

Grand opening of "The Village Vets of Decatur", 2008

And so. He did just that. He put in the work and strengthened relationships. Essentially, he followed the mantra uttered in one of his favorite movies, "Field of Dreams."

"If you build it, they will come."

He built it. And you know what? They came. The best veterinarians. The best technicians and staff. And, of course, the people with their prized pets and their loyalty. They trusted Will and his team with their precious Huddys. And he hasn't let them down.

Because they all know that, with his vision and his team's care, little guys like Huddy become big guys like this:

Sigh.

Now. What's inspiring all of this? I'll tell you. Gladly, I will.

This.

Best in Show. . . . 

This weekend, my brother and his beautiful, brilliant life partner-wife are in New York City. They are flanked by a few of their closest colleagues and even a few of their closest Vet School classmates from out of town. They've all come there to witness my brother, the little boy who always wanted to be a veterinarian since before he could spell the word, receive a national award as "VETERINARIAN OF THE YEAR."

No. Not just for Atlanta. Or even for Georgia. But for the entire United States of America.

Yes. He got this award this year in the midst of all of the Westminster Dog Show hullaballoo. Which is just my way of letting you know that this acknowledgement is a part of that weekend and is also a HUGE deal. Or, as the medical students say, a totally "legit" one that he "legit" earned.

Mmmm hmmm.

I saw that picture and cried immediately. First, because it made me acutely proud. Or rather acute-on-chronically proud. Second because I knew my parents were likely blasting off into outer space from seeing their little boy standing on that stage. I could already imagine Poopdeck's leaky eyes and Tounces' big ol' smile. I love that image of them. I so very do.

But lastly I cried again because I know how much this would have meant to Deanna. She knew him longer than any of us siblings and was likely the first to witness him prophesying about his future as the vet that would conquer the world.

She was so proud of these ginormous scissor for the ribbon cutting. LOL!

Yeah.

So my brother? He's an absolute inspiration. To his community, to his field, to his family and now, hopefully to you. This is what happens when you dream big and go hard. His life is a living, breathing "vision board" realized. And I am so, so proud of him.

We all are.

And so. Here's the question:

What are your dreams? I mean . . .the big ones? What are you building? And do you believe in yourself enough to know that if you keep on building that they will come?

Know that this can mean a lot of things. It can be your dream of how you'll raise your children. Of the kind of impact you'll have as a grandparent. The kind of spouse you'll be, friend you'll be, servant you'll be and inspiration you'll be. Of how you'll give back to your community. And yes, even what kind of impact you can have professionally. Because it all runs together, doesn't it?

At least, that's what I think.

I'm thinking about all of that this morning. All inspired by my brother and what he has built in his own field of dreams. Makes me ponder what I wish to build in mine.

Lastly, let me share with you a quote I heard on a recent podcast I was listening to while running last week:

"The success of a life is best measured in how much of it is given away."

And if you knew my brother's story like I do? I mean if you knew the story behind all of this glory? You'd know. That his life? Yeah, I'd say he's winning by that measure. He legit is.

Yeah.

________________________

So join me giving this standing ovation:

Warmest congratulations to my brother, Dr. Will Draper on his well deserved acknowledgement as "Veterinarian of the Year." And also congratulations to my sister, Dr. Francoise Tyler Draper and every single veterinarian, technician and staff member at The Village Vets of Decatur, Buckhead, and Lilburn. Thanks for giving us all acute-on-chronic pride!

***
Happy Sunday. And if you've got pets anywhere in Atlanta? You need to be taking them to The Village Vets. 

Oh. But I still have to check on the urban chicken thing.

Ha.

He built it and they came. . . . one of our favorite movie scenes. . . . how I imagine my brother thinking about building The Village Vets of Decatur.


And here's Will in a PSA for The City of Decatur. Love that he shouted out a beer pub. Ha.

Dental Damn.

Primary Care Center, Same Day Sick Clinic

Chief complaint: "Tooth pain."

"Good morning, sir. I'm Dr. Manning."

"Hello, doctor. Good to meet you."

"Likewise, sir. I see that you are here for. . . a toothache?"

"Yes, ma'am. Aaaarrrgghh. My tooth is killing me."

When he said that he slipped his tongue over the affected molar and squeezed his eyes shut. I hadn't personally had that kind of toothache before but I certainly knew enough about dental issues to know that there's nothing worse than an urgent one.

Now. Before you ask me what on earth a patient is doing coming to me, a general internist, with a complaint of a toothache--I'll explain. In Atlanta, if a person is uninsured and has any kind of complaint requiring some sort of health care intervention, Grady is the destination. And for most of those issues we can do plenty.

But not necessarily all of them. At least, not immediately.

See, this man clearly hadn't been without dental care in the way that many people with limited incomes often are. Either it was that or that God had just somehow protected his dentition. But regardless of his history, he mostly had nice teeth. Whitish in color with pink gums and no fractures or obvious decay in the smile line. When he opened his mouth, I saw a few scattered metal amalgams that confirmed my initial impression. This man had previously been under a dentist's care.

Yep.

"Do you have a dentist?" I asked.

"I used to. But when I got laid off my insurance did, too. So now I can't afford it. Or much of anything for that matter."

"Oh, okay." It was clear that he had a story. But the "same day sick" session didn't afford me the time to go on the exploration that I wanted. I pushed my curiosity aside and stuck to business.

Slipping on a glove, I gently opened his mouth and palpated the gum line with my finger. There was no obvious abscess or pus collection but there was definitely pain when I tapped the tooth with the wooden tongue depressor.

"Oooooorrrrggggh."

I immediately backed off. "Sorry."

"It's okay. Just do what you have to do."

I pulled off the gloves and gestured for him to come down off of the examining table. "Well. I don't see anything requiring immediate evaluation by an oral surgeon. But I can give you something for pain until they can see you in the next few days. Is that okay?"

"That'd be great. I just hope I don't need a root canal." He shuddered.

And you know what? I did, too.

Not because of the mention of a root canal (which I DO know about personally.) But because a root canal isn't usually what our oral surgeons do in these instances. Unfortunately for him, the term "oral surgeon" means just that.

"Ummm," I said, "I think they will likely want to just pull your tooth."

"Pull it?"

"Yes, sir."

His eyes narrowed when I said that. He wasn't a person who found his teeth more of a hassle than anything else. At least, not yet. I quickly thought of the many times I'd heard forty and fifty-somethings request to have not just one but all of their teeth pulled to be fit for dentures. But this man was like most people and wanted to keep his teeth. And I didn't blame him.

"If they pull this tooth you'll see it when I smile." He wrinkled his face and chuckled; I could tell he was trying to get me to cosign with him on how ridiculous this suggestion was.

"We don't have restorative dentistry at Grady. Just oral maxillofacial surgeons. But we do work with several community dentists who've agreed to assist our patients with things like fillings, dentures, and root canals for a reasonable price."

"Wow." He let out a sarcastic laugh and shook his head.

I felt bad. I mean, I know what a great service our OMFS guys do for our patients with dental and oral health issues. I do. But I also knew that we simply didn't have what he was asking for. And his teeth hadn't gotten to the point of "just wanting them gone.

"I can circle the clinics that are closest to your address."

"Will anyone see me today?" he asked.

"Actually, we give you the list with the numbers and you can call to see what time you can get in."

"Whoa."

"There's a lot of great dentists on that list."

"Yeah. But a lot of people are waiting for them and none of them have money to pay."

"Yeah." My voice was tiny. I had nothing witty or helpful to say.

After wrapping up the visit, I rose to walk to the door.

"You know what, doctor?" he asked.

I removed my hand from the door handle and turned back around to face him.

"On second thought? Go ahead on and refer me to the oral surgeon."

I furrowed my brow and started to speak but couldn't.

"I'd rather just not have to worry about it, you know? And who in that shelter is really going to care about my smile having a hole in it? I don't want my tooth to hurt. So I'll just let them pull it. Fuck it."

I winced at the unexpected f-bomb. "But. . . I thought. . .why don't you just call the dentists and see first?"

"Naaah. I know if they pull it out it can't bother me anymore."

He'd made up his mind. I slid back onto the edge of the chair and entered the referral into the computer. I clicked the "sign" button on the referral and offered him a half-hearted smile. "All set. And you can always call and cancel if the dentists can see you instead."

We shook hands and once again, I prepared to leave. Before I could, he spoke.

"One more thing, doctor."

I raised my eyebrows.

"Whatever you do? Don't become poor. I mean it. Everything is harder when you're poor. And extra fucked up."

Damn.

"In addition to their own oral hygiene practices, a key component of maintaining the oral health of midlife Americans is the availability of dental benefits."

~ The National Institutes of Health

***
Happy Saturday. I guess.


Now playing on my mental iPod. . . if only it were as simple as this 1970's  PSA.

Amazing? Amazing.

a·maze  (ə-māz′)

v. a·mazed, a·maz·ing, a·maz·es

v.tr.1. To affect with great wonder; astonish.

I was talking to a good friend one day recently who'd been doing some soul-searching. Some life changes had caused him an urgent evolution whether he wanted it or not. A relationship had crumbled and though he stood strong in the aftermath of it all, there were still some questions. He was now "doing the work."

And so. In that process he ran across a question that he shared with me. A simple enough question that had been presented to him as he tried to understand not just a failed marriage but also himself. I love being connected to people while they're "doing the work" and having people connected to me while I'm doing the same. Their questions become your questions. So, in turn, their exploration gives you permission to do the same.

The question?

"Who do you think is amazing?"

And no. This wasn't meant in the "Michelle Obama" or "Diane Sawyer" kind of way. This question was being posed specifically about people in his immediate life. And, even more immediate, the person with whom he'd just separated.

"Do you or did you think that person is or was amazing?"

"Amazing?" He let out this nervous chuckle that I can tell mimicked the one he'd had when first presented that query.

"Amazing."

The corner of his mouth turned upward. He told me that he said while they had a lot of fun and were very much attracted to one another, "amazing" seemed like a word too strong for what he felt. That's when the next question came.

"Do you know anyone that you think is amazing?"

"Amazing?" he echoed again.

"Amazing."

And he pondered to think it through. It turns out that he did know some people that he'd deem amazing. A few close friends, mostly. His father. A teacher from many moons ago with whom he remained connected. But his partner? Or any former one for that matter? Not so much.

"Why aren't you seeking a mate that you find amazing?"

"Is that a necessity?" he countered.

"To me, it is."

And then he shared with me that, while doing this work with this therapist, that he had an epiphany. That maybe, just maybe, it should be. A necessity, that is, to fill your most intimate pieces of life with people that you could readily define as "amazing."

I listened to all of this and stuck post-it notes all over my head and heart while I did. I wanted to let this marinate and I wanted us to unpack it together. And we did.

"I would ask if you think Harry is amazing," he said, "but I know the answer to that."

I sat still and twisted my mouth. My eyes were fixed upon his because I knew that answer, too. Without even much thought, I know that answer. I do.

"See?" he said. "Of course, you think that."

"I do," I responded quietly. Because we both knew it was true. "But. . .what even does that mean? Like how would you even define it? I'm not sure I set out to find someone that I thought was amazing. I think I was just fortunate."

"Well. I would say that it means you deeply respect the person. And admire enough about them that being in their presence makes you want to do better and be better."

I liked that definition. And, when it comes to Harry, all of it was true.

"Do you think you're amazing?" I asked.

That's what I finally asked him. I could tell he wanted to think that through before answering. "You know what? Now I do."

"Hmmm."

"As opposed to before. Now I do."

"So what does all of this even mean?"

"I guess it just means that now I want the same. I want relationships with people I find . . . . amazing."

"Dang. That's deep."

"I know, right? Like. . .I'm not saying everyone has to be. But those who get the lion's share of my time and heart? They should be."

I nodded my head. "Like, it's a necessity now."

"A necessity now."

"Damn."

"Damn."

We sat for a few moments in silence. This was heavy so we needed to let ease down slowly. I broke the silence first.

"You know what?"

"What's that, Kim?"

"I think you're amazing."

"You know what, my friend? I think you're pretty damn amazing, too."

***

This early morning I'm reflecting on this simple question. Who do you think is amazing? I'm meditating on that conversation and wondering whether or not I'm filling my world with those relationships. To me, amazing people challenge me to be better. Some part of me wants to be more like something I see in them. Which nudges me forward.

Are amazing people perfect? Absolutely not. But they are authentic, I think. They're constantly trying to "do the work" -- in whatever way is meaningful to them. That permits imperfections and insecurities. Like the ones I know the amazing people connected to me deal with ever single day.

I guess I'm just thinking. I want to fill my life with amazing people. I really do. I want to raise children that see themselves as amazing and whose energy gives off the same. And especially, I want to see myself that way. As amazing.

Funny thing about amazing. When you inventory your life to think of whom you feel fits such a descriptor, you know in the snap of a finger. In fact, you find the word escaping your lips before you even have a chance to over-analyze it.

Yeah.

Kind of like how I feel when I read anything my friend Elizabeth has written. Or when I imagine my sister Deanna. Or when I'd see the BHE in the throws of coaching football. All of it. . .just. . .amazing.

So I guess the questions I'm thinking I'm inviting you to ask of yourselves:

Who do you think is amazing?
Are you in a relationship with a person that you find amazing?
Are your closest companions those you'd describe in such a way? Is that even a necessity to you? Why or why not?

And especially, do you think you're amazing?Do you?

I guess that last one is the million dollar question, isn't it?

You know? Some days I think that, for me, the answer to the last question is yes. And other days I doubt and disappoint myself enough to feel not too amazing at all. And I know it's poisonous when I do, but still. I'm human.

Anyways.

Here is one thing I know for sure: I want to fill my life with amazing people. I want to learn to see the amazing in ordinary things and work to bring out the amazing in others. And in all of this, I want to see myself as amazing--consistently, I do. And I'm trying. I am.

I think I'm going to stick all of that on a few post-it notes, too. Hope you'll do the same.

Yeah.

***
Happy Friday.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . .

Grady, Our Fair Lady.

This was a day that I snuck up behind her and snapped her picture when she wasn't looking. Doesn't she look pretty? I don't usually get to see her from this view but I'm glad I did.

***
Happy Thursday Night.

Team S.J.G.R. Thursday Huddle: The Biggest Loser and other reasons to riot.

Yeah, so check it. This woman Rachel pictured below just won the $250K purse on "The Biggest Loser." That's that show where people work out and overhaul their diets on national television. They also wear, like, sports bras in front of the whole-wide-world and step on a ginormous scale each week. Talk about no shame in your game. Dang.

 

Yeah. So Rachel literally lost over 150 pounds. Which was nearly 60% of her body mass. She started over 250 and got down to 105 pounds. Yes. 105 pounds.

Okay. So before you ask--she's 5'5". That gives her a body mass index of like 17 and some change. Which, yeah, is kind of low. And sure. I'll go with the masses and say she looks a bit gaunt-ish in the face. And I'll even say that getting down to 105 pounds in I'm not sure how much time (but less than a year) is kind of extreme. 

But. 

Let me tell you what has me the most bothered about all of this. It's this accusation that she is "anorexic." As a matter of fact, if you type "anorexic" into a search engine right this moment, HER PHOTO is the second hit. Not even kidding.

Now that? That's not cool. Because anorexia -- as in anorexia nervosa -- is a big deal and a serious diagnosis. Shame on America for wagging their fingers and using that term so loosely! It's disrespectful not only to her but also the many, many people who struggle with eating disorders every single day. 

Anorexia Nervosa is an eating disorder that is hallmarked by a combination of restrictive eating, an irrational fear of weight gain and ESPECIALLY something called "body dysmorphism." That's where you look in the mirror and see FAT when what is actually there is, well, skeletal. 

Now. 

I saw how that woman Jillian Michaels and the other trainer dude looked when she walked out. They looked like, "Daaaaaaaaamn!" and not in the good way. But I also saw how Rachel looked at her body double hologram and how she seemed to feel about herself. There was nothing I saw that made me think she was irrational about gaining more weight or unhappy with not being thin enough. I didn't catch her restricting food or running in place burn calories either. In fact, all I saw was a previously heavy woman who may have crossed the line a bit. 

Did America recall that this woman used to be competitive swimmer? She knows how to chasten her body and probably did. And, look. I'm not a huge fan of TV weight loss shows or those creepy plastic surgery makeover ones, either. But calling a woman "anorexic" so much that she is the SECOND FREAKING HIT on Google is just wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. 

I've seen people look like her after gastric bypass. I think sometimes that "gaunt" appearance can come after a face and arms that once had more skin is no longer filled out. Maybe. But my point is that sometimes when a person has gone from one extreme of heavy to thin, it doesn't look as. . .well. . ."normal" . . .as usual. That's just my opinion.

Imagine if YOU were going to come onto national television to the finale of a weight loss show. How hard would YOU go? I bet she did get a bit extreme. But I doubt any more extreme than some of you have gone in preparation for a wedding day or some other very public thing where you wanted to slay the onlookers with your diva-ness. 

So really? I think it's bullshit to call her anorexic. It's mean, too. And shame on America (and every other country) for thinking it's okay. Because it's not. 

Now.

I didn't say she DIDN'T have an eating disorder. But I am saying that we don't have any real evidence of that. I'd rather people say "she went too far" or that "she's a bit too thin." Hell, I've felt the same way about Al Roker before. And you know what? If Rachel is anything like Al, she's a carbohydrate and a refined sugar away from having you all off of her back.

Ha.

Leave that woman alone. And as for how they threw her trainer under the bus? That was just wrong, too. But more than I can even unpack before my kids wake up. 

So that's it. That's my take. And if I was Rachel the lady on Biggest Loser? I'd probably be saying some really inappropriate things to the world on Twitter right about now.

But that? That's just me. 

Whoops. I hear Zachary. Weigh in, y'all.

Get it? WEIGH in. Hee heeeeee.

Random sidebar: I kind of think the thin Rachel favors the late Karen Carpenter (who famously passed away from anorexia nervosa.) Perhaps this is what's evoking that word. I'm just saying. What do y'all think?

***
Happy Thursday.

Exactly like peaches.

This picture taken by JoLai captures me feeling like a woman.

Oh, oh, oh I wanna be free
Yeah, to feel the way I feel
Man! I feel like a woman!

~ Shania Twain

I ran into her again. And actually, I shouldn't say it that way since "running into" someone suggests that doing so is rare and unexpected. I think a better thing to say is that I've seen her several times since she made the decision to openly identify as just that. A "she."

The quotations around she just made me bristle a bit. Because usually they mean that something is fake and not real. Or pretend and not legitimate. And since I know how it feels to open my eyes in the morning and really, truly feel like a woman, I guess I'm conflicted by the thought of how I'd feel if every single person I encountered told me otherwise. That is, that I wasn't one.

Of course. There are those feminine things like how freshly shaved legs feel when rubbing together under crisp cotton bed linens or how the hip bones curve out or even how the decolletage holds its mysteries. Yes, those things all make me feel like a woman, but not mostly those things. Mostly it's something inside of me that just knows. When I'm lying on my back looking at the ceiling and thinking my early morning thoughts, I know. And in those times, I do--I feel like a woman.

Does that even make sense? I don't know.

So, yes. I saw her and I see her and she always seems happy when I do. Because she can tell that I've made up my mind to not just try to see her as who she is. But instead to simply do it on instinct. Like I do when I'm lying in my bed knowing who I am. And I see the glares she gets from the people standing in line to get things like chewing gum and cigarettes or toothpaste and mascara. This look of disgust that washes me over with soft ripples of pain on her behalf.

On this day, I just needed some bubble bath. Harry had asked me to get it for him, along with some Chapstick, and I obliged him. When I saw her at the register, I waited in her line instead of going to one of the oft confusing "self checkout" lines.

"Hey, there, doc," she said, "how goes it?"

"It goes. It always goes, my dear."

"Have you smelled this bubble bath?"

"Uhhh, no. It was just on the list of ultra random things to get."

She chuckled. Her stubby fingers came to her lipstick stained mouth when she did. "Well. It smells really good. Exactly like peaches."

"Is that a good thing? To smell exactly like peaches?"

This time we both laughed out loud. And since no one was behind us in line, it was fine.

"I've been taking the soy hormones. You know? Like the ones they give women going through menopause?"

And I just nodded because I did know. I knew that these plant-derived estrogens could sometimes maybe knock the edge off of a hot flash or two but wouldn't come anywhere close to helping her to evolve to her desired phenotypic appearance.

"What do you think so far?"

That answer felt like a bit of a betrayal since I already had a pretty strong opinion. She shrugged. "I'm not sure it's doing much."

"Hmmm. Have you. . .like. . .thought about. . ."

"Prescription strength hormones? Yeah. I have but I can't afford them since I'm not insured. And for whatever reason, especially if you're young, doctors are super funny about it. A lot of people get it, you know, on the streets or underground ways. But I can't afford all that."

"Dang."  I thought for a bit about who I might know of who could help. But then I wondered if it was even appropriate to cross this line and start offering specific things to her. Again--I was conflicted and unsure what to say next. "I take it you've been to Grady."

"Yeah. The person I saw was nice." She paused to hand me my receipt. "But he seemed really confused by me." She let out a soft chuckle before going on. "I've been in touch with some advocacy groups though. You know, for trans people. It's a lot." She seemed so positive. Even though the reality of what she was telling me sounded the complete opposite of that. Suddenly the thought of being trapped and handcuffed into one body when every fiber of my being felt like it belonged in another one punched me in the gut.

Oooph.

"That really sucks." That's all I said. Because honestly, that's how it felt. And she was right. It's a lot. But having a door close in your face when you're trying to be who you are isn't just a lot. It sucks.

Really, really sucks.

So I repeated myself. "That really, really sucks."

She seemed to appreciate that statement. And we just looked at each other across that drug store counter. I could tell that she knew I wished the world for her--her authentic world--but that I wasn't sure what to do.

"It's nice when someone is nice, you know? Like not trying to be. Just nice for no reason." She sort of changed the subject. And since we were talking about her and not me, I let her.

She handed me my oversized bag with the bubble bath and grinned in return. "Whoops, almost forgot to put this in here." She plopped the tube of Chapstick and it quickly got lost in the plastic carrier.

"Thanks."

"Have you smelled that?" She pointed at the bag where she'd just placed the lip balm.

"What? The Chapstick?"

"Yeah. That.  It doesn't smell like anything."

"Oh, it doesn't? Well. I think the husband should be okay with that."

"Not me." She curled her lips, lowered her eyelids half mast and gave her head an exaggerated shake. "I prefer to smell exactly like peaches."

With a lopsided smile, I nodded and gave my reply.

"You know what? Me, too."

***
Happy Wednesday.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . . "Man! I feel like a woman!" by the beautiful Shania Twain--another woman I always find myself always rooting for.

A jolly holiday with Mary.

When Mary holds your hand, you feel so grand
Your heart starts beatin' like a big brass band

~ from the movie "Mary Poppins"

I saw these two Grady elders in the clinic not long ago. They had been married for over sixty years and had known one another since they were school children. Every time they come to the clinic, they are dressed with such meticulous intention--no, not dressed up per se. But never, ever with that look of just "throwing something on."

My guess is that it mostly has to do with Mrs. Mary. She's the one who always has the medication lists written out in her wobbly cursive and who pulls out pocket Kleenex whenever her husband sneezes or gets those leaky eyes of his.

Oh. Those leaky eyes of his? They always come when I ask about Mrs. Mary. Even though I've asked several times before, I always ask it again. "What's the secret to staying together and happy for this long?"

I used to just query about the blueprint for simply staying together. But later I tacked on the "and happy" part because there's a difference.

So, on this day, I asked again. And like always they looked at one another first, and smiled. He always holds his hand out and gestures for her to speak before him. Not just with this question, but in all things that render some sort of opinion. He has one. But for these years he's gotten accustomed to allowing her to walk through the door first.

She shrugged her shoulders and then squinted her eyes as if I'd never asked them that before.

"Jest love each other, I s'pose," she said. "And pray."

And do you know what he said? The same thing he always says.

"Just marry someone like my Mary. Thass all." And then come those leaky eyes.

In my head, I heard the first few bars of this song immediately playing on my mental iPod that day. . .

Ain't it a glorious day?
Right as a mornin' in May?
I feel like I could fly
Have you ever seen the grass so green?
Or a bluer sky?

Well after they'd been discharged, I couldn't get it out of my head for the rest of the session.

I saw them through the window out in front of Grady when I was wrapping up the end of our morning clinic. Standing side by side and talking to one another. They weren't holding hands or locked elbow to elbow. Just shoulder to shoulder. Then a car pulled up next to the curb and a middle-aged fellow who favored them jumped out to open up the door for them. He was hustling over to grab their coats and bags and his hazard lights were blinking. Even though Mary's husband used a four-prong cane to walk and Mrs. Mary was more agile on her feet, he made that same gesture.

Her first.

But this time she grabbed his hand tightly and walked right beside him. But once they reached the car, she did oblige him. She slid into the back seat first, and then scooted over to help him as he came in behind her. And then they drove away.

First I thought what I always think in times like this:  

Now this? This is Grady. The Grady I love.

But as I watched that car turn the corner and disappear from sight, I thought this, too:

No wonder it's always Mary that he loves.

***
Happy Monday.
 

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . sorry in advance for this playing in your head all day long.

Why I'm not mad at Beyonce.

 

While I know that some people can't stand them, I love a good awards show. From the red carpet criticisms to the funny comments on Twitter to the live performances--I just can't get enough of them. My friend Nikki and I even have a standing date for all awards show watching. Without fail, I get her much anticipated text message from Brooklyn, New York with the same invitation:

"Grammys at 8PM?"

"You know it, bay-beee!"

"Red carpet or just the show?"

"Kid duties. Show only."

"Cool."

"And the gang."

So, like clockwork, we literally text each other all night. On everything from LL Cool J licking his lips too much to whether or not Ozzy Osbourne has fallen off of the wagon again. Nothing is off limits. 

Grammy night 2014

We also talk junk about the artists for no apparent reason. Which really isn't nice but mostly serves to amuse us. But we do compliment some people, too. You know, just to keep things balanced. The whole thing drives Harry completely crazy. He always walks by, shakes his head and demands to know why, why, why we won't just pick up the phone and talk to one another. But he doesn't understand that our actual voices would ruin it.

MTV VMAs 2013

And you know? The even funnier part is that Nikki and I rarely talk any other time. But this? This is our thing. Crazy right?

Yawn. 

Oh! All of that actually has nothing to do with what I meant to talk about in this post. Well. I take that back. It's sort of quasi-related since watching the Grammys last Sunday is what got me thinking about this.

Okay, so check it. The 2014 Grammys opened with a very much PG-25 rated performance of "Drunk in Love" by Beyonce featuring her husband/rap artist Jay Z.  And man oh man did the media go to town. Where was "Survivor" Beyonce? What happened to the girl that shook it like she didn't know what she was doing? Well. That girl wasn't Mrs. Carter.

No, she was not.

So this song--"Drunk in Love"-- is just one of many edgy and rather . . errr. . .sensual songs on her latest LP. She's knocked down that fourth wall with this one. And Beyonce is no longer one of Destiny's Children. No ma'am, no sir. Mrs. Carter is now officially a G.A.W. (grown ass woman.)

Now. 

Let's talk about not only her performance but this entire album. She's like a different woman. Out of her shell and just. . .I don't know. . . kind of fearless. But in her own way, you know? Because, for her, a lot of it is stepping beyond just embracing her feminine side. She's introducing the world to what it's like to be a grown ass woman in love. 

Yeah she is!

And this? This I can relate to. 100% and completely, I can. 

When I watched Beyonce dancing on that stage with Jay Z, I saw something very familiar. And whenever I catch snapshots of them in magazines or even when I saw them side by side in their formal attire with the audience at those same Grammys--I noted the glint in her eyes and the look of exhilaration on her face. And I recognize it well.

Beyonce is crushing on her husband. And I know this might sound like a super silly thing for someone to say, but it is a very real thing. I know it because it constantly happens to me. 

Let me explain.

On a daily basis? I think the world of my husband. I think he's an amazing person, I find him incredibly attractive and best of all, I like him. I like him so much that I feel certain that were we not a couple, we'd be very good friends. That is, if his wife allowed it. 

Ha.

But the day to day of marriage is routine. And that love just sort of simmers like a slow cooker. And you know? Slow cookers are good. They make the whole house smell good and, if you season things just right, they don't take much work. So you snuggle a little in the bed and kiss one another on the way in or out of the house and you live your lives as the team you are. And that? That's really good. It is. You dig your spouse and feel glad that they are on your team. 

If you're lucky.

But if you're really, really lucky? Your everyday love sometimes bubbles over into those feelings that you thought were gone for good after you said "I do." Butterflies in your stomach. Giggly and blushy for no reason. Daydreaming about him while folding the laundry. And feeling your pulse quicken when you hear the garage open because he's home. I call it "crushing" on your husband. Or your wife. Or whoever that long time love of yours is. 

This happens to me constantly with the BHE. I swear it does. It's like. . .I don't know. . . some weeks I just look at him and cannot believe that he's my husband. I feel giddy around him and I can't stop touching him. I find myself hanging on his every word and eying him as he leans over to tie his shoes. And when I get like that, he knows it. 

"I'm crushing on you this week," I said to him earlier today. "Bad." 

"Ha ha," he chuckled. "That's a good thing, babe." 

"Is it normal to be like this over your husband of ten years?"

"I hope so, baby." 

That was our conversation before he left for work today. And nothing about it was unusual because I go through this often enough where he's used to it. But something about crushing on someone who loves me back is the part that's different. It just is.

So back to Beyonce. That album? Every note of it sounds like a woman who is deeply secure in a love. But more than that. She feels like a woman and sees herself as beautiful. It is clear that someone that she loves is looking at her like she's his ideal. And fortunately it's the person that she wants to have looking at her that way. 

She feels fierce.

Now that? That kind of thing gives you wings, man. It makes you want to skyrocket in flight like an afternoon delight. Your voice is bolder and your movements stronger. Your laugh is full and fluffy and you don't second guess yourself as much. And no, I'm not saying that you must be married to the love of your life to feel this way, but I'm just saying that I get the change I see in Beyonce. I do. 

See Beyonce was talented before she ever met Sean Carter aka Jay Z. She was fierce in her own right and had legions of fans already. And you know? He was a big star, too. Long before they were a team. But then they fell in love. These two people who were strong independently. They joined their forces and . . .just. . .wow. Skyrockets in flight, man.

So me? I wasn't offended at all by Beyonce's performance. What I saw on that stage was a grown woman--married with a child--giving the world a glimpse of how okay it is to still be the girl he first asked out. The one he saw standing on the concrete outside of the party hoping and praying he'd get a chance to meet. 

And sure. Maybe at 8PM seeing Beyonce's Flashdance-y moves and grown woman curves that left virtually nada to the imagination were both a bit risque. But hey--since she's a mom now, she knows as well as anyone that any kid that was young enough to be ruined by that performance likely should have had their little bad behind in bed by then. 

Yeah, I said it. (It was a school night, y'all. I'm just sayin'.) 

Yeah, Mrs. Beyonce. I ain't EVEN mad at you. Shake what your mama gave you and tell the whole damn world that you're drunk in love. Because you're thirty-something years old now which makes you old enough to drink and old enough to sing about your G.A.W. love. In your kitchen. Or your tub. Or whatever it is you pay for with your G.A.W. mortgage. 

Mmm hmmm.

Oh and if you detest Beyonce and can't stand rap music? Or have been under a rock and never even heard of her? Go ahead and just insert the woman and couple of your choice. Say. . .Kyra Sedgwick who always looks fierce on the red carpet because she's crushing on Kevin Bacon and he's crushing on her. Clearly there's less than six degrees of separation between those two. Whew-wee.

Or even better--if you want to kick it old school and go back to Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward. You tell me these two weren't crushing on each other and giving one another wings? Good Lord. May we all be so lucky to have someone looking at us as lovingly as this man looked at her. I bet Joanne would've had a few moves, too, if the times had been different.

Mmmm hmmm.

And no, Beyonce and Jay Z aren't Paul and Joanne, but still. At some point they could be. And my point is . . . when you have that kind of love backing you, dammit, you just might win a damn Grammy or an Oscar, too. 

Or at least feel like shaking your groove thang in front of millions of cheering (and jeering) fans.

I'm just sayin', y'all.

So yeah. I'm just rambling. I am. Partly because I'm stir crazy from being snowed in at my house for two days. But even more because I know how it feels to have a crush on your husband. And trust me--a real good crush might make you do some things you otherwise wouldn't. 

So on that note, I say this--with three snaps in a Z formation:

You go, Mrs. Carter.

*struts off with snapping finger still in the air*


***
Happy Thursday. Here's my top ten post about why I have a crush on my husband. At least why I did that week. Ha.

Now playing. . . only for the G.A.W.s and the G.A.M.s.