From the mouths of babes.

Right before heading over to Will and Fran's on Saturday evening:

Isaiah: Mom, I've been thinking about what reasons God would have had to let Auntie pass away.

Me: You have?

Isaiah: Yeah. Well. . . I think I know at least one of the reasons.

Me: You do?

Isaiah: Mom? I kind of think God might have wanted our family to be closer. Ever since Auntie's funeral I feel like we are even closer to each other and good at showing our love more. Like I see my cousins more and everybody just seems like they talk more and are closer.

Me: Hmmm. Do you think that pleases God?

Isaiah: I think so, Mom. Because I know it pleases me.

Me: Me, too, son. Me, too.

***

That exchange made me think of this night and how glad I am that Deanna was here to witness it. It still amazes me that she had the foresight to snap that video of that moment between my brother and me. It's almost like she knew something or that the whole universe knew to give us that magical evening with a piece caught on film.

Fall makes me miss her. Especially fall.

***
Happy Monday. Measure your life in love, okay?

Papa was not a rolling stone.

I am confident and I know my worth. I believe that my voice is worth sharing and that my eyes are strong enough to stare straight into yours. The man I married gives me love that I know how to receive without running from it, questioning it as a fluke, or ruining it through insecurity.

Why? Because I was raised by a father who loved me with all of his might, who had high expectations of me as a child, and who loved my mother right in front of me. He looked at me lovingly and let his face light up when I entered his presence. 

And he still does. Not just for me. But for my siblings and his grandchildren, too.

Look. I'm not saying that people who aren't raised by their dads aren't amazing--I know many who are. But I am saying that having a dad that you can count on is like taking a test with an answer key. Or better yet, like getting a big ass boost over the giant fence of adulthood. You have a huge advantage and you get to go into more stuff thinking that you'll win.

This morning at the track

Yeah, man.

Dad? If you were not my father? Damn. I'd wish you were. Praise God for entrusting me to to this man who had the courage and selflessness to walk in his purpose as a father--and who still does. I realize how fortunate I am, having a dad who is present, not broken, but who is also willing to love. I am so, so grateful. It's a big deal.

Damn, it is.

 
Happy birthday, Poopdeck. You freaking rule.

***
Happy Poopdeck Day.

This is photographic evidence of the 7.1 miles he trucked today to commemorate his 71st birthday. :)

(And also an "ussie" of him and the seniors he walks with each morning.) Poopdeck--You are supposed to SMILE on the selfie, dude. This is also proof that he is 71 years old. LOL!

Check. And check.

Goals today:

1. Take excellent care of patients.
2. Create an awesome learning climate.

I think we did pretty well at achieving those goals. Such a fun day on rounds today. . . . .if I wasn't on this team, I'd wish I were.

Third day on wards. More amazement awaits.

***
Happy Weekend.

What I signed up for.

"I'm glad you came back."

"You are?"

"Yeah, I am. 'Cause when you was here earlier, I felt kind of like you was rushing me. Like you needed to hurry on up."

"You did? Oh shoot. I'm so sorry. Ugggh. I'm sorry, ma'am."

"It's okay, Dr. Manning." 

"No, it's not." 

"You know what? You right. It's not really okay. It's not. 'Cause, for me, I'm the only patient you got. I mean, when it's my turn."

I looked into my patient's eyes when she said that to let her know I was hearing her. Then she smiled and spoke again.

"But I do accept your apology, Dr. Manning. And I'm glad you came back, okay?"

You know what? I'm glad I did, too.

***
Happy Friday.

The fellowship of suffering.

When I'm sad, she comes to me

with a thousand smiles she gives to me free

~ Jimi Hendix

It was an uneventful visit. Hypertension that needed tweaking, cholesterol medications that needed refilling, and a prostate that was enlarged but responding well to the therapy of choice for it. He nodded hard and said he understood our plans. One or two questions came when I pressed him but even those queries were straightforward, too. With a soft smile he dipped his head and quietly said, "Thank you, doctor."

And that was that.

The resident physician who'd just seen him that morning stood next to the sink. His spine was straight and his eyes laser focused on the patient. When we'd first walked in, he introduced me to his patient, a Grady elder, and pointed out that "nothing was wrong" and "this is my boss and she just comes in to check behind me." And I chuckled while shaking that man's hand adding, "A better way to put it is that we always figure two brains and two hearts caring for you is better than one." And this patient seemed to like that. I mean, mostly he did.

There was a sadness about him. Nothing overt or overwhelmingly so. Just this twinge in his eyes that niggled at me when I first sat down in that chair across from him. I reviewed things as always, and nothing really came out to suggest some clear explanation for it. And he was well-groomed and pleasant and cooperative which were good signs that he was getting along okay. I mean, I guess.

And so. This encounter remained vanilla which, honestly, isn't really a bad thing. I was okay with that even though I knew my mind would return to the something that I saw pooling in his brown eyes. But, as my husband tells me, sometimes it's okay to just leave it where you found it. I mean, sometimes it just has to be that way. That's what I decided I'd do.

I reached for his leathery hand and encircled it once more. "It was good to meet you, sir," I said. Which was true because it was.

"Okay. You have a blessed day, Miss Manning," he replied.

I glanced over at the resident, gave him a playful salute, and prepared to stand up. And all was well and everything was everything.

Yep.

Then, in my typical small-talky, notice-everythingy way, I pointed at the weathered cap sitting on the patient's head. "Special Forces," I read. "Wow. Was that you?"

It was an innocent question. I really wasn't prying or trying to lead him anywhere. Mostly I was just curious because it wasn't something I saw every day. And honestly, I'm not even exactly certain what happens on "Special Forces." That said, I do know enough to know that having the word "special" put before the kind of "forces" you bring just has to be a big deal.

He cast his eyes downward. "No. It belonged to my brother, Larry. He was in Special Forces. I just put this on today. I ain't even sure why."

And just like that, I knew. I knew what I was seeing and feeling from him earlier. At least, I think I knew.

The past tense of "belonged." The part about not being sure why he was even wearing that hat that day. And the name--Larry.  I could have just left it where I found it--this piece of him--but I could not.

"Larry was in Special Forces?"

My patient nodded. His eyes began to well up with tears and he tried his best to look down so that I wouldn't notice. But I did.

"Who is the older brother and who is the younger brother?"  And I'm not sure why that was my next question. I guess it just seemed benign enough to go with next.

"Larry was two years older. And he was . . . aaahh heeemmm," he cleared his throat to rid it of as much emotion as he could, "he was. . . .Larry was. . . um. . . .the one that just everyone loved. Everyone." And right after he said that a fat tear rolled down his cheek and disappeared under his chin.

I reached for his hand and didn't say a word. I just squeezed down on it and slid him the box of hospital grade Kleenex that thankfully was in front of me at the moment.

"My brother died in '90. But I miss him and love him like it happened just yesterday. And some days, they just worse than the other ones is all."

"I understand."  And I said that because I do. I mean, I really and truly do.

And so I sat there while he wept. And the resident stepped a bit closer to let him know that we were there in solidarity with our patient.

"It don't go away," he said with a moist sigh. "It just don't. No matter how old you get, it just don't. You go on, you know? You live, you know? But some piece of you always changed forever. Especially when you was close like we was." He pulled the tissue to his eyes and cried a bit more. This time with some chest heaves, which broke my heart.

Because, no I am not a Grady elder like this man was. But this was something that I had lived long enough to know about for myself.

"Larry sounds special," I finally said.

"He was the best person I ever knew. And when I was a younger man, I did some things that wasn't really good. I got mixed up in things that I didn't have no business getting mixed up in. And Larry, he ain't never judged me one day. He always saw the best in everybody."

"What an amazing quality."

"Yeah. That's why he the one everybody could agree on loving. Ever just know somebody that make people better? Just how they look in your eyes or smile at you that just make you better?"

And when he asked me that, I swear to you it took every fiber in my being not to break down crying the ugliest of cries. I wanted to jump up on that desk and exclaim, "Yes! Yes, I do know! I know how you feel!" But I didn't. Instead, I just nodded.

"I just don't go away. Today just a rough one for me." He let out a weak chuckle. "I thought putting on his ball cap would make me feel better. I'm sorry for all this. I really am." He glanced over at the resident doctor, too, who softened his expression and shook his head to let him know it was fine. Because it was.

"You honor Larry through your words and your love," I said.

And for the first time, I saw our patient crack a smile. He lifted his eyes and laid them on mine. His next words caught me by surprise. "You have a wisdom about you," he said. He clamped down on my hand when he said that.

"I don't know about that," I countered, "but I know what it feels like to miss a sibling." The patient cocked his head sideways, beckoning me to go on. I paused for a second, trying to decide how much to say. Then I decided not to over think it. "I lost my sister suddenly in 2012. She was a little under two years older than me. And she was wonderful."

"What's her name?" he asked. And I loved it that he did.

"Deanna. Her name was Deanna. And she was like the sun. She was like. . . .the sun." I didn't even want to cry when I told him that. Weirdly, I didn't. I just stared straight into his eyes and kept holding his hand while he did the same.

"It don't go away, do it?" He now spoke to me as a kindred spirit. I returned the gesture.

"No, sir. It don't go away. But some part of me doesn't want it to."

And here is the strange thing: That moment, that little slice of time after this realization that I indeed knew how he felt was a pivotal moment. Instead of us both hugging and crying or feeling the cloak of confluent misery and grief, I think we both felt paradoxically lighter.

That made me think of something I heard recently. Something called "the fellowship of suffering." My pastor spoke of this idea and said this:

"Those who have suffered are uniquely qualified and equipped to support others who are going through what they've been through or are going through."

He also added: "Comfort is life-giving to the comforter as well."

And that really resonated with me, particularly on this day it did.

You don't have to be a church-goer or even a follower of any organized religion to get with that piece of the gospel. A good word is a good word, isn't it? And this--this idea of pain equipping us to provide solace to someone--is a good word, man. I mean. . .just think. . .this capacity to comfort that comes from our own pain could, perhaps, be the silver lining of something awful, right?

I love thinking of that. And I love knowing that being a soft place for someone else to land in their pain will provide me the same. At the same time. How awesome is that?

See, I got to tell this man that my sister was like the sun. And, I promise you, before that moment, I never uttered those words. But it felt so good when I did. And I loved hearing about Larry and about how he, too, was like a ball of light.

About twenty minutes after that exchange I saw the patient standing at the front desk making a follow up appointment. He was talking to Phoebe, one of our clerks, and paused just a moment to put his eyes on me again. "I so appreciate you, Miss Manning," he said while taking my hand.

"I appreciate you, too, sir. And thank you for telling me about Larry."

"And thank you for listening. And for telling me about Deanna."

Phoebe just looked up and kept darting her eyes between us. Then she rested her gaze on me. I offered her a half smile, then reached out for her hand with my other one. As if on cue, she took it. I turned my head to my patient and said, "Phoebe knows, too."

He knew exactly what I meant.

And then, I am not kidding you, he took Phoebe's other hand and we were right there over that counter in a circle of clasped hands. "My brother," Phoebe told him. "Just a few months ago."

We all just squeezed hands and acknowledged what we knew. And it was sacred, that moment. It was.

"You know what I know, sir?" He widened his eyes to see what I'd say next. "I know it don't go away, the missing them part. But my sister? She was like the sun. And even on the gloomiest, darkest days, I know the sun never goes out. It's always there."

"It is," he said with a big smile. "It is." He looked over at Phoebe and she smiled, too.

"It is," she concurred with a nod of affirmation.

I repeated once more, "It is." 

After that, I said goodbye to them, walked down the hall, stepped into the nearest bathroom and allowed myself a good, hard cry.

And you know what? It was all good. It was. And it is.

It is.

***
Happy Wednesday. First day on wards. . . . amazement awaits.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . . both versions of this song--the original. . . .



. . .and this sublime version from Sting that is my favorite. . . 



*story shared with permission, minor details changed to protect anonymity.

This boy of mine.

I could look at his face all day.

***
Happy Tuesday. Again.

The music that defines the story of us becoming who we are.

Just keep your faith in me

don't act impatiently

you'll get where you need to be in due time

Even when things are slow

hold on and don't let go

I give you what I owe

in due time

~ Outkast

My friend Mary M. loves The Rolling Stones. She also has a deep adoration for Bob Dylan, The Beatles, and many other artists and musical genres. Music has always been a centerpiece in her home just like it is for many of us. One of her daughters plays the mandolin and her eldest grandson (who is only five, by the way) knows the Stones well enough to blow the dust off of an album and drop a nickel on top of it. Okay. Maybe that's an exaggeration, but the kid does have a true appreciation for sixties rock and roll.

Yup.

I love the way music evokes such powerful memories. For Mary's grandson, Owen, the cry of Keith Richards' guitar or the throaty crooning of Mick Jagger will likely pull him into the warmest, safest time of his life. Each note will cause his heart to swell with the strongest of reflections of his grandmother sweeping the porch or his grandfather laughing in a nearby chair in his overalls. So that--the sound of The Rolling Stones--will be as intense as the smell of sage at Thanksgiving or the thick aroma of a Southern summer after a hard rain for him.

Always, alway, always.

But for his grandmother? Those Rolling Stones notes take her to different places. It likely brings her back to defining moments and coming of age experiences. Some good, some worth forgetting and others decidedly unforgettable. But the music does that. It punctuates these pivotal times--particularly when the artists' evolution happens in concert with our own.

Yes.

When I was seventeen years old, my father drove me from Los Angeles all the way to Alabama to start college at Tuskegee University. Within days, my favorite shoes were covered in red clay from walking through shortcuts to the cafeteria and my west coast "summer jackets" had been tossed into a heap for they would be of no use in the humidity of an Alabama August. In addition to that, I also remember the sounds that played in my dorm room off of Walmart special boom boxes. A quirky girl on my hall had two tapes that she played non-stop. One was Bob Marley and the Wailer's greatest hits and the other was Sting's Nothing Like the Sun. To this very day, those songs transport me back to Douglass Hall in 1988.

That said, there was some other music that was very, very unique to where I was. Southern hip hop music was in its infancy then. With its heavy bass undertones and catchy chants, it filled up our ears at every party. Additionally, half way through most parties, there would be a break out point with Chicago-style "house music"--something my California ears had never heard before. New friends taught me the dances and eventually I owned my own set of Miami bass and Chi-town house mix tapes. And all of that--whenever I hear it at any party--teleports me to crowded jam sessions with sweaty co-eds moving their bodies after a week of hard work.

So all of this--the music that defines different times in my life--has always been meaningful. Even when I don't hear the songs each day, when I do, it just does something to me. Puts me in a happy place. The words pop out of my lips like legs pedaling on a bike. The dances return to my limbs and I am there again. Whether it is Rapper's Delight with us pop locking and double dutching on the corner, Run DMC with us break dancing on cardboard boxes, Salt 'n' Pepa and us gyrating our narrow hips way too suggestively to be sophomores in high school, or LL Cool J signaling that the newest set of pledges from a fraternity or sorority at Tuskegee had just completed their much anticipated initiation--music is the universal tie that binds it all together.

Medical school, 1996

From Tuskegee, I went up to Nashville for medical school. Still in the southern United States and still in the environment of a historically black college. By this time, I'd embraced the "dirty South" as a part of who I was--the music, the slang, the all of it. That foreign humidity felt normal to me and words like "y'all" were now a regular part of my everyday vernacular. But the music? That, too became something I took ownership of as well.

Let me explain: In 1994, I was sitting in the living room of my friend Jada's apartment. Her boyfriend, Felix, was visiting from Arkansas where he'd just graduated from grad school and was playing this new tape he'd recently gotten. It was like nothing I'd ever heard. That said, there was a familiarity about it. The voices were unapologetically "down South" sounding. Not in that country and western way but more the urban tongues I often overheard from the Atlanta kids I'd come to know well in college. The two people rapping over this beat did what I'd heard only East Coast and West Coast emcees do -- but never anyone else from the less "on the map" places. These artists specifically called out places in Atlanta. Streets. The MARTA train. Bus routes. In the 'hood, no less. They shouted out all of those things that weren't really shiny or pretty but were still a part of them. And they talked about those things that, during that time for hip hop music, wasn't considered sexy at all.

Atlanta? As in Georgia? What?

Yep. Not even cryptic about it. They were like "This is who we are. Love it or leave it." And us? Then twenty somethings in the south? We LOVED it. Loved the uniqueness of it, the twang of it, the everything of it. And we played it and played it and played it until the strips almost rolled off of the reels.

The name of that group was so fitting, too. "Outkast." The real word is defined as one who has been rejected by society or a social group. And a lot of us kids embraced that because, at times, we felt like outcasts, too.

By 1996, they'd had another album drop which, by then, we referred to as a "CD." Ha. This one was even more "out there." It was aptly called "ATLiens" and chronicled the process of just trying to make it with very little. I knew all of the words to that CD, too. Somehow while studying to be somebody's doctor, I figured that part out at the same time. Ha.

And with this one? The Atlanta references were even stronger and in your face. Which everyone who was from anywhere felt proud about. Not just Atlanta. Any hood anywhere. It made the Houston rappers shout out Houston and even the Cleveland rappers talk about Cleveland.

Yes. Even Cleveland. 

Here's an excerpt from one of my favorite songs from back then:

"One for the money, yes suhh, two for the show
A couple of years ago on Headland and Delowe
Was the start of somethin' good
Where me and my -- rode the MARTA, through the hood
Just tryin' ta find that hookup
Now, everyday we look up at the ceilin'
Watchin' ceilin' fans go 'round tryin ta catch that feelin'
Off instrumental, had my pencil, and plus my paper
We caught the 86 Lithonia headed to Decatur . . . . "

And these--the words to a song called "Elevators"-- spoke to us all. At least the "all of us" who were with them during that time figuratively and, by our shared down South residence, literally. Because we were the ones who were shaking our hips and bopping our heads to it while trying to move on up in our own ways. . . . just like them.

1996

Up those Elevators to a deeee-luxe apartment in the sky. (Don't even get me started on television.)

To our parents and maybe even a lot of other people from other places it was just noise and nonsense. Maybe. But maybe not.

But to us? It was magical. 

This unusual duo--Outkast--went on to become very, very big Grammy-winning stars. They crossed over into other genres and gained tons of fans who weren't even born when we were "letting our tapes rock 'til our tapes popped" back in '94. Other albums became beloved by kids everywhere and of every hue. And still, we were all proud of them. Proud of all of it because their story was a part of ours. And we were right there with them as they came of age while we came of age, too.

What's also super cool is that a lot of those younger kids who became fans later have defining moments with this group as well. Just at different points with different meanings, you know?

Yep.

So after many, many years, Outkast went on a tour that both ended and culminated with a big three-day weekend in Atlanta--wittily referred to as #ATLast and destined to be epic. Partly because this group almost never tours. And second because it was ATLANTA. So originally, there was just one show slated for September 27, 2014. It was scheduled to be in the middle of Centennial Olympic Park in the literal heart of Atlanta. Of course, it sold out immediately.

They opened up two more shows for Friday and Sunday--those sold out in minutes, too. I was at work when they went on sale so admittedly wasn't in the number.

Nope.

But then as the date drew closer, I began to realize what part of my story their music told. I listened and could feel versions of what I feel when Nat King Cole sings "The Christmas Song" or The Temptations sing "Silent Night." I recognized that this would all be happening in Atlanta and reflected on all that happened in music out of Atlanta, Georgia after they emerged on the scene. I imagined me, coming of age, and even my young Grady patients who much more like Andre and Big Boi from Outkast than anyone I know.

I knew I had to figure out how to be there.

from the last rare chance I had to see them, Cleveland, OH during residency--got autographs to boot!

On a Hail Mary throw, I put it out there on Facebook (yes, I've broken down and entered Facebook--another post for another time.) And through the magic of social media, what started as me pouting about wishing I had committed to getting tickets, ended in two tickets in my hot little hand. Or rather on my hot little lap top.

JoLai was a part of that thread and she is a firm believer in the YOLO approach--that is, "you only live once." She knew what a fan I was and also understands exactly what I mean about the music that defines eras in our lives. She put straight into a comment: "If you can get the VIP ticket at that price, I will get for you. I want you to go that bad. #yolo!" 

How could I refuse that? Answer: I could not.

But what made it even better? The person who joined me was my friend Jada--the same one whose couch I sat criss cross applesauce on when I first heard that first tape. And guess who dropped us off at the concert? Her now husband of nearly 20 years, Felix. And guess how we got home? You guessed it. The MARTA.

Yep.

It was Jada's birthday the day we went to the concert. And we walked lockstep just like it was the old days at Meharry Medical College when we were first year students partnering on a cadaver in the gross anatomy lab. And that music? All of it? It was perfect. Nostalgic and the soundtrack to a rich story that is still being told.

We stood outdoors under the Atlanta skyline and amongst the energy of many, many ATLiens young and old on the final day of what will likely be their final tour. It felt epic because . . . well. . .it was. But mostly, because I let myself feel it. Feel the music, feel the time and place, feel the meaning of that friendship of twenty-plus years and remember what it felt like to sit with that same girl watching ceiling fans go 'round and trying to catch that feeling. . . .

Yeah, man.

I don't know what will be Mary's grandson Owen's Outkast. I can't begin to even guess what will be Isaiah and Zachary's Rolling Stones or Bob Dylan either. But what I do know is that there will be one. Or two. Or better yet, many more just like we have. And that music will play in the backgrounds on their mental iPods. . . .building a foundation of memories for them to safety retreat to through the magic of headphones and standing room only concerts in the park.


Yeah.

"Peace up"

"A-town down"

Thanks for an EPIC adventure, Jada. Then and now.

***
Happy Tuesday. You can find me in the A!

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . .one of my favorites featuring Outkast's homeboy (prominently featured all over that '94 debut) an unknown highschooler named Cee-Lo Green. Talent is everywhere. . .so many diamonds gleaming all around us, right? Don't sleep on ANYONE from ANYWHERE.



What is some of the music that defines the story of who you are? Which artists take you to sacred places?

The extroverted introvert.

I joined my colleagues last week for a gathering of medical school advisors. The session, led by one of our fellow society advisor faculty, centered around the whole idea of introverts versus extroverts and how we could work to bring out the best in each one.

Well. To be honest, we focused primarily on the introverted side of things. The discussion worked from the premise of the world being an extrovert's world. Those who "go hard or go home" or go, as one of my patients said recently, "balls to the wall" are the ones that get rewarded. Noticed. Promoted. A lively discussion ensued. We explored the book "Quiet" by Susan Cain, which talks all about these concepts and helps devise a diabolical plot for the introverts to take over this world full of blabbermouths.

Okay, maybe that oversimplifies things a bit but my point is that our meeting and that book aimed at highlighting the positives of being more on the introvert side of things than the extrovert end.

Yeah.

I heard some really good points. One was that we should be careful about who we label as an "introvert" and who we label as an "extrovert." Before we dove into all of that, we defined what we even meant by those terms--which was, perhaps, the part I found most intriguing of all.

Okay, so check it. Introverts mostly draw energy from inside, from small and intimate settings, and are often invigorated by solitude. Extroverts are the opposite. Groups of people give them a rush and and they get their jolt from the confluent souls of other human beings. Too much "alone time" stresses them out just as the introvert reaches a point where they must, must, must retreat to hide off in little space of their own.

So that evolved to lots of points being made about how this relates to our students and what we do each day in the hospital. The whole speaking in front of a group on rounds, interacting with patients and the team, and collaborating pieces that serve as these outward measures of "exceptional" versus "just aiight." Hands went up and faculty gave testimonies of how their more introverted advisees overcame those "shortcomings" to push through and succeed. And pretty much, that was the gist of it.

Then one of the senior faculty members said something else that grabbed me. He returned to the original way we defined "introvert" and "extrovert" and then added another point for us to consider:

"Let's not confuse having effective communication skills with being extroverted. Or being shy or in need for better communication skills with being an introvert." 

And that isn't an exact quote, but it is somewhat similar to what he said from my recollection.

Now. Let me just put a kickstand on that for a minute. And admittedly, I'm just sort of thinking about all of this this morning and feeling rambly so just bear with me, okay?

Let's not confuse communication skills with being extroverted. . ."

Yes. This right here? All day long, man. That hit home for me, for real. Let me explain why:

I have said it a million times before and any who read this blog by now might gather that I just love people. I do. I love their stories, their journeys, their laughter, their lessons and so much more. And Grady Hospital is so filled to the brim with so many interesting and intriguing human beings that each day that I go to see patients some part of me feels excited. Even on the days that I don't feel like working.

Yep.

But Grady Hospital is a familiar territory to me. It feels like home when I am there and because of that I am relaxed. And, yes, in environments that aren't virtual unknowns, I think I tend to let down guards and open myself up. No part of me recoils like a rose in darkness but instead bursts toward their light. And, I guess, for any who are with me or around me at Grady, that would deem me an "extrovert." I can see that.

But.

Where do I get my energy? My real true charge? Almost always that comes from after the encounters. My time alone, reflecting on all that I live and see, is what gives me my greatest uploads and reboots. I almost never get enough sleep because, quite honestly, I am up thinking and hungering to write about what is in my head. It's not enough just to chat with Harry over pillow talk about my day or recent events. I need my time alone in my head for an exegesis of what it means and what lessons are nestled inside of it. Sometimes I wait and wait for my house to go to sleep so that I can do this. And I don't feel right until I do.

Here's the other thing that is interesting. I love intimacy. And while I love the BHE, I'm not referring to that "eros" type of intimacy. I'm talking about what happens when two girlfriends chat about life over a full bodied red wine with bare feet folded under their bottoms on couches. I'm speaking of the days that I stop by the offices of my Grady (and also real world) BFFs Stacy H. or Lesley M. just to laugh and listen and share. Boring afternoons with my wing woman Lisa D. or  text exchanges with the Profesora in Pittsburgh or hanging out in the living room just talking to Harry. This? This is when I feel the most happy.

That is, in addition to when I'm thinking and writing all alone.

Conversely, any of my close friends would tell you that I don't do so well with too many unfamiliar variables or people thrust at me at once. This is probably the most "non-extroverty" thing about me. It's funny because they all sort of know that I am less comfortable with the dinner for two morphing into "I invited two of my other girlfriends" or even something as simple as a weekend girls' trip that includes some people who (though I'm sure are wonderful women) I don't know.

Crowds I can manage only when a few things are in place. It is my preference to enter them with a few people that I know very well (which makes it feel intimate in the end) or it has to be a crowd that is mostly familiar like Tuskegee University's homecoming for example. Beyond that? I feel quite anxious, actually. And if a very, very social friend wants just to two of us to go to a very, very crowded place--one where I am likely to be left to my own devices with a bunch of quasi-strangers? Any chance of that makes it a no for me. At least, unless I can't help it. But it's crazy because I really do enjoy the energy of a big crowd when I have someone right beside me that I know very, very well or have a history with.

Crazy, I know.

So I thought a lot about all of this and wondered what it meant. I reflected on this idea of communication skills being confused for extroversion or shyness being a placeholder for introversion. I downloaded "Quiet" and learned that I am, at best, an "ambivert." I read it with great interest and, in true Kimberly Manning form, got about 75% through it. I think I got the main points though.

Ha.  

Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that there is also this notion about how different versions of who we are come out depending upon whether we are stressed or not. So I guess this ambivert is more of an extrovert in relaxed and predictable situations and more of an introvert in opposite environments. Or maybe that's not true at all, right? Like maybe if I get most of my energy from me and my own crazy thoughts and mental iPod that isn't true at all.

Hmmm. I don't know.

Okay, so after all of that discussion with my colleagues (and with myself) I ended up drawing this conclusion about how it relates to my advisees and learners:

It doesn't matter what box you fit in according to some expert. I guess I will just pay attention to you and try to respond in a sensitive way. And try to push you without torturing you. For some folks that requires defining who you are. But for me? Not so much.

I just need some time alone to think about it, that's all.

***
Happy Sunday.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

Haiku on a Thursday morning while missing my sister.

Autumn reminds me

The chill like a clanging gong

This really happened

***

Happy Thursday. Fall is beginning to fall here.  So bittersweet, you know? How is it there? How are you today?

So happy together.

Me and you and you and me

No matter how they toss the dice, it has to be

The only one for me is you, and you for me

So happy together

from The Turtles "Happy Together"

The other day I knelt before my patient like a royal subject. She wasn't there to see me, actually. Instead she'd already received care by another provider and had asked a nurse if I was around. I found her there in the center of the hallway, sitting in her motorized wheelchair.

I touched her shoulder first and didn't say a word. She is hard of hearing so I knew that getting her attention this way would be her preference. Her head gently turned to the side and when we locked eyes, she erupted into a smile. I took her hand from over her shoulder, walked around and then bent at the knees right in front of her.

"Hello Pretty Lady," I said like always. My mouth and pronunciation were very deliberate and distinct because I knew she'd be reading my lips. "You Were Looking For Me?"

She always spoke back regular since she knew I could hear her fine. "Remember what I told you about? That day I saw you in the cafeteria? I worked it out."

I paused for a moment. I wasn't sure what she was talking about. She could tell so spoke again. "Remember? My body. What I said I want to do."That's when she reached into her pocket book and handed me a piece of paper.

"Donation of Body to Science and Education."

"Wow," I said. "You Did It."

"I sure did. And now it is almost final." Then she pointed at one area on the sheet. "But I need you to be a witness. I want it to be you as my witness."

"Me?" I pronounced the word and pointed to my chest. She nodded hard. My face exploded into a huge grin. I loved that she'd hunted me down for this. "I Would Be Honored."

I pushed my hands on my knees and carefully rose to a stand. Taking the paper from her hand, I scanned it carefully and then found the line for my signature. After my John Hancock was prominently displayed on that sheet, I came down to my knees again. "Here You Go, My Dear." She read my lips and smiled.

"Thank you, love."

"I'm Glad I Saw You To-day." Again, I made sure she could see my mouth moving.

"Me, too," she replied. Then her face grew serious. "I am nearing the end of my days in this life. No, I'm not sick but I am older. I like knowing that my body can help somebody learn how to take care of somebody one day. That makes me happy inside."

And me, I just squeezed both of her hands with mine and just looked into her eyes when she said that. Then my face felt a little hot and my eyes a bit prickly from emotion because this? This is Grady. And being at Grady makes me feel happy inside, too.

Yeah.

***
Happy Wednesday Morning, y'all.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . . so happy together.