I be praying.

"I hope you find your peace, falling on your knees. . . .praying." 

~ Ke$ha

________________________________________

Afternoon rounds with my patient:


Him: "Losing somebody to some kinda accident or violence? That's the worse thang if you ask me."
Me: "You think so?"
Him: "Yeah. Like, you get on with your life and all. But something inside of you gone always stay balled up like a fist. Always."

*silence*

Him: "The problem is that it haunt you like a boogeyman. You be replaying it in your head thinking 'bout what if this or what if that, you know?"

*silence*

After that, my patient started weeping. He turned his head away from me to look at the Atlanta skyline through the window. I sat on the bedside chair, reached for his hand and just held it--gazing at the same view.
Me: *whisper* "I'm so sorry, sir."
Him: *whisper back* "Me, too, Miss Manning."

Finally, he shook his head, let go of my hand and pressed his palms into his eyes. I just sort of watched him helplessly. Because I knew I couldn't take this away from him.

He spoke again.

Him: "I be praying, Miss Manning. I be praying so hard. Asking God please don't do nothing else to nobody. Please God." *starts crying again* "Almost make you scared to love somebody real hard."

*silence*

I wish I could tell you that I said something wise that made all of this better. I didn't. Instead, I just held his hand in silence and coached myself with all of my might not to cry.

It didn't work.


Since I'm a pray-er, before I close my eyes tonight, I will allow my heart to touch and agree with yours. Petitioning God to protect the people we love from calamities and catastrophes. And to fight those lurking boogeymen so that you can finally unclench your fists.

Yeah.

***

Now playing on my mental iPod

Bias is heavy.

There is this thing I had to fight off the moment I laid eyes on you. This feeling, this bias that I wish I didn't have toward you but that I know I do. As soon as I stepped over the threshold into your room, I could feel my heart shadowboxing to try to press it down, hold it back.

Sigh.

They make whole television shows about you. And people tune in as appalled voyeurs, wondering how someone could reach the kind of weight that renders them immobile. Or totally isolated. Or maybe not isolated but still unable to fully participate in the kinds of things that most people can do. Admittedly, I don't watch. But I'd be lying if I said it was because of my tremendous empathy and disapproval of people making your reality into a spectacle. Instead, it just reminds me of those who come before me as my patients who are like you. And how helpless I always feel.

Yes. That.

See, that's my bias. I like feeling like I can do something. And a body mass index that matches my age always makes me feel like my hands are tied. And like there is nothing I can really, truly do. Especially when resources are low on top of it.

Sigh.

So after I saw you, I told my team what I am saying now. That I am struggling with my bias and I want to do better, be better. And that I would try. Like, really try.

"How?" my student asked me.
"I don't know," I said. "But I think first? I'm just gonna be still and think about it."

Which I did.

And so. I came back. And this time, I didn't just go through the motions. I sat down and spent some time talking to you. I told you flat out about how sometimes I struggle with seeing my patients who carry as much weight as you. And then I said sorry in case it sounded mean. You said it was cool.
But then we started talking. About music. About family. About parents saying crazy stuff and what we put them through as kids. We laughed about land lines and how kids now will never know how it feels to have somebody pick up the phone and start dialing while you're trying to ask somebody to go with you. Or pretend you ain't eavesdropping on a three-way call. We cracked up laughing.
Then, after that, you took out your phone and showed me a picture of yourself. Not in the hospital. Standing outside at a cookout. And yes, you were still as heavy as you are now, but your eyes were dancing and you looked alive. You did.

"You still struggling?" you asked me.
I thought for a minute. "You know what? No."
"People don't see me," you said.
"I didn't before. I do now," I replied.
"It's crazy because when you real, real big, people treat you bad and the world seem like they cool with it." You shook your head. "I'm not talking about being husky. I'm talking about when you get like me. Like people let they kids stare or they look at you and frown right to your face. Like 'Uggh.' And don't nobody say nothing."

"Dang." That's what I said.

Because that was all I could think to say. And because I felt my toes squishing under the weight of that truth.

I'm learning that confronting our biases head-on is one of the only ways to overcome them. I'm also constantly reminded that the longer you stay with someone, the more you'll find where you intersect. And the more you'll see them.

Because I saw you, I took better care of you. The plan became more meaningful and, as the leader of the team, allowed me to help my whole team see you, too. Like, for real see you. I also told them what you said and we all promised to do better. Or at least try, man.

Thanks for helping me to be a better doctor. I'm a work in progress for sure. But today--thanks to you--I think I progressed.

Yeah. 

***

Homeless-ish.

When my alarm went off this morning, I didn't want to get out of bed. Not because I'm a person who struggles with mornings--I don't. And not because I still felt super sleepy--I didn't. Mostly, it just felt super comfortable. And safe. And just. . . peaceful.

Yeah. That.

I hit the snooze button, stilled myself, and just listened. I could hear the tinkle of Willow's collar and his feet padding the floor while exiting Zack's room. Then I heard the plop of his body settling to the floor outside of my door. A few dry coughs came from the direction of Isaiah's room. And Harry's rhythmic breaths added to my ambient morning music. It all felt so good.

It did.

And this? I'm learning that this is not a tiny mercy. It's a big one. Just having a bed that you can lay down on that you either look forward to getting into or that you feel reluctant to leave? Man. This week reminded me what a huge deal that is.

Like on this day:

Me: "You're looking so much better, sir. You're off of oxygen and walking to the bathroom and back by yourself. And your fevers have gone away. I think we can let you go today."
Him: "I don't feel all the way better, Miss Manning. I prefer for you to just go on and hold me until I'm back to a hundred percent."
Me: "I'd sure love to do that. But it's a lot better for you to just finish recuperating at home away from all the beeping sounds and people waking you up." *trying to laugh*
Him: "That don't bother me. I'd just rather stay a few more days."
Me: "So, we do have to go ahead and discharge you today now that your body is strong enough to finish getting better at home. But how about we send a home health nurse there to see about you?"
Him: *looking visibly distressed*
Me: "You okay?"
Him: *tearful* "No. I just really, really want to keep getting better here."

*silence*

Me: "Remind me of where you live again?"
Him: "With my daughter. And her family for now."
Me: "Okay. I say when you get back there, you just slide on under the covers and keep on resting when you get home. We'll get you the prescriptions and get you all set, okay?"

*silence*

Me: *trying to look positive* "Okay?"
Him: *now tearful and frustrated* "First of all, I stay on a COUCH not in a room. And it's just . .just . . .just CHAOS all 'round there! Kids in and out, teenagers. People walking all around and smoking and cussing and talking all loud. TV on all hours of the day and folk letting me know I'm in they way. Like, 'Naw, we don't want it so comfortable that you don't get up outta here.' And I don't blame 'em."
Me: *silence*
Him: "I know you can't hold me past what you s'posed to. But I wish SO bad I had some place that just feel good, you know? Where I can just get in my bed and like it there. And get all the way better. But I ain't got that."
Me: *tiny whisper* "Man."

After that I asked him to tell me what he meant by "CHAOS" and he did. And nothing about it sounded pleasant or like a good set up for a brother that's trying to convalesce after dealing with some real serious health stuff. It sucked.

And this? This situation of unstable housing and "staying with somebody for a while" because of lost jobs or disability or strongholds? Man. This is way more common than I wish it was. Way, way more. That patient gave it a good name: "Homeless-ish."

Wish I could say there was a plan B for me to offer my homeless-ish friend that day. There wasn't. At least, not a fast or immediate one. And because I was keenly aware of the large numbers of sick patients down in the ER waiting for beds on the hospital ward, the chaotic couch would have to do.

Sigh.

So this morning before the snooze went off again, I prayed for him to find some pocket of solace in the next few days. Prayed that someone in that house would choose to speak in their inside voice or skip the loud TV or insist that everyone tiptoe and close the doors softly. That somebody would lightly place a comforter over his body and bring out a pillow and ask if he's okay. I prayed that until I could see it. I did.

After that, I gave gratitude for tiny coughs, jingling dog collars, low pitched hums of sleeping husbands, goose down comforters, alarms with snooze buttons and just. . . peace. Because somebody somewhere would give anything for it, man. This I know for sure.

Praying friends? And my non-praying friends, too. . . . remember my homeless patients, okay? And my homeless-ish ones, too. Thanks.

That's all.

***

Alix. Alix. Alix.

2015

When she was a first-year medical student, I ran into her in the lobby of the medical school. She knew my name before I knew hers. Which isn't an unusual thing for those junior to you in a place where you're both underrepresented minorities. "Hi Dr. Manning!" she said as I passed. Her eyes were dancing with admiration and deference. I was busy, but still. I wanted to try to show her the same.

I stopped. I smiled. I asked her name, too.

"Alix," she said.
"Nice to meet you, Alix," I replied. Then I said:

"Alix. Alix. Alix."

That's what I do when I meet someone and want to be sure to seal a name into my brain. And that is exactly what happened. After that, whenever I saw her moving between classes with an oversized bookbag or chatting with her comrades, I made sure to call her by her name.

"Alix. Alix. Alix."

Yup.

Ultimately, that created a space for us to talk more. I gave her my number and told her to reach out anytime. Because I care about our students, yes. But especially because I know exactly what it feels like to be a black female navigating a large majority medical institution.

Yup.

One day during Thanksgiving break of her first year, she sent me a text asking if she could join me on rounds. I replied that she could and offered some future dates. "I was hoping to join you this week," Alix said. It was Thanksgiving week. And she was on break. But once I asked if she was sure, she confirmed that this was exactly how she wanted to spend the Saturday after turkey day. And so she did.

Yup.

2015

That was in 2015. Fast forward to this month and now she is a senior medical student rotating on my team. She's a few weeks away from matching into a residency. Her stride is more confident. Her comfort level navigating around Grady so much different than the nervous freshman student who stuck close to my side back in November of 2015. I looked at her on rounds yesterday and felt a pang in my chest.

2019

"This is a full circle moment," I told her yesterday after rounds.
"Yes, it is. I feel so lucky."
"Do you remember that day you came to round with me?"
"The Saturday after Thanksgiving. I will never forget."

After that, I didn't say much. I just sat there staring at her with the same admiration and deference that she'd offered to me in the hallway nearly four years ago.

"Damn, I'm so proud of you."
"I know."
"You do?"
"Yes. I do."

We both sat there smiling for a few beats. Then I spoke again.

"Pay it forward, okay?"
"I will."
"You know what? I already knew that."

And I said that because it was true.

Alix. Alix. Alix.
I'm so glad I took the time to learn your name.


I love this job. So much, man.

Yeah.

***

I took those photos that day right after she'd finished rounding with me back in November 2015. Because I knew I'd want to go back and savor that moment someday. You know what? I was right.

You are not.

You looked at me with this bored expression. You yawned, folded one elbow behind your head and scratched your ashy torso with the other. "I'm a lost cause," you said. "Some people just like to get high. Me? I'm worse than those kinds of people. I LOVE to get high." When I didn't say anything, you laughed out loud. Hard.

I did not.

"I just keep shit one hun-ned." You shrugged. Then you laughed again. This time harder.

I did not.

There was such unapologetic resignation in your face. You meant what you said, believed it even. You spoke of all the people who had come in front of you, trying to convince you to quit.
"Sobriety is for who want it, man. I don't want it. I want to get high. As much as I can."
"I appreciate your honesty," I said.
"I'm always gon' be that. You can call me a junkie. You can call me a addict. But what you ain't never gon' call me is a lie, though." You chuckled once more.

I did not.

It started with some pills after an injury. You broke a bone and they gave you Percocet. Then they gave you more. At some point, you felt sick without it. And lucky you, you were down with somebody who knew how to help you not feel sick.
"You scared of needles? It involve a needle," your friend told you. You said, "I just don't want to feel sick." After that, it was a wrap.

Over and over again, you called yourself a junkie. Such an old school word coming from someone so young.

"I'm a lost cause, man. Don't waste your energy." You laughed every single time you said that. And every single time you did, I made up my mind to not join you.

So you kept talking. And I kept listening. You kept laughing, too. The whole time you did. I did not.
At some point, I reached out and touched your hand. You jumped a little. Then, for the first time, you looked into my eyes. You were genuinely surprised by my gesture. I closed my fingers tighter in response, ignoring the confetti constellation of needle marks and scarring. I was stunned that you let me.

Me: "You keep saying you're a junkie. And a lost cause. That's not what I see."
You: "Oh yeah?"
Me: "No. I see a smart, beautiful, black son."
You: *holding my gaze*
Me: "I know you like to get high. But little brother . .you are so much more than that."
You: "No I'm not."
Me: "Yes, you are."
You: *silence*
Me: "YES, YOU ARE. You ARE."

What happened next surprised us both. You started crying. Hard. And as soon as you did, I couldn't hold it in. I cried, too. Right then and right there. And the whole time I was squeezing your hand and you were squeezing your eyes as tight as you could to hold back those tears.

They came anyway.

This didn't end with you promising to never get high again. Or with me safely delivering you to a rehab center and all of us rejoicing in the hallways singing mumma-say mumma-sah mu mah koosah either. But you did let me hold your hand way longer than I thought you would.

After I left your room, I stood in the hallway weeping. My shoulders were shaking and my fist was balled up and held to my mouth. I shook my head and kept saying out loud, "I am so, so sorry, little brother. I am so, so sorry." My whole team was standing right there for all of it, too. And I didn't care. The part inside of your room and the part outside in the hallway, too.

"Do you think this could get him to stop?" my student asked.

“I don’t know," I said. "But I do think just like mean stacks up so does kind. So I keep trying, you know?"

She nodded in response. I meant every word.
***

Dear little brother,

You are not a lost cause. 
You are not a lost cause.
You are not a lost cause. 
You are not.

Okay?

***

Yes, yes, y'all.

A life was saved. Yours. And I was there and involved and there to bear witness to it all.

Yes, I was.

No, it wasn't in that sexy or thrilling way. You know, like the kind where someone tears into the room and dives upon your chest for compressions in a single bound. It was nothing like the ones they recreate for melodramatic television dramas with people running beside fast-rolling gurneys steadying wayward IV poles and charging up defibrillator paddles at the same time.

Nope.

But still. A life was saved. Yours. And I know it was because I was there and have been doing this for a while now.

Sometimes we miss it. Those moments like this one. The ones where just one tiny shift in the path does something game-changing. A teeny, tiny nudge toward a seemingly insignificant fork in the road that moves the patient inches away from a giant cliff. Or maybe not a cliff because those are big and obviously treacherous. This was different. More like a slow, downhill trainwreck.

Yes, that.

See, a student listened to you and then shared your story on rounds. Described what you said in detail and all that had been done. And the way he honored your truth helped me to make sense of your perspective but simultaneously recognize that some aspects of our direction didn't make sense at all. And so, I asked one question. Which led to another question. That became a discussion with the whole team.

"Why is this?" I asked. "This doesn't make sense to me. Does it make sense to y'all?" This is what I asked my team. And yes, I said "y'all" because I think easy and calm learning and working climates help us think easier and take better care of patients like you. Or not even just like you. Like any patient who comes before us. I do.

So that student wrinkled his nose and thought about it. And so did my resident and my interns, too. And, though I could not see myself, I am certain that I did the same. Because it didn't make sense. The path we were on and that you'd been on for months and months did not.

Nope.

We came up with a plan. To bring in a consultant to look at some aspects of your case. The parts that weren't readily explainable by the standard pathophysiology of your working diagnosis. And that--that call? It was a game-changer. It was.

And, I think, it saved your life.

No, not in the fireworks and confetti way. Not like that old TV show "ER" or even the newer ones like "Grey's Anatomy." More like with the subtlety of shaking a tiny shard of glass out of a shoe that could ultimately lead to something bad or even adding a drop of much-needed oil to a bike chain and popping it back into place before the entire thing is irreparably destroyed.

Yeah. Like that.

And I thought about it the whole way home. I thought of you and the story you told and the student who listened and the socioeconomic challenges that you face. I reflected on the barriers all around your care that day and how God let this tiny ray of light slip in. And how all of it working together saved your life. I thought about that for my whole drive. Then the next day, I talked to my student about it and cried right in front of him.

I sure did.

"We don't always get it right," I said in our team room later, "but on some days, we do." And I wanted them to not miss what our team had done. They didn't.

A life was saved this week. Yours. And I was there and involved and there to bear witness to it all. A life just as worth saving as my own. Or any person involved in your care. I am so proud of the care our team gave to you and the privilege we had to be involved. Damn, I am. And no, we don't always get it right. But this time we did.

Yes, yes y'all.

***
Happy Tuesday.

Stigma.

I tell myself: Speak in tones that aren't patronizing and sorrowful or as if you're irrevocably broken. Then coach yourself away from the fear of not being able to help.

Like really help.

I think what gives me the most angst is the math of it all. The numerator of too much always, always, always divided by that denominator of not enough.

Remainder: Too much.

It looks like a lattice. This network of scarred remnants of self-mutilation covering your limbs. I heard this lady say on television once: "Why would someone take a knife and cut themselves on purpose? Why would someone do that?"

The girl she was talking to on like Dr. Phil or whatever it was countered sharply: "You sound stupid. It is never about the cutting." Then she rolled her eyes hard in this way that made that point stick for me. Focusing simply on the concrete act is asinine. Because it is never just that.

"I think we can discharge you from the hospital," I said. "How does that sound?"

You nod and shrug. "That's fine." And that's it. Your eyes float over my head and somewhere else. Where I do not know.

"Are you still hearing voices?" I ask. You shake your head no. "Good," I say. Though I feel everything but.

The medical part has resolved. The psychiatry team has given their recommendations for the mental health parts. Our team has kept you firmly on the balance beam through this hospitalization even after a few topples. Now is the time to prepare you for the dismount. But that's the problem--the dismount. This life that awaits you just won't let you stick the landing.

Nope.

The math is bad. Too much divided by not enough. Too much is left over every time.

You are sitting on the edge of the bed. Yawning and rummaging through the sheets for a cell phone or a wallet or some other personal item. Shoulders slumped and resigned to whatever is next. I stifle an inward sigh. Whatever is next? It's just too much. Still divided by not enough.

But too much what? Divided by not enough what? Too much awful divided by not enough better? Too much need divided by not enough resources?

Or am I a part of the problem? Too much learned helplessness divided by not enough optimism? Too much ignorance divided by not enough courage? Too much darkness divided by not enough light?

I tell myself: Speak in tones that aren't patronizing and sorrowful or as if you're irrevocably broken. Then coach yourself away from the fear of not being able to help. Like really help.

Then help. Like really help.

Or at least make up your mind to try.

Yeah.

***
Wards, Day 1.

Power Autocorrect.

A quick email to a colleague:

"Greetings-- Just wanted to check in to see if you still wanted to. . "

"Was just wondering if you might still be able to. . .."

"Howdy! I was hoping to loop back to you about. . ."

"Sorry about asking so many questions but I was hoping you might be able to tell me. . ."

Good morning -- Revisiting last week's message about our project. Please refer back to the queries below and let me know your thoughts when you get a chance by tomorrow to allow us to move us forward. Thanks in advance. 

Words have power. And strength. Some words stick a pin in your power bubble. And unless we hear them, they hold us back without our even knowing. They do. 

Old habits die hard. But like all habits, they can die.

Yeah.

***
Happy Wednesday.

Some type of way.

When I saw you on rounds today you were quiet. Your eyes looked in my direction but were otherwise vacant. This was a change.

Me: "You okay?"
You: "I'm okay."

I asked you to sit up in bed and carefully untied the back of your gown. Gently, I searched your back with my stethoscope, listening to see if you were improving.

Me: "Can you take a deep breath?"
You: *deep breath*
Me: "And let it out."
You: *let it out*

We repeating that exchange for a few more beats. The sounds emitted from your lungs confirmed what I'd been told. Things were improving.

I'd attempt to lift the mood.

Me: "You sound so much better!"
You: *head nod and shrug*

No such luck.

You'd been so upbeat the day before. So animated and full of light. Out of breath, yes. But still with eyes that twinkled. And so loquacious that I pulled up a chair to sit down and just let you talk. Today? None of that. Just quiet cooperation and a cloak of melancholy that didn't make sense.

Me: "What's wrong?"
You: "I'm okay."
Me: "Really? You seem sad today. Like you're not okay."
You: *silence*

Another shrug.

I slowed my movements and looked for a chair. Perhaps if you didn't feel like I was too busy to listen, you'd share. Something was wrong. And I didn't like the idea of you holding on to that something all by yourself while laying in a hospital bed. And so. I told you just that.

Me: "I don't like you in here by yourself with something heavy on your soul. If you feel like sharing, I want to hear. If you don't feel up to it, I can respect that."

A tear squeezed out of your eye and rolled under your chin. You sighed.

You: "Somebody came to talk to me about all this. Told me that if I don't do better I'm not gon' be here this time next year."
Me: *listening*
You: "Saying 'You need to lose weight and take your medicines! And stop missing appointments! And why you don't exercise and why you keep eating the wrong stuff and smoking cigarettes? You keep this up and you gon' die!' That's what they said to me."
Me: "Hmm."
You: "They kept on saying it was 'tough love.' Like every few words it was 'tough love' this and 'tough love' that. But to me? It wasn't no love in it."

Another tear slipped over your nose and disappeared into your nostril.

You: "I wanted to say, 'Do you know my life? Do you live where I live? Like, do you even know? I want to be healthy, too!' But all I did was just wait for it to be over. I just said, 'Okay' and acted like it was cool." *shaking your head*
Me: "Man. I'm sorry."
You: "That hurt my feelings, Miss Manning. For real. I know that doctor meant well but I felt some type of way about that."
Me: *silence*
You: "Like, I think when a doctor speak to you they should look you in your eye and see where you at. And if your face say this ain't okay? They need to do something else. Or just stop talking."
Me: "That's good advice for anyone."
You: "Know what? You right."

After that, we talked more about what makes it hard for you to get your medicines and make appointments and eat healthier and move your body and move toward being a non-smoker. You told me about where you live and who you live with and what it's like and how you get the things you need and what makes your nerves bad. Then we talked about a few strategies to help you make steps in the right direction. And the whole time I watched your face to see where you were.

Or if I needed to just stop talking.

The doctor who gave you what was believed to be "tough love" is a good one who, I have to believe, was looking to motivate you not be unkind to you. And I told you that, too. That we are all works in progress with blind spots and ball drops. All of us.

This seemed to resonate with you.

We didn't fix all your problems. But you were smiling when I left. Which, to me, was a start.

Yeah.

***
Happy Sunday.

Ms. Doctor.

I was walking near the hospital entrance today and saw three young brothers standing out front talking and laughing in the sunshine. One was slender with long locs rolled into an afrocentric hipster man-bun. He was animated and talking with his hands. Another was short and stout with flawless espresso skin and a close cut fade haircut. His mouth was gleaming with gold teeth. The third fellow was leaning on the wall chuckling in response to his comrades. His dancing eyes were a beautiful shade of amber and his nose was dusted with freckles.

They were beautiful. Seriously, they were. They greeted me in deference as I passed by.

Manbun: "Hey Ms. Doctor."
Me: "Hey gentlemen. You guys doing alright?"
All: "Yes, ma'am."
Me: "That's great. Have a good day, gents."
They smiled and all said it again: "Yes, ma'am."

I liked the way they all called me ma'am. Even though hearing it always jolts me out of this frozen-in-time idea in my head that I'm forever thirty years old, something about hearing it said in my direction feels maternal and special. I always return the favor, greeting the young men I see around Grady as "gentlemen"-- no matter who they are. Just like I do my own sons.

Yep.

I could immediately tell they weren't being fresh. Just pleasant and respectful toward a woman that they saw as--dare I say it? An elder.

Gasp. An elder.

Ha.

As I walked by, I admired the vast variations in blackness that each of them represented. All so different yet clearly unified in this cultural thread that weaved them all together.

And me with them.

Manbun reached for the door when I got to it and held it open. Just then I noticed that all three of them had their pants hanging nearly to their mid thighs. At first I was going to ignore it but then I decided to use my elder license instead.

Sure did.

Me: "Now you know I don't like seeing my three handsome little brothers standing out here with their pants falling down. Pull up those britches, gentlemen."

And yes. I said "britches."

You know what happened next? All three of them immediately pulled up their low slung jeans up over their hips. And all of them mumbled apologies and words like "my bad" and such.

Me: "Who y'all here to see?"
Manbun: "Our homeboy."
Me: "Is his mama there, too? Did she have to see what I just saw?"

*laughter*

Me: "If she is there, I know she don't want to see your whole behind hanging out of your jeans."

And yes. I said "whole behind."

Manbun: "Ha ha ha we hear you, Auntie."
Me: "Okay, but for real--what's the deal with your entire butt and drawers hanging out of your pants?"
Them: *looking at each other with amusement*
Me: "I'm serious, y'all!"
Freckle face: "It's just the style, I guess."
Me: *old lady scowl* "A style that makes  it where you walking like a penguin?" *shaking my head playfully*

*laughter*

Me: "Okay, gentlemen. Let me go in here and do my job."

*laughter as I walked through the door*

Manbun: "Hey Ms. Doctor!"

I turned around from the door and looked back. All three of them were standing in a row with their pants pulled all the way up and holding them at the waist. They all had these goofy, exaggerated smiles that reminded me of my own sons. Then we all burst out laughing.

I waved my hand at them and walked away shaking my head and smiling.

I told my team on rounds today: "If you stay with someone long enough, you'll always find a place where you intersect. Always."

No-- I don't like the sight of sagging jeans. At. All. And honestly? I'm not a huge fan of gold fronts either.

But I also don't like that video game Fortnite.
Or the random YouTube gamers I have to hear about nonstop from the backseat of my minivan.
Or dinner table discussions about Fortnite skins and virtual outfits for video games.

Nope.

But what I DO have is a soft spot in my heart for goofy sons with silly smiles. And beautiful brown manchildren with knotty hair and easy slang who hold doors and also poke fun at me and each other. Just like the ones that stood outside of that hospital entrance today.

And just like the ones that came from my own body.

Yeah.

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