I love you x 3.

There was this older gentleman who'd been admitted to my team and his admission was soft. We call admissions "soft" when someone was on the fence about whether or not to keep the patient hospitalized or send them home. But anyways, he got admitted and his issue was quickly sorted out and the very next morning he was ready for discharge. Nothing about his problems were exotic or earth-shattering.

Nope.

We actually didn't see him as a team on rounds that day. His issues were so straightforward that I'd agreed to see him on my own. He was nice enough and didn't have many questions when I got to the end of the encounter. And so. I reached for his hand and wished him well.

And that was that.

Well. Not really. I always like to find some way to connect with my patients or to show them I have an interest in them as a person. This patient was pretty quiet so it wasn't exactly the easiest thing in the world. I tried anyway.

"Is someone in your family coming to pick you up?" I asked. "If not, we can arrange a ride for you."

"My sister will be coming to get me. I'm okay with the ride part."

"Okay," I responded. I smiled and prepared to stand up from the bedside chair. "Do you have children, sir?" 

At Grady that question feels rhetorical--especially when talking to the elders. Of course this man had children. He probably even had grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

"No, ma'am. We never had children."

He said 'we' not 'I.' Hmmm. So I bit. 

"Were you. . . previously married?" I kind of wanted to smack my forehead after saying that. I was relieved when he didn’t seem to take offense to that question. 

"If I could have been, I would have been." 

He stared out of the window and his eyes began to glisten with tears. I wasn't fully sure how to proceed but I hungered to know from where the emotion was coming.

"Tell me more." That's all I said, sitting myself back down in preparation for his response. Vanilla enough. Forward enough. Maybe even too forward, but I didn't want it to be mistaken as anything other than the question it was.

Nope.

He turned his head and gazed at me. This soft-spoken man who'd uttered very few words since his hospitalization touched his fingers to his lips and then pressed them together to hold in the first thing even close to a smile that I'd seen since walking in. "My love. That is a good word for him."

Yes. Him. Aaaah.

"Do you mind telling me more?" 

He smiled and shook his head. Then he began to speak.

"His name was Morris. He was funny and loud and a really, really good dancer. He wasn't afraid of anybody, either. We met when I was still a teenager but we were inseparable. He didn't care what people thought about him loving me, either. Nobody."

"Wow. How long were you together?"

"More than 20 years off and on. He went to the military for a little while and I lived out west for a couple of years. Then we came back together."

"Morris sounds amazing."

"He was. I took care of him until he took his last breath. I held his hand and stroked his cheeks and just kept on saying 'I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you' until his last moment." He started blinking fast to remove the tears that were quickly forming. Then he sighed deep and hard. "He was so, so brave. He was the love of my whole life."

I was already crying. I patted my own cheeks and smiled. "I love that you just kept saying 'I love you' until the moment he died. That's probably one of the most beautiful things I've ever heard."

"It was so hard being gay back then. There weren't people clapping at parades for us, either. Especially in Atlanta. But Morris always said that life was short and that we needed to live. He said we deserved love and I believe he was right. One funny thing he always said was, 'You don't want to hear about, talk about or imagine your mama and her sex life. Why the hell you got your drawers all in a bundle about mine?'" He let out a moist chuckle and then quickly looked wistful. "He made me brave, too."

"Wow. What happened to Morris?"

"He died of AIDS. Back before they had all the stuff they have now. I got lucky somehow and didn't get it. But his family was scared of him and they weren't nice. That's why I wanted the last words he heard to be 'I love you.' I must have chanted those three words for more than six hours straight. I'm not kidding you. He was in and out of consciousness but I just kept on. Sip some water and then say it again. And again and again and again."

"I love you, I love you, I love you. I can think of no more beautiful way to make a transition."

"I pictured him hearing my voice and then God taking over with the same words." He looked over at me and smiled. I could tell that he was serious.

"Me, too." And with that my voice cracked and I started full on crying. I sure did. And he handed me his tissue box off of the tray table and I took three pieces. And then we just sat there imagining Morris escaping the pain of horrible stigma and ignorance and not being accepted and advanced AIDS and just feeling free and loved. Following the sound of those three soul-fulfilling words.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

It was perfect, that moment. Perfect in how unexpectedly beautiful and pivotal it was. Every time I imagine him standing vigil over his brave Morris saying, I love you, I love you, I love you, I cry. And it feels good, too, because I know I'm honoring their love and that moment that I had the chance to be introduced to it.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

Yeah.

A cup of joe.

Today was my day to drive carpool. That makes my morning crazier than usual and the struggle even real-er than it is at baseline.

Grrr.

I was hustling out the door so fast that I spilled half of my coffee in the driveway. Which, if you know how much I love a good cup of joe in the morning, is a really big deal.

Grrr.

I got stuck behind a train. Right by the kid's house that I was already running late to get. And fortunately, his mama is cool and so is he. But still. That mixed with no coffee wasn't my favorite.

Grrr.

I forgot my gloves. And I have those hands that turn fifty shades of ghastly grey when cold. They hurt, too. So after dropping kids off, I kept doing this thing where I'd stick one hand under my thigh while driving with hopes of the car seat warmer toasting it up. Let me tell you something: That doesn't work so well.

Grrr.

The Grady garage was already filling up. Which was annoying considering it wasn't even 9am. I circled up and up and up until I reached the roof. That is, the 10th floor. Which adds like 7 minutes to your commute home. And that's a lot when you are almost always on two wheels trying to get to a kid during hospital service time. Did I mention that I spilled almost all of my coffee?

Grrrrr.

Like always, I felt a little better when I got to work. But that was short lived because my office door was locked when I got to it. Which, for most people, is no big deal. But for me it is since I don't like my office locked nor do I carry around the key.

Grrrr.

Bump it. I decided to just grab my white coat and roll out across the street to the hospital. Fortunately, Linda, this super nice woman on our admin team had just made a fresh pot of coffee. She waved her hand from her cubicle and told me she could feel that I'd want some. She was right.

Sigh.

I pour a piping hot cup to go. Carefully, I place a top on it to be certain, certain, certain that I wouldn't spill it. My colleague friend waited for me beside the elevator because he was going to round, too. And we chatted about our teams and my icicles (both figurative and literal) started to melt.

Whew.

So we strut out of the office building and the cold hits us in the face like a mad ass pimp. (Yeah, I said it. Because that's what I was thinking.) But even that was fine because I had this really, really hot and really, really fresh cup of coffee that Linda had put love into. She even told me that I could have some of her fancy creamer if I wanted. I added a tiny splash. Which gave me something to look forward to.

Yup.

So we were just walking and talking. Really fast, too because it was, to quote my dad, cold as adunnawhat. So we are hustling quickly with our white coats pulled super tight. Making our way into Grady before freezing in place.

That's when I heard it.

"'Scuse me! Miss Doctor? 'Scuse me!"

I stopped and turned around to face him. It was the voice of what appeared to be a man at least 20 years my senior. This elder appeared to be living out in those elements. Shit. I braced myself for him to ask for cash. And immediately wished I'd placed a granola bar in my pocket.

Grrrr.

"Um, could you tell me where I can get coffee?" he said.

He had his hand wrapped around himself, rubbing his bony shoulders. His coat was not warm enough. Not at all.

"Um. Let me think,"I replied. "We have a coffee shop inside."

"Oh. Okay, thank you, hear?" He didn't walk toward the entrance, though. Instead, he turned the other direction. Maybe it was because he didn't have cash. I'm not sure.

I thought about just walking him into the coffee shop to get him a coffee. But I knew that, one, my team was waiting. Two, the line was going to be long at this time of day. And three, I never give cash money outside of the hospital. Plus I didn't have any money on me anyway.

Sorry, sir. That's what I said in my head before continuing on my way. We resumed talking and walking. I looked back over my shoulder as my brisk footsteps took me further away from him.

Then, I felt something. It was like God Himself grabbed my shoulder and said, "What about your coffee?"

"This one? With the special splash of creamer? Dude. Seriously?"

I stopped in my tracks. Spun on my heel and called out. "Sir!" He turned around. "You want my coffee? It's hot. I just got it."

His eyes widened. That's when it occurred to me that he never intended for me to do THAT. He just hoped I knew of some magic place to hook a brother hard on his luck up with a cup of coffee. Turns out I did.

"Oh yes. I would really, really like that," he said. And I knew when I put it in his hand that I would be going to round and into my day without that yummy special creamer and minus that perfect backup cup of joe.

Did birds start chirping and heavens open up? Nah. But that was okay. Because maybe, just maybe, God showed HImself to me today. And you know what? I saw Him.

Yeah.

***
Happy Wednesday.

Scrappy.

"Baby, you will rise. Limit is the skies. 

Don't you let nobody fill your head up with their lies."  

- Amel Larrieux

I was once sitting at a table after giving a lecture as a visiting professor at a medical institution. I'd mentioned in my talk about how I'd applied to Emory for both medical school and residency but how I wasn't granted an interview either time. How my grades were good but my standardized test scores weren't at a high enough percentile to make the cut. Then I went on to share how later I would join the Emory faculty and build a successful career there--in spite of all of that. The message, geared toward medical students primarily, was about grit and resilience--both of which are critical to the success of any physician. They seemed to receive it well.

Over coffee and dessert after the lecture, I made small talk with the nearly fifteen senior faculty members, medical students and esteemed guests sitting at my table. Of all the people there, not a single one looked like me. Or even close to like me. But still. They spoke kind words of affirmation and asked polite questions. And I answered them all and it was fine.

But then, this happened. A subtle microaggression straight from the mouth of a grey-haired full professor who, I guess, meant well.

Him: "Your talk was so inspirational. Thank you for that."
Me: "Thanks. I appreciate your kind words, sir."
Him: "It looks like things really worked out for you. I guess I'm just wondering how we zero in on the ones like you and not overlook them. When they don't quite meet the standard, how do you reconcile that?"

*silence*

Me: "Well. I guess the first thing I will say is who defined the standard? Perhaps that standard isn't the best measure for everyone. You know?"
Him: "I'm not sure I understand."
Me: "People like me weren't there when those standards were being created."
Him: *still not getting it* "I hear you. But I guess what I am wondering is how do you know that, if you DO take a chance, someone will be scrappy like you were? How do we not pass on the ones like you? The diamonds in the rough?"

He smiled showing all of his big, yellow teeth. I did not smile back.

*silence*

Me: *in my head* "Did this dude just call a visiting professor 'scrappy' and 'a diamond in the rough?'"
Me: *out loud* "Sir, where I came from? I was able to shine from the very start. I got my education at Tuskegee and at Meharry. I always was a diamond right out in the open. I was never in the rough. Not then and not now."

I swallowed hard and held his gaze without smiling. He needed to know that I wasn't kidding. Because I wasn't. And even though a tiny piece of me wanted to cry, I pushed it down because even if he didn't know and even if they didn't know way back when, I was always enough. Always.

After that, we all sat in an awkward silence. Me sitting with my spine stick straight with a relaxed facial expression. And him, along with several others, looking nervous and apologetic.

I let them squirm.

I didn't say much after that. I was pleasant for the rest of the dinner and was gracious to my hosts when I left. Even the grey-haired dude. But here's what I wish I'd said:

"You know what? I am scrappy. But not the kind of scrappy you think. Scrappy in that I know who I am. Scrappy in that I know how to put my mouthpiece back in and fight even when the fight isn't fair.

That kind of scrappy.

And also. . . you, sir, don't get to call me that. Because just maybe the 'rough' you speak about is in your eyes and was never the students like me at all."


People say some crazy stuff sometimes.

Yeah.

***

He hurt my feelings. But that's okay because I'm scrappy. Now playing on my mental iPod. . . 

60 seconds.

"All I need is one minute of your time." - Mary Mary

____________________________________________

Sunday rounds today, my senior resident and me


Me: "What questions do you have for us?"
Her: "I don't have any questions. Y'all answered them. Thank you."

*smiling*

Me: "Okay. Is there anything else you need from us before we go?"
Her: "May I have one minute of your time?"
Us: *looking at each other*
Me: "Sure. Tell us what you need."

She extended both of her hands out toward us, gesturing for each of us to take one of them. We did.

Her: "I'd like to pray for you. Is that okay?"

My breath hitched. I didn't want my resident to feel pressured or uncomfortable. Had I been alone, this would have been a no brainer. Fortunately, my resident didn't seem to mind.

Our patient then closed her eyes and clasped our fingers inside of hers. Softly, deliberately she petitioned on our behalf. She spoke over our careers, our families, asked for our protection, patience, wisdom, compassion and that we be empowered with the energy we need to keep going. She asked that no weapons formed against us ever be able to prosper and that we always, always recognize that we have been commissioned as healers.

Commissioned as healers, she repeated.

After saying amen, she hugged us one at a time, tangling us up in her IV and oxygen tubing. It was so tender and genuine. It was like she had made up her mind to infuse us with as much grace as she could possibly muster.

"I receive this," I told her. "Thank you so much."

"Let Him use you," she said.

And we nodded in response.

If you had any idea the things that this patient was battling, you'd fall to your knees crying. I'd hoped she'd ask me for something like an ice-cold Coke from the vending machine. Or a pack of gum. Or even a latte from the coffee shop. But instead, she wanted to give.

To give, man.

The older I get, the more I recognize that a heartfelt gift often blesses the giver more than the recipient. I'm not sure where my resident stands when it comes to faith, but I love that she was gracious and welcoming of what our patient had to offer.

Yeah. That.

That reminds me: A friend of mine who doesn't believe in God once said, "But that doesn't mean I turn down folks praying for me. I need all the prayers I can get." Remembering that made me smile and wonder less about my resident.

Yeah.

We finished rounding in time for me to scoot across town to join my family for church service. As I slid into the pew to join Harry, all I could think of was this tender prayer spoken over my life and that of my family by a critically ill patient who had every right to think of no one but herself.

Whew.

I closed my eyes. Lifted my hands. And decided to return the favor.

Yeah.

***
Happy Sunday.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . .

Why.

There was a code blue on the ground floor. Weird considering no code blue is ever called there. I mean, not that they don't happen there. But it never reaches the overhead sirens since almost always it is happening in the emergency department where everyone is already there and ready.

Weird.

I was on the tenth floor when I heard it. Typically those nearby run to get there. In case they are the first responders, the rule is to try. I wasn't near. But I did wonder what it was all about. Grady is busy, though. There's lots that I wonder about. And then I go on to thinking of something else.

Yeah.

A few hours passed and I was up in a patient's room. He was an elder and I'd come back to check on him one more time. The patient in the bed next to him was talking about what he thought had happened. "Somebody got shot in front of Grady," the roommate said.

"Really?" I replied. "Oh my goodness. I didn't hear that."

A nurse in the room turned away from what she was doing and chimed in. "No. That's not true. Some young brothers pulled up with somebody who'd been shot. Dumped him right on the curb in front of Grady like some luggage and pulled off." She shook her head with hard disapproval. "That's a damn shame, right?"

"Wow." That was all I could think to say. I wondered if my family and friends had heard this on the news and were worried. "So . . .no one was actually shot in front of Grady?"

"No, I don't think so, But isn't that awful? Just throwing somebody on the ground not caring if they live or die? And pulling off before you could see what happened?" She sucked her teeth. Hard.

"You said 'brothers,'" my patient said. The nurse paused, balled up her espresso-colored fist on her hip and curled her lips at him in response. She didn't speak--instead she just cocked her head for emphasis. My patient turned back toward the television and said nothing else.

"That's just TERRIBLE." That's what the neighbor-patient said. Then he said it like five more times in case we didn't hear the first time.

"Wow," I mumbled. Again, because I still couldn't think of what else to say.

After that it was silent for a few moments. That nurse wiped my patient's fingertip pad with an alcohol wipe and pricked it with a lancet. He winced. She rubbed it in this tender way that showed that she cared about his discomfort. I liked that.

"Man. I hope the guy who got shot did okay," I finally said.

The nurse kept shaking her head angrily. Then she moved on to flushing my patient's IV line. "Me, too. Such a damn shame," she said. "Who does that?" The roommate made a few more comments about "not knowing where this world is coming to" and "letting our ancestors down."

No one disagreed.

Finally, my patient, a Grady elder, spoke:

"Look to me like them kids who dropped him off cared a whole bunch about whether he live or die. Bet you they somewhere distraught about they friend."

"Friend?" the nurse said. Her face looked disgusted and her lip jutted out. "FRIEND? With friends like that, who needs enemies?"

The Grady elder turned his head in her direction and looked at her; his face impassive. "If you didn't give a damn about somebody, would you bring them someplace where you KNOW they'd do everythang to save they life if they got shot?"

He kept his eyes trained on the nurse. We all stayed quiet. He raised his eyebrows and went on.

"Look to me like that was they man. Somebody they really cared about and hoped would be okay if you ask me." He shrugged and started fishing around in the sheets for his remote control.

I stared at him, taking in every word. I didn't want to miss a thing. The nurse was frozen in her tracks and the neighbor had (finally) stopped talking. All eyes were on the elder.

"The real question is this: Ask yourself WHY would some young brothers in a city like Atlanta feel scared to bring they friend into Grady after he got shot? WHY would they not be willing to stay long enough to make sure they friend don't bleed to death? You really thank it's 'cause they don't care?"

When nobody had a reply, he let out a chuckle and shook his head. His expression suggested how naïve we sounded.

After that, he turned his television back up and settled into The Steve Harvey Show. And didn't say another word. But you know what? He didn't have to.


Damn, I love this job.


***
Happy Sunday.

Keep it to yourself.

I was sitting at the nurses' station typing notes the other morning. One patient caregiver with curly hair pulled into a puff on top of her head was standing at the printer. Another patient caregiver wearing rather tight scrubs walked up holding some IV bags and tubing. I knew them both well so looked up, smiled, and returned to my charting.

Scrubs: "Hey girl."
CurlyPuff: "Hey. This printer is tripping."
Scrubs: "Turn it off and on again. That's what I do."
CurlyPuff: "Okay, cool."

CurlyPuff shut off the device and waited for it to turn back on. She stood there with her hand on her hip looking impatient. It was clear that she was busy and a faulty computer was throwing a speed breaker down in her flow. She sighed. I glanced up from my seat at her briefly in solidarity because I knew exactly that feeling.

Scrubs: "You know what? You look tired."
CurlyPuff: "Tired?"
Scrubs: "Yeah. You look tired."
CurlyPuff: "You mean like sleepy?"
Scrubs: "No. Like. . .tired. Like I'm looking at you and thinking, 'You look tired.'"

CurlyPuff turned her body away from the printer in Scrubs direction and just stared at her for a moment. Her face made it clear that she didn't care for that observation.

Here we go.

Scrubs: "I say it out of concern."
CurlyPuff: "That I look tired? Not sleepy but tired?"
Scrubs: "Yeah."

CurlyPuff keeps staring at Scrubs. She looked up and down at her without expression, blinked slowly and sighed again. Then she spoke back.

CurlyPuff: "You look like you gained weight."
Scrubs: "What?" *looking embarrassed*
CurlyPuff: "You do. Like I'm looking at you and thinking, 'Your scrubs are getting tight. You look like you gained weight.'"

Oh snap.

Scrubs: *looking offended* "Wow. Remind me to never say anything to you."
CurlyPuff: "No. Remind yourself never to walk up to a woman, look her in the face and say something like that. At least, not like that. That she look tired? Not sleepy but tired?" *shook her head and patted the side of the printer*
Scrubs: "I was saying it out of concern."
CurlyPuff: "Just 'cause you think it don't mean it need to be said. What I said to you was something I thought before. And it could be out of concern, too."

Oo wee.

Scrubs: *speechless*
CurlyPuff: *putting arm around Scrubs* "Look, baby. That just ain't the thing a woman can receive in a way that make her feel better. Nor do it make a woman feel good to hear that--especially coming from another woman. That she look tired? Naw. Just ask how I'm doing. See about my needs if you concerned. But don't walk up on the hall and announce out loud that I look across-the-board tired. That didn't make me feel good."
Scrubs: "I'm sorry."
CurlyPuff: "Me, too, girl."

They hugged it out. And after that, the printer started working again, too.


Damn. I love this job.

***

*For the record, I'm not a fan of being told one looks tired either. Honorable mention: "Fun" to describe hair, clothing or anything else that you were being dead serious about when you put it on.

***

Me and mines.

Mines.

Last month on rounds

Her: "Before you say anything, hold on for a second, okay?" *fishes around in bed for her phone* "I need to get my sister on the phone." *opens flip phone*
Me: "You know. . . . if you want, we could call her for you. You know. . . and update her on everything."
Her: "Nawww. Let me go on and call her right now, okay?" *holds up index finger telling me to wait*

*inward cringe* 😬

CONFESSION: The whole "let me get somebody on speaker phone" thing in the middle of rounds is so not my favorite. Like, at all. For one, I don't enjoy having to speak louder and more animated to bring someone else into the discussion. And lastly, by definition, people on the phone seem to need more to make up for not being able to see your face and expression as you talk. It can get lengthier than normal. Which isn't always so fun when you're super busy.

Terrible, I know.

But I do have a workaround. The compromise for me is that I offer to personally call that loved one afterward. And usually that's fine. This time? Not so much.

Me: "You sure you don't want me to just call her directly? I am happy to do that, you know."
Her: *chuckles* "See, if it was just up to me? You calling her later would be fine. But that ain't the case."
Me: *inward cringe* "Okay."

*silence as she scrolls through her contacts*

Her: "See, my sister? She don't play. She like to hear WHAT they telling me WHEN they telling me. She said she don't like no after the fact summary for the family, you know?"
Me: *presses lips together and nods* "I can see that."
Her: "Some doctors don't like all that, though. They ain't patient like you."

*inward cringe*😬

Her: "Like, this one surgeon? I said I need to call my sister and he flat out said, 'Your sister needs to be up here if it's that important to her to hear every single thing play by play."
Me: "Whoa."
Her: "That dude was talkin' 'bout some, 'You want to be IN the game? You got to be AT the game.' He started laughing, too. Like he said something funny."
Me: "Wow."
Her: "What's messed up is that I laughed, too. Even though that wasn't funny."

*silence*

Her: "Let me tell you what else wasn't funny though--when my sister called to ask me why I ain't call her when them surgeons came by and I told her what he said. You know, about the game and all."
Me: *squinting eyes and wincing*
Her: "Baybaaaaaay."

*laughing*

Her: "When I say she took the WHOLE DAMN DAY off from work the next day to wait for his ass? Girl, like a damn playground bully after the school bell!"
Me: *laughing*
Her: "That dude walked in and she was like, 'Oh. You the one who said that stuff about me being in the game, right?' He called his self laughing it off, too. She was like, 'Let me tell you ONE GOT DAMN THANG about ME AND MINES!'"
Me: *eyes widening and erupting with laughter* "She didn't go to the 'ME AND MINES' did she?"
Her: "Girl, he ain't knew that when somebody black say 'ME AND MINES', it don't NEVER end well."
Me: *doubled over*
Her: "Dr. Manning! She was like, 'OH. ME AND MINES? We ONE BALL, boo boo. I'm in EVERY GAME, you hear me?' Patting her chest, looking all crazy and all up in his face." *laughing and shaking her head* "Lawd. That po' man."
Me: "Wait--did she really say 'boo boo?' 
Her: "SHOLL did."

*hollering laughing*

Her: "Chile, for the rest of that week that man was calling my sister so much she got sick of him!"
Me: "It was the 'ME and MINES' that had him shook."
Her: "Please believe!"

*laughter*

After that, she pushed a few buttons and then put her sister on the speakerphone. We all talked about what was happening with my patient--her sister--and what to expect next. Sister was tough--as expected. She asked a ton of questions and with each one, my patient rolled her eyes and shrugged in my direction. Eventually, all the questions were asked and answered. And all was well.

Yup.

Was it awkward to be talking in Dolby stereo over an antiquated flip phone? Of course. But did I do it? You're damn right.

I'd be lying if I said that now I've had this epiphany about how much I'll now enjoy bringing in family on speakerphones during rounds. Nope. But I CAN say that I haven't stopped thinking about Sister's reason being that she wanted to hear EXACTLY what the doctor said to her sister EXACTLY when they said it. This was advocacy on a whole different level.

I remember when a family member thought she had uterine cancer because of the way her fibroids were described by the doctor on rounds. "Tumors on her uterus," they'd said. Which, to her, meant cancer. I wonder what those 72 terrifying hours of thinking she had cancer would have been like had she insisted I get brought in on speakerphone that day. . . .

Me and mines.

So this? This is why I take a moment every day to sit and think about what's going on around me. To let empathy push down my selfishness and remind me that you and yours are as important as me and mines. And that we ONE BALL.

Yeah.

"I'm in EVERY GAME, you hear me?" 

- a badass baby sister who took exactly ZERO mess from anybody.

****
#amazinggrady #idontmakethisstuffup #meandmines #supportisaverb #standbyyourfolks #andstayinthegame

Come together. Right now.

"Come together right now. . .over me." - The Beatles

Partner: "Can I speak with you in private for a moment?"
Parents: "Can we speak with you in private for a moment?"
Partner: "Don't mention anything to his parents about this but. . ."
Parents: "Don't mention anything about this to his girlfriend but. . ."
Me: 😬

One person expressed one thing. Somebody else expressed something altogether different. Everybody loves him. But the messed up part is that those people that all agree on loving him, agree on very little else.

Nope.

Are they rude? Nope. Screaming and hollering? Not so much. But mostly, the room is just filled with this icy coolness when I walk in. If everyone is there at the same time, count on it to be filled to the brim with passive-aggressive nice-nastiness.

Yup.

Partner: "I just don't even try with them anymore. They think they know what he wants and needs but they don't. They barely know him."
Me: "How long have you all been together?"
Partner: "Oh goodness. Easily ten years. We might as well be married.”
Me: "Gotcha."
Partner: "Essentially, they don't like me and I don't like them. So we never talk. I mean, he talks to them, but I don't. I steer clear of them as much as I can."
Me: "I see."

*silence*

Partner: "Well I know they're saying they want to do one thing when he leaves here. But that's not what I want to do. I want something else and I think he'd want me to make that decision."
Me: "Have y'all talked about it? You and his parents?"
Partner: "I tried to be polite. But they always thought he could do better than me. Like they wanted him to get married and have a wife who was skinny and went to college somewhere and who don't got any kind of background."
Me: "Hmmm."
Partner: "That ain't me. So far as I was concerned they could kiss my ass."
Me: "Dang."
Partner: "Now since he can't speak for himself, they all high on they horse. That's some bullshit."

*later in the same day*

Parents: "Thanks for talking to us."
Me: "No problem."
Parents: "We plan to take him home with us after this. We have a lot of good things to assist him on getting back on his feet."
Me: "I see. I know he has a live-in partner. Have you all talked to her?"
Parents: *eyeroll* "No. And we don't need to either."
Me: "Umm. . okay. Well I know he can't speak for himself right now. But what do you think would be his preference?"
Parents: "Well. Seeing as he has no insurance and not much else? I hope his preference would be to go with whatever is best for him."
Me: *silence*

Damn.
Damn damn damn.

There was drama later. Major drama. Those hushed voices began to escalate. In the hallway. In the room. Near the elevator. And probably some other places that I don't even know about. But it was sticky and yucky and contentious and just. . .yeah. I did my best to stay out of it. But it isn't as easy to do that as it sounds.

Sigh.

*steps onto soapbox*

Look here, man:

Everything--and I do mean EVERYTHING--is about relationships. Working at them. Clarifying them. Solidifying them. And, when possible, taking necessary actions to seal them as legal.

For real.

Those almost in-laws you don't mess with? That estranged spouse that "might as well be divorced" from someone? Those siblings with whom you're at war? That parent that you don't talk to at all anymore over some kind of petty disagreement or even some major disagreement? Look man. I implore you to do whatever it takes to get on the other side of that complicated.

Yep.

If you fall ill and can't speak for yourself? Guess who gets to call the shots? Your legal power of attorney. Married? Your spouse. Not married but without a power of attorney? Your parents. Or your siblings. Would you be cool with the person who would legally get to be the shot-caller for you as of this very moment doing so? If not, I suggest you do something about it. Stat.

And even if you DO have the legal parts all copasetic and such? Still work at the relationships. Because if illness falls, it WILL call for y'all to interact. A lot. Grown siblings. Grown grandkids. Long-term boo-thangs. Those folks want to have a say. And even if you make up your mind that they can't have one, you might lose a few years of your life through angst and worry just trying to stiff-arm the ones who want a seat at the table.

Yup.

The good news is that I see lots of long term partners who navigate life-threatening illnesses well with families. But that is always when it is anchored in some kind of respectful understanding of their position. With this patient? That wasn't the case.

And that? That sucks, man.

*steps off of soapbox*

Come together. Right now.

Or else.

***

F that.

SuperBowl Saturday rounds

Me: "Who you got for the Super Bowl, sir?"
Him: "Nobody!"
Me: *laughing* "Nobody?"
Him: "Nawwwwl. I don't give no F--K about no Super Bowl."
Me: *chuckling* "Fair enough."

*trying not to laugh since he isn't laughing AT ALL*

Nurse: "Dr. Manning, I think he might be boycotting."
Him: "SAY WHAT?"
Nurse: *flushing his IV* "You know, taking a knee. Boycotting the NFL."
Him: "Boycott the WHO? Maaan. . . F--K a BOYCOTT."
Nurse: "Now you gonna stop all that swearing, sir!"
Him: "F--K that."
Nurse: *stares at him*
Him: *glares back*

*holding in my laugh as nurse walks out shaking her head*

Me: "How long you been cussing, sir?"
Him: *laughs out loud* "Since I was 9!"
Me: *laughing* "Nine?"
Him: "Yup. In the 1950s when I was standing outside downtown minding my business. Not breaking no laws or nothing. And this teenager come up to me talking 'bout some 'GIT OUTTA HERE, N---R!' And I looked around like, 'What I do? Git outta where?'"
Me: "Whoa."
Him: "That white boy say he just want me out his sight. Just 'cause. So I let him know what I thought."
Me: "Which was. . ?"
Him: "Every cuss word I could thank of!"

*laughter*

Him: "But when I got older I just like how some words felt in my mouth. And the folk that don't say the F word just don't know what they missing."
Me: *chuckling*
Him: "You ever been mad and tried to hold back a good F--K? Sometime no other word do the trick."
Me: "Ha ha ha that's real talk."

*laughing*

Me: "So what's the reason anyway? For the no Super Bowl?"
Him: "Oh, I'm a watch it. But really, I'm just trying to make it to another day, Miss Manning."
Me: "I hear you."
Him: "My granddaughter say 'Granddaddy why you don't boycott the NFL?' She say that all the time."
Me: *just listening*
Him: "Know what I told her?"
Me: "What's that?"
Him: "F--K that. I'm almost 80 years old and I'm black. My whole life a MF knee."

He laughed after he said that. But I didn't.

The more I do this job, the more I realize not to underestimate my patients. A little colorful language and cantankerous behavior don't mean that you don't know what's going on. Or that you ain't all the way WOKE.

Speaking of which, he also said this:

"And anybody that thank Brady ain't gon' send them Rams straight home with a L? They a F--KIN fool."

No lies told, man.

Haaaaaa.

Oh, how I love this job.

***
Happy Last Day of February.

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