My so-called life outside of Grady: Never say never.

(*warning:  100% nonmedically related or relevant post ahead.  Patient care only types, return in two days for more enriching material. You were warned.)

Zachary on a bouncy-Tigger day

 "I will never say never. . . ."

~ Justin Bieber (a.k.a. Justin Beaver)

__________________________________________________________

Today was a pretty decent day. I got a lot of residency-related work done that needed doing, had a couple of productive meetings, and even managed to sneak by the eyebrow place to get my unruly brows threaded. Since I was making good time, I took my time driving toward after school care to get Isaiah. I listened to NPR and took a scenic route. No cell phone chats, just me, my open sunroof, and Kai Ryssdal. Stolen moments like these are wonderful, even when they're brief. But whenever I do get these little quiet windows, I do take a few seconds to savor the fact that they are finite and that I do have my screaming kids waiting for me. Live long enough and you'll meet some people who remind you of how quickly life can change in the twinkling of an eye. Especially when it comes to your children.

Anyways.

This isn't a heavy post, so let me move to where I was initially going with all of this (which is really no where important.) So, like I was saying, I had my little me-moment and then eased on over to get Isaiah first. He was in a part chipper/part whiny mood which I decided was better than all whiny. He threw a paper airplane five extra times before getting into the car, and finally buckled himself in after I told him that I'd be really unhappy if I have to pay the late fee at Zachary's school. Fortunately, Isaiah doesn't like the thought of me being unhappy, so off we went.

I listen to tales of monkey bars, super heroes and pretend battles between several kindergarten boys turned imaginary komodo dragons. I hear of who got a time out, who had to have a silent lunch, and exactly which person would like to marry whom. I am asked if there will be homework and get a high-pitched whine when I answer in the affirmative. It then falls silent as Isaiah decides to pick up a pad of paper and draw pictures from his booster seat.

We get to Zachy in time, and he is in a bouncy-Tigger mood which makes me smile but can sometimes make getting him into his booster seat a challenge. He bounces and he sings and he bounces and he sings all the way out of school and into our commute. There is obligatory arguing over "Zachary disturbing my art-creating time" which is countered with even louder, bouncier singing. Today, a repetitive loop of 16 dreadful bars of Justin Bieber's "Never Say Never."

So finally we make it home where I promptly park in the garage and shut it behind me to keep the bouncy-Tigger-boy from bouncing out the door. It's a homework night for both kids, so I am all business. "Get inside, get your hands washed, get your backpacks and come to the kitchen table." Easier said than done, but eventually said and done.

Isaiah is writing about what he plans to do this summer. Zachary is tracing numbers. I am preparing a dinner that fortunately is only for the kids since Harry has a meeting. This means no consideration for an adult palate or a grown man appetite. Yay.

Then there is quiet. Isaiah independently working. Zachary not bouncing and actually doing the same. Milk is poured, food is on plates and I decide to pick up a few things strewn about the house with my twenty-seven extra seconds of time. I try to sing something, anything out loud to get the bouncy-Tigger version of the "Justin Beaver" song out of my head. All I can hear though is this, like a broken record:

"I will NEVAH say NEVAAAAHHHHH! I will bite you for-EVAAAAAAAHHHH!"(repeat)

It's like a horrible reciprocating engine looping around and around in my head. I give in and start humming it. Then I start singing it. "I will never say neverrrrrr. . . " Bleccchh.


That's when I heard the doorbell ring. Hmmm. We weren't expecting anyone. I look through the peephole and. . . . . .

Awww, hell naw!!

No. It must be a mirage. It can't be. Is it?

I fling open the door, just to be sure!







Is it really. . . . gasp. .. .the Dogfather of the Puppy Mafia? Has our prodigal pup returned home? Yes! He did!!! And on such a mundane day, he did!

I yell for Isaiah. Yes, the boy is knee deep into some hard core sentence composition and sight word recognition, but this is an emergency, people!

"Isaiah! Isaiah!"

The boy can't believe it. No, I take that back. He can believe it. He said, "I knew he would be found! I knew he would not be lost forever!" Then he looked at me and said, "See, Mom! I told you he was already brave!"

And then he commences to hold a full on conversation with Puppy saying things like, "What were you doing? How was your adventure? Are you hungry? Were you on top of Mommy's car?"

But the Boss was tight-lipped, I tell you. A vault, man. His disappearance deemed officially classified information. Only to be discussed with other Puppy Mafia bosses, which we do not happen to be.

And so. A day that seemed totally ordinary turned out to be extraordinary. Because the Puppy Mafia is again complete.

The saga of Puppy the sometimes wayward don of the Puppy Mafia continues.

He's baaaaaack.

Oh, and to all of the naysayers that believed that Puppy aka the Dogfather was lost forEVER and who didn't believe me when I said he got lost for a year in my grandmother's house and found again and therefore could never be lost for good, AND who just can't seem to understand the concept of being "already brave" no matter how many times it is explained to them. . . .I say to you:

"I will NEVAH say NEVAAAAHHHHH!"

::Sigh::

Welcome to yet another part of my so-called life outside of Grady. New readers to this blog? Read about the Puppy Mafia when you are totally bored and have absolutely nothing to do or at least ten things to do that you'd really love to procrastinate on. Old readers and new readers, I promise something patient care related real, real soon.

And Mom? Yes. I used tons and tons of literary license on this story. . .well, mostly from the doorbell ring on. So if you must have a more concrete version of what really went down, Harry couldn't find his iPod Touch and took his search to the maximum levels possible. Unbeknownst to me, while digging deep into the bowels of the living room couch, he found Puppy! Deep, deep, deep down in the deepest, darkest parts of that couch. Satisfied?

 ::shrug::

That might be the real version, but I personally prefer the first version a lot better. . . . . .

***

Happy Wednesday.

Random Rant: P.D.A.

Okay. So at this very moment, I am sitting in this (crowded) restaurant in the Emory village doing a bit of work. Why am I working here? Eh. Don't worry about that. Anyways. . . .

Check it--how about just now, the door opened and these five male physicians walked in wearing their lab coats and scrubs. I am assuming they are physicians, although not one of them has a stethoscope. But either way the question is: What is up with the lab coats and feeling the need to bring them and yes, continue wearing them on a five zillion degree day in this restaurant??

For real, y'all. It is seriously one hundred trillion degrees here today. I take that back. It is one hundred kazillion degrees AND it's a freakin' "ozone-alert day." (So the "I was cold" consideration for wearing their coats was out the window.)

This brings me to what I have chosen, at this moment, to vent about:

PDA (public doctor attire.)

Dude. Can I please just. . . ugggh! There is not a lamer thing than random public doctor attire. It is the lamest. No, even lamer than that. It's the lame-ultimate.

When my first group of students reached their hospital rotations, I threatened them with bodily harm if I ever caught them strolling through Target in scrubs. Or worse, in a bar or restaurant. Not that I have ever been to a bar since joining the faculty--ah hem--but you get my point.

Which reminds me: Students that I advise and know currently--you had better not let me hear about you being a PDA-er. Same for you recent graduates. Not that it's terribly unprofessional. More just because it's really, really, really lame. Lame like that guy on Scrubs who had the "DOC" tattoo. Lame like this hat I had as an undergrad that said "M.D 2B." Blecchh.

o_0

Oh shoot. I think they saw me giving them the hairy eyeball. Now one of them looks paranoid that I might be writing about them. Which really wouldn't be paranoia because I am writing about them.

Hmmm.

I was just thinking: This could be just my own personal pet peeve and not an issue at all.

Naaaah.

Gasp! One is wearing the surgical hat. You know. The one that ties in the back? Lawd.

0_0

Am thinking of passing a note on my way out that says,

"Excuse me. Are you doctors? Or do you just play them on TV?" or better yet,

"WHY THE HELL Y'ALL GOT ON THEM HOT A-- LAB COATS AND THOSE NASTY-BLOOD-AND-GERM-INFESTED SCRUBS IN THIS RESTAURANT?!?"

(Because that's what I would really be thinking.)

Eeew. One has the chest hair explosion thing going on from his scrub top. I cannot. Take it. Sorry. Just threw up in my mouth a little bit.

Hmmm. Maybe there is a good explanation for this. Maybe they are all surgeons who JUST got out of a seventy-five hour surgery only to emerge so hypoglycemic that they have temperature instability and cloudy mentation. Hmmm. I'd welcome your suggestions.

Anyways. That's all I got right now. Guess I'll pack up my laptop and go before I say or do something blogworthy. Okay, bye.

***
Happy Tuesday.

Pomp and circumstance.

My small group graduated today. All but one (who is pursuing a dual degree) walked across the stage where I joined the Dean in hooding them as medical doctors. Them. They graduated.

Yes, definitely.

I've had the fortune of growing close to and being touched by many students in this class, not just my advisees. But the thing is . . . . with my small group . . . . .meeting with them just sort of got hardwired into my life over these past four years in that way that picking your kids up from school or brushing your teeth does. Important, yes. . . .yet so every day that it seems like it will always be that way.

Somebody said this: "The days are long but the years are short."

Ain't that the truth.

Yeah, man. I'm still looking for the words that I want to say about this day. Right now, they are in big cartoon-looking clouds over my head, but not yet in paragraphs. Those clouds include words like "proud" and "moving" and "honored." Then I get choked up and stop there. Because seeing them graduate was a lot. It was a whole lot.

I am happiest because they did it. I am saddest because I will miss seeing them. I am proudest because I was there. And not just there. I was really there.

Okay. Whew.

I'm going to stop here. Will write more when I get the words together. Maybe. For now, I hope pictures are okay.

More people who were there who know how I feel.

Me? I was there. Oh, and if this medical school seems awesome?
That's because it is.

Small Group Alpha - EUSOM Class of 2011 from Kimberly Manning on Vimeo.

***
Congratulations, doctors. And welcome. We've been waiting for you.

The Best Mom Ever.

Mother's day 2011

 ___________________________________________________

Mother's Day 2011 with Team Manning

Awoke to a nice, quiet house.  Spent a solid, uninterrupted hour on the sunroom couch reading on my e-reader-Nook-thingie which I have decided is a really cool thing to have and is decidedly more book-like than reading on an iPad. The sky is cloudless and everything is so peaceful that I feel like I am exactly inside of the book I am reading. Zen. 

Only 6:45 a.m. Not a sleeper-inner so feel like I am doing exactly what I want to be doing which is exactly what you should be doing on this day if you are a mother. Speaking of which: in that moment made the executive decision that, as regular frequenters of church, Team Manning wouldn't go today in an effort to avoid the masses of irregular frequenters surely to descend upon churches near and far for one of the wholly-moly! trinity of church-going days: Christmas, Easter, and Mother's Day. Lord, forgive me.

Manning males awoke and pounced on me one at a time, including the 200+ pound one, which kind of knocked my wind out, but made me laugh. Am removed from 1962 Mississippi, the setting of my book, but decide that this place is better.

"Happy Mother's Daaaaay!!!" 

Smooches abound, hugs, and even a high compliment from Zachary who said, "You look pretty even in your pj's and your glasses." He is 150% serious, which I love. I am then treated to a medley of Zachary songs that happen to be all from "School House Rock."  Gnarly.  

Next comes an offer to go out for a fancy brunch-breakfast that I swiftly decline, requesting a super-simple Mother's Day morning with no-frills fare.  The BHE returns with McDonald's pancakes through the drive thru, a bagel from Panera for me, Dunkin Donuts coffee--all enjoyed at our kitchen table without a wait or reservation required.  Laughter everywhere. Sweet phone calls and text messages coming in. Sun shining. And all of us shining, too.  Feeling super special and like I am surely the best mom ever.

Table cleared. Soccer cleats located.  Shin guards paired. World continues to turn.  But still feeling like the best mom ever.

And then this:

Isaiah:  "Hey Mom. Have you seen my Nintendo DS?"

Me:  "It's in the kitchen."

Isaiah:  "Oh no! I just remembered that I didn't charge it!"


Me:  "Well, seeing as you have the best mom ever, your DS is fully charged, my child. See?"

Me pointing at his Nintendo DS portable game plugged into the socket.  Isaiah smiling and hopping up and down like a mini-kangaroo.

Me:  "Now riddle me this, you handsome little six-year-old you. . . . what has two thumbs and is the best mom ever?"

Isaiah:  "Mom?"

Pointing thumbs at myself and dancing in a way that would embarrass all members of my family, and even you as a reader of this blog.

Isaiah:  "Mom?"

Me:  "Yes?" (still dancing)

Isaiah:  "Every mom is the best mom ever.  Not just you, Mom, okay? Especially if they are giving their very best effort at being a mom."

Stop my dance and look at him, sideways smiling.  His face is serious and thoughtful. My heart is two pumps away from exploding.

Me: "I love you, old man."


Now know for certain that I am the best mom ever.  And so are you. 

***

This kid has deep thoughts, I tell you.

Happy Mother's Day to the best moms, grand-moms,  play-moms, step-moms, god-moms, dad-moms, almost-moms and in-heaven moms ever.  

***
Now playing on my mental iPod. . . .

Belated Thursday Top Ten: Beauty Shop Shenanigans

You've heard me say on several occasions that I love getting my hair cut.  25% of that can be explained by my completely illogical belief that haircuts instantly shave five to ten pounds off of my body. I would give another 25% to simply liking how I look after having my hair professionally coiffed underscoring that old adage that says "when you look good you feel good." That leaves a whole 50% right?  Let me tell you--without question--that half of the reason why I love getting haircuts is simply being in the hair salon.

Now.

Since I have been on the topic of hair lately--black hair to be specific--I thought I'd devote this week's top ten to one of my favorite places:  The Beauty Shop.  While I am certain that many of the things that go down in predominantly African-american salons aren't terribly different than the things going on in other salons, the aforementioned is what I know, therefore is on what I can comment.

Oh, before I start.

Since we've been discussing a lot of cultural things lately, for those unfamiliar I will take this moment to explain a little bit  about black hair salon culture, which relates to black hair in general. First of all, I think most people know that such hair does not get washed or wet every single day.  And sure. I will go so far as to admit that I've had a teeny bit of envy at times for those women I knew in residency who used to show up with wet ringlets in the morning that would dry into springy curls by lunch time.  With the exception of naturally fine and curly hair (which some black people certainly do have) most don't have hair that is "wash and go." Which reminds me:  I once went to "SuperCuts" during my internship for a trim and nearly jumped out of the chair and tackled the woman when she started off by SPRAYING my hair with a bottle of water! I literally screamed,"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!?!"  I nearly scared her to death (but only because she nearly scared me to death first.)

Wait, where was I?

Oh yeah. Sistagirl hair salon culture.  So, here's the thing. A lot of black women go to the hair salon either once per week or once every other week depending upon how their hair is styled.  My stylist is probably the only person who has consistently seen me every one to two weeks for the last ten years without fail other than my husband.

with Sakinah, the best hair stylist evah!

Now, of course there are black women who have mastered their own hair such that these visits aren't necessary.  But I assure you that any sister you see wearing a short pixie is frequenting the salon on a regular basis. Oh yeah, and Beyonce has a weave. (Just thought I'd share that in case you thought that stick straight blond hair was growing from her scalp.)

Anyways.

So here's what happens: The beauty shop becomes a second home where everybody knows everybody. The conversation is rich and unfiltered. The laughter is hearty and genuine. And the gossip? Ridiculous. Everybody has an opinion about everything in there.  And me? Oh man, I just love it. Every second of it. The energy, the audacity, the everything.

And so. . . . without further ado. . . . I bring you the top ten conversations heard recently in the hair salon.

Note:  The people speaking could be some of anybody. Hair salon discussions are a free for all. Like Us Magazine on steroids. Usually these conversations involve at least two stylists, the women in their chairs, and whomever is in earshot, which could be anyone from the hair product delivery man to the shampoo girl.

Top Ten Things Heard in the Beauty Shop

***

#10 :  The Lo Down

Looking at People Magazine:

"J-Lo has some beautiful skin to be forty."

"Is she forty?"

"At least."

"Oh. Well, what you think about her being on the leg commercial?"

"She has knocked knees!"

"And her ankles are too skinny."

"I think her legs look good."

"I think she too damn old to be wearing them booty shorts."

"She's only forty!"

"Is she forty?"

"That's what it says here in People."

"Well, it needs to say that when you turn forty you need to stop wearing booty shorts."

***

#9 :  Keepin' it real.

"Hey everybody!"

"What are you having today?"

"Just a shampoo.  Whose chips are these? Can I have some?"

"Mine. You can have some--damn, girl!  Did you get a boob job?"

"Naw, girl!" (smacking on chips) "This is just a fancy bra with these water balloon push-ups."

***

#8  : A Royal Mess

"Who watched the Royal Wedding?"

"I saw it."

"Yeah, me too."

"Damn, y'all got up that early?"

"Naaah. TiVo."

"Kate looked real cute. She's a cute girl."

"She looked real cute."

"Yeah, but that Carmelo or Camilla or whoever the hell that chick is that married William's daddy looked a hot mess."

"Oh. She always looks a hot ass mess. She needs a makeover."

"Yeah. If I was Diana, I wouldn't've been worried 'bout her ass either."

***

#7 :  Is there a doctor in the house?

"Girl, somebody asked Bill Cosby what he thinks about Donald Trump and how he's been busting on Obama!"

"Awww damn! What did he say?"

"He said, 'I don't think nothing.'"

"Daaaaaamn!"

"Hey Kim. . . . what's up with Bill Cosby's eye?"

***

#6  :  Diet is "Die" with a "T."

"Hey y'all!"

"Hey girl!"

Sits down with a bag of food.

"Popeye's Chicken?  Girl, I thought you was on a diet!"

"I know. . . ." (laughing) ". . but Popeye was calling my name!"

"Well, I hope he calling you when you can't fit your clothes."

***

#5 : A Swift Kick

Looking at Us Magazine:

"What's all the hype over this Taylor Swift girl?  I don't get it."

"I like her music."

"But she does look kind of homely."

"You know she used to date that hot boy from the Vampire movies."

"Which one?"

"The one that everyone likes."

"Rob Pattinson?"

"Naawww. Not the one with the white powder on his face. The other one."

***

#4 :  Damn Yankees

"Is Derek Jeter black or white?"

"I think he's biracial."

"I thought he was Latino?"

"Naww. You thinking of Alex Rodriquez."

"Is that the same dude as A. Rod?"

"Yeah."

"You know he got that Kate Hudson girl pregnant."

"No, that ain't his baby. She's with another dude now."

"Another dude? Damn."

"Yep. Some other dude. But nobody real famous or nothin'."

"How you know?"

(Holds up Life and Style magazine.)

***

#3 : Star Power

"Did y'all see NeNe cuss Star Jones out on The Celebrity Apprentice the other day?"

"NeNe is always cursing somebody out."

"Is Star Jones a celebrity?"

"Well, LaToya Jackson was on there, too."

"Oh. Then I guess she is a celebrity."

***

#2:  Unbe-weave-able

"Gayle needs an intervention."

"Gayle who? Talkin' about Oprah's Gayle?"

"Ugggh. Yes."

"I like Gayle. What's wrong with Gayle?"

"I like her, too. But what the hell is going on with her hair? If my best friend was a billionaire, dammit, I'd have a better weave than that."

"I think that's a wig she wears."

"Okay. Then I'd have a better wig."

***

#1 : A Gay Old Time

Looking at People Magazine

"Ricky Martin is GAY?!"

"Where the hell have you been? That's old news."

"He's on the cover of this new People. I just read it here."

"Where in the hell did you find that magazine?"

"That ain't news. The minute he La Vida Loco'd across that stage on the Grammy's that year I knew he wasn't straight."

"What?"

"Those weren't a straight man's moves."

"Wow. Ricky Martin is GAY?"

"Hey,  what about Tyler Perry?"

"Huh?"

"Did he come out yet?"

"Ricky Martin is GAY? I just can't believe Ricky Martin is GAY."

"Dammit! Would you stop pulling magazines out of the recycle bin?"

"Doogie Howser came out, too."

"Doogie Howser?!"

"Yeah, like a thousand years ago. And why does he have to be Doogie Howser? He's a grown ass man on a hit show!"

"What show is that?"

"Somethin' 'bout your mama. Uuuhhh, something like that."

"You mean 'How I Met Your Mother.'"

"That's what I said."

"Hey, what about Ryan Seacrest?"

"Ricky Martin is GAY?"

 ***

Happy Belated Thursday.

Back in the day: I'm sure there was trashtalking even then.

Come to think of it. . .at times, this is sort of like my experience. A lot like this. Ha ha ha . . .



***
 Hey. . . .What goes down in your hair salon or barber shop?

Shining star.

"You're a shining star

No matter who you are

Shining bright to see

What you can truly be"

~ Earth, Wind and Fire's "Shining Star"

_______________________________________________________

Six years ago today, Harry and I marveled at the sight of this nine pound and two ounce screaming baby boy that had just (somehow) come out of my body without surgical intervention. It was love at first sight.

There is so much to love about him, but the best thing about Isaiah is that he is such an old soul. My friend Lisa R. has a son who is also an old soul (and who also has an early May birthday) and we would both tell you that living with a mini-Grandpa is a joy that can barely be described.

Case in point--Isaiah and I were discussing his birthday plans last year and he promptly dropped this little doozy on me:

"Hey Mom?"

"Yep."

"May the sixth is a special day for you, too, you know."

"Of course it is because I love you."

"No, Mom. It's your birthday, too. That's the day that you first got to start being a Mommy."

"Hmmm. Kind of like a Mommy-versary."

"Happy Mommy-versary, Mom."

This morning he said to me, "Aren't you glad that God trusted you to take care of me?"

And, even though I was feeling sick, I looked up at his face (that looked just like this picture above) and felt so overcome with love that I couldn't stand it.



::sigh::

Good ol' Isaiah. He's an old soul, yes. . . . .

. . . but is beautifully child-like in every way.

Happy Birthday, my sweet shining star. Thanking you for showing me the world through your eyes and for bringing me a joy unspeakable. And thank you for reminding me that today is my Mommy-versary.


Playing on my mental iPod today. . . . the special song that I used to sing to Isaiah as a baby. . . .and that now he always seems to choose the perfect moments to sing to me.

Infirmary.

Forgive me for not posting the Thursday top ten yesterday. I hit one of those Tex-Mex spots for lunch yesterday and found myself paying for it from both ends by that afternoon.  Perhaps I have never posted about my disdain for vomiting, but know this--I generally try to avoid doing so at all costs.  Few things can sideline me, but that is one bodily function that sho nuff can.

Oh and did I mention?  Our graduating senior medical students had a lovely end of the year black tie optional event at the Georgia Aquarium. Yes, it was last night.  Whew!  Harry bought me some Pepto Bismol which I promptly took to the head before going inside. For the most part I was fine until I made the mistake of sipping on some ginger ale.  Harry and I were chatting in front of the beluga whales and suddenly I heard the JAWS music in my head.  With each "duhh-dunnnt" I could feel my cookies preparing to be tossed.  Finally, Harry whisks me over to some hallway leading to the kitchen where fortunately a highball glass saved the day. 

Don't let the smile fool you. I was sick as a DAWG.

Essentially, I didn't eat or drink a single thing for the rest of the evening. That's great considering the fact that I had to go up to the front two separate times.  Last time I checked, puking at the podium was not cool.  Anyways. . . . it was a beautiful evening.

The Pepto wore off and I spent overnight cursing Chipotle Grill. Uggghh!

Promise to get back on track when I feel better!

This and that.

fairy dust

Your symptoms were classic. It was as if you had read the textbook before they even spoke to you. A bread and butter presentation of a common problem. That is what they reported when you first came in, but as it turns out, your examination suggested something else. Totally unexpected.

"That was what I initially thought," my resident explained, "but then I found this. I was expecting only that; no one mentioned anything about this." 

And so we came to discuss it with you.

"When you came in we thought it was simply that, but then we found something we didn't expect," we said.

"What does it mean?" you asked.

"It could mean this or it could still mean that."

"Which do you think it is? This or that?"

"That was why you were admitted, but this is why we need to keep you."

 "But what do you think? Do you think it is this or do you think it's that?"

"My concern is that it is this. Or this and that."

"This and that?"

"I'm afraid so."

"What's worse? This or that?"

"This is very serious. If it is this it could be at a point that would make it very difficult to treat. If it is that, then there are things we can do to treat it."

"Well, my life has been long and perfect.  If it's this,  I don't want anything that could cause me to feel bad."

"Okay. I will make sure to make a note of your wishes."

A few more days yields a few more answers. Turns out it was definitely this, and wasn't even that at all. You aren't ready to fully deal with this yet, so we follow your wishes and discharge you from the hospital.

 A few weeks later I see you.  This has made you sicker. So sick in fact that it was hard for stoic you to stay at home.

"Hey there," I said.

"This is too much," you replied.

"What would you like for me to do?"

"Just stop this from hurting me so much. Can you do that?"

"I can try."

"I sure hope you can."

"No, I will."

"Okay," you said with a relieved smile. "Okay."

Another week passes and I run into your family member in the Grady hallway.

"This has gotten pretty bad," he said.  He tells me that you asked for me.  He said you asked for me to see about you. "I know you aren't the doctor over this, but still. Can you come?"

"Yes," I said.  "I will come."

I walk in and you seem happy to see me. I am happy to see you, too.  This has really taken a toll on your body.

"I hate this," you said. And then you laugh. Robust and hearty, and not even sick-sounding. You pat the bed beside you and I sat right there on your bed with you.

"Whatcha know good?" I teased using language we both know well. I hoped it would make you feel better. At least a little bit.

"Whew. This is nothing to play with," you replied with a grimace.

"Neither are you," I shot back with a wink. You winked back. "You okay?"

"No," you responded. "I'm not okay."

I looked uncomfortable with that answer because I am a doctor and that kind of answer makes a doctor feel like a failure. You sensed that, and elaborated. "See, I'm not scared of this but I am so scared to leave my family behind. I am the one who always keeps everything together." You shook your head.  "This is so going to be so hard for them."

I don't know what to say. Because you're right and it is going to be hard. I had seen their faces loving on you and flanking you in bedside chairs and wished I had a magic potion for that part even more than the illness itself. Or at least some fairy dust.

"I'm glad you came to see about me."

"I am, too."

You reach over and gave me a hug, tangling me in IV tubing. I hugged you back just the same. After that, we sat and talked and laughed about a lot of different things. And barely even spoke about this and never even mentioned that.  You asked about my children and wanted to know about my marriage. I listened intently, taking mental notes as you shared with me about yours because, to quote you, I was still "new to the game."  I asked you to "school me" on what you thought I should know, and you did just that.  It was great.

That was my last time seeing you.  A colleague contacted me today to tell me that you'd slipped away. Peacefully, just like you'd wanted, surrounded by the people you loved the most.  They were braver than even you expected them to be.  "I will not let this cast a shadow over the end of what has been a glorious life," you'd told me.  And you were right.  You didn't let this win over you or your final hours.

It's weird.  As sad as it makes me to know that a simple visit for that snowballed into all of this, a part of me believes that if had only been that, I never would have gotten to know you in the way this allowed me to.  That would have made your time with me fleeting, your hospital bed simply a revolving door. So if there was even a tiny piece of silver lining in this, I guess I could selfishly say that was it. Because as bad as this was, you still took the time to share a piece of yourself with me. And to school me.

"What's the key to living this long and keeping your family together and happy?"  I asked you as I leaned my elbow on my knee and rested my chin in my hand.  I gazed up at you like a child, waiting for your wisdom to be sprinkled upon me like that fairy dust I'd longed for earlier.

"It's simple," you told me, "for everything in life, all it takes is a little bit of this and a little bit of that. You got that?"


Got it.

***

Introducing . . . .

The newest additions to The Puppy Mafia:

"Sparky" and "Fuzzbucket"



(And now back to your regularly scheduled programming.)

***
Happy Tuesday.

Hair-raising Tales Part 2: The snip heard around the world.

Isaiah with the baby 'fro (and God-daddy Shannon)

When Isaiah turned one, Harry busted out a pair of clippers and buzzed his baby afro straight down to a big-boy haircut. That cute little lop-sided poof that he'd become known for in those first twelve months was officially black history. Isaiah had a head full of loose curls that, for the most part, were very easy to manage. I slightly mourned the loss of his baby look, but felt my mama-bird chest swell a bit when he ran over to me that day looking like a complete big boy.

Now Zachary? His hair adventure was a bit different. Unlike his brother, he had a tighter wave pattern and had taken a liking to rubbing the sides of his hair and eyebrows while sleeping. For several months, he looked like some eyebrowless dude with several tiny little cotton balls pasted onto his head with clean patches on the temples. While it definitely wasn't making much of a fashion statement, it never bothered me so much. But Harry? Lawd. It annoyed Mr. Former-Military-Dude Harry a lot. So. . . . Zachary didn't quite make it to the year mark before getting snipped and shaped with scissors. And by his first birthday? Fuggeddaboudit. That kid looked like a thirty-five year-old man.

Baby buzz, Manning style.

Now.

This is actually a bit unusual from a cultural standpoint. For several non-medical and non-religious reasons, there is this understanding amongst black folks that you don't go cutting your kid's hair before their first birthday. The most popular of the non-medical/non-religious reasons is this one:

"Now you know if you cut that boy's hair before he turn a year he ain't never gon' talk, don't you?"

To which I have had to say on more than one occasion, "Uuuuhhhhh, yeah. Okay." For some cultures it is religious. Like, I know a few people of Jewish faith (Orthodox) who've told me that cutting hair before three is a spiritual no-no. And then there's been a few of my Punjabi friends who weren't keen on cutting their hair at all. But see, with my people it ain't (really) religious. Either way--the rule that someone wrote in the front of somebody's bible way back when about "no haircuts in black males before age one" might as well be the fifth gospel. For real.

I guess the reason I don't get so bent out of shape about the whole early haircut thing is because my father gave my older brother the full-on military fade complete with a razor line in the front when the dude was no more than nine months. Blasphemy, I say!

The pre-one year old buzz ~ Dad cutting Will's hair in 1967

Anyways. Despite it being a non-medical/non-religious/non-logic based and purely cultural doctrine, it is a gospel that my people of all socioeconomic and educational levels sho' nuff uphold at just about all costs. And the good news is that most folks know that.

Most folks.

Which reminds me of a story. . . . .like to hear it? Here it go!

***

Residency ~ Winter 1999

an ICU room

When I was a third year resident, I was taking care of this beautiful little baby boy who I'll call JaQuon in the pediatric intensive care unit (PICU.) He had been born extremely premature and had spent much of his eleven month life in hospitals for respiratory difficulties and surgeries. Seeing him lying in bed with tubes entering and exiting multiple parts of his tiny body was hard. He looked like a sweet cherub that had been dipped perfectly in chocolate with smooth, unblemished skin and a loose, fluffy halo of jet black hair. I loved touching it; it felt exactly like what I'd imagine a cumulus cloud would if my hand were long enough to reach it. Cute was an understatement. JaQuon was angelic.

In addition to him being very sick most of the time, he had a fairly young mother who seemed completely overwhelmed 99% of the time. This manifested as difficult interactions with the staff, complaints to administration, and threats to sue the hospital just about every other day. Between going to work and taking care of her other three children, she would blow in like gangbusters every evening grilling the entire team about every detail of JaQuon's care. As the primary resident caring for him, at times it was rough.

Fortunately, my attending that month was wonderful. He had the insight to teach us all that this mother simply loved her child and was doing the best she could. He helped us to look at the situation not as a threat, but as one that was complex. Every day we were reminded that it was a parent's right to ask questions, and that there was nothing natural about walking into a PICU to see your child several days in a row. I always remembered that lesson.

But caring for JaQuon was still kind of hard.

After nearly two weeks, I'd finally built an excellent rapport with JaQuon's mom. I diligently called her twice per day, and even worked with the nurse manager to have the same RNs rotated in caring for him when they were at work. He was slowly improving, and fortunately, those interrogations every evening became easier and easier. Eventually, JaQuon's mother could even be seen smiling while talking to us and one day, she even brought us a cake to show her appreciation. With every passing day as we turned down the settings on JaQuon's ventilator, we all felt proud of the progress we'd made with both him and his mother. Those three critical care nurses and I became like four fiercely protective aunties over every aspect of JaQuon's care, with love woven into every detail.

Finally, the day came when my attending gave the thumbs up when we asked if JaQuon could be extubated during our morning rounds. His oxygen supplements were minimal as were his pressures on the ventilator, and our trials of unassisted breathing were completely successful. We all high fived and hugged each other, knowing that our baby was going in the right direction.

A young nurse named Sara (who was a part of the four aunties) rushed off to her locker and returned with a tiny garment bag. She peeled back the plastic to reveal this adorable little three piece outfit, complete with socks. There was a baby blue onesie with "Mommy's Little Angel" embroidered across the front in a royal blue that perfectly matched the precocious big-boy sweatsuit that accompanied it.

"I've been saving this up for his extubation day!" Sara gushed.

I will never forget how moved we all were--even the attending choked back a few tears. It remains one of the sweetest gestures I've ever seen.

I knew that I would be in clinic that afternoon, but because I was on call that night, I was pretty sure I'd get to be there when JaQuon's mother blew in. I was purposely vague when I called her that day; I wanted her to be surprised when she saw her baby boy's sweet brown cheeks gurgling and cooing instead of covered in tape and masked by an endotracheal tube.

I hugged Sara and wiped a few tears. "That's awesome!" I said.

"I can't wait to see his mother's face!" Sara replied "I think I'm going to hang around until she gets here." Although her shift was ending at 3PM, this kind of investment in patients was not the least bit unusual for critical care nurses. Anyone who knows a critical care nurse would tell you that.

And so, as the story goes, we all applauded when sweet JaQuon was uneventfully extubated. The respiratory therapist even pointed out that he'd cut a tooth, which made us even giddier for his mother's arrival. I floated to clinic that afternoon, doing my best to imagine the elation that baby J's mom would surely have in just a few short hours.

I finally finished up with my last patient, and instead of dragging my feet due to the dread of taking call, I sprinted toward the unit as fast as I could. I'd made good time, and made it to the nurse's station just as the clock struck 5 PM.

"Is J's mom here yet? Did I miss it?" I panted.

"Nope, she's on her way so you're just in time!" Lisa, the other auntie, replied with a smile. "Girl, Sara's been fussing over him all day. Did you see that outfit, Kim?" Lisa placed her hand on her bosom and shook her head.

"Adorable," I laughed. "Even Dr. B cried a little when she took it out!"

"Honey, bless Sara's heart! His mother is going to be so happy," Lisa went on, "They've been through so much. It'll be great to see her get him home soon. Dr. B says he can go to the regular ward tomorrow and should be home in the next 48 hours."

"Awesome." I looked over toward Sara who could be seen adjusting his clothing through the glass partition in JaQuon's room. "Did she put it on him yet?"

"Yes, girl. He looks like a little man!" Lisa responded while drawing up a saline flush. She pushed the air bubbles out of the syringe, squirting a few drops of saline on the counter. As she reached for a disinfectant wipe to clean it off, she added, "Go look at him. You're going to die!"

I followed Lisa toward his room, and felt myself thinking how happy I was that this very senior critical care nurse would be in the PICU with me that evening. She pulled back the heavy glass sliding door and stood with me at the foot of the bed. She looked over at me to see my reaction.

Tears immediately filled my eyes as, for the first time, I saw JaQuon looking like a regular little baby boy. "Oh sweetie. . ." I murmured. The outfit hid some of the IV lines and every trace of adhesive had been removed from his face which was now glistening from Vaseline. The outfit fit him perfectly, and the pastel color shirt beautifully brought out the yellow undertones in his cocoa complexion.

"He does look like a little man!" I gasped while walking closer to him. I looked up at Sara and smiled warmly. We all glanced at each other while blowing him air kisses and taking exaggerated sighs. I leaned in close to him and said, "Hey there, handsome boy!" And he responded with a smile that melted my heart right there on the spot. I cocked my head and took a mental picture of the image.

That's when I noticed something.

I furrowed my eyebrows and grabbed a pair of gloves. Carefully, lifting the back of JaQuon's head, I confirmed what I hoped and prayed wasn't what I thought it was. The look of terror was all over my face.

"Honey, are you okay?" Lisa asked with a concerned expression.

I turned J's head from side to side, dropped my head and just shook it slowly. I thought I was going to be sick. "Lawd Jesus."

"What? What!" Lisa demanded.

"Kim, what's wrong?" Sara joined in. They both shot each other worried glances.

"Sara," I said flatly, "please tell me that. . . ."-- I drew in a deep sigh--"please tell me that you didn't cut JaQuon's hair."

"I. . .I . . what. . .I mean, I did just to get him. ."

When she saw me squeeze my eyes tightly and wince, she knew then that this was a problem. And not just a little problem either.

"Oh shit!" Lisa exclaimed while sweeping her blond bob behind her ears to see better. She let out a nervous laugh and then covered up her mouth.

"I . . .did I. . . I thought. . .I mean, I thought Mom would appreciate it," Sara replied as her eyes quickly filled up with tears.

Even though I already knew very well that he was, I scanned the band on his arm to confirm that JaQuon was indeed less than a year old. Eleven months, to be exact. With a newly clipped coif to replace his formerly abundant lamb's wool halo. I wiped my hand over my face and drew a deep breath. All the while I was thinking, No wonder everyone said he looked like a "little man." Sara had cut his hair down like he was grown-ass man!

Sara's cheeks were beet red, deeply contrasting her porcelain skin and her bottom lip was quivering uncontrollably. I wanted to reassure her but I couldn't. Lisa wasn't helping. She kept saying "Oh shit!" like a broken record, which made Sara grow more and more anxious.

"Where'd you put his hair?" I finally asked.

"Excuse me?"

"His hair, Sara. Where is it?"

Sara pointed at the wastebasket and then looked back at me. "Sara, we've got to get the hair and at least put it in a bag for Mom. Come on, let's hurry up." I took the top off of the trash can and prepared to wade into it.

"Do you really think his mother is going to be upset? I didn't hardly cut that much. Just--"

"Sara," I interrupted, "I know you meant well. But honestly, I don't even know another way to say this. Black people generally don't cut their kids' hair before they turn one. For some people, it's like a really big deal."

Lisa flushed JaQuon's IV and added, "That's not even just a black thing, Kim. Most folks I know are pretty OCD about their kid's first hair cut. Geeze, Sara. . .what were you thinking?"

"But it was a trim," Sara insisted. "Maybe Mom won't even notice." I raised my eyebrows and cast my eyes downward in a way that said, The hell she won't. Sara wrung her hands nervously and shrugged. "I suppose I'll just wait around in case it's an issue. I mean, it's the right thing to do." No one objected.

And so we sat. And sat. And sat. For what felt like forever, but was really only like an hour and twenty minutes. Me, quietly writing progress notes. Lisa, calculating meds and updating her charting. The other two RN's on the shift acting like they weren't waiting for all hell to break loose.

Finally, the call bell began chiming signaling that a non-employee was waiting to be let in. In the camera, there was JaQuon's mother shifting from side to side on her probably tired feet. When the doors first whooshed open, she blew inside like always. Instead of the relaxed smile that she'd been offering us as of late, her face was twisted and preoccupied.

"Hey there," I greeted her, "How was your day?"

"Hectic," she replied while vigorously scrubbing her hands at the sink. She was all business today. "How'd J do today?"

I stood tall and smiled wide--determined to soften things up. I made a gesture with my hand to demonstrate a tube being pulled from someone's throat. "He did great."

Mom swung her head around toward his room and then quickly put her eyes back on me. I nodded and gave her a thumbs up. In a flash, she dropped everything and ran over to JaQuon's room.

We stood outside of the glass watching the whole train wreck unfold like some kind of bad, slow motion silent movie. It went something like this:

• Mom runs to the room.
• Mom sees JaQuon without the endotracheal tube in his mouth.
• Mom covers her mouth and starts crying.
• Mom approaches the bed and notices his outfit.
• Mom places both hands exaggeratedly over her chest and cries more.
• Mom looks out of the glass at us and mouths the words, "Oh my God!"
• Mom bends over the railing to kiss his face and rub his skin.
• Mom plants a soft kiss on his forehead.
• Mom freezes.
• Mom steps back.
• Mom steps forward.
• Mom squints her eyes and then lifts JaQuon's head.
• Mom's mouth moves and I can make out what she said: "What the (expletive.)"
• Mom spins around and pulls back the glass door fast and furious.
• Mom is not happy.

"Who cut my baby's hair? Who in the (expletive) cut my BABY'S HAIR!?!?"

Here we go.

"I wanted him to look nice for you and I--"

"You CUT my baby's HAIR? What the (EXPLETIVE!) WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?" Mom exploded. "You CUT his hair? What would make you cut his hair!?!"

I stared squarely at my clogs, all the while wishing Sara would say nothing more. Nothing she could say was going to make this better. Lisa was equally frozen. Sara was on her own.

"I just wanted him to look handsome when you--"

"He WAS handsome! I can't believe you CUT MY BABY HAIR!!!" Mom started crying, but not a sad weep. It was more of a mad, tired cry complete with chest heaves and with tears that seemed to be made of boiling water.

Lisa and I completely threw Sara under the bus with this one. Although we stood next to her in solidarity (and in fear of moving), we didn't dare utter a sound. Not a single peep. This new one getting torn was all hers. Or so I thought.

"And where was you?" Mom suddenly asked shifting gears toward me. Next thing I knew she was ice-grilling me of all people.

Say whaaa..?

"Excuse me?"

"WHERE WAS YOU? WHY YOU LET THIS WHITE LADY CUT MY BABY HAIR?!?" she demanded. Her use of the word "white" made everyone uncomfortable. Even JaQuon squirmed a little in his bed.

"Uuhhhh, I didn't realize that--"

"You 'POSED TO BE LOOKING OUT FOR HIM. Especially YOU!" she yelled while pointing at me for emphasis. "I can't believe you let this lady cut JaQuon hair like that! I can't believe you of all people let this happen!"

Yikes.

And just like that, she rolled her eyes and marched out of the unit.

It was crazy. As crazy as it sounds, even. No. Crazier.

I never forgot that day. It was so complicated and awkward. Hands down one of the most uncomfortable moments I've had in clinical medicine. It has always served to remind me of how important it is to consider culture in our actions, but also how even the very best intentions can go awry. Poor Midwest Sara had no idea that cutting JaQuon's hair would become such a debacle. And never in a million years did it occur to me that the complexities of race and trust issues in health care were playing such a pivotal role in his mother's expectations of me, her son's doctor.

So how did it end, you ask? Well, the good news is that JaQuon continued to improve, was transferred to the floor, and was subsequently discharged in 48 hours just as predicted. The even better news was that I was working with Lisa, the senior critical care nurse, that night. She smoothed that whole horrid situation over like buttercream frosting over a Betty Crocker box cake.

How you ask? First, she took Mom into a quiet room and simply hugged her and listened to her. She acknowledged how tired the mother was and how hard it was to be in the situation. She gently explained that Sara only wanted to help and apologized on behalf of the whole team. She then presented Mom with a little gift box containing JaQuon's hair. And Mom wept and wept. Lisa was amazing. While I'd most appreciated her ability to crack the whip during a code or smell sick-sick a mile away, this night gave me new insight on the wonder of experienced nurses. And on the wisdom of folks over the age of fifty in general.

Hmmm.

I'm not sure there's a real moral to this whole story. Matter of fact, if you figure out one, let me know what it is. But even if you don't, it's still a great story. Oh yeah, and that part about your baby not talking if they get a haircut before they turn one? I have nonstop evidence that proves that that nonmedical/nonreligious theory AIN'T TRUE.

Daddy strikes again in 2006 ~ this time with his grandson, Isaiah.

***

Hey, what's the hair rules with your people? Are there any?