Of mouses and men.

While drinking coffee in the kitchen over all of the work I'd been procrastinating on:

Zachary:  Hey Mommy!

Me: Hey Zacharoony! (back to typing on my computer after smiling at him)


Zachary:  Did you know? I'm so smart, Mom. I really, really am.

Me:  (hands off computer, looking at him) Yes, I did know. You are smart, son.

Zachary:  And you know what?

Me: (still trying to type a little bit) What's that?

Zachary:  I even know what a mice is, Mommy.

Me:  A who?

Zachary:  (dancing like he has to pee) A mice, Mommy. A mice.


Me:  (fully typing because now I have no idea where this is going or how long it will go) Um, okay.

Zachary:  (really doing the pee-pee dance now) Do you know what it is?

Me: Know what what is? (one eye on him, one eye on laptop -- it's a skill,  I tell ya.)

Zachary: Mommy! A mice!

Me:  I'm not sure I know what A mice is. (stop typing and look at this scary pee dance and get serious) Hey. If you need to go potty go potty, son.

Zachary:  (ignores me, now squeezing his crotch and bouncing like Tigger) Mommy! A MICE!  A MICE is when it's a whole, whole bunch of MOUSES! (hands splayed like, "duuuhhh!")

*crickets* (fully have stopped typing)

Zachary: (beaming) Told you I was smart! Oooooohh. Okay, I gotta go peee-peeeeee.

(runs off to go pee, likely will miss the commode and make whole bathroom smell like gas station)

Me:  (yelling out toward the bathroom) Yaaaaassss! You sure are, son!


Wait--am I a horrible mom for telling y'all instead of correcting him? 

***
Happy Monday.

What was lost.

The old Manhattan skyline

"New York! Just like I pictured it! Skyscrapers and everything!"

~ Stevie Wonder in "Livin' for the City"

I watched a man telling his story of 9/11 tonight. He was a first responder--a proud fireman wearing a hat with FDNY across the front of it. He was also wearing oxygen.

Turns out that this gentleman rushed in to dig through that rubble from the first moments after those towers came tumbling down. The dust and debris that he was exposed to during those efforts led to respiratory failure.

"Masks? There wasn't no time for masks. We needed to find the people. The people who could be calling for us from under those bricks and mortar." He said that between wheezes with a thick and authentic New York accident. And something about the passion behind the way he said it suggested that he'd do it all over again.

That man required a lung transplant. A lung transplant. That lung transplant failed. And you know what? With all that digging over those weeks, he never found a single living soul.

I guess my first thought had always been those who lost loved ones that day. Watching him talking with those animated New York hands and unmistakable intonation interrupted by oxygen-dependent hacks  reminded me of all of the other things lost that day. He had lost his health--his ability to breath. Because he was trying to save at least one life.

Damn.

The downtown Atlanta Skyline

A few weeks ago I bought this poster at a festival of Atlanta's iconic places. Restaurants, parks, and all sorts of things were on it. It also had our skyline. That same skyline that made me gasp when I first moved near it and that has become a visual staple.  Our skyline has nothing on Manhattan's but I'd hate to see any part of it plucked away. It would be like being robbed of a part of what makes home feel like home. That makes me even sadder about how real, true New Yorkers must feel. Hell, I'm not even a real, true ATL-ien but my kids are. I thought of that as something that was lost that day.

Crazy.

Two summers ago, we went to D.C. to see Harry's best friend/Isaiah's godfather Shannon get promoted in the U.S. Army to Lieutenant Colonel. The ceremony was in The Pentagon and we took a tour of it that day. But before all that, it took an act of Congress to even get into the place and you damn near got tackled and tazed if you snapped a photo. Man. Everywhere you went there were service men and women.  Everywhere. Walking in that upright way that military folks do and whose faces were plastered all over the walls in every corridor. We learned that The Pentagon has always been that kind of place. Full of patriotism. Tightly secured. Inhabited by elite members of the armed forces.

That became my point of reference for The Pentagon. Men and women who are literally serving their country at some of the highest levels attainable on the military food chain working in a building that is supposed to be like a fort. I imagined the terror they and all of their family members must have felt that day to have that all breached. Remember? A plane crashed into that building on the morning of September 11, too. It's just as awful. We went into the 9/11 memorial in The Pentagon and even though our kids were small, we did our best to explain what happened. I felt ashamed because my mind always thinks "New York" and not "Pentagon" or "field in Pennsylvania" when I think of September 11.

But not any more.

Visiting with Uncle Shannon - Washington D.C. 2009

Shannon became Lt. Colonel Shannon that day, and we hugged and applauded and snapped pictures. The following year he was sent to Iraq for an entire year, separating him from his lovely wife and his two young children. A second grader who is now a third grader and a three year old who is now a four-year old. Separated from their patriarch. For an entire year.

Uncle Shannon with son Colin at The Pentagon

Our goddaughter Paige in the center at her daddy's promotion (with bffs)

Servicemen there in support of Lt. Colonel Shannon Jackson

With his committed wife, Michelle

What children miss when parents go to protect our country

See? Now I'm thinking, just maybe, if this all hadn't happened ten years ago today then, just maybe, Uncle Shannon wouldn't be gone away at all. His kids wouldn't be Skyping him on their birthdays or on the day before the first day of school. Just maybe.

So much was lost that day. So much. And today I am remembering those big things lost and also considering the little things lost in the chain reaction. Yeah. I'm remembering--with as much intention as I can. . . .

Because they all matter. They do.

***

No, thank you.

We were at the Waffle House a few days ago and the kind lady who was serving us passed the kids' plates over to us.  Each child had his own waffle, and on top of each waffle was a disposable one-serving cup of margarine.

"Oh, here," I said to her, "we don't need these, thanks." 

"No butter? On waffles? For the kids?"  The words came from her mouth before she could even stop them. I could tell that some part of her wished she hadn't said it. Partly because of her own rotund middle and ample arms that held our plates and partly because it probably isn't p.c. to go questioning how grown folks feed their kids. (At least to their faces, that is.)

I laughed and replied--careful not to be smug-health-nut-lady, "You know what? I'm trying my hardest not to even introduce butter to them. Weird, I know. It just seems like one of those things that, as yummy as it is, you can live without if you don't know about it. At least on waffles."

"That's smart," she responded with a genuine nod. "Makes sense." She put her hand on her hip and cocked her head to the side like she was thinking.

"My wife also doesn't like butter." Harry had to bust my bubble so I wouldn't look like super-save-a-kid-mom. Hater. But this is a true statement. I'm not a big butter fan. As a child I just didn't really "get" butter. Something about it looked like Crisco, which sort of grossed me out.

Funny, right?

But here's the thing.  Once I did actually taste butter, I did get it. I got why folks dug it so much and slathered it on top of their everything.  In fact, I even got the difference between real, sho' nuff butter and substitutes like Country Crock or I can't believe it's not butter (which I totally can believe isn't the real stuff.)  Yes. It's yummy. But what I learned from all those butter-less years is that a lot of things that call for butter are pretty damn delicious without it. Sure.  I make some very clear exceptions to being butter-free which are popcorn, yeast rolls, baked sweet potatoes, and corn-on-the-cob.  Oh, and grits. Yeah, grits. Otherwise, Harry is right--I'm cool when it comes to butter.

With this in mind, I started deciding which things I would and would not introduce my kids to on the table. I guess I'm looking for this happy medium between letting them live a little and not making them die from food addiction later. No. I'm not ultra-organic lady with puree'd baby foods and herbs on my window sill. Not that I don't wish I were that lady--I'm just not hard-wired like that.  Instead, I simply looked at a lot of foods and drinks and asked myself, "What if I never had this as a kid? Would I go crazy for it later or be fine to keep living without it? And would not having this intrude on what it's like to be a kid?"

Once I answered those questions, a few foods were relegated to being "foreign objects" to our kids.  This, of course, came from me and not Harry. Fortunately, though, he is down with it. 

And so. Butter made that list.  Now. Do they have butter with grandparents or at times when we're not in control? Probably. But are they looking for it at home or the 98% of the time they eat? Nope.  It's like they know that syrup goes on top of waffles but the butter part? No comprende.

A friend called me laughing fairly recently while Zachary was there for a playdate with her son. "Has your child ever tasted soda pop?" she cackled into the phone. 

"Actually? I don't think so."

All I could hear was hysterical laughter. "What? He's almost five!"

But, see, soda was also on that list.  I've yet to find anything about it that's good for you and, as a kid, there's such great alternatives to it.  If my kid has a soda at a birthday party do I flip out though? Naaah.

Gum.  That one, too.  Zachy had a stick of gum for the first time two weeks ago. And promptly swallowed it. Eh? It happens when you haven't had something.

I guess here is what I'm reflecting on today.  Kids and food and exercise and how complicated it all is. The Children's Healthcare of Atlanta organization has put out these very provocative commercials fighting childhood obesity. Georgia is the second most overweight state when it comes to children, and man. These folks are not holding back.  I was recently at a lecture that the CEO of CHOA (who is freakin' awesome, by the way) gave and she showed us a couple of these public service announcements. Check this out--oh and warning: these are very "in your face." People generally have strong reactions to them--some positive and some horrified. But their idea was to get people talking and thinking about childhood obesity and what we're doing to our kids one butter pat at a time. . . .





Well? What did you think? Me--I felt so sad seeing these commercials.  And even a little bit discouraged. Not because I don't think it's forward thinking and overall a good thing. I love that they are doing this and putting money into the fight against what has become a horrible epidemic. It still makes me feel sad, though. Because I know how complicated food and obesity are. I know how it is a culture in itself and how difficult it is to unravel culture.  I see this culture at work every day--and not just in the clinic or the wards. I see it in the break rooms and in the cafeteria on top of trays. I hear it in words spoken to employees in the lunch line like, "Would you like some fries with your burger?" or "You want sausage and gravy with these eggs?"

"Fries? Yes, please. No, wait. Give me some of them mojo potato wedges instead."

"I can give you both, sugar."

"Cool."

I used to live in a beautiful neighborhood in a predominantly minority part of town. It was clean and quiet-- and my neighbors were wonderful.  Yes. I meant to say quiet. No one running or walking or pushing a stroller in sight. Okay, maybe every blue moon. But for the most part? Nada.

Now I live in-town near the University. I can't pull out of my driveway without nearly mowing down a runner, jogger, or someone walking their dog. Bike riders and shirtless teenagers chatting and laughing on mile four. I even saw a kid from the boys' school running with her dad one day and I know for certain that she is in third grade.

Yeah.  It's a different culture in this neighborhood. And my old neighborhood wasn't a bad one, either. It just had a different vibe. . . .which wasn't as health conscious as this one. But it all has a domino effect, don't you think?

So Isaiah and Zachary are growing up with "exercise just for the hell of it" as a part of their culture. They're passing on the butter and asking why a drink with bubbles tastes so "spicy."  We're making some nights "fruit dessert" nights like my friend Lesley does with her kids and we're schlepping the kids to the gym with us to let them see that, yes, black folks run and jump for exercise and not only as a part of organized sports. But see, these were all choices that we made strategically. Oh, and did I mention? A whole lot of these choices cost money.  

Sigh.

I don't know.  Culture is such a hard thing to change. I don't know what those kids in those commercials are up against, either. But I do know this--a little can sure go a long way. So that's what I tell my patients at Grady. Try these little things that don't cost money. And do these things in front of your kids. Starting with simple ones like, "Butter? No, thank you."

Top Ten: Over Forty.

My birthday coffee!

Today is officially the twentieth anniversary of my twenty-first birthday. Okay and let's be clear about one thing--I am saying it this way only because I find it slightly amusing to do so. NOT because I am one of those people who is freaked out about it. In fact--quite the contrary.

Today I bring you the TOP TEN THINGS THAT MAKE BEING OVER FORTY GREAT.

10.

You no longer have to worry about turning forty. Especially when you're over forty. You've finally gotten used to telling people that you are forty by the time you turn forty-something which is pretty damn relaxing.

So in other words, not only are you over forty--by this point you're over forty, too. Let the church say amen!

9.

You aren't as broke as you were in your twenties. Well. You are, but it's a different kind of broke than that twenties-kind of broke.

8.

You have fully accepted that you are not in your twenties, therefore all of your points of reference change. Like, some folks in their thirties are still in denial about clothing, appropriate behaviors, etc. But, see, by the time you are over forty, you realize that there exists an ENTIRE generation of ADULTS who are younger than you and who have no idea what you are talking about with your pop culture references. So saying words like "foxy" and "sassy" and "sharp" work. And this is when people start having that nervous chuckle when you use too many "young" words like "OMG" and "BFF." This helps you to move on along to acting your damn age.

And that age is "grown."

7.

Although many of you thirty and twenty-somethings have the nerve to refer to yourselves as "grown," you are the only ones who think that. By the time you get to your forties, your grown-ness is no longer disputed.

Now.

This can be problematic for those living on couches or in Mama'nem's basements. It is glorious for those with lifestyles/life choices that Mama'nems don't approve of. Because, see, when you reach "grown" there is something about you and your choices that become not only your problem, but also your business. This, I like.

6.

Your goal for body image shifts from young Britney Spears to post-partum Britney Spears. Yes. Britney looks good these days. But no. She does not look like she looked when she was on the VMAs singing "I'm a Slave for You." That said, I could live with this version below. I sure could.

Oh and what's beautiful? Your man can live with it, too. It's lovely, I tell you.

5.

You get to tell somebody "because I said so, that's why!"

4.

Your friends have gray hair coming in, too. If you have premature gray that you color (like moi) you've been waiting for this moment. Now you can sit around and discuss semi-permanent versus permanent color and also when you plan to "hell, just let it go." You also talk about things like mummy-tummy woes after babies and whether or not you would be willing to let somebody aim a syringe and needle at your forehead if it meant less frown lines. You also discuss things like dammit, I'm not getting my tubes tied because, dammit, it's his turn to get something tied or snipped or fried. See? The conversations are just gnarly, I tell you.

3.

If you're lucky, you have a career. Not just a job. If you're lucky.

2.

You don't freak out when someone calls you "ma'am." (This precedes the age where you kick someone's ass for not calling you "ma'am.")

1.

You get to act all surprised and flattered when someone tells you that you CAN'T POSSIBLY be in your forties.

"Happy birthday, ma'am!"

"Thanks! The big four one!"

"Forty ONE? SHUT UP!!!"

"Yep. Born in 1970!"

"You don't look a DAY over thirty-nine!!!"

0_0

***

Happy Wednesday!

Thought I'd share my segment from FOX 5 today. . . not bad for a foxy forty-one year-old!

Housecall: Sjogren's Syndrome: MyFoxATLANTA.com

Redemption.

image credit

A few weeks ago I was talking to this woman who had gotten off of crack cocaine. It had been four full years since (to use her own words) she'd been "delivered from the stronghold" of addiction, and boy was she proud about it.

"I was out there bad," she said with a shake of her head. "But one day, I just woke up and looked around myself. This was rock bottom. I was flat on my back and all I could do was look up from there."

"Wow, that's awesome," I replied. "Did you go to a recovery program?"

"Nope." She lifted the cover to her breakfast tray and frowned. Covering it back up she looked back at me and smiled. "I prayed about it. Asked God to take that desire away from me. I knew that was the only way for me to do it."

"Hmmmm." I listened to her words and thought about this idea of this desire being "taken away from her." I cast my eyes over to the other members of my team, wondering how her description of drug abstinence was resonating with them.

"What do you mean by 'out there bad?'" one of the interns asked. We all swung our heads in his direction. I felt proud of him for asking this, even if it had broken my train of thought. I liked that he wanted to know more about her and especially her story.

She laughed and recanted, "You sure you old enough to hear all that?"

Our team shared her chuckle and waited for her to go on. "When I said 'out there bad' I'm talking bad as you can imagine. Turning tricks, robbing folks, doing whatever you got to do to get high. That's what a stronghold do to you. It make your mind crazy, like you can't make good decisions." She shrugged and removed the cover to the food again. Ripping open a salt packet she continued. "I feel so bad about that time in my life. But see, the last few years it's like I'm a new person. Like my life got handed back to me. When they test me for the AIDS and told me I didn't have no diseases, I couldn't believe it. That's when I knew I had a chance, you know? A real chance."

Something about her words immediately pushed tears into the front of my eyes. They began stinging like rubbing alcohol in a fresh wound; I tried my best to blink them away in the most inconspicuous way I could. She sighed and stuck her fork into the tepid eggs on her plate. Her mind seemed peaceful, as did her comfort with telling us all of that.

"Congratulations to you for getting your life back," I finally said. "I know you're so proud."

She nodded her head and smiled. "You know, doc? I ain't gon' even lie. I'm real proud."

And as I watched her eat her eggs my eyes became prickly again with fresh lacrimation. If she wasn't eating and if it wouldn't have seemed lame, I swear I would have hugged her right there in front of my entire team. Okay, I take that back--it was really that she was eating that stopped me.

Today I am reflecting on redemption. Redemption. I can barely type the word without crying. Damn. Here I go.

This is one of the main reasons why I love working at Grady. There is nothing that moves me deeper in my core than stories of redemption. They resonate with me so--not because I've had some hard life with tacks and splinters--but because I know that within us all dwells that need for a clean slate at some point in our lives. We need to have people see us with more than their eyes and to accept us not because we have straight teeth and straight spines or straight lives but instead just because.

I remember when I took care of a patient once who had an urgent surgical problem. The resident surgeons didn't agree with my assessment, yet I was senior to them. Instead of calling their attending physician, I shook my head and told the team that my patient would "eventually declare himself." He did just that--and subsequently needed an emergency operation after which he had a perioperative myocardial infarction (heart attack.) And then? He died. Yep. He died.

I deeply struggled with that experience. I wished in the hollows of my heart that I had fought harder for that man. That I had pointed my finger and said my piece and then stepped clear over their heads to get that patient the help he needed -- faster.

When I saw that man's son, he squeezed both of my hands hard at the same time and thanked me for all I had done for his father. And do you know what I did? I cried right there in front of him. It was as if he wrung those tears right out of me with that tight grip and I couldn't reel them back. Sure, it was probably unprofessional but there was nothing I could do to stop myself from the emotion. Partly because as a daughter and a mother I was sad that a man had lost his dad and a child had lost his granddad. But also because there was something about the way he took both of my hands into his during his deepest moment of grief to say those words that felt like redemption. Like they said, "Look, I know that you are a human but there was love in the care you gave my dad." Or even, "There is something complex about the expression on your face that is telling me you need this moment even more than me." And damn, I needed it. As selfish as it was, I did. And he gave it to me freely.

Imagine that.

Whew. Here I go again.

This is why I think I try to be accepting of all kinds of situations, you know? Like mostly because I know that I am way imperfect and needing somebody somewhere to just get me sometimes. It's why even though I'm a woman of deep faith, I don't spend time picking apart the parts of peoples' lives or even trying to relay what I think God thinks about what somebody else is doing. Besides, love and acceptance feel so much better than judgment and exclusion anyway, and frankly, it's the part that got me on board with my own spiritual relationship in the first place.

Anywho.

Even though that lady who'd abstained from crack for four whole years spoke of higher beings and deliverance from strongholds when giving her testimony, I know for sure that redemption comes in many forms. Sometimes it comes when you're lying on the ground and you finally realize that you can still look up. It also happens when a doctor looks across a table and casually tells you that, No, you aren't HIV positive. Other times it happens when someone takes your two hands in theirs and squeezes them tight. When for all intents and purposes you should be grabbing theirs.

I don't know.

I guess the most redeeming qualities come through every day acts like listening carefully and smiling genuinely and seeing people with more than just our eyes. Man. Every day I'm hoping someone does that for me and the people I love. I really am.

***
Happy Tuesday.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . .

Father knows best.

*no animals or patients were harmed during this post.

Overheard at the lake this weekend:

Zachary:  Daddy! I need to pee.


Daddy:  (looks over at me and then shrugs.) So go pee.

Zachary: You going to take me, Daddy?

Daddy:  Naww, man. Just hit that lake over there. (points at the lake--which is full o' people.)

Lawd.

Zachary:  Pee in the lake?

Daddy:  Yeah, man. Just walk on out into the water and. . . .aaaaahhhhhh. (demonstrates a gesture bordering on obscene and looks at me again.)

Zachary:  In the lake? With the fishes?

Daddy:  Where do you think they pee? Wait--you only have to pee, right? (cuts eyes back at me)

Zachary:  Just pee. Not boo-boo, Daddy.

Lawd. Lawd. Lawd.

Daddy:  Okay, then handle your biz. Hey--but be cool about it, man. Cool.

Zachary: Cool. (begins to try to look cool) Okay, Daddy!

Daddy: Zach--cool. Cool, man. Cool.


And after a big nod, off he goes. . . and coolly wades out into the lake front up to his knee caps. And then commences to. .  . . .SQUAT in the water for about fifteen seconds.  

Lawd.

Seriously? The most obvious pool or lake peeing incident of all time. Oh well. At least it wasn't as bad as the great Baby Ruth Pool Doody Incident on Caddyshack.

And just in case no one amongst the five trillion swimmers surrounding him realized what he was doing. . . .

"Aaaahhhhhh!"


Thanks, Harry.  You rock.

The man is full of wisdom, I tell you.

Time to talk.

It was time to talk to you. And I am so ashamed to admit that I had secretly dreaded this time. Not because of you, but mostly because it would be awkward and lumpy like it always is when the doctors can't speak your language. The thing is that usually even when "the doctors" aren't fluent in someone's native tongue, somebody somewhere in the vastness of the hospital is. A crafty student or resident finds that person and just like a combination lock that finally had the right code entered, everything is opened to us.

But not this day. There isn't that person lurking on the Mother-Baby unit or at some desk down in the Emergency department. No person from your home country willing to change your words from a plume of smoke floating from your lips to crystal clear images that paint a picture and explain why your face has that twisted snarl of pain. Not even someone from your family to rush in after work still in uniform and waiting with anxious eyes on the end of the page the nurse just sent to the team.

Nope. Not even one.

So for this reason, I wasn't looking forward to this time on rounds when I needed to see you. My eyes quickly trampled over the clock hanging on the ward--4:45 p.m. Afterschool care pick up in the horizon and yes, I know, this was my problem not yours. But this problem of mine was making me even less excited to hear about yours. Especially because my 5:20 deadline would unfortunately become yours.

The medical student was perched beside the door waiting.

"You ready, Dr. M?" he asked all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

"Yep!" I announced with as much spunk as I could muster. But inside I was saying, No. I am not.

We approach your bed and find you curled in the fetal position. Your eyes squeezed shut and a tsk-ing sound is the first thing you say in response to my pseudo-chipper greeting in English. My patience drains down into my feet and forms into a puddle on the floor. I don't speak "tsk-tsk" and you don't speak "pseudo-chipper."

"We can use the phone interpreter," the student offered.

He must have stepped into that puddle and had decided to have patience for us both. I would need it.

"Oh, that's good," I replied, "so, we have a phone interpreter that speaks this language?"

"Sure do," he answered in a real-chipper that wasn't pseudo like mine. "I used it earlier."

He smiled gently at you and picked up the bedside phone. Looking at a laminated card retrieved from his overstuffed medical student pocket, he dialed a number and entered a few codes. I could hear a muffled voice and he announced your language in response. And then we waited.

"Looks like we're in queue," the student said while still being careful to keep including you. He held your hand and patted it. "There aren't many interpreters speaking this language, so sometimes there's a wait."

Of course. A wait. A wait to have a perforated discussion with you between a tiny voice coming through a hospital telephone, a medical student who already had spoken to you, and me--who still needed to get her two children from school before six p.m. That pool of patience floated out of the door and down the hall.

I rubbed my neck hard which is always what I do when my patience wanes. And then, finally, an interpreter.

"Hello, my name is Dr. Manning and I'm the senior physician that will be caring for you with the team."


I announce this into the telephone and pass the receiver over to you. The muffled voice says a version of my greeting and you mumble something in return.


"She says, 'Good to meet you, madam.'" Which was little surprising because the look on your face didn't seem to say that. It looked angry and tired and like it wasn't down with any pleasantries such as 'glad to meet you' and damn sure not 'madam.'

"Tell me about your pain that you've been having." I extend my arm back toward you with the phone. This time your answer is longer with more "tsks" peppered throughout. I realize that the "tsk" is not a good thing; mostly a sound of frustration. I wanted to "tsk" too.

I learn of your pain. The student interjects and fills in blanks about your very complicated past medical history. We lay the phone receiver down and examine you, picking it up to ask things like, "Right here?" or "What about this?" Between the student, the telephone interpreter, and your tsks it comes together. The diagnosis isn't a good one. In fact, it is a bad one. A really bad one.

Now what next? Tell you of a life-threatening, life-abbreviating diagnosis through a choppy back and forth via telephone? Do I do this, knowing that no matter how nice that tele-interpreter man sounds over the phone that he can't see your facial expressions or know exactly when to soften his intonation? Even in the King's English it's no walk in the park to tell someone that, "Oh this diagnosis that you have? Well it's essentially trying very hard to shorten your life. And we don't have a lot of medicines to stop what it's trying to do to your body." Yes, this sucks. How do I tell you something like this under these circumstances?

I look at the student and he looks at me. And a decision must be made about you. Tell you all of this or no? Right then, right there I decide.

"Do you have any family at all who speak your language here in Atlanta? Any one that you know that can come and help? There are so many complicated things to talk about. Some hard things. We would rather not have this conversation over the phone."

No. This wasn't the time.

I stick my hand in my lab coat pocket and secretly cross my fingers. Someone has to help me with you. Not a mystery man inside of a phone but a real person with warm blood and three dimensions.

I put the phone to my ear and what I hear washes me with relief.

"She says that she has a son. He can come tomorrow. After work to speak with the team."

Yes.

We exchange a few more words with you, the tiny voice, and your pain. We confirm that you are comfortable right now and make a plan to meet with your son. And you nod when the tiny voice tells you this through the phone.


I turn the ignition in my car at 5:18 p.m. Life goes on and surely I will find kids covered with Georgia dusty red clay and unidentified stickiness on their cheeks. Full of the vigor and joy of life and safety and consistency and familiarity. Then, I think of your frail body, the disjointed communication, and the worst part of it all--the fact that you are dying. In this foreign land with its confusing culture and impatient people whose cell phones play music and whose wall-phones are bilingual, you are dying.

And here I was worried about me and my time.

"Tsk," I say aloud to myself. "Tsk tsk."

***

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . .

Top Ten: Random things I didn't know and still don't know.

a pastrami sammich

 Warning:  I'm off of work today and full of randoms. This top ten is not too fancy.  Sorry, y'all.


Top Ten Random Things That I Didn't (and Some That I Still Don't) Know

 #10

Hey, did you know that when somebody sends you an EVITE and you open it, they can tell you opened it?

Ha. Well I didn't. At least, not until last year when I sent my first EVITE ever and realized that folks opened the electronic message but didn't RSVP.  I wanted to be annoyed but seeing as I am the queen of opening the EVITE but not RSVP-ing immediately I couldn't. My friend Stacy H. finds this hilarious because even though I always come to all of her parties, I stink at the RSVP process on EVITE. Oh, but I'm good about paper invitation mail-back replies. Weird, I know.

So the moral of that is don't open up the EVITE if you don't want anyone knowing you saw it. It's kind of like looking through the front window when someone rings the doorbell and not answering. Yeah. Just like that, actually. So remember that when you get your next EVITE. This explains why you keep getting the hairy eyeball when you tell the person you never saw it.

*You're welcome*

#9  

My mom said, "Wow, you've been quite prolific on your blog lately."

And I said, "You think so?"

And she said, "Yeah, you have."

And I said, "I didn't think I was particularly 'prolific.'"

And she said, "You've put out three posts in three days."

And I said, "But they weren't prolific, Mom."

And she said, "Do you even know what prolific means?"

And that was when I learned that "prolific" means "productive and fruitful." Oh, and that it isn't a synonym for "prophetic" or deep.

My bad.

Confession:  I also get confused about the word "aloof." I have to look it up any time I see it.

Oh. And although I listen to NPR every single day, I ain't too proud to admit that I am still very, very unsure of what an "insurgent" is or if it's what I think it is, why we can't just say enemy instead.

Which reminds me. One of my colleagues kept saying "pedagogy" the other day which (thanks to Wikipedia) I learned means "the process of teaching." I think if I talk about pedagogy I'm just going to say "process of teaching" instead.

#8  

Is pastrami made out of pork or beef?  This is something I don't know.  Because I want a pastrami sandwich but pork makes my stomach hurt.  Please advise.

#7  

I looked in the mirror the other day and thought my stomach looked pretty good to have had two babies. Then Zachary said  yesterday that he "likes laying on my tummy because it's like a pillow."

Uh, yeah.

#6  

I read somewhere that dragonflies only live for twenty-four hours.  Is that true?  I didn't know that. That explains why they fly everywhere so fast and furious. They're on the clock.


#5  

Did you know that when you change words in one language to another it's not always called translation? So yeah, if you're talking, it's interpreting. If you're writing it's translation. I learned this after getting an extremely hairy eyeball from our Grady Spanish Interpreter for referring to her repeatedly as a "translator."

My bad.

#4  

Here's a question. So whenever I make a blog post, I get extra ideas and notice typos within the first half hour after posting. So I go back and modify. And then sometimes modify again. Just a word here and there, you know? But anyways. I am wondering what people see on their Google readers and Blogger Dashboards/Reading Lists when folks do that.  Like, do you see like twelve versions of the same post in a row?

The reason I ask is because I saw someone make a post and then decide to take it down. But it stayed on my queue as a post and when I clicked it it wasn't there. Then once I saw like three versions in my bloglist of someone's post on a blog I follow. Which made me wonder if I seem like a crazy lady to people. Hmm. Just wondering.

#3 

Damn. Did you know how expensive a pack of cigarettes is? Like dang near five dollars. I didn't know that.


#2  

Did you know that Ralph Lauren's daughter is marrying one of George W. Bush's nieces?  Big Bush and Barbara Bush have another son named Neil Bush that no one really talks much about. Anyways. Neil has a daughter and she's marrying Ralph Lauren's son.  They have some family beef going on and I think all the Bushes won't be there. But that's not the best part of the story. This is:

Guess what her name is? Lauren Bush.

"Hi, I'm Lauren Lauren."

"I heard you the first time."

*snicker*


That reminds me. I know this really cool woman named Stacy who married a dude named Chad Stacy and took his name. So now she is Dr. Stacy Stacy.  Fun, huh?

Oh yeah. My friend and fellow Grady doctor Yolanda W. married a guy with the last name "Wimberly." It's a good thing I didn't marry his brother. Dr. Kimberly Wimberly? Not so fun.


#1 

Are Harry and I the only ones who finds this side-splittingly hilarious?




Okay seriously? Am I the only one who thought "In Living Color" was hee-hee-hoo-hoo-hah-hah-hilarious? Anyways, Harry and I talked to each other like Calhoun Tubbs for twenty four straight hours after laughing our heads off at this earlier this week.

"I'm 'bout to go to GRAY-DAAAAAAAY, hope all my patients get bet-taaaaaah! Aaaaaa-haaaaaaaaa! Thank you very much!!"


"My wife cooked some fish for din-nnnnneeeeeer, always puttin' me on a diet without tellin' meeeee. Aaaaaaaa-haaaaaaaa! Thank you very much!"

See? Can't y'all tell I'm off today?

I didn't write a song about that--but I think I could now! Like to hear it? Here it go!

"Still in my pajamas 'cause I'm off work from GRAY-DAAAAAAY, even though I got a whole buncha work still piled on my de-heeesk! Aaaaaaaa-haaaaaaaa. Thank you very much!"

*patting tears*

Whew.
***
Happy Friday.

My intentions.

"You can run but you cannot hide
This is widely known
And what you plan to do with your foolish pride
When you're all by yourself alone
Once you tell somebody the way that you feel
You can feel it beginning to ease
I think it's true what they say about the squeaky wheel
Always getting the grease."

~ James Taylor "Shower the People"

__________________________ 

Let's see.  What do I have today?  Hmmmm.

Oh yeah. I heard something recently that resonated with me:

"Don't let the kind words said about you go to your head and don't let the unkind words said about you go to your heart."

Now that? Now that's a good word.

Anyways.

This week I've been focused on self-evaluation.  I've been carefully looking at my performance as a mommy, a doctor, a sister, a daughter, a wife, and a friend. . . . high-five-ing and you-go-girl-ing myself in the appropriate areas and alright-now-chile and Lawd-have-mercy-ing myself in other less exemplary areas.  But all because I just want to be better.  I'm just trying to be the best version of myself, you know?

Yeah.

I was asked by someone to describe myself in one word recently. Initially I couldn't come up with one, but a few weeks ago I finally did. My one word?  "Intentional."

in·ten·tion·al  [in-ten-shuh-nl] (adj.): done on purpose; intended.

I'm just trying to live this life with intention, man.  I'm trying to love, lead, give, teach, and inspire with intention.  And sure. Sometimes things happen on accident. But I want to be present enough in this life to get the lessons whether they sneak up on me or not. 

So all week long I've been assessing my progress at it all. Asking myself questions and giving myself answers. Nudging myself to do more of some things and less of others.  And most of all to just do all of those good things with so much intentional action that they eventually become unintentional actions.

That's my goal.  To be the best version of myself and to make it my intention to do so in a way that matters. And that let's others know that they matter, too.  

According to my self assessment. . . .sometimes, I get it right. Yeah, man. Sometimes I do.

That's all I got today.  What you got?

***

 Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . .the great JT. . . .with another good word.

 

The hands that prepared it.

image credit

"Bless this meal that we are about to receive. . .

. . .and the hands that prepared it. . . ."

____________________________________________________

"I know exactly why this happened, doctor."

"You do?"

This was the start of an exchange I had with one of my patients on rounds last week. A man in his ninth decade with a weathered face like dark tan leather but eyes with the innocent twinkle of an infant. He had just been hospitalized for worsening of his long-standing heart failure.  His complaints included the standard drill of a weak left ventricle--shortness of breath upon exertion, a "drowning sensation" when trying to lie flat, and ankles that looked exactly like they'd been padded with Play-dough.

"Too much salt.  That's what happened, I know. Too much salt."

"Wow. I appreciate your honesty," I replied while still holding the hand he'd used to greet me.  "Were you taking all of your medicines?"

"Yes, ma'am. I tekks my medicines like clockwork. But see I been moving a little more slow and with my arth-er-itis  my hands get to aching when I try to prepare a meal, see."

"Okay."

"Yeah, so I ain't been mekk-ing my own meals like usual, see.  See, normally? I cuts up and cleans my own greens, snaps my own peas, all that. All fresh. But I can't do all that so I been going over to the senior center. They got meals for the seniors over there, see. Jest three dollars."

"Hmmm."

"But, see, since they gots to mekk all that food for so many folk they gets it all from cans and such. They collards come out a can. They give you some soup, too. You know, 'cawse some of the seniors they can't chew so well."

"So you've been eating there a lot?"

"Every day. Tha's all I can do.  'Cawse my chil'ren don't live nearby. I mean, they see about me when they can, but not ev'ry day.  So thank God for that senior center or else I'd be goin' hungry."

"Hmmm, I hear you, sir. Sounds like they've been a big help." I pressed my lips together for a moment and looked down at his hands. "Your hands.  Tell me about your hands hurting you."

"Oh, well I was tekkin' some Aleves. But then my doctor say don't tekk no Aleves if you got heart failure 'cawse it can mekk your heart flare up. And look like she was right 'cawse my heart was backing up fluid when I was tekkin' them Aleves."

"Uh huh."

"But, see, them Aleves? They sho' knock that ol' Arthur back and put him in his place." He cackled and shook his head. "She, you know--my doctor--she said go on and tekk some Tylenol. But you know Tylenol don't do nothin'."

"So your hands started hurting you more?"

"Yes, ma'am. I tried some salve, too. That salve work on my knees but for the hands it ain't no count."

"I hear you."

"Yep. So my hands can't prepare my food. And the food I can get don't agree with my heart 'cawse is all salty. Not salt-shekker salty. Jest that salt that hide in it from the can, see.  That's why this happened."

"I think you are right, sir. I really think you have it exactly right."

And after that I just stood there for a few beats holding his hand in some kind of trance. Wondering what the hell I could do to help with this vicious cycle.  I rubbed my thumb over the lumpy and swollen joints of his fingers.  His knuckles rose and fell like the Rocky mountains and each finger sunk inward like a swaybacked horse.  I thought about his insight about what had happened and why he was hospitalized and marveled at how spot on he was.

"Is it okay if I examine you now?"

"Go right ahead, baby."

I smiled at him calling me "baby." It was the kind of "baby" that floats perfectly out of the mouths of elders and immediately wraps you in a cocoon of safety and love. Not that "baby" that's often preceded by "hey" that spews from the mouths of slimy dudes holding toothpicks between their teeth.

And so I carefully palpated his heart. I felt it leaping beneath my palm, pushing it back like some kind of bully in the lunch line. I lay my stethoscope down and heard the rhythmic galloping of the blood passing through his stiffened and dilated heart muscle. I inspected his neck veins and wasn't the least bit surprised to find them swollen like stuffed sausages--visible clear up to his earlobe. All of this done with him sitting almost fully upright, which wasn't exactly ideal but was the most comfortable position for him.

He took deep breaths for me as my scope traveled across his octogenarian back.  I tried not to notice a large blackhead that beckoned me to squeeze it; I quickly shook my head, closed my eyes and focused on listening to his lungs.  With each inspiration it sounded like bubbles being blown through a straw; this was why he couldn't lie flat and this was exactly what happens when a body that is sensitive to fluid gets too much salt.

"What is it about salt anyways?"  he finally asked as I mashed my finger into his doughy ankles.

"Salt is a bossy little leader and water is a total follower," I told him. "Wherever salt goes, water follows behind it. So if you get a bunch of salt in your body, the water wants to follow right behind it."

"Into your lungs and into your legs, right?" he added.

"Yep."

"And you might not know this, but into your scrotum-sack, too."

I chuckled out loud at that and nodded.  "The water follows gravity. If you are walking around and it's only a little extra fluid, it's just in your ankles. If you lie in bed then it could be on your backside or yes, even your scrotum-sack."

"Wheeeewwww-weeee. Whatchoo talkin' bout!" he exclaimed with a playful wince.

I found myself pausing again. Just standing there puffing one of my cheeks out like a child and not knowing what to do. I knew what to do in the short term, just not the long term.  Like, I could give him more diuretic to get some more fluid off of him, I could restrict his diet of salt in the hospital, and control his blood pressure--I knew that part. But as far as a longterm solution? That wasn't so easy.

The simple fact was that he had it right on. Food for masses almost always involves more sodium than somebody on a two-gram-per-day diet should have. And when that's the food that's keeping you from "goin' hungry" then honestly? What choice do you have?

Those knots and lumps on his eighty-something year-old hands had been earned. And he was right. No salve or over-the-counter pill was going to make them less stiff or less eighty-something years-old.

Damn.

"Sir?"

"Yes, baby?"

"Have you ever thought about. . .  not living by yourself?"

"No, ma'am. Not really. I likes to do for myself. Always have."

"Oh, okay."

Of course, he did. Who doesn't like (mostly) doing for themself that's full-grown? I wasn't sure what to say next, so I didn't say anything.

"Doctor?"  I looked up and noticed that sweet twinkle in his eyes again.

"Sir?"

"Don't worry. I'm 'on be okay, baby. Alright?"

I nodded while looking at him. Marveling still at his initial insight, but even more at this insight especially.

"I been through way harder than this, baby. Way harder."

I ran my hands over those pecan-colored Rocky mountains again wondering where they had toiled.  Next I caught a glimpse of his date of birth stamped on the wrist identification band--the early 1920's.  I thought about what all his hands have had had to fight since that decade and gave that hand a squeeze.  When I looked up again he was closing his eyes to catch a few winks.

"Alright then, sir," I said softly.  "I'll be back to see about you, okay?"

He didn't speak. He just squeezed my hand back and drifted to sleep.

***
Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . . by the great Bill Withers--"Grandma's Hands."