Top Ten: The Deanna-festo (aka "The Not-Eulogy.")

Today has been awesome so far. It started with a lovely run (yes, run!) with one of my favorite people in the entire world, Lesley M. She was so totally encouraging and that was awesome. She's run a bunch of races including a half-marathon and is a sho nuff and bona fide runner. And me, I'm not any of those things but do aspire to be. Lesley has agreed to be a part of that plan.

Half of Lesley's head after some exercise one day.

So yeah. We ran and talked and caught up. Which was extra awesome considering we hadn't seen each other since before holidays. That part was good. We talked about all sorts of things, but one of the things we talked about was Deanna. And not so much in that sad way but more about her and her special qualities.

"The more I hear you talk about her, the more I wish I'd really gotten a chance to know her," Lesley said.

"Yeah," I panted back, "She was super awesome."

"I love that you've been telling us about her. Reading and hearing about Deanna makes me feel like I really do know her."

And that? That warmed my heart. Because even though so many of you have been so very kind about listening to me speak of Deanna so much, that tiny voice always creeps up to make me second guess it all.

"It's a bit indulgent," that poisonous little whisper has murmured to me. "Don't you think it's a bit self important to think that all of these people who came to your blog for other reasons want to keep hearing about this one person? Surely they have lost people and have their own crosses to bear."

And since I know it's poisonous, I counter back, "Indulgent? I don't know. I think talking about Deanna is like talking about love. The people who read here believe in love and peace and the power of family."

"Yeah, their own."

"I don't believe that."

"But you worry about it."

"No. I don't worry about it. Sometimes I wonder about it. But I don't worry about it."

"Someone is surely annoyed by it. I assure you."

"Someone is always annoyed by something."

"I guess."

"I think it might help someone. You know, to read about her."

"Or it only helps you. And you don't care that it's indulgent."

That's when I shake my head hard from side to side. Trying to shake these poisonous thoughts out of my head. Because this is the same little voice that tells me that I'm not really a good doctor or a good teacher and that I'm actually just an imposter. So I've learned how to deal with her.

"Enough already. Already enough." I've had to say that out loud more than once. This was a new slant that the little voice had taken, trying to give me doubts about actively and openly speaking and writing about Deanna. She tried to disguise her voice at first. But then I recognized her for who she was and flicked her far away from me.

I was appreciative for Lesley's comment. It was really reassuring and . . .just. . .I don't know. . .really moving. Like, it's one of the kindest things someone could say in a time like this. "I love that you've been telling us about her."

Yeah.

So anyway. As it turns out, Lesley's husband is also a runner. He was supposed to run the New York City Marathon that got cancelled after Superstorm Sandy hit. The point of me mentioning this is that their rescheduled weekend to go to New York (where they also have family) ended up being the same weekend as Deanna's homegoing celebration. She was really upset about the conflict, but I would never expect her entire family of four to forgo those plans to see family. No way, no how.

And so. This really convoluted preamble leads me to the point of this post. Partly inspired by Lesley, but also for me to have a place to go back and reread this very special top ten.

Yes. This is a very special top ten. I call it the "not-eulogy" because Poopdeck finds words that suggest death and funerals to be really depressing. That's probably kind of true.

Yeah, so for that part of the program, I was asked to speak. And since Deanna and I both watched the final episode of Oprah together and cried uncontrollably (don't gag, Sister Moon) I immediately knew that I wanted to focus on "What I know for sure about my sister, Deanna." She was a huge fan of my top ten posts so I blended the two into what became the words I spoke at her homegoing celebration.

And so. I bring Lesley and all of you a very special top ten:

THE TOP TEN THINGS THAT I KNOW FOR SURE ABOUT MY SISTER DEANNA

This is pretty much what I said at the service with just a few modifications to make it work on this here blog. Otherwise, consider yourself THERE. Feel free to smile -- that's the difference between the not-eulogy and the sad and depressing alternative.

Oh and, in advance, forgive all the font weirdness. I couldn't figure it out and Blogger can just be weird like that sometimes.

Que sera sera, man.

Now for the top ten:

Like to hear it? Here it go!*

*(By the way, me saying that part was her favorite thing about all of the top ten posts. Ha ha.)

#10  --  I know for sure that Deanna was an EXCEPTIONAL auntie.

She took this role seriously. How amazing is it that God saw fit to not only have her in the lives of her nieces and nephews, but also in such a substantial way? She was the champion hair presser, the loudest of all game cheer-ers, and an extraordinary tutor. She was the master encourager and somehow, someway knew how to bring out the best in our children in ways that we couldn't.

But she wasn't stingy with that special quality. No, she wasn't auntie only to the biological children of her siblings—but to so many of her friends' children as well.  I used to always feel like I was hogging her as an auntie. . . occupying so much of her time and energy with my own kids that Will's might miss out. Interestingly, Will felt the same way with his four children. And her friends felt that way, too. Somehow, someway she managed to make us all feel like OUR kids got the lion’s share of her time. How she did it, we don't know. But she always did.  

Kids—what I know for sure is that Auntie had high expectations of you and still does. She expects you to honor your parents, work hard in school, and to live up to the potential she always saw in you. Do this and think of her, knowing that she, your special angel, will be right on your shoulder watching, coaching, cheering and protecting you. 

#9 -- I know for sure that Deanna knew how to have FUN.

Whew. Man, could she have fun! 

At every single Tuskegee homecoming, every single year, there was one thing that you could always count on. Dee arriving with a loud, happy voice on Friday and completely being without one by Sunday. Without fail! One year I asked her, "Did you have a good homecoming this year?" And her answer was, "I ALWAYS have a good homecoming!" Nothing could be truer when it came to Deanna. 

Let me tell you -- Deanna made the simplest and most mundane things fun. Homework with the kids? Fun. A project? Fun.  A sorority committee meeting on a dreary weeknight? LOL-smiley-face-FUN.  Man. She even did some fun things with Jello and Pudding that I won’t go into much detail on since it's kids here and all. Just know that it was legal and it was fun.

Ha.

I WOULD ask everyone under the sound of my voice who did something fun with Deanna to cheer as loud as they can . . . . BUT. . . . the sound would be far, far too loud and would likely shatter some glass in the back of the room. So, if you did something fun with Deanna, you can just give a knowing nod of your head to your neighbor (especially if you know first hand about her Jello and Pudding creations.)

#8 --  I know for sure that Deanna was CREATIVE.

So, so creative. Like CRAZY-SUPER-MAD creative, y'all. Don't believe me? Then tell me this: 

Who else could take your LEFTOVER plastic bags from Kroger or Publix, cut them up into strips, and then CROCHET it into a frickin' POCKET BOOK? She even made a matching WALLET to go with it. Seriously? Who does that? 

Deanna, that's who.

And of course there were her other crochet masterpieces--too numerous to count! 

 

 

Her programs, her projects, her ideas were just as stars always are—out of this world. Many of you can recall something you saw that she had a hand in. And like me, you remember saying, “How did you even think that up?” It’s because this was her way. 

Here's just a few more of her creations:

The Lakers quilt she made for JoLai out of old championship t-shirts . . . 

Can't you just see the love in it?

Then there's the scrapbooks she made. . .talk about masterpieces! This one, given to me as a wedding gift, was covered with LEFTOVER FABRIC from their actual bridal attendants' dresses!

Don't believe me? Check this out:

Only Deanna!

Then there's the one she made for JoLai's fortieth birthday--covered with an old Tuskegee sweatshirt she found lying around. 

 What's crazy is that COUNTLESS others are nodding and thinking of their own scrapbooks, party favors, scarves, afghans, quilts, etc. that Deanna made for them, too.

From scrapbooks to crochet projects to paintings to her adorable hand-made cards (because "everyone should occasionally get mail that isn't a bill")—if Deanna did it, it was one of a kind. 

 

Deanna would want you, too, to push yourselves to think outside of the box and to be more creative. Don't see what you want? Make it. Haven't found what you're looking for? Create it. Push your mind’s limits to see what more can be done and what different ways they can be achieved. Don’t settle for the status quo—put some “Dee” on it next time!

#7  --  I know for sure that Deanna was steadfast in her commitment to our sorority, Delta Sigma Theta. 

My sister personified sisterhood. With us, of course. But this totally carried over into our sorority in exponential ways. As far as she was concerned, no soror had control over HOW she came into our sorority--that is, the initiation process--but EVERY soror has full control over what she does once she gets initiated. Deanna never lapsed a single time in her dues or her commitment as a Delta from the day she was initiated on April 3, 1998. 

Not even kidding.

Deanna was what many called a "super Delta." She chaired countless committees, participated in membership intake and could always be counted upon for any and every thing going on in Delta. She never missed a National Convention and even replaced my sorority pin when I lost my own--just to leave me with no excuse but to stay involved. 

Deanna loved sisterly acts. She loved hearing of linesisters remaining close and all sisters embracing other sorors. When Deanna said she would be true, she meant it. 

And not just Deltas. She liked knowing that every sister who'd ever pledged or who had a biological sister stayed true to that commitment. 

To our Delta sorors:

Sorors, I know your hearts are sad and that you will miss her. I also know that you’re sad that she won’t be able to be with us at the centennial celebration of our beloved sisterhood on January 13, 2013. 

But guess what? 

She WILL be there. AND she'll get to celebrate the 100^th with all 22 of our Founders! You tell me who has the better deal? Just imagine her yucking it up with the Founders, crocheting a scarf for Barbara Jordan and asking Langston Hughes "Where the Ques at?" I assure you, they’re going to have a lot more fun than we all will in D.C.

See, Deanna wouldn’t want your energy spent on sorrow. She’d want you to spend your days trying to OUTDO her in your Delta commitment. Out-think her, out-serve her, out-love her, out-imagine her. Give and forget the gift. Squash beefs. Embrace each other. Keep your financial promise as well as the promise of your time. 

And if you can’t do it for Delta, then do it for Deanna, our everlasting violet.

#6 -- I know for sure that Deanna loved the Lord.

I know this because she told me so. And while she’d be the first to admit that she hadn’t found a church home, her life serves as an example of what it means to let your light shine. 

The bible says in John 13:35:

“By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples—that you have love one for another.” 

Nope. No fire and brimstone. But a heart so full of love that all you had to do is LOOK at her smile and you’d see the God in her.Yes. The God in her.

Yes. She believed that Christ died for her sins and confessed believing. And one day when I was having doubts about whether or not this was true, I found out that she had told our mutual friend Horatious the exact same thing. I believe that this was a gift God left us with as a comfort. 

For this reason, I try not to say that we “lost” her. Because when something is “lost” you don’t know where it is. To be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord--and if the Lord has a sense of humor, I’m sure Deanna is cracking Him up right now. BIGTIME.

#5 --  I know for sure that my sister Deanna was loyal.

 

Like, to fault. If a boy broke your heart, you needed to think twice before telling Deanna. Because see, you would be all lovey-dovey again and that Deanna? She’d be mad on your behalf for the next decade. She was the person to call when someone did you wrong and you needed someone on your team. And if you needed her to wait for the girl who did you wrong in your freshman dorm? That would be Deanna. Waiting with a balled up fist and a a flattened palm to pound it into. Oh, and she could give the hairiest eyeball ever. 

Man. Deanna gave a hairy eyeball better than any other.

Anyways. She took "having your back" to whole different place. She was one of those people that you wanted on your side or on your team because with her, you knew you'd win. 

#4  --  I know for sure that Deanna was a really good friend.

It’s funny. Deanna had this way of making every person feel like they were the only person in her life. Her attention was full. Her affirmations were honest, positive, and bountiful. And we already talked about the loyalty thing. 

But as a friend, another of her wonderful qualities is that she was honest. If your dress wasn’t cute, she didn’t lie to you. Nope. Not her. She'd tell you. If your singing voice wasn't up to snuff, she'd let you know. "That ain't your gift, Pookie!" she'd say. And then she'd shrug as if to punctuate that statement. 

"Pookie." That was Deanna's pet name for all of her favorite friends. It makes me smile to write it because I can hear her saying it clear as a bell. "Hey Pookie!"

She had a quick smile and was always game for a good time. And since she never met a stranger, any time Deanna encountered someone, they left feeling like an old friend.

Deanna held on to old friends and she even held on to my friends. From every stage of my life, Deanna befriended my friends, too. Deanna and JoLai have always had this in common. I call it “friend hoarding.” They collect friends but never, ever get rid of them. This was made even more evident in these recent days. We heard from elementary school friends, high school buddies, her closest college friends took planes, trains and automobiles—not only to be here for this celebration—but to be with our family on that weekend after this happened.

Deanna was a friend to the friendless. One person said that Deanna was her friend when it wasn’t cool or popular to be. This person held that memory all the way from elementary school. She had buddies from all walks of life, too. Daughters of African royalty, former convicts, those with the fanciest of pedigrees to those without a pot to piss in.

Moreover, she was a friend to her family members. She wasn’t just a sister or a daughter or a granddaughter or a cousin or a niece. She had an unusually close bond with Mudear, our late paternal grandmother. Her tight bond with our grandmommy Ernestine transcends life. For Will, JoLai and I –we could count on her for a laugh and of course to be the most loyal part of our army in any kind of battle. She was a friend, of course, to my father. But perhaps the most special of her friendships was with our mother. It is for this reason that my heart has cried the most.

For my mom, who was Deanna's very best friend. 

The very last voice mail I received from her was with Tounces and her riding to see a movie together. They were asking me some really obscure medical question and both of them were talking in unison. I can't bring myself to delete that message. No matter how hard I try.

#3 --  I know for sure that Deanna was an amazing sister.

 

For every single person who met her, they met us, too. Dang, she was so proud of us. She loved being our sister and one of the "Draper four." And even more? She loved us no matter what. It was always enough for us just to be who we were. It was unconditional. 

For this reason, when Will took Fran’s hand in marriage, Deanna took it, too. And she loved Fran. She loved everything about her and always said to me that Fran is as much her sister as any of us. 

And she meant that, too. 

When Harry and I entered our marriage covenant, again, so did Deanna. She took those vows seriously. She bent over backwards for Harry. Yes, Harry. She first loved him because he first loved me. But then she loved Harry for Harry. He was her brother and that was enough.

#2 -- I know for sure that Deanna was and shall always be a cherished daughter. 

You see, a child who draws love to her is a testament to the very best a parent can offer. She loved to make you proud. She loved knowing you, talking to you, loving you and being a part of your lineage. You raised her to be strong-willed, self-aware and with a strong sense of self, so even when things would frustrate you, know that it was that part of her that made her the joy and wonder that she shall always be.

No. It’s not natural for a parent to let go of their child. It isn’t. But perhaps, it is instead supernatural. You see, the same God who will see my parents through this is the same God who will equip us all with the best ways to support them. But even more. . . He actually knows how they feel. He knows what it’s like to lose a child, to see that earthly body lifeless and to try to comfort those whose hearts are broken in the aftermath. But guess what? He also knows what it’s like to be reunited with that same child. To celebrate, rejoice and embrace again. He knows. 

This is what I believe.

#1 --  I know for sure that Deanna genuinely liked the person she was. 

She really did. First of all, she liked her name: Deanna. Anyone who had a girl baby was told very directly of the perfect name for their child—(let's say it in unison) Deanna! 

She knew she was smart, creative, different, and gifted. And I loved that about her. See, Deanna wasn’t one for self deprecation or self loathing and didn’t tolerate it in others, either. Sure, she would admit her imperfections but she never let that consume her. Perhaps she wanted a husband, kids of her own, and many more things—but Deanna rejoiced in the blessings God had given her right now. 

On the last night that I saw her, she told Zachary that she didn’t need to have any kids because she had all of them. And then she said “’cause your mama needs help!” (I still do.) She was a sister to those without sisters, an auntie to those without aunties. She remembered people but always remembered herself. No. She wasn't some kind of selfless martyr who never looked out for Deanna. She looked out for all of us but made sure she lived her life and did things that brought HER joy, too.

One of my favorite Deanna stories was when she was in elementary school. A boy told her that he was the smartest boy in the school, to which Deanna quickly retorted—"So what I’m the smartest PERSON in this school!"  And you better believe she 100% believed that. Later when she went to middle school, Dad warned her that the competition would be stiffer. The kids were from other schools and some would be smart—maybe even as smart as she. Deanna wasn’t even there three weeks when she had an epiphany. She looked around and said, “Am I tripping or am I smarter that all of THESE kids, too?”  One of her teachers sent a note to Mom and Dad saying he remembers her because he always had to find harder work for her to do.

Probably because she told him so. Ha ha.

People like that can see the best in others, too. They can push you to do things that you never thought you could. This was Deanna’s way. Always, this was her way. Because of that, I knew I could speak today. 

Deanna once asked me to “speak a word” at the Sunday/church service during our Delta sisterhood retreat one year. She said it was her vision and she believed that I could do it. "Say WHAAAT? I’m no preacher!" I told her. But she said, "Kimberly, you have a gift for encouraging and speaking. Use it."  And so, I did –with Deanna behind me.  

"I knew you could do it," she said. (image from that day beside "my Ruth")

  

 That day, I spoke of Ruth from the bible. The woman whose loyalty to her mother-in-law Naomi went above and beyond. And now, I know that Deanna was my Ruth. Her loyalty to me was radical. Her vision of us so much greater than my own. She was a Ruth to us all. 

And she was never, ever ruthless.

This is hard. It will continue to be so. I know that. But I also know that God entrusted us with Deanna, if only for a short time. And in that short time she had a life well lived and well loved. I know that we will see her again.

So I ask you. What are your gifts? No, really--what are they? This is what Deanna would want to know. Are you using them? Are you sharing them? Are you afraid of them? What are your gifts? Find them. Develop them. Use them. 

Deanna would also tell you this: Like who you are right now. Don’t complain. Work on your shortcomings but don't wallow in them. And trust in God.

The words to this song have ministered to my soul since this happened. I share them with you as they have encouraged me immensely. (Don't worry, I won't sing them, I promise--since I know Deanna would say "That ain't your gift, Pookie!")

I hope these words will do the same for you:

"He bottles up every tear,
Understands every fear;
So we must put our trust in God.
He knows the reasons why,
Nights we must sit and cry;
So we must put our trust in God.

Even though sometimes the load may
make you feel your life is almost gone.
 

Just look up tomorrow’s sun
will let you know your life’s not done,
Just look around—love’s pouring down;
Trust in God

 
He understands every thing,
Healing is in His wings;
So we must put our trust in God.
He shows how much He cares,
By sharing the load we bear;
So we must put our trust in God.
 

Even when we don’t understand
and it seems our world just falls apart.

Just look up

Tomorrow’s sun

Will let you know your life’s not done

Just look around—love’s pouring down

Trust in God."

Thanks.

***
Happy Saturday-Sunday. (Sorry, started this Saturday but didn't finish until today!)

Geeze. This Deanna-festo was long, I know. So to whosoever of y'all stayed with this super-long post to this point -- hey. . .thanks, man. You have honored my sister and my parents by reading this. 

'Preciate you.

From the old school Winans' CD . . .the beautiful "Trust in God."
 

What the. . . . ?

What is up with my kids saying, "What the. . . ?"  Let's be clear on something--just because you hear me saying that repeatedly while pulling things out of refrigerator drawers does NOT mean you're supposed to go repeating it.

No, you are not.

Okay, so I just have a few things beyond my perishables that I'm saying "What the. . .?" about. Actually, what I'm really saying is "What the EFF!" but my kids just don't here the last part. And yes. I actually say "EFF" and not the full F-bomb because I just have to be in the mood to drop a full-on F-bomb. I do. Oh, and Harry, who is quite liberal with his F-bombs, says that me saying "EFF" is exactly like me saying the full-on F-bomb so I might as well just say it.

And to that I say, "Eff that. I say what I want."

To which he replies, "Fuck that, you aren't fooling anybody."

Anyways. Here's what I'm saying "What the EFF!" about right now. Some may be of use to you. The vast majority will not, of that I am certain. (Consider that a disclaimer.)

So . . . first this:

Feedburner (the blog subscription service I was originally using) has just UP AND DECIDED that it would start working again. After a hiatus from November the twenty-something through Christmas. And let me tell you -- there is, like, NO explanation in sight for this. I even called Nate G., my guru for all things techy-internetty, and even HE was at a loss.

What the EFF!

Well. People were emailing and asking what had happened with their subscriptions. And I called Nate and said, "Dude, help." And he replied, "Beats me. I'd use another server if this doesn't get better." As y'all know, I gave it a few weeks and when it didn't improve, I went through the trouble of changing over services. This meant importing the emails of the prior subscribers into a new server. MailChimp, the one I use now, works slightly different. It sends an RSS driven email that has a link to my blog to see the latest contents. Feedburner actually embeds the post into the email.

So finally, I get MailChimp up and running and lo and behold--BA-DOOOW! Feedburner gets up off of its butt and decides to work again.

What the EFF!

NOW I'm freakin' spamming my friends with not one but TWO daily emails from this blog.

Dude. So annoyed with that. Here's what I say: Feel free to unsubscribe from one of them. I won't be hurt. Pick the one you like best and go with it. I have noticed that the Feedburner ones don't show the embedded videos in the email version. But whatever you choose is cool with me.

What the EFF!

People Magazine dogged out the Les Miserables soundtrack. The same one that I'm infatuated with. They said that Hugh Jackman was "oversinging."

What the EFF! It's a FREAKIN' MUSICAL, People. Duhh!

Haters.

And this:

What the EFF?

I managed to catch one episode of the latest cast of the Real Housewives of Atlanta. This was the one where the former Miss USA Kenya Moore goes off the deep end while arguing with Cordell Stewart's wife. I think Cordell Stewart played football. But honestly I don't really give a crap.

Well anyways. Kenya Moore starts going off on this tirade about how she looks GOOD and JUST LIKE she looked when she was Miss U.S.A. Which, not to be hating on her, just kind of isn't true. And even if it was, it's a really weird thing to say.

She actually said--and I quote--"I'm fabulous! Gone with the Wind fabulous! Okay?!" Then she did like three or four twirls.

TWIRLS, y'all.

Whaaaaaaat. . . thaaaaaa. . . effff? So, so weird. What the EFF, Kenya Moore! You making the sisters look bad!

Uggh. That show makes women look bad, period. What a trainwreck. What the eff.

Anyways.

Every now and then one of the sisterfriends in the hair salon brings their kids with them. It's pretty much a family atmosphere so it's usually cool. But a few times, I couldn't help but say What the EFF!

Well. Last week I was that client. Harry had to work. I had to get my hair done. My kids were right there with me in the salon and I had zero shame in my game. Thank goodness for handheld games. Otherwise those dudes would have been looking at me like What the EFF!

Yep.

Has anyone used the International Terminal at the Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta Airport?

WHAT. THE. EFF!!?? 

Dude. That terminal. Wow. It is, like, far. Or as my grandmama used to say, "Plum yelly." (Plum out the city and yelly out the state.) Like, seriously, this thing is two or three exits south of the main airport. And if you haven't planned accordingly, you will be looking SERIOUS trying to get somewhere.

What else? Oh.

Harry insists on not drinking red wine with me.

What the EFF? He's going to make me a wine-o. Not really, but I do wish he'd drink red wine with me.

Hmmm. Oh, yeah. What the eff! Lately, when I run (and by run, I mean walk/run)  outside, my hands get so cold that they feel like they are getting frostbitten. It improves when I get home. Even if I have on gloves while I'm out there. It's very, very uncomfortable.

What the EFF?

Okay. So I'm sleepy so I'll stop there. I could list another twenty five related to my husband but I don't think he'd appreciate that so much. Ha ha.

Yeah, so that's all I got for now. That and these pictures:

Night night.

***
Happy Saturday.

The Monday Morning Quarterback.

image credit

He was crying in a way that didn't seem natural for a man his age. For a man period. Men seem to inherently know restraint. The feelings are there, yes. Yet somehow they get masked by a carefully mastered impulse control.

But not in this instance.

His shoulders were curled inward. The unspeakable grief oozed from his eyes and his mouth had fallen open as if under the control of some faulty hinge. Words kept trying to come out but became garbled each time. It was awful.

I was on his immediate left. My chair scooted as closely to his wheelchair as it could possibly get and my hands tightly gripping his forearm and wrist in the most supportive way I could. His daughter stood behind him, arms draped over his shoulders and repeatedly burying her face into the top of his head to hide her own emotion. Her brother, his son, was two chairs away from me, lost in his own world of grief. Seeing his father so broken while saying goodbye to his mother at the same time was too much.

It was just too much.

This was my very first day knowing this family. I was the attending who had just taken on the inpatient service where this woman, his beloved wife, had already been a patient for several days. Most doctors who work on hospital wards will tell you that there are some positives and negatives to having someone come in with a fresh set of eyes to a critically ill patient. The "Monday morning quarterback", as we always call it, is the one who wasn't there for all the dirty work or the parts when all of the puzzle pieces weren't yet available. It's that Monday morning quarterback who strolls in, surveys the big picture and makes a quick assessment. A lot of the time, this kind of thing is annoying. But sometimes, it's advantageous.

This was one of those times.

I listened to the residents telling me her story. It was convoluted, complicated and unfortunate. Right up against her ninth decade and initially admitted with this pervasive febrile illness. The kind that the very advanced elders get that we go ahead and admit them for even though you can't quite put your finger on its origin.

The team before me data-mined and gathered information. They put out campfire after campfire while a wildfire was ravaging the countryside. And I know from experience that this happens sometimes. We hyperfocus on individual things such as sodium levels and Vancomycin titers and the teeniest perturbations in kidney or liver function. Each going awry and then slightly improving while we lose sight of the entire landscape. The one that has these flames that we keep tackling with handheld hoses when somebody needs to call in the helicopters.

So after hearing all of this, her hospital course, I became that Monday morning quarterback. Then I saw her with my own eyes, strengthening my position. "Wow, y'all. This management is awfully aggressive. Has anyone talked about end of life issues and the fact that this patient is dying?All of this--these labs and her exam--this is a patient who is actively dying."

And the resident and his interns communicated to me that indeed this had been considered but that no one, including the family or their prior attending physician, was on that page. A feeding tube was in her nose since she wouldn't and couldn't eat. And her chest was rising and falling so rapidly that it was exhausting to even witness.

"It doesn't matter at this point who is on what page. I cannot see where this can end in a meaningful recovery. I see that she wants all heroic efforts in the event of an arrest. Is this her wish or is this just the default?"

"The family was very upset when this was brought up. Not doing everything."

I glanced over my shoulder toward the room during that discussion. Per the monitors, she was breathing nearly forty times per minute despite the one hundred percent non-rebreather oxygen mask fixed onto her face. She was no longer conversant in the last four days and had so much edema that all of the bony architecture in her extremities was distorted. But on top of that, her labs and images collectively spoke loudly and clearly.

This woman--this wife, this mother-- was dying.

Of course, we could do everything. And, in this situation, that would mean CPR and intubation in the next few hours. It would also mean fracturing her fragile ribs and eventually putting the family in a far more difficult position with de-escalating care.

But I had just gotten there. Yes, I felt strongly about my clinical opinion, but still. They didn't know me. At least, not really they didn't. I imagined myself strolling in like some kind of grim reaper poorly disguised by my stiff white coat. It wasn't a good mental picture.

There are times when we have no choice. My rule with my patients and their families is this:

"Whatever we're talking about when it comes to you or your loved one and their care outside of your room is exactly what we'll discuss when we get inside of your room."

At least, as close a version as we can. But how would that work for this situation? One where this woman had been worked on dutifully for eight full days by well meaning doctors only to fully declare herself on the day some new lead doctor arrives? There was no easy answer. There wasn't.

But then, in the snap of a finger, I remembered something. This woman--and her dear husband of over sixty-five years--was under the care of a geriatrician. One who'd cared for them for nearly a decade and who'd carefully built a relationship with that entire family brick by brick.

Her doctor. Her doctor. Yes! Her primary doctor--her primary geriatrician--needed to be called and brought into this. This would comfort the family far more than I could. Of course. Not the Monday morning quarterback but the offensive coordinator. The one who'd been there when the plays were being drawn out and who'd stood with them during inclement weather to cheer those pass completions.

Of course. Dr L. Her doctor.

"I'm going to call Dr. L." I said this quietly and matter-of-factly to the team. They'd been communicating with him, but this would be a different call. Not the "your patient has been hospitalized" call, but a call to him as the offensive coordinator from the Monday morning quarterback.

And so I called. I explained what as going on and what I saw. How ill she'd become. How concerned I was of her imminent demise and whether or not us feverishly pressing her sternum and filling her veins with central lines was the right thing to do.

"Please come," I implored him. "If you can, please come."

That is exactly what he did.

And so, some forty-five minutes later, there we all sat. In the family waiting area as the offensive coordinator of my patient helped us navigate the next step in her care.

Yes, I was to her husband's left. That daughter stood with her arms encircled behind Daddy trying her best to protect his heart and hers at the same time. And Brother was perched on the edge of that distant chair weeping into the crook of his elbow.

And Daddy.

Daddy was tremulous and angst stricken in that wheelchair. The one that Dr. L had put him into when he arrived on the ward --not because he could not walk, but because this kind of grief knocks people off of their feet and he knew that from experience.

The other part of that picture included Dr. L., her primary geriatrician. Kneeling in front of that husband and staring into his eyes. Both of his hands overlying that husband's and pressing down into the veiny network on each of them. There was trust in that gaze. Those words came from a knowing place and that husband--his patient,too--received them.

That's why he was so grief-stricken.

The saliva between his crying lips stretched like violin strings and finally he mustered out a word to his doctor, the offensive coordinator.

"Do you really think. . .she 'bout to go home?"

And Dr. L closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose as he nodded. A hard, deliberate nod that couldn't be confused for anything but the affirmative.

"Eeeeee. . . . eeeeee. . . . .eeeeeeeeeeee!" 

That is exactly how his guttural cries came out. They pushed beyond the masculine impulse control and stoic code of manhood. And he felt safe doing that with Dr. L. in front of him. This was the cry of a man who was just told by someone he knows and trusts that he would soon have to say goodbye to the love of his life. A woman that he'd lived more years with than without and who'd first spoken words of mutual love to him on a humid summer night nearly seventy years before.

"Eeeeeeee. . . . Loooo. .hooo...horrrd. .. Jeeeeee. . . huh huh. . . suuuusssss. . . . .eeeeeeeee. . .eeeeeeeeeee!"

It was quite possibly one the saddest moments I have ever seen in my career. I swear that it was.

Dr. L. patiently let him have his moment. He knelt right there in front of that wheelchair for well over fifteen minutes, not once appearing to tire or lose his resolve. And me, I sat quietly on the left, holding his forearms and saying nothing. Nothing at all.

Shortly after that, our patient peacefully slipped away. With her family beside her and without a single thing beeping in any of their ears.


I learned a lot from being a Monday morning quarterback that day. Just like in "real" football, the very best plays handled by quarterbacks--Monday morning included--involve carefully executed passes to able-bodied teammates. Sometimes there are days when the QB runs it in for the score, but the ones we remember the most always manage to know when someone is open.

Open.

That means less glory for the quarterback, but the win is somehow sweeter for everyone. 


Thank you, Dr. L. for teaching me the importance of looking for who's open. And thank you for reminding me that I don't always have to use my own playbook.

***
Happy Friday.

Talk is cheap.

"When the cat took your tongue

I said you took it right back!"

~ Run D.M.C.

The cold air was biting me on my neck as I scooted into the hospital entrance. With shuffling steps I pressed my hands against the glass of the revolving door. The same glass that says "Please Do Not Push The Glass--Door is Automatic." But, man,  I was cold and placing my weight against that door makes it seem like I'll get inside sooner.

Yeah, yeah. You know you do it, too.

So, in I walk. And just as I do, I see this Grady elder trying to get into the disabled entrance next to the revolving doors. She was in a wheel chair, and was doing her very best to get the door ajar enough to roll into it. I quickly stepped over to assist her, an action that isn't unique to me at all at Grady, but one that any person passing by would have done. Folks around Grady are just chivalrous like that.

"I can help you, ma'am," I said. I pulled back the door and, in a rather exaggerated gesture, held my body out of her path against the wall.

"'Preciate you, sugar."

"My pleasure. Is it cold enough out there for you?"

"Cold? Woooo, whatchoo talkin' bout?"

She gave me an animated shudder in her chair. We both chuckled.

"Where are you headed in the hospital?" I queried.

"Pardon?"

"I was asking you where in the hospital you had to go to this morning."

She narrowed her eyes at me while repeatedly cleaning the front of her teeth off with her tongue. (Why she was doing this, I do not know, but she was so I feel the need to include that part for imagery.)

I'm almost positive that she was giving me the hairy eyeball which, in this case, I did not feel was warranted.

"Everything okay, ma'am?"

"What?"

"I'm sorry did I say or do something wrong?" I finally asked. Because her hairy eyeball was now even hairier.

"Naaaw. You jest sho' got a whole bunch of questions. Lawd. I woulda got in that door on my own if I knew you was gon' keep me here talkin' like this."

I felt my face get hot, but then a big smile erupted over my face along with a chuckle from deep in my chest. "Daaaang. That's cold."

We both laughed again.

"You's a chatty little thang, ain't you?" She wiped her tongue across her teeth, but this time the sides with a sucking sound. It was actually kind of gross, but since she was a Grady elder and this was already a blogworthy moment, it kind of made me happy instead of grossed out.

"I was about to see if you needed me to push you somewhere to get you there quicker, but since you called me out like that, I changed my mind."

"Baby, this thang is automatic. What I look like rolling a wheelchair with my arms far as I got to go?"

"Aaah. My bad."

"Besides. I'm too old to be pushing my own wheelchair."

"How many years you got under your belt?" I smiled at her innocently.

"Did you just ask me how old I am? How old you is?"

"Forty two."

"Forty two!"

I laughed at her reaction. "Forty two. Yes, ma'am!"

"Damn."

"Whaaat? I look younger than that?"

"Naaww. You jest got a lot of greys in yo' head to be only in your forties. Most folk don't get all that 'til they make 'bout fifty-five. Why you ain't colored it?"

"I used to. Now I kind of like it."

"Gon' make you look older."

"I'm okay with looking my age."

"I said 'older.' Not yo' age."

I nodded my head and smiled while looking down at my feet. "Gotcha."

"You gon' be full on grey by the time you fifty years old. What yo' husband say about all that?"

"Eh. He's cool with it."

"Do he got a lotta grey, too?"

"No, ma'am. He doesn't have any."

"You betta think about that while you let yo' whole head get grey. He gon' look like a young man and you gon' look like a grandmama."

"Dang. That's cold." I couldn't stop laughing at her brutal honesty. She was NOT EVEN joking. Just sucking her teeth, otherwise this was not a joke but some real talk. She took the liberty to say more.

"Even though your face don't look that old grey is funny like that. You gon' look old if you keep letting your hair go like that."

"I hear you."

"Y'all got some kids?"

I took a deep sigh because this could now go anywhere. "Yes, ma'am. We have two boys, seven and six."

"Seven and six! What you doin' forty two years old and got kids that little?"

Uhhh. Didn't know how to answer that.

"They gon' think you the grandmama. You betta color that hair, girl. 'Fore somebody be coming up to you talkin' 'bout you they grandmama."

With that one I just squeezed my eyes shut and tried my best to conceal the laugh that was trying burst out of me.

"Uuuuh, didn't you have somewhere you had to be?" I finally said. "I mean, I wouldn't have held that door for you if I knew you would start busting on my grey hair like this."

She narrowed her eyes again and pointed at me with her long pointer finger. "You got me, baby. Guess I like to talk, too."

We both had a final laugh in unison.

"Have a good day, hear?"

"Yes, ma'am. You, too. And good talking to you."

"Yeah, you was talkin', that's for sure." She threw her head back and laughed good and hard one last time.

Daaaang.

After that, she blew the smoke off of her gun and rolled off into the sunset. (Oh, and by sunset I mean toward the Grady E elevators.)

Ha.


This, my friends, is Grady. And on most days, I really think I was born to work at this place. This? This was absolutely one of those days.


***
Happy Thursday.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . .ha ha ha. . .Run DMC with "You Talk Too Much."

Just a (daydreaming) girl.

  

 "Hey, baby

let's get away
Let's go somewhere far . . . ."

~ Aretha Franklin

There's this thing that happens with Caribbean breezes. They blow away your worries and leave you with this clarity of thought that makes for some good daydreaming. This is how I brought in 2013. With friends, old and new, with laughter, with dancing, and with daydreams o' plenty. 

I would tell you of some of the dances my new friends taught me. But this here blog is a family blog and, you know, I'm not trying to offend anybody. Nope, not me. (Just know that Rihanna had better be glad that I'm forty-two and not twenty-two.) 

Mmmm hmmm.

Ha.

Wait--what's that you ask? Oh, were the kids with us on this little island jaunt? Uhhh . . .yeah, that's a no. But we did think of them and talk about them quite a bit.

Mmmm hmmm.

Look, man. I'm glad that my parents both insisted that we take some time to be a couple away from our kids sometimes. They're a huge part of us feeling comfortable even leaving at all. Them telling us that this is necessary to do remains some of the best marital advice we've ever received.

Yep.

There's something else that I get during these trips: A chance to see myself as simply a girl. Worrying not one bit about the parts that don't look the same as they did before children. And not worrying about looking silly whilst catching sandcrabs or screaming with delight when foamy waves roll over painted toes.

Nope.

You know? I love my life. I love being a mother and a doctor and a grown-a@% woman. Really and truly, I do. But before all of those things, I was just a girl. During these times, I am reminded of that. I'm reminded that she's still in there and I get to see her plainly, clearly. That's hard to do sometimes with every day life--but I fight to keep her alive. I sure do.

Tounces kept the boys during our holiday getaway. And even though I thanked her profusely, I know she'll read this so I'll thank her again for affording us this time each year.

This year more than ever.

She said that since the boys are a bit older, they're easier. But she kept them when they weren't easy. She sure did. And I continue to be deeply, deeply appreciative of that.

But this year more than ever.

I needed to get in touch with that girl again. The one with very few cares or worries. That girl grew up near an ocean, too. She also grew up with laughter and sunshine and tranquil moments such as these. This year, connecting to that girl again connected me to Deanna (who I'm sure appreciated being in that hot sun only in spirit since she always was prone to prickly heat.)

Ha. The image of her and that prickly heat just made me smile.
 
It's 2013. And I'm doing just fine. Still loving and missing my older sister, yes. But hearing her telling me about all of the good things that happened in 2012 and to not let them get lost in that November. She'd suggest that I ponder my gifts and think of ways to use them even more. She would, so I will.

In fact, that's part of what I was daydreaming about.

Yeah, it's 2013. And you know what? It's going to be a great year.


***
Happy New Year, y'all.

First song of the new year on the mental iPod. . . . No Doubt singing "Just a Girl."


and Miss Aretha Franklin a close second with "Daydeaming" . . . .she SANGS this song. Yaaaassss!!!

Steel drums.

They play in the background like a pulse in your ear after a good workout. The people with ready smiles and hearty laughs show you how to move to them in ways you didn't know hips could. Then you retreat to a recliner to doze off under suns more intimate with the equator than the ones you know.

In comes the new year, and with all of the celebration some part of you feels forlorn. A brief sun shower comes because you think of what could have been. But as fast as you do, you remember what was, what is and the tears get lost in laughter. Then you hear them--those steel drums--and you begin to shake those hips that your mama gave you. First slowly. . .then faster and faster. You throw your head back to feel the rhythm--that of other suns and that of life--both reminding you that it will be alright and that it already is.

Yeah, mon.