Top Ten: Bringing Sexy Back (to Internal Medicine.)

 I'm bringing sexy back (Yup!)

Those high-paid specialists don't know how to act

We think it's special what you think we lack

so come to us 'cause we pick up the slack

(Take 'em to the clinic!)

I.M., baaaaabe

You see this penlight? I illuminaaaate

Start you on insulin if you misbehaaaave

It's just that no one cares for you this way. . .
(Take 'em to the clinic!)

Come here, students
(Go 'head do Medicine)
Come to the wards
(Go 'head do Medicine)
V.I.P.
(Go 'head do Medicine)
Loan repayment's on me
(Go 'head do Medicine)
Med students who ya workin' with
(Go 'head do Medicine)
 Teach 'em right quick
(Go 'head do Medicine)
See ya' patients smile
(Go 'head do Medicine)
Come here, chile! 

Get your sexy up!
Get your sexy uuuuuupp!

Confession: Medicine is not perceived as sexy. As much as I hate to admit it--grrrrrr---it simply is not.

Hold up. I need to clarify a couple of things. When I say "medicine" I don't mean the entire field of medicine. I mean my chosen specialty within medicine--specifically Internal Medicine. See? Just saying it sounds 'B' list and unsexy, doesn't it?

Sigh. I know.

But see, it used to be sexy, man. Like back in the day with Marcus Welby (who technically saw kids and randomly operated on folks, too, but ignore that for my point) the internists used to have SWAG. And our specialty? Man. It was . . .well. . .sexy. 

Oh. The other thing I need to explain further is my use of the word "sexy." I don't mean it in the literal sense. Like, not the high-heeled stilettos and Daisy Duke shorts kind of sexy. And not the SuperBowl Calvin Klein underwear commercial "Lawdy-Lawdy-Miss-Claudie!" kind of way either.

'Cause. . . that? Just. . . whew.



No, people. I'm talking about "sexy" in the form of being . . .you know. . . chic, coveted, and on the it-list. When it comes to choosing specialties of choice as a third year in medical school, THIS is why Internal Medicine (and all primary care specialties) sometimes struggle to woo our students.

Yup. Lack of sexy.

BUT!

This is where I come in. And not just me. Me and several of my fellow Internal Medicine nerds. Buckle your seat belts, people. . . because we are determined to BRING THE SEXY BACK to Internal Medicine.  Yay-yuuuuuhhhhh!!!!

*coughing spasm*

Okay. At least I am. 

Sure. Internists don't make as much as plastic surgeons, ophthalmologists, orthopods, or dermatologists. And no, we don't have the same cute neck ties and stickers as our pediatrician colleagues or syringes in our back pockets like the anesthesiologists. There isn't the excitement of jackknives through foreheads that our emergency physician pals tackle nor do we get to be the first introduced to slimy, amniotic fluid-covered babies like our friends the obstetrician/gynecologists.

Nope. But! We're still sexy, man. For real. Zoolander sexy, even. And if you don't believe me, then clearly--CLEARLY--you need to be made privy to:

THE TOP TEN REASONS WHY INTERNAL MEDICINE IS WAAAAY SEXIER THAN YOU REALIZE (ALSO KNOWN AS "THE DIABOLICAL PLOT TO CONQUER THE WORLD AND BRING THE SEXY BACK TO INTERNAL MEDICINE THUS-LY MAKING IT A DESTINATION SPECIALTY FOR ALL: A MUST READ PRIMER FOR MEDICAL STUDENTS AND HATERS.")

Like to hear it? Here it go!


#10   --   We can actually help somebody when someone yells out, "IS THERE A DOCTOR IN THE ROOM!?"

Adam of SG Alpha -- IM second year at Wash U. in STL.

Maaaaan. I was a resident in Cleveland, right? So check it -- true story, I promise. Me and a fellow resident were rolling down Shaker Boulevard and we see this dude laying on the sidewalk on a side street. Two cars had pulled over and a lady was on the side basically freaking out and that's it. So we pull over to see if we could be of assistance. I mean, seeing as we were resident INTERNISTS and all.

Ah hem.

So we walk up on dude with our 'scopes around our necks. ('Cause that's how real INTERNISTS get down.) But just as we do, this fifty-something-looking dude walks up and trumps us like he was Trapper John, MD.

"Please back up. I'm a doctor!" he bellows all loud and authoritative-like.

So, you know, we back up. I mean, seeing as Trapper John was all flexin' on us and everything. So THEN Trapper -- I kids you not -- puts the dorsal side of his hand to the dude's forehead. Like a pulse could be found there. His semiconscious FOREHEAD. I ain't lyin'.

So me and my friend, we give Trapper a totally hairy eyeball at this point and prepare to move in on him and see what was up with this man. My friend looks over at the freaking-out lady and says, "Ma'am, do you know this gentleman?"

And the freaking-out lady is all freaking out so it was kinda hard to understand her, but she did say she knew the dude. So my buddy asks a few more questions while I give the man a sternal (breastbone) rub to see he could be aroused. And while all of this is going on, Trapper John is kneeling over the man with his brow all furrowed and two fingers tapping his lips.

"I'm a physician," he repeated to us, "and I need you kids to call 911 and give a bit of space."

And I was all like -- Hold up. Did he just try to play us?

But by this time, my buddy had determined that the man was a diabetic and had gone for a run earlier without eating much. He'd also taken his insulin a few moments earlier. So instead of completely going off on the brow-checking PHYSICIAN for trying to PLAY us, we give this diabetic dude some candy to stick in his cheek and instructed the freaking-out lady to give the man some juice. And up he pops like that lady who passed out on Pulp Fiction after John Travolta hit her with the epinephrine.



Okay. Maybe not exactly like that, but just imagine it for the story, okay?

So, all was well that ended well. Dude woke all the way up and acknowledged that he should have eaten before he took a trillion units of insulin. And Trapper John, the PHYSICIAN turned out to be a local dermatologist. And while I am certainly NOT hating on dermatologists, I'm just saying that his checking for tactile temperature like Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman was uuhhhh. . . .not even the move.

So I'm just saying. Internists save people. Sexy, right?

Adam would have TOTALLY known what to do.

#9   --  We get to talk about everything.

The liver. The heart. The lungs. The skin. The lady parts and the man parts. The all of it. Nothing is off limits, man. But just when the skin gets really, really gross, we call Trapper-dude for a consult. And hallelujah, we get to do the same for similar things related to the nether regions. (See Urology and Ob/Gyn for nether region specialties.)

*Bleccch*

#8  --   We get cool stuff not just on holidays, but on random Tuesdays, too.

Image from here.

Maaaan. Folks are mad grateful when you reduce their cardiovascular risk factors. For real, man, they are. I have had my fair share of delicious baked goods and even received a birthday card with my actual date of birth preprinted on it that a patient purchased for me because she remembered from the year before. Bet you nobody ever made YOU a super fancy cake like the one pictured above and gave it to you on a random Thursday, have they?

Mmmm hmmm. I didn't THINK so.

Okay. Me neither seeing as I found that image on a Google search. But that's besides the point. The point is that the ones I DO get are homemade and delicious. And sometimes even homie-made, but delicious nonetheless. Mmm hmmm. See? That's the kind of effect you have when you're in INTERNAL MEDICINE, people. YAY-YUUH!

*hand splayed in your face*

And don't EVEN start telling me about how you're an anesthesiologist or some other SWANKY HIGHER INCOME SPECIALTY and somebody did this for you (MARIA, FELLOW MEHARRIAN) because clearly the person who did so was high and delirious from your gas machine. Or just happy as hell because they got an epidural. (Yeah. I said it.) See, us internists? We get real love that isn't under the influence of opiates or benzodiazepines.

So, I'm just saying. THAT perk makes up slightly for the pay differential.

Slightly.


#7  -- We don't have to spend five hours scrubbing in to do our job.

Here's Atul Gawande, the awesome neck surgeon and writer, scrubbing into surgery. And see? If he was an INTERNIST, he could be somewhere holding his patient's hand instead of a scrub brush.

See? Yet ANOTHER perk of the illustriously sexy field of INTERNAL MEDICINE.

(And yes. I think Gawande freakin' rocks. But I am slightly annoyed with him for not choosing to be an internist.)


#6  -- We don't really have to study too hard for USMLE Step 3. 

Alanna of SG Alpha, IM resident at UCSF

For the non-medical peeps, there are three rites of standardized test-taking passage for medical students and residents. The United States Medical Licensure Examination (USMLE) has three "steps" that you take before you can get licensed to ill practice. Step 1 is taken after your preclinical studies are completed. Step 2 is taken somewhere between your third and final year. Once you start your residency in a chosen field, you still have to clear the Step 3 hurdle -- one last test focusing on general clinical knowledge.

All of the uber-specialized peeps get all freaked out over Step 3 but not us nerdy internists! Bwaaah haa haaaaa! We are ALL OVER that sucker. Give us your broadest differential diagnoses from syphilis to wet beri-beri and we will DESTROY it all while the rest put the back of their hand on somebody's nearly unconscious forehead.

*Drops the mike and walks away.*

#5  --  We actually know the answers to the questions people ask us at family gatherings.*

Hmmm.

Now that I think of it, this may or may not be an advantage. Nor does this do much to help the cause of bringing the sexy back to Internal Medicine.

*This may also include but is not limited to: 

Your father calling you from the golf course to talk to the man standing next to the man next to him at the driving range, your fifth cousin twice removed asking you whether or not his "nature not working" has anything to do with him not being circumcised, or the lady next door to the lady around the corner from you texting you a photograph of her grandson's nanny because "it look to her like the shingles but she ain't sure." 

On second thought, ignore that one.

#4  -- Our white coats are the whitest ones. 

Even when we're standing outside.

You know. 'Cause we're just all Marcus Welby like that. (I'm just saying.)

#3  --  We don't have to worry about being portrayed as dreamy or steamy on television.

(Just a surly, drug-abusing genius. )

Sexy, right?

#2 --  The medical students LOVE us (even if they usually aren't convinced they want to BE us.)

Now this part I'm not saying tongue-in-cheek. Us INTERNAL MEDICINE people? Maaan, we do a lot of teaching when it comes to medical students. Sure do.

No one will argue with me when I say that the Internal Medicine clerkship is considered the bread and butter of clinical training in medical school. Hands down. It's where students become real doctors and where the preclinical pieces get put together and applied. And my fellow I.M. nerds get racks-on-racks-on-racks of teaching awards.

Wendy A. with her racks-on-racks-on-racks

 It's also a very necessary part of every other specialty. The very best surgeons, dermatologists, radiologists, anesthesiologists and neurologists have a solid knowledge of internal medicine that they apply to their patients. At least the very best ones do.

So what does that mean? As teaching internists, we have a very, very important job. Our learners take a piece of us and our field into everything they do. No matter what they do. I see that as a tremendous honor and a huge responsibility.

CdR, one of my favorite medicine nerds, in action.

Sure. Someone might find it self important to say all that but that I say, "Meh. It's my blog."

Ha ha. Seriously, though. I say that because it's true. Sure is.

We also get to build some amazing relationships with our patients. And I acknowledge that my colleagues in other fields get to do this, too. But there is something unique about educating patients about the most basic aspects of their health and focusing on the very things that are most likely to either take their lives or disable them. This is what we do. All day, e'ry day.

And that makes us happy. And happy is sexy, man.

#1  --  It's a labor of LOVE.

Let's be real. Medical school is expensive. Students go into a lot of debt to become doctors and sometimes--not all the time--how much future earning potential they have gets factored into them choosing a specialty.

Sigh.

We can't compete with incomes that are quadruple ours. Nope. But can I just say that "a lot of money" is rather relative? Can I also say that six figures is a lot of freakin' money no matter WHO you are and that most internists absolutely make that and more? Can I also say what we get in the intangible rewards is really substantial? Like really substantial. Can I say all that?

Good. Because all of that is true.

The other thing is that we are needed now more than ever. In the U.S., we know that recent legislation will open the floodgates for many people who previously couldn't get primary care. And our population is living longer, too. So now more than ever, our patients need good internists.

But see, it has to be a labor of love. Because internists often end up taking some things for the team. And, no--that part isn't always sexy but I have to say it because it's true. But the rewards? Man. They far outweigh the lumps we take. And the impact we have? On countless levels? The best.

Sure. We can be a bit nerdy at times. Sure. We sometimes sit and think about the potential explanations for one abnormal lab result or clinical finding for hours -- but you know? Somebody is better for it.

So repeat after me: "INTERNAL MEDICINE IS SEXY."

Then, look in you mirror like Derek Zoolander and say it again. But this time with a smize -- and an even sexier voice, baby. Kind of like Austin Powers.

So what if we're a little bit country. We're also a little bit rock 'n' roll, too.

Do not--I REPEAT--do not count us out because you don't think of our field as "sexy." Instead, join my crusade and stop fighting the magnetic pull you know you feel deep down in your soul to get on the Internal Medicine bandwagon. Help me help YOU. Help ME help the WORLD.

*starts pumping fist*

Together we can BRING SEXY BACK to Internal Medicine and Primary Care specialties!! You with me?! Come on! GET YOUR SEXY BACK!!!! 

Yaaaaasss!!! The doors of the church specialty are now open!!

***

with Pulak P. -- F.P. extraordinaire

Disclaimer: A lot of this does apply to both Pediatrics and Family Medicine. And to some other specialties, too. And yes, I am also both trained and board certified in Pediatrics and DO fully believe in Medicine/Pediatrics combined training (like I did.) HOWEVER--this post is designed specifically to BRING THE SEXY BACK to INTERNAL MEDICINE. So don't EVEN start going off in the comments about how your cousin is a dermatologist and he saved somebody's life on an airplane and didn't just put his hand on somebody's unconscious brow. Because THAT does not help my cause. AND it does not take away from the fact that on a cold night in Cleveland, Ohio back in the late 90's, another non-internist was clueless.

Mmmm hmmm.

And that? Was so not sexy, dude. So not.

Sigh. I crack myself up sometimes.

***
Happy Saturday.

Future internists sign here:  X____________________________________

(And those who aren't med students but who would do Internal Medicine if they were? Y'all can sign, too.)

And lastly, a picture of my med school classmate, BFF, and fellow internist, Lisa D. to show you that we I.M. people are bringing sexy and the SWAG back to the specialty on the weekends, too. Yeah, baby!

Of course this has been playing on the mental iPod the entire time. . . . . Go 'head, girl! Get ya' sexy up!

One hand in my pocket.

 "And what it all comes down to

is everything's gonna be fine, fine, fine

'cause I got one hand in my pocket

and the other is giving a high five."

~ Alanis Morissette

I stepped onto one of the Grady elevators the other day and ran into one of the cafeteria workers returning empty trays from the wards. I'd just left the nearby Subway restaurant and hoped the onions that I couldn't resist getting on my sandwich weren't as offensive as I imagined.

"Hey Miss Kimberly!"

"Hey there, pretty lady!"

Our exchange was easy and familiar because this was someone that I saw quite regularly around the hospital wards. Every single time I did, she was smiling and friendly. Without fail.

"Have y'all been busy?" she asked. The big metal cart was nearly blocking her entire body, but she still peered around it to exchange pleasantries. "We've been running like crazy!"

"Us, too," I responded. "Today was the first day that I made it to lunch in several days. Had me a subway special but probably should have passed on the onions!" I covered my mouth playfully.

"Come on, doc! How can you say no to onions?"

"I obviously can't! But they need to serve a combo with gum or mints in it."

We both chuckled. The doors opened on her floor and she began to shove off behind the heavy contraption in front of her. I instinctively stepped over to the key pad to push the "hold door open" button.

"Thanks, Miss Kim."

"Pleasure."

Just as she got through the door, she turned around and we simultaneously offered each other a nod and a hand wave. I turned my back against the elevator wall and daydreamed as the doors began to pull to a close. Suddenly a courageous hand slipped in between the automatic doors just before they could snap shut. Lucky for that person, the sensor quickly reversed the doors back open.

"Here you go, Miss Kimberly!"

I looked up, startled at both the clunky, abrupt door movements and hearing my name called. There she was--my elevator companion--leaning into the shaft with one hand securing the food cart still and the other handing me something. It didn't take me long to recognize that it was a pack of chewing gum.

"Oh! You're so sweet!" I scrambled to get the pack open and remove a stick as the elevator chimes began to impatiently buzz in protest.

She waved her hand and said, "Naw, baby. Just take the whole pack. I gots plenty!"

"N-n-no! Let me just take one--here!" With one piece in my hand, I fumbled to close the pack and try to hand it back. She laughed and pushed it back toward me.

"Every-since I quit smoking, I keep me some gum, so trust me I got a whole bunch in my locker. Plus you always nice to me when I see you so consider it a little gift."

Right after that, the doors closed and there I was. Alone with a brand new, full pack of gum in my hand.

Or rather, a "little gift."

For--in her words--"always being nice to me when I see you."

I tried not to think to much into that. Like wondering if that statement meant that "always being nice" wasn't the norm when it came to her interactions with physicians and nurses in hospital. But maybe it was and she'd simply taken the time to appreciate it.

Maybe.

And so. I put that pack of gum in my white coat pocket and vowed to see it as exactly that. And every time I reach into it, I'm reminded to also recognize all of the other little gifts around me every single day. . .

Like moments.
Like people.
Like smiles.

Like Grady.

***
Happy Friday.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . .

Top Ten: The Beauty-licious Hair Salon Super Bowl Recap

 

 "I don't think you're ready for this jelly."

~ Destiny's Child in Bootylicious

By now I think everyone knows how much I love going to the hair salon. Partly because I love getting my hair cut but just as much because I looooove the banter that is guar-own-teed to be overheard each and every time I'm there.

Today was no different, y'all!

So clearly. . .I mean CLEARLY after the Super Bowl which--YES!--also gave us some Beyonce talk-points AGAIN. . . CLEARLY it would only be right to launch straight into a proper little top ten before I forget all the good things I heard. Or said. Or both.

And now. . .without further ado. . .I bring you:

THE TOP TEN THINGS I HEARD, OVERHEARD AND/OR DISCUSSED RELATED TO SUPER BOWL XLVII WHILE IN THE HAIR SALON THIS WEEK

Like to hear it? Here it go!

#10 -- Yo' mama. Yo' stylist.

 

Me: "What did y'all think about Beyonce's Halftime Show?"

Stylist:  "She killed it."

Client: "Yeah, she was working it. But it look like maybe she letting her mama sew her outfits again."

Me: "What?"

Client: "What the hell was up with them catwoman pull-away outfits? And why she always got to have on a leotard? She ain't Tina Turner!"

Stylist: "I didn't think the outfits were so bad."

Me:  "Definitely not THIS bad." Pulled up this image below on Google images.

Client: (winces) "Damn. Okay, nothing could be that bad."

Stylist: "Beyonce's mama should be ashamed of herself for that."

Client: "Yeah. That looks a hot ass leprechaun mess."

*laughter*

#9  --  High Profile

"You know you's a bad beeyotch when you got the stage built with your profile in it! And you a super bad b@%&  if you got the crowd inside of your face."

"Whaaaat?"

"The crowd was in BEYONCE'S FACE. Like literally."

"I'm confused."

"Never mind. Just know that she's a bad b@%ch!"

#8  --  Songs in the Keys of Good Times

 

Client:  "I liked Alicia Keys' performance."

Stylist:  "I was too busy being glad that she finally took them old school Thelma Evans braids out of her hair."

Me: "She's had those things out forever!"

Stylist:  "Yeah, but I'm still traumatized by them."

*laughter*

Client:  (laughing) "Why they got to be Thelma Evans braids? Thelma had a 'fro!"

Me: "Nuh uh. Not when she was about to marry that African dude."

Stylist:  "Exactly!! That's how Alicia Keys' braids used to look! Yes!"

*laughter*

 

Client:  "Hold up. Remind me why didn't Thelma marry that dude?"

Three people in unison from the dryer, the chair, and the shampoo bowl: "Oh, 'cause he wanted to take more wives after her."

Client: "Oh yeah. That's right."

(Okay. Maybe it wasn't in unison--but no less than three people had a fast answer to this Good Times trivia.)

#7 --- Ball gowns at Ball games

"Speaking of Alicia Keys, it's all Beyonce's fault."

"What's Beyonce's fault?"

"That she had to wear that frickin' Jessica Rabbit ball gown."

"Huh?"

"Ever since she came in a formal to the inauguration, everybody feel like they got to have on a ball gown, too."

"Dayum! Can a sista pu-lease just show up in a head band and a warm up suit and lip sync? Since when do we need to grand piano and a ball gown?"

 

"WE WANT WHITNEY!  
WE WANT WHITNEY!  
WE WANT WHITNEY!"

#6  --  The Doors of the Church are Now Open.




Stylist:  "Who was y'all rooting for?"

Me: "I find Ray Lewis rather entertaining so I was kind of rooting for him and the Ravens."

Client: "But he sure did seem extra . . .  Jesus-y, don'tcha think?"

Me: "Extra Jesus-y?"

Client:  (shrugs and turns page in Essence magazine)  "I'm just sayin'."


#5 -- The Ray Lewis Dance





"Speaking of Ray Lewis. . .does anyone know how to do the Ray Lewis "squirrel" dance?"

"I do, girl!"

A forty-something year old woman gets up from under the dryer, kicks off her high heels, and then demonstrates it -- exactly as you see here.

*laughter*

"Well, damn. I didn't see that coming."

*laughter*


#4 --  Oh, baby!

Client:  "Well, girl. Now we know for SURE that Beyonce really was pregnant with that baby!"

Me:  "Huh?"

Client:  "Yeeeeaaaaaah, chile. Once you drop a baby, thangs just don't fully snap back the same. Bey was kinda thick."

Stylist (pausing with curling iron in hand): "Yeah, now that I think of it, she was kinda 'bootylicious.'"

 

#3  -- All of the Lights

"Getting your lights turned off in the middle of the Super Bowl might be the most trifling thing I have ever seen in my whole life! I was like, 'Seriously, New Orleans? Seriously?'"

"I think it was a technical difficulty."

"Come on, baby. I'm from the 'hood and I know what it feels like to get a utility cut off. And trust me, Pookie 'n'em is who rigged something to get 'em back on." *inserts eye roll* "That's why it took thirty minutes to fix."

*laughter*

#2  -- Destiny's Children.


Me: "What y'all think about Destiny's Child reuniting on the stage? That was kinda cool, I thought."

Stylist:  "Yeah. That was nice of Beyonce."

*laughter*

Client from under shampoo bowl--super loud voice:  "YEAH! AND EVEN THOUGH MICHELLE LOOKED LIKE SHE WAS ON A HUNGER STRIKE, HER WEAVE WAS HOT-TO-DEATH!"

Everyone nodding their heads and agreeing--at least on the weave, part.

 

Stylist:  "Yeah. Michelle's weave won for 'most natural'."

Me: "Wait. I didn't even know there was a weave contest going on that night!"

Stylist: "Oh, boo, there's always a weave contest going on. And this time Michelle won."

*laughter*


#1  One more for the road.

Client dusts hair off of her and is applying lipstick in the mirror preparing to leave.

"Girl, PLEASE -- before you leave -- you've just GOT to do the Ray Lewis dance for us just one more time for us!"

Which she he puts her purse down, takes off her coat and then promptly does. Again.



This time even better than the first. High heels, fresh hair-do and all.

*round of applause*

Man. I love that place.


***
Happy Thursday.

And now playing on my mental iPod and now, unfortunately, yours as well. DC singing "Bootylicious!" Yaaaaassss!!!!!

Late night ramble: Poison!

I think that any well-meaning doctor should have a mental Rol-o-dex of personalized talking points to bring up when their patients return to see them. For some of my patients it's their grandchildren. New ones born or older ones finishing high school and getting into college. Sometimes the report includes one of those grandbabies having a baby of his or her own. That means greatgrands and a green light to start the whole bragging cycle over again. Yep. For others it's the weight they lost or the cigarettes they put down. That or the drug stronghold that they finally shook a-loose and pride they feel every time a new day passes and they haven't turned back.

Me? I take a mental inventory of such things and file it away. Slipping it somewhere in my note or sticking it on an imaginary post-it note on the inside of my head for safekeeping. Then, when I see them again, I bring it up. That grandbaby who made officer in the Marine Corps and who is on his third tour in Afghanistan? I ask how he's doing. Or the greatgrands that she decided should call her "Duchess" since she wanted something grander than just "grandmama?" I greet her as "Duchess" and watch her laugh out loud. And don't think I forgot about day my patient quit Newports cold turkey--which happened to be the anniversary of his wife's passing. Oh, and as for the congratulatory handshakes regarding another man's decade long abstinence from crack cocaine? Nope. Those handshakes never get old.

So, yeah. These parts aren't really imperative to the plan but they are a part of the relationship-building that's very, very necessary for good vibes between doctors and patients. At least that's what I think.

Anyways.

I was thinking of this because I saw one of our Grady elder F.P.s in the clinic not too long ago. Her "thing" to talk about wasn't grandbabies or greatgrands or strongholds or weight loss. That said, it was another very common talk point that I encounter. What's that, you ask? Oh, I'll tell you:

Jesus.

Yes. You read that right. Jesus, as in the one from Nazareth.

Look, man. If you work at a place like Grady Hospital which is smack, dab in the middle of the bible belt and two blocks away from Ebenezer Baptist Church where Martin Luther-the-King preached, then you most certainly will hear your share of references to J.C. (none of which are loose at all.)

Yep. And actually? It's cool. I mean, it really is--no matter what you believe--because, really, it usually means you get to hear of some testimony. Which means you get to hear of some kind of test and, trust me, that test is almost always something harder than anything I've even come close to experiencing.

So, yeah. I guess that list of icebreaker topics to touch upon should really include grandbabies, greatgrands, victories over weight/habits/etc., and Jesus, too. Sure should.

Oh, dang.

Let me clarify this before someone throws their head back and groans out that very name in vain. No, I don't roll in, say hello and then start quoting scriptures. Nope. Instead, I do what we did with this lady. Ask about her church and what she's up to in it.

Let me be even more clear--what I specifically ask about is their "church-home" because that's what the Grady elders call it when you're a sho nuff and bona fide member somewhere. Mmm hmmm. And this lady? Man. She totally was all up in her church-home. She dressed in all white and sat on the third pew as a part of the Mother's board. She was one of the ones that the pastor called by name during his sermon and the one that could be heard shouting "HALLELUJAH!" and "PREACH PASTOR!" loudest and earliest in every single Sunday service.

Oh. And when I say every single Sunday service, I mean every single one -- from 7:30 a.m. to the last one at noon. ('Cause everybody knows the Mothers in the church stay for all three services.)

Mmm hmmm.

Uhhh, hmmm. What was my point again? Oh. My. You'll be super annoyed to know that everything you just read has nothing to do with the point of this post. And I'm sure you're all like, "What does this have to do with poison?" Answer: nothing really. Well, sort of, but not really. But I am going somewhere with this and I promise I'll get on to that now.

Ah hem.

So, check it. I was talking to this dear lady along with my resident. The patient seemed a bit downtrodden this day and her resident dutifully explored more about that. She also remembered that her church-home was a big part of her life and so she asked about it to see if somehow this could help us gain more insight into why she had the blues.

"I ain't at that church no more." She didn't make eye contact with us when she said that. Instead she stared straight ahead and pursed her lips in an effort to contain what was obviously a sore point.

Now this? This was unusual. A Grady elder that's been at her church-home for over "twenty-some-odd" years doesn't just up and leave. Not even if the pastor changes or the building fund runs low. And so, the resident asked some follow up questions to find out why.

"Well. I been at that chuuch longer than I can even 'member. For years! And I always helps out with thangs and see 'bout people, you know. But then, I lost my sister, Emma Jean, and don't you know didn't nobody come to see about me from my chuuch? Not-a-one."

"Not even anyone that sits on the Mother's board with you?" I asked.

"I ain't talkin' 'bout them. They all my friends so they was gon' see 'bout me no matter what. But Pastor ain't came to see 'bout me and he s'posed to have a bereavement team tha's s'posed to come minister to you during times like that. N'an one of them came."

"But the Mothers did, yes?"

"I said they my friends so they was gon' come ir-regardless. That ain't got nothin' to do with Pastor and 'nem." Her facial expression showed us how much this had hurt her feelings. "After twenty-some-odd years there not one of them can come and see 'bout me?"

"Did they know?" I wanted to give her church-home leadership the benefit of the doubt.

"They all knew 'cawse the Mothers knew. And that ain't right. So I went on and left. Now I attend service with my son at his church. It ain't the same, you know? I miss being where I know everybody and they know me."

"I wonder if they know how much this hurt you. Maybe you could talk to your pastor to see if y'all could make amends," my resident chimed in.

"Naaw. Seem like they shoulda knew better. Even if they say they sorry, I think it's jest one of them thangs I ain't never gon' get over. Everybody know how close me and Emma Jean was." Her eyes welled up with tears and she patted their corners with the hem of her shirt sleeve. She took a big drag of air and quickly shook her head. "They shoulda knew better. Somebody shoulda called and seent about me. 'Cawse they all knew how close I was to Emma. They did."

And that was that.

We did talk to her some more about this, but her mind was made up. She had decided that she couldn't let this go. Even if it was making her miserable, she couldn't let it go.

That made me think of the day I heard a Grady elder say this:

"Being angry is like you drinking poison and expecting the other person to die."

But that was just it. She was the one with the poison on the inside of her. And it was making her sad and robbing her of her quality of life. Still. This was her decision and, as I've said here before, our own decisions to react--or not react--in certain ways to certain things can be life-altering.

Yep.

But then I started wondering. What about when your mind is telling you the right thing to do or feel, but your heart is saying something else? Like, what if that Grady elder knows that holding that grudge against her Pastor and the bereavement team is just not that serious--especially not serious enough to leave the church over? And what if she is fully aware of the fact that maybe her pastor thought that the Mothers had things covered with her losing Emma Jean and that she was sufficiently "seen about" by them? See? What if she is all of those things but despite all of that logic still hurt and mad and disappointed that Pastor and his team didn't factor her twenty-some-odd years into the equation and physically come to lay hands on her in her own living room? And what if, no matter how clear it is that she should, she just can't get past it?

Hmmm.

So that's what I'm thinking about. I'm thinking about logic and emotions and how the two sometimes can't seem to meet in the middle.

When Deanna passed away I was absolutely engulfed with support. I was called, emailed, texted, visited, fed, refed, and everything else supportive that you can imagine during such unthinkable times. People were amazing. The kindness of my friends and even strangers probably brought more tears to my eyes than anything else in those first few days.

Yep.

After a several weeks had passed I was driving down the street minding my own business one day. In that moment alone, it dawned on me that I hadn't spoken to one of my very close friends at all since all of that had happened. Not at all.

But then, as I think of it, it wasn't not at all. She'd left a short note in my blog comments on behalf of her family. And had also sent a text in response to one I'd sent. But I never heard her voice. Nor did I see her face or receive regrets regarding the homegoing services despite geography that would make that not unreasonable.

How did I not realize that? Somehow, in all of the planning and traveling and running and comforting, I hadn't noticed until then. So you know what happened next, right? Of course. I drank the poison and started feeling slighted.

But, see, I am a logical and introspective person. So I did my best to immediately spit it out and counter it with the antidote. Positive thoughts!

Look at all of the support your family received!
Your blog community was AMAZING!
David flew all the way from Philadelphia to be there for you!
Falona came from Denver, Colorado. DENVER. As in, MOUNTAIN TIME!
There were over a THOUSAND people at the service! All honoring DEANNA!

That worked for a little while but then I had to ramp up my self-tormenting coaching.

Maybe she didn't know what to say, Kimberly.
A lot of people don't "do" funerals and homegoings.
It's ridiculous to let this bother you.
This should not change your friendship one bit! Ridiculous!
Grow up, Kimberly!
Don't be ungrateful! 
See this as an opportunity to know how to better support others during such times.
This is POISONOUS THINKING. Hello?!?

Then I decided that I'd just let some time pass. And not think about it. That's when my snarky inner voice pointed this out:

Indifference still counts as anger when the person is close to you! In fact, it's worse!

And that's where I stopped. And where I've been stuck.

Here's the thing. This was not just an acquaintance. This was a good, good friend of mine. One that I have told my deepest thoughts and with whom I shared pivotal experiences. One who'd met Deanna and all of my family and knew what this meant to us. And, fortunately--for me and anonymity--I do have a lot of good, deep friendships. So the point is not at all who this is. It isn't. In fact, let me even go on the record to say that this particular friend has definitely been extraordinarily caring and engaged throughout the tenure of our friendship and has no track-record of repetitive ball-dropping whatsoever. Furthermore, this also doesn't even factor in the balls I'VE dropped that I may or may not even realize or the fact that all of those things should immediately earn her the benefit of the doubt. But none of that--though true--is really the point.

No, 'tis not.

The point is more that I could relate to my patient and her hard line despite what logic and home-training were telling me. I felt myself wanting to leave the church altogether because I saw our deep friendship as something akin to her twenty-some-odd years in that church. And I felt myself counting her comment on my blog and text message as those "expected" things like the Mother's board turning up instead of the pastor.

Ridiculous, I know. And so super counterproductive, too.  I know. But like I said. This is an issue where logic and emotion don't play well together. And that underscores how broken the human mind can sometimes be.

Grrr.

So I couldn't pass judgement at all on my patient when she told us that. Because I'd been there--recently. And, you know? Even though when my friend and I finally did chat and I was pleasant and seemingly okay, the poison had started to work on me already. It had. I felt myself redefining our friendship and refusing to understand. A poisonous voice whispering that there was simply no good excuse for her absence. Which isn't me.

The only big difference between my patient and me in our positions is that I haven't felt nearly as sad as my patient seemed. But. I'm not a retired octogenarian with a life centered around my former church-home. I'm a full-time working mother and so is my friend. My guess is that, as far as this causing mayhem in the grand scheme of things, we're in the same place. That kind of complicates it even more.

Or maybe not at all if you're Harry and you believe that "everybody can't go."

So that aforementioned reference above was a BHE-ism that I've heard Harry say a million times. He shrugs his shoulders and says, "Everybody can't go." Which is his way of saying that every person can't be carried with you into every phase of your life. And that's fine and well if you're Harry but not as simple when you're me.

Good heavens. I am so, so rambling, aren't I? But I guess I'm just trying to work through this, you know? Yeah. 

I guess I could put all of this to rest by simply asking "What would Jesus do?" I mean, seeing as Jesus does happen to be on the short list of Grady icebreakers and all. But it wouldn't be put to rest because I KNOW what Jesus would do. He'd turn the other cheek -- the one on his face, not on his toches (pronounced took-us.) But that's the thing. Somehow Jesus seemed to avoid drinking the poison better than every other person who has ever existed.

Yeah.

I know me. Usually, with time, I get back to normal somehow. Or some revised yet acceptable version of normal. Which might mean going to another church for a bit and then eventually coming on back. And if that feels okay, I might get around to going back to the Mother's board and staying for at least two of the three services.

So here is what I am asking your thoughts about. . . . not WWJD, because I know that answer already. That and the answers to WWASMAPAD -- that is "What would a super-mature-and-perfect-adult do?" (See WWJD for answer.)

How do you navigate issues where knowing better versus doing better collide? And is it ever acceptable to decide that forgiving but not forgetting is a reasonable explanation for letting go of important things and people? Even if it's done subtly and without door-slamming? Or is that worse?

See? This is what you get for reading beyond my initial tangent. Now you have to comment. . . ha ha ha. . . .and yes, I at least expect props for my advanced Yiddish as demonstrated through the use of the word "toches."

***
Happy Tuesday Wednesday. (And Mom, it's late and this is probably loaded with typos so forgive me.)

And here's a horrible picture of another kind of Poison which is equally dangerous. . .

and some MORE "Poison" for your mental iPods to get stuck on for the rest of the day. . . .



*You're welcome.*

Music Lyrics Monday: Like a Star.

Like a Star

Just like a star across my sky
Just like an angel off the page 
You have appeared to my life
Feel like I'll never be the same
Just like a song in my heart
Just like oil on my hands
Honor to love you

Still I wonder why it is
I don't argue like this
 With anyone but you
We do it all the time
Blowing out my mind

You've got this look I can't describe
You make me feel like I'm alive
When everything else is au fait,
Without a doubt you're on my side
Heaven has been away too long
Can't find the words to write this song
Oh...
Your love

Still I wonder why it is
I don't argue like this
With anyone but you
We do it all the time
Blowing out my mind

Now I have come to understand
The way it is 
It's not a secret anymore
'cause we've been through that before 
From tonight I know that you're the only one
I've been confused and in the dark
Now I understand

I wonder why it is,
I don't argue like this,
With anyone but you
I wonder why it is 
I wont let my guard down
For anyone but you
We do it all the time
Blowing out my mind

Just like a star across my sky
Just like an angel off the page
You have appeared to my life
Feel like I'll never be the same
Just like a song in my heart
Just like oil on my hands 

Corinne Bailey Rae


_________________________________

I love this song. I love her voice. The serenity of it, the restraint of it, the everything of it.

I am not a big arguer. I don't spend lots of time being mad and I rarely, if ever, hold grudges. Mostly because I can't usually remember the details and it gets to be too much work. . .but that's not my point. My point is that when I do get into the rare argument, it's usually some fleeting spat with my husband. As a matter of fact, I can't remember when it was anyone else.

The good news is that we don't fight dirty. And that neither of us lets anything go beyond fifteen minutes or so. So we fuss. Someone walks off muttering. And then, like less than half an hour later, somebody is coming back into the room to tell the other one a joke or calling out for them to come and see a commercial on television.

I love that about us.

I think the reason I'm even willing to argue with Harry is because of those things. We've made this decision to--at the core of everything--respect one another. Listen to what the other has to say. Talk it out. And then, most times, hug it out.

Let me be clear--we don't have much to argue over. We get each other and enjoy one another. So mostly we are pretty boringly harmonious. But when it's time to get a little passionate in a household debate, that's cool, too.

Wait. Why am I only focusing on that part?

The thing is:  Harry has been just like a star across my sky. Or an angel off the page. Because those were things that I thought--and I mean really and truly thought--I'd be as likely to see as a wonderful life's partner just for me. A good guy that didn't require some disclaimer every time I told another person about him and our love. One who loves his mama, has best friends and old friends, who is confident, and who knows all of the words to Rapper's Delight. And. And, and, and! One who would step out into traffic for me.

That is what I found. Or rather what we've found.

And if it happened to me? It can happen to anyone. Anyone.

***
Happy Monday.

This is Grady.

She was my last patient on rounds that morning. As I discussed the plan for her care, I helped her re-plait her hair since this hospitalization seemed to be lasting longer than either of us expected it would. Just as I did, my intern, with the permission of the patient, snapped this photo. I dismissed my intern off to conference shortly after that and continued talking to my patient while doing her hair.

Yep.

We talked about music and marriage and children and grandchildren. We talked about weather and womanhood and whether or not Beyonce's parents got into an argument over naming her that around the time that she was born. "Wish my husband would come at me talkin' 'bout some, 'Let's name our baby BE-YON-SAY!' What kinda name is that anyway?" That made me chuckle and shake my head. As for the whole lip syncing debacle, she could care less about that. "Her voice sound kinda shrilly if you ask me." She shrugged when she said that. And I laughed out loud because I wasn't sure if shrilly was even a word but that didn't matter because I knew exactly what she meant. Her kids had all grown up and were gainfully employed. Doing well and living their lives and still making her proud. So I asked her what the secret was. To having your kids come out like that and she turned her head back to look me in the eye.

"Just love them," she said.

"Just love them?" I repeated.

"Yes. Just love them. Be around them and tell them no when they need to hear it. Best thing you can do is just to love your chil'ren. And make sure they know you do, too."

"Got it." 

I carefully braided the last one to the end of its full length. After placing the comb down on the tray table, I asked if she needed anything else and she said no. So I told her I'd be back later and she said that was fine.

And I did come back later and it was fine.

So that was that. And that was this. Because this is Grady.

***
Happy Saturday. That moment reminded me a little of this one.

Pipeline.

I missed you in waves this week
Sometimes the little kind
that lap at your ankles
leaving foamy bubbles
over fluorescent-colored pedicures

But then there were the big ones
Building story tall ones
that surfer guys get excited over
but that lifeguards put red flags out for

Yeah
those kind

This week there was so much 
So much I wanted to tell you
Or rather ask you
I needed your influence
your insight
your encouragement
I needed your counsel
and your advice
Yes, I acutely needed those things
this week especially

From you
more than anyone else

Not because of some major catastrophe
No
but more because of little, everyday things
that were stacking up
The kinds of things that you always helped me with
in small doses over kitchen tables
and text messages
without either of us thinking about it

I wanted your perspective
Yours
So I had to dig into my heart
to find it where you'd left it
But every time I did
I could feel the tide rising higher and higher

First, at my feet
Then growing and growing
Knocking me down
and threatening to engulf me
suffocate me

But then I got up
dusted the sand off of me
Yes, I got up
Just like you'd tell me to do
And so I did
and so I do

Wade out into it
Head up and facing the horizon
shoulders back
heart pounding
but with confidence, belief

The kind you always gave me
You, especially you

Out I paddle
further and further
I hear you in my ear
You got this, sissy
You got this
And I believe you, I do

I brace myself and feel the wave coming
strong, mighty
building story high and just as intimidating
but this time I won't be knocked down
I remember and I feel you differently
hear you clearly

You got this, sissy
You got this

Up
Up on my feet
hands splayed to keep my balance
heart still beating wildly
salty air and water against my face
I take that wave on
and ride it unafraid

And now I know
now more than ever, I know
that you were a part of my pipeline
so those waves are okay
the ones that roll over my feet
and the ones that curl and crash into the surf

Yes
You were a part of my pipeline
and you always will be

I got this, sissy
I got this

***
Happy Friday.