Life in Pictures: The Puppy Mafia and other random things.

Hey. Feeling a little lazy today. Lots going on and have been super busy. Here's what I've been up to.


But first, here's a super random old photo I found in a box last week. That little baby is my friend Jada's son, Noah and he's now an eighth grader. Bananas.

That was from the weekend I was taking my Pediatrics certifying boards back in 2000. And yes, that wig looking bob is my hair. Um, yeah.

It's been a while since I've given an update on The Puppy Mafia. Well. This in no way means that my children have outgrown them. Puppy, Pup Pup, Puppy Dog, Little Guy, and the rest are still very much a part of the family.

Well.

Turns out that approximately 6 months ago, Isaiah was playing with Puppy outside and he got lost. Over the last several months, we've made a few weak attempts to find him--usually at dusk. We looked a couple of times during the day, but no dice. I was ready to give up on the pooch. Maaan, I got too much going on for all that. So me? I had totally given up. But as Isaiah always tells me (all matter of factly with eyelids at half mast,) "Puppy will never be lost forever."

Which has technically always been true. I still remain particularly impressed by Great Puppy Recovery of 2008 -- the nearly two year loss that occurred in my grandmother's house in Tuskegee, Alabama. You just try to find something in a house that someone has lived in for over fifty years. I just dare you. But Isaiah? He has Puppy radar. He totally found him. Even if it took almost two years for it to happen.

Yup.

Oh, and as for all of the rain, sleet, and what-not that Puppy was facing? It was fine because he's "already brave" -- remember? (Long, ridiculous story. See hyperlink above.)

Whelp. On Saturday morning, Isaiah put on his jacket and his determination and declared that morning the one when Puppy would be found. "I will not give up until he is home safe," Isaiah said.

Yup.

So you know what happened next. Mmmm hmmmm.

That's after a six month trip backpacking in our backyard. He actually looks pretty good, considering all that.

Here's some pictures from Tounces' birthday celebration.

It was a lovely time. She was happy. Which meant that we were all happy, too.

So, yeah. That was good.

Oh. I went to HLN  to do Raising America again today. That was cool.

Here's a funny thing -- one of the segment producers asked me for my Twitter handle. When I told him that I wasn't on Twitter or Facebook? He was all like:

Ha ha ha. Any excuse to use this GIF of Zachary. I'm totally hooked on this neat little app on my iPhone that makes these things. It's been a good time.

Anywho. After he stopped giving me the hairy eyeball it was cool. Ha ha ha.

I'll try to let y'all know next time in advance since HLN is a syndicated channel and most of you should be able to see it when it's on.

How cute is this baby picture of Isaiah? So smoochable.

 

Saw this last week in Kroger. But this time I didn't do the ugly cry like before, so it was cool. Instead I just felt happy and sort of wanted some lemon Jell-O cake.

What else?

Oh, these snaps from Zachary's playdate over the weekend with one of his buddies. They played video games for a few moments but then they opted for outdoors. For over two hours! I was so happy to see that some kids still want to play outside.

I was trying to have a cup of coffee and do some work a few days ago. I had an article due for this journal and was already past the deadline. I had work to do! Well. This gray-haired man sitting near me smiles. I smile back. Then he started talking my head off. OFF. Even though I was clearly BUSY. But he was an elder and thought he was funny. So I was polite. Even though I really was feeling all like:

Sorry. Another shameless excuse to use the GIF app. 

Dude. How much of a flashback is this button from Deanna's senior year jacket? 

Breakin' Fresh?

Cut. It. Out.

And this? This is just a cute picture of Isaiah.

That's all I've got for now. Night night!

***
Happy Tuesday.

We still love her more.

Today is Tounces' birthday. This is her, looking all sassy at the poolside, circa back-in-the-day. Could she possibly be any cuter? I think not.

Look at her. Hair all done up, likely drinking some kind of adult beverage and watching her kids splashing. She was probably feeling thankful that she'd paid for some solid swim lessons (and also dreading the mounds of kinky, chlorinated hair that she'd have to comb out later on that night.)

Mmm hmmm.

Yep. It's Mom's birthday. We've been loving on her so far and don't intend to stop. JoLai is here and that's good. This day is going to be hard for her. It already has been. But it's been good, too.

Deanna, on that same day in the pool

It's her first birthday since the new normal started, so there will be icky parts. Thinking of the perfect celebration we had for her last year has been bittersweet. Sweet because it was so full of love and special moments. Bitter because Deanna was there in person but can only be at this one in spirit. I just thought of something--there was a little video clip taken of Will and I from that night. It was a pivotal moment captured on film that Deanna thought to grab for posterity. I have always loved that it exists, but now will love it even more knowing that it was taken with her eye. Yes. We're missing her today. Especially today.

Sigh.

That said. There will be toasts. There will be hugs. Wine will be poured and just as we promised last year, we will always, always let Mom know that we love her more. More than she will ever know.


Yeah.

***
Happy Birthday, Tounces.

New to this blog since last year? Read about Mom's perfect 65th birthday and see that little video clip here. We are a very blessed family. We know that. Thanks to all of you for continuing to think of us -- and especially her.

This one is for you, Tounces.

Ain't that a shame.

"Ain't that a shame

You're the one to blame."

~ Fats Domino

"I just looked this word up I heard y'all saying on Google."

The patient knitted her brow and had this complex expression of anger mixed with hurt when she said that. I had just come into the room with the resident and was admittedly taken aback by this being the first thing she hit us with.

"Pardon me?" I said that rather reflexively. Normally, I would have introduced myself before saying anything else. But walking in and immediately hearing something like this threw everything out of order. "Uhh, I'm sorry. My name is Dr. Manning. I'm the senior doctor working with your primary physician."

She had her phone in her hand and was still studying it. I'm not even sure if she heard my obligatory introduction. "Why do y'all have to call somebody 'morbid' obesity?"

Wait, huh?

Here's the thing. This patient was no less  than three hundred fifty pounds. Her knees were being crushed under the weight and this, more than anything, was the medical problem that plagued her the most. She needed knee replacements but wasn't a good candidate for the surgery. Why? Because of her weight.

Just outside the door, the resident asked me if all patients with morbid obesity had to "just live with the pain" until they lost some substantial weight. That's when I responded by discussing the likelihood for effective healing/outcome of a newly imported weight bearing joint under so much weight.

"Y'all said I was morbid obesity." She said it matter-of-factly. "I ain't know what that meant so I looked it up."

My resident and I exchanged glances. Neither of us knew what to say.

"You know? I been fat my whole life. But nobody never called me morbid. Damn."

"That's just a medical word we use to describe. . . um. . .when somebody has . .like. . . .a lot of extra weight on them."

"I understand," she replied. "But I want y'all to know something. It ain't right to call somebody morbid. I don't give a damn how big they is."

I stared at her for a beat and then let her words sink in. My resident and I had both tossed that word around outside of her room. Loud enough for her to hear -- and then subsequently enter into a Google search.

Damn.

We had just put a remix on, with our medical jargon, something hurtful that she'd been hearing for her entire life:  "You're too fat."

And yes. She'd heard us correctly. Our words could not have been clearer. You aren't just obese. You're the morbid kind of obese.

I googled that word--morbid--just like she did. And here is the first thing that pops up:

mor·bid  

/ˈmôrbəd/

Adjective Characterized by or appealing to an abnormal and unhealthy interest in disturbing and unpleasant subjects, esp. death and disease. Of the nature of or indicative of disease.

Synonyms: unhealthy - diseased - unsound - ill - sickly

Great.

So this is the medical jargon-y word that we tack on to that word obesity when describing the disabling kind to other health care providers. Not just obese. Morbidly so.

I thought about the word "morbid" and how I usually use it when not speaking to other physicians. Mostly I'm referring to something deathly, sickly or awful sounding. I imagined hearing this word being spoken about me by others and then looking it up only to find that definition. I could see why this was hurtful.

Sigh.

So what happened? Well, all that could happen, really. I told her that I was sorry for saying something that was clearly hurtful to her. I acknowledged that we often use medical terms without thinking much of how they might sound or feel to someone else. We agreed that saying the word "morbid" to describe any person's body habitus was probably not very kind. Even if it was an accepted medical term.

And the patient? She just stared ahead and mumbled that it was okay. But I could tell that her feelings were hurt.

Obesity is so, so complicated. It stands as one of our biggest barriers to health and hardest to overcome. The mind and the identity component, the emotional parts, and the social aspects. People learn to live with that part of who they are and it gets very tricky when we hit them with these overly simplistic suggestions for overhauling all of that.

The other struggle is just the whole socially acceptable practice of open discrimination to those who are very overweight. I admit that I've been there, too. Fighting against rolling my eyes when an overweight acquaintance who regularly complains of being overweight or who pays good money for a personal trainer cracks open a can of full sugar Coca Cola. Or even cringing last night while watching the "pleasantly plump" actress on HBO's GIRLS playing a game of nude ping pong during a love scene.

That actually made me write about this today. Thoughts about obesity and the flip words often tossed about in reference to it. Even the medical ones.

So, yeah. I don't have the answers. But I do know that I don't want to be a doctor who hurts patients' feelings with words that aren't absolutely necessary. I also want to be understanding, even when something deep inside fights against that.

That's all I got today.

***
Welcome to Saturday, y'all.


Now playing on the mental iPod. . . . Mr. Fats Domino.


And some old school hip hop--The Fat Boys with "Don't You Dog Me." You just gotta love the Human Beatbox!

The music never ends.

How do you keep the music playing?
How do you make it last?

How do you keep the song from fading
too fast?

How do you lose yourself to someone
and never lose your way?

How do you not run out of new things
to say?

And since you know we're always changing
How can it be the same?

And tell me how year after year
You're sure your heart will fall apart 

Each time you hear his name?

I know the way I feel for you is now or never 

The more I love, the more that I'm afraid 

That in your eyes I may not see forever. . . .forever. . .

 

If we can be the best of lovers 

Yet be the best of friends

If we can try with every day to make it better as it grows 

 With any luck then I suppose 

The music never ends. 

~ lyrics by LeGrand/Bergman

___________________________

Not because it's Valentine's Day, but in spite of it. I need the world to know that on days other than this one, there are folks trying with every day to make it better and to keep the music playing. Not just on Hallmark holidays, but all year round.

I love my husband. I love him for loving me right in front of my boys every single day. I love him for the fighting chance he is giving them at feeling whole and deserving of love. I love him for rushing home today from a busy, busy day at his newest business venture--not because he thought I so much needed it, but because he thinks it's important for him "to show his sons how to treat the person they love." So that meant coming home and giving them flowers and balloons to give Mommy.

Just like he does every year.

"You have to make sure she feels special every day. But on certain days, you can make it even more special, okay?"

That's what he says and they believe it. In fact, they believe just about every word that comes out of his mouth. So I'm also glad that he's got common sense and isn't a damn fool.

Yeah, I said it.

Hindsight is 20/20. When I was waiting for the BHE, I was so tired of it. I wanted it now. I wanted to plan my wedding and have my babies. I was furious with fate for having me graduate medical school and finish residency as a single woman. In fact, I was more than furious. I was exhausted.

I'd go places and spend time with people who didn't really deserve my time. Listen to their blah-blah-blah and try to force myself to feel what wasn't there. And that sucked.

Finally, I got exhausted enough to say, "I'm just going to do me." Which meant, even if I was going to ride this life out on a solo mission, I refused--absolutely REFUSED--to be:

a. miserable.
b. dealing with somebody who didn't deserve my time.
c. fretful.
d. that woman who is constantly wah-wah-waaaah-ing about singlehood over thirty.

And that's what I did. Did me. And prayed some, too.

Shortly after that I met Harry. And let me tell you something -- I knew that I had CAME UP (no, not come up, I meant to say CAME UP) on something really, really good from that first moment we met. I promise myself every single day that I won't forget it or take one second of our time together for granted.

And I don't. Ever, not never.

Me? I got a testimony. I am patting my chest and walking through a crowd of angry, tired, jaded people. And standing up for love. Pointing my finger in their faces and saying that no, we ain't perfect, but dammit we are trying with every day to keep our music playing. Sometimes our record skips, but we are trying, man. With every day. And I just have to believe that there are others out there doing the same.

There's also somebody, somewhere wishing someone exactly like you would be the other part to their two part harmony, too. YES. Somebody who wants to treat you nice. All the time. And call you back consistently and not just after ten P.M. And who truly likes your company. In private and in public. YES. And who doesn't mind that you are WIDE open about how much your heart falls apart each time you hear his or her name.

And if they AREN'T all of these things, tell them to KICK ROCKS. And DO YOU until that person shows up. And if the person is kind of this way but not all the way ready, tell them to KICK ROCKS and still DO YOU until either the right person turns up or that person gets it together. But no Mr. or Ms. In-between. NUH-NO.

And.

If you DO have somebody? Man. Fight. Fight to keep your music playing. Keep the climate cozy and warm. I believe that good people can do bad things when they don't have basic needs met. So pay attention. Keep the thermostat in the right place and check it often. That way nobody goes looking for an extra fan or a little space heater on the side.

Mmm hmmm.

Uggh. I'm rambling.

Damn. Do I sound preachy? I don't mean to. I just feel like love needs defense sometimes. So that's what I'm doing. Defending love, man. And encouraging somebody because I know I've said it twelve trillion times, but I need to say it again. I was NOT lucky in love before I met Harry. And this lady once told me when I was crying about being single and how there was nobody out there -- she simply said that, "All you're looking for is one person." Which now I know was a good word if I ever heard one.

Yeah, it was.

Just one. And what a relief. Imagine if you needed to find like six? Or twelve? Talk about some pressure. Imagine an Easter Egg hunt where all you had to find was one egg? You wouldn't even mind if they hid them a little better, would you?

What the hell am I even talking about? I don't know. I just love my husband. That I do know. On Valentine's Day and all the random ones in between.

Yup.

That's all I got for tonight. I wish easy and authentic love to each and every one of you. More than your hands, head and heart can even hold.

And I mean that.

***
Feliz Dia de San Valentin!

Now playing. . . . my favorite version of this song. . .James Ingram featuring Patti Austin. . .

It's Valen-times Day!

Me on Valentine's Day 2002 - present

Me on Valentine's Day 2001 and before

February 14 is here! 100% inflation on roses and expectations for you to do things that you feel too damn tired to even wrap your minds around! Yes! It's Valentine's Day!!!

Yeah.

Hoping yours is all cherries and not the pits.

The sultry smize I gave a stranger named Harry across the room circa 2002. Ha ha. . .NOT.

Oh! And don't forget to smize. (In my experience, it leads to chocolate-covered strawberries and more. . . .even if you're old and 'flicted.)

Ha.

***
Happy Valentine's Day from a reformed Valentine's Day Hater. Or as Zachary call's it "Valen-times Day!"

Old and 'flicted.

Hey, y'all. Just checking in real quick for some random chit-chat over coffee on a rainy Wednesday morning.

*Yawn*

Well. I'm slightly annoyed because I've been having some ankle pain for the last several days. As I mentioned before, I've been training for a half marathon in Deanna's memory and it's been going great. Well, mostly great. A little over a week ago, I ran about five and a half miles (which, for me, was like an ultra marathon.) The following day I felt awesome so hit the pavement for another three miles. When I got home, I started feeling this nagging discomfort in my left ankle on the outer side.

Just superior to the lateral malleolus, for you nerdy medicine people who need the jargon to go with my symptoms.

So. Where was I? Oh, my ankle. So, yeah. I decided that it wasn't so bad and ran on it a couple of days later. Epic. Fail. By the following day, I was limping. And so. I gave it a solid four days of rest, ibuprofen and all the stuff WE tell our patients they need and it (mostly) felt better. I even went to a fancy, schmancy performance running store to see if I was a "pronator" or yadda yah whatever they say you are if your foot rolls in or out or something or other. Turns out I have a high arch and that I am not a pronator but instead just a normal chick who runs regular.

But.

They still convinced me to get a shoe made for a person with a high arch and a non-pronator-y foot, so I get home with it all proud of myself for (sort of) seeking medical attention. And by medical attention, I mean the dude in the Big Peach Running Store who had me run on a treadmill and who projected my bony ankles and feet on a big-A screen while analyzing my stride.

Mmm hmmm.

So I put on my new, custom fit, swanky running shoes yesterday morning. I can still feel a tiny niggle in my ankle but I decide to be bad ass and run through it. Because, I mean, it had been like five days and I was feeling myself regressing back to my baseline wanna-be runner status.

And as a sidebar, despite my medical attention from the dude in Big Peach, I also got a consult from the BHE who has done his share of running as an ex-army dude/marathoner. And his assessment of the whole situation is:

"You're forty-two babe. And you didn't rest enough."

To which I scoffed, "Dude. Are you calling me old? Are you saying my diagnosis is old-and-flicted?"

To which he replied, "That is exactly what I'm saying, baby. Old and 'flicted."

And if you don't know what 'flicted is, just know that it's short for AF-flicted and pretty much is a word to describe anything that used to work but now does not.

For example:

"I just got this umbrella and on that windy day it turned inside out on me. Now it's all 'flicted."

Or:

"Why you walking all like you 'flicted?"

"'Cause I think I hurt my ankle running."

"Did you roll it?"

"No! That's why I'm so bothered by it!"

"Oh. Maybe you're just old and 'flicted. That happens over forty."

"Uhhh, thanks. . .?"

Yeah.

So yesterday morning, in my hoity-toity runners, I went out again for three and a half miles. And today I am limping. Completely limping. Which sucks.

I'm 'flicted, people. 'Flicted, I say!

So now I guess I'm going to have to wait a solid week. And if within that week I don't feel better, I'm going to have to break down and get it imaged. The last thing I need is to hear that I have some kind of stress fracture. So yeah, I ain't even claiming that. 

No, I am not.

What else?  Oh. Despite my 'flicted ankle, yesterday I did a segment at HLN on this show called Raising America. I like HLN. It's a sister station to CNN and usually one channel over from it, at least here it is. They are all in the same studios in the CNN center. That was my first time doing HLN in studio. I really, really enjoyed their energy. I hope to go back. Next time I'll give you guys some notice so that you can check a sista out.

And lastly, this:

This is my friend, Shahed. She's one of my faves and is technically not a Grady doctor anymore but a VA doctor. She refers to her patients as "America's heroes" which I completely love. And she feels the way about the VA and our vets that I do about my Grady elders, so she's alright with me.

She's also hilarious. And super smart. And a major cat lover. The cat lover part is what is most hilarious. I took these pictures of Shah at the end of our Residency Leadership Committee meeting Friday as proof that she is indeed a "crazy cat lady."  She states firmly that she "only has four cats" which technically doesn't make her at "crazy cat lady" status.  To which I said, "No. Not crazy-hoarder-cat-lady status but crazy cat lady status nonetheless." 

To which she concurred. But not before showing me her collection of photoshopped Atlanta Falcons versions of her ultra-mega-kittens (as she calls them.)

Ha.

I love my job, my ankle is 'flicted, and it's raining in Atlanta. That's what's going on with me. What's up with y'all?

***
Happy Wednesday.

Music Lyrics Monday: Colorblind.

Colorblind

I am colorblind.
Coffee black and egg white.
Pull me out from inside.
I am ready I am ready.

I am taffy stuck and tongue tied.
Stutter shook and uptight.
Pull me out from inside.
I am ready I am ready.
I am fine.

I am covered in skin.
No one gets to come in.
Pull me out from inside.
I am folded and unfolded and unfolding.

I am colorblind.
Coffee black and egg white.
Pull me out from inside.
I am ready I am ready.
I am fine I am fine.
I am fine.

~ Counting Crows

___________________________________

I was running to this song recently and somehow it made me feel like I could fly. Like literally leap up into the air, churning my legs into the atmosphere like Elliot on that bike in E.T. 

I just find this song to be so hauntingly beautiful. Kind of like. . .I don't know. . . like it puts me in a trance when I hear it. Like I could run to it forever. 

Crazy, I know.

What does it mean? I don't know. But it is poetic. And like a lot of good poetry and good lyrics it means something different to me every time I hear it.

You can decide what it means to you. . . . .

***
Happy Monday.

Now playing . . . . 

Tick tock.

His hands are steady. His feet just far enough apart. Wrists firm and arms stiffened.

Tick tock. Tick tock.

He took his practice swings and I know for certain that this is what he was saying in his head. Reminding himself to swing gently, with the control of a pendulum. Because he is cerebral. Methodical. And, as his coach describes him, "analytical."

Tick tock. Tick tock.

In went the first ball. And then the second. He missed the third and then regrouped. Regrounded himself. Refocused.

Tick tock. Tick tock.

Calm eye. Feet in position. Back straight. Shoulders strong.

Tick tock. Tick tock.

In. In. In. Yes.

He looked up at me and smiled. And I smiled back because I was watching. I sure was. And so was his little brother with his own perforated grin and also holding up two thumbs high from across the room.

That warmed my heart. Because every day, I always say to them, "What do brothers do?" And in unison they say, "Stick together!" And sticking together means being for each other. Encouraging each other, supporting each other and just loving one another.

See, the little brother? He's just naturally athletic. He's a fast runner, a good catcher and is quick and agile. At most things, he's uber-competitive and is able to stick and move like he was born to do just that.

But the elder brother is less so. At least less natural at those games that require fast running and speedy hand-eye coordination. And all of it is fine. With us. With them.

Most importantly, with them. 

It really is. Which makes me feel like I've done something right.

He may not run as fast. But this? This is Isaiah's thing. And watching him do this thing that celebrates his unique athleticism, his careful mind and builds his confidence at the same time is just. . . . cool.

But knowing my sons remember that no matter what, they're always on the same team? That's even cooler.

Yeah.

***
Happy Sunday.