Top Ten: Happy Feelings and Thankfulness.

late night leaving the School of Medicine. . .

"I've got myself to remind me of love."

~ Frankie Beverly

______________________________________________________

My eyes opened at five in the morning today. Not sure why, but couldn't fall back asleep. I folded my elbows behind my back and stared up at the ceiling for a bit. Usually that, and the sound of the BHE's rhythmic breathing, lull me back to sleep. But not this morning.

Yesterday had its highs and lows. Mostly it had highs and I'm thankful for that. But there was one part of my day where I was standing in the hallway talking to my friend Stacie S. and she said, "I am feeling anxious today for some reason." And I looked at her and said, "You know what? I am, too. I just sort of have this undercurrent of something in me and I'm not sure what it is." And she nodded when I said that because she agreed.

I'm not sure what that feeling for me or my colleague was even about. But some days I just feel that way. This little static electricity buzzing beneath my surface in a way that I don't like. Over time, I've learned that it just means I need to go somewhere and exhale. For me, I find that just sitting still for a bit and letting myself reflect on what is good in my life recharges me.

Yeah.

You know what else? Being with and talking to people I love and trust helps, too. Sometimes it's a family member or an old friend. Other times it's a friend at work or even one of my students. But mostly there is just this safety I feel with certain people that plugs me back in.

But the truth is that, more than anything, I've got myself to remind me of love. And whenever I remind myself of love, that undercurrent is quieted. The happiness wells up inside of me and comes oozing out in my actions. So that's what I am doing today. On this early morning, I bring you this (likely random) top ten of recent moments in my life that have reminded me of love.

And you know what? It doesn't take much. It doesn't.

Like to hear it? Here it go. 


#10  Breakfast with Small Group Beta

I had the chance to meet up with graduating members of Small Group Beta for a casual breakfast last week. Everything about it was wonderful and it reminded me of how intensely grateful I am to have had the opportunity to serve as their academic advisor for the past four years.

We broke bread and chatted about this, that, and also the other. Nothing about it was unusual. But that's what made it so special. It was everything our dynamic has evolved to become. Easy. Safe. Good.

I am thankful for that.

#9  This email.

I received this email on a particularly shitty day that I was having recently. I was rounding and feeling overtired, overbusy, and just. . . yeah. I'd just returned from Denver and just felt spent, man. But then opened my inbox and saw this from the daughter of one of my former patients:

"I wanted to take a moment to write you, as we just passed the 3rd anniversary of my dad's passing yesterday and my mother and I spent a lot of time reflecting on all the wonderful people who wrapped around our family to protect our hearts during that very difficult time.  Your name came right up, as we reminisced on your kindness and professionalism which had a huge impact on our family, but most importantly on my dad.
 
I still often sit and remember that cloudy afternoon when we sat in his room, just with you and talked openly and honestly about his illness.  You were one of the few souls who was not afraid to respect your patient (and our family) enough to talk about the truth and your most honest feelings.  While many others were afraid to commit to a diagnosis or to be too direct about the seriousness of his cancer, your most caring and openly honest approach was the best possible medicine we got as a family, as it allowed us to truly accept what we were dealing with.

 To this day, and for the rest of my life, I will remain eternally grateful for you coming into our lives in the exact moment you did."

I promptly found the nearest bathroom where I leaned against the sink and cried. That affirmation came at a time that I really could use it. And I want to do a good job, you know? Especially at times like that.

Yeah.

Even though I've got myself to remind me of love, it's always nice when someone else does, too.

 #8  Kevin S.

 This is Kevin S. And he is a medical student that I have had the pleasure of helping to mentor over the last two years. This photograph was taken yesterday evening at their Senior Banquet, right after he'd just been awarded a huge service award from one of the Emory SOM deans.

Now. Let me just say that while Kevin totally deserved this award, one really special thing about Emory is that there are so many students here with hearts for serving others that it could have gone to a large number of others, too. Which is super cool, right?

But the reason I mention Kevin is because he could possibly one of the best people I've ever known. And I am not just saying that because I am filled with near-graduation sappiness, either. He is just a remarkable human being and the kind of person that makes you believe in your heart that the future has a fighting chance.

Yeah. I don't even know how to describe what it is about him. I think one part of it is that he can see the good in all people. All people. Which makes them want to live up to what they see in his eyes. I feel better for knowing him.

Kevin is going up to Boston (yes, Harvard) for residency. He has a strong interest in healthcare for the homeless and street medicine. And? Despite his humility and selflessness, he is as smart as five hundred whips cracking at the same time. Isn't it great that he'll be using his powers for good?

He's going into Internal Medicine. Pardon me while I do the happy dance one more time. Ha ha!

I'm thankful for Kevin.


#7  Brother-BFFs

Last week for Isaiah's birthday, he had two friends sleep over. We also all went to LegoLand Discovery Center because Isaiah loves building Legos. Anyways. Zachary was there, too, and mostly because Isaiah wanted it that way. At one point, he and his friends were playing and it appeared that Zachary was going to be left out as the "little brother." That's when I overheard Isaiah saying this:

"I'm never going to leave my little brother out. Never. So whatever we play has to be for four people because he likes what we like and he's my very best friend no matter what. And my mom says that brothers always stick together."

And that was that.

They are totally different from one another. And yes, they fight sometimes. But mostly they stick together and are very good friends.

I'm thankful for that.

#6  My inner Deanna/Mommy.

I've already told you how ridiculously creative my sister Deanna was. Well. That apple didn't fall far from the tree. My mom is super, duper creative. And while I would like to think of myself as the same, I am first to admit that I am not necessarily the crafty kind of creative like them.

This week at school, the kids have their annual "Book Parade." Isaiah's class is doing Charlotte's Web (hello? awesome!) and Zachary's class is doing Click, Clack, Moo: Cows that Type. Well. Turns out that this means that Isaiah needs to be Templeton the rat and Zachy needs to be a cow. 

Mmmm hmmmm.

And so. I sat on my floor cross-legged and channeled my inner Deanna/Mommy. I decided that I would  not go and spend a bunch of money but would instead use my noggin. And so I asked myself what those two crafty chicks would do.

Here's the result:

Yes, people. That is a baseball cap that I covered with grey tissue paper. Those ears were from a 99 cent pack of pink plates.

The whiskers were cut off of an old broom. Dude. Deanna would SO be high-fiving me right now.

And the cow? Black baseball cap with horns and ears stapled on. Nice little nose on the bib.

And Harry was hating on my balloon teats but to that I say, "Whatev." Dude. A pink plate with balloon teats? As Sarah Palin would say, "You betcha."

Ha.

Now. The paper towel spots? These are just for future family lore later. The story Zachary will tell about the ghetto costume his mama whipped up for him that included Bounty paper towels. But what can I say? A sister was using what was up in the house. Period.

Promise to post pictures of the outcome. Good, bad, or indifferent.

 ~ ***break to get kids ready for school ***~

Okay, I'm back.

Grrrr. This just in: Zachary put the kibosh on the teats. He said they gave him "the creeps." Which made Harry LOL until coffee sprayed from his mouth and nose. And to that I say, "Haters gon' hate."

Mmm hmmm.

Yeah. I'm thankful for my kids and for a chance to do things like this that my mom did for me.


#5  Jack and Jill.

Speaking of things my mom did for me. . . . .

Well. When we were growing up, my mother belonged to this amazing organization of predominantly, but not exclusively, African-American mothers called Jack and Jill of America. Jack and Jill is well known to most black folks, but for those who are unfamiliar, the focus is on exposing children to culture, service and leadership throughout the communities in which they live. By age groups, moms plan awesome activities every month and really focus on helping to create tomorrow's leaders. And--they do all of this while helping the kids stay grounded in who they are culturally and individually. We also learned a TON about Black History which was super cool.

So anyways. My mom had FOUR kids in FOUR groups in Jack and Jill. Which is kind of crazy because that's a crap ton of work. But what it gave us? Priceless.

Last week, I followed Tounces' footsteps and was installed as a Jack and Jill mom in my own right. Crazy, right? It really felt like a full circle moment. I'm excited to give Isaiah and Zachary all the the organization gave to us. I made some very close friends that stayed with me for life through Jack and Jill. My roommate in med school and every couch I crashed on during college road trips were all courtesy of Jack and Jill.

You betcha.

So yeah. I'm thankful that my mom made that sacrifice. And even more thankful that, through her example, now I want to do the same.


#4  Nurses.

This week was Nurses' Appreciation Week. The doctors hosted a lunch for all of our clinic nurses, complete with physician servers. And even better, the food was catered from the one and only Mardi Gras Cafe.

Woot woot!

Start shameless plug:

BTdubs, Mardi Gras is doing GREAT! A ton of you have stopped by already and I am sooo appreciative. So is the BHE. He says, "Your blog readers are NO JOKE." And to that I say, "Duh?" Please--if you haven't made it over there--go and have some yummy food! There's also live music on Wednesdays and Fridays.

End shameless plug.

Our nurses are our rocks. No question about it, they are. And they ROCK, too.

It felt good to recognize them because they deserve it.

I am thankful for our nurses at Grady. I am.

#3  Ira S.

Ira S. is one of our medical school deans. He is amazing and kind and empathic and simply an unforgettable human being. He's an oratorical genius, a true friend, and a cherished mentor. I am so happy to know him and to be a part of his light. I mean that. I've never known a better listener than Ira. When you talk to him, you know that what you have to say is important. I think of Ira a lot when speaking to my kids, my patients and my advisees. He has helped me a lot with the art of listening.

I could go on and on 'til the break of dawn about this man. But just know that I--and many, many others--am thankful for Ira S.

#2  More Medical Student Moments.

First this:

This was given to me by my SG Beta advisee, Dan W. This is his actual match day result paper that he framed along with our picture from that day. I haven't been that moved since Adam gave me his award in 2011.

I think I love this so much because it is a tangible reminder of what we can do for each other when we trust one another and work together. I will always cherish this because the day Dan opened that envelope remains one of the top three proudest moments of my professional career to date.

The Grady elders would say, "See, chile, you just see the glory. But, baby, you don't know the story!"

But in this case, we both know that story. So it felt good to share in that glory, too.

And this:

Med student power couples. Loved seeing these students at the banquet last night who met in medical school and became each others' everything. Love is a beautiful thing, ain't it?

Shivika and Sameer:  Ob/Gyn and Surgery, respectively. Awesome, collectively.

Marissa and Max:  Ob/Gyn and Internal Medicine, respectively. Will be pledging their undying love under a lovely chuppah in just a few weeks. Yay!

Nate and Marla:  Nate? So multidimensional and innovative that no title suffices. And Marla? Destined to be the world's most stunning Urology resident. Nate and Marla are extra special because I knew, loved and advised them before they were a couple. Now it's an added bonus to see them in love because I already know what an awesome catch the other is getting.

with Marla from SGB

And this one:

Joelle R.

Joelle just returned from an extended stint in Africa. She is as brilliant as she is beautiful. And she's my kind of people because she lives her life like she means it. I admire that so much.

Even if I don't have the "move to Africa" gene like she and my friend Kris do. ;)

#1  Pleasant Surprises.

Last night there were a couple of really cool surprises. One was the flash mob that the students organized to have take place at the Senior Banquet in the middle of everything. Even more awesome was that they'd heard of my flash mob obsession and invited me to be a part of it. Woo hoo!

Turns out there was another faculty member who was game (Barbara P.) and all of the rest were students. The look on everyones' faces when we hopped up from our tables and joined the choreography was PRICELESS. Like, OMG PRICELESS.

Even better than that was the song we danced to--Beyonce's Who Runs the World? Girls! And the other song for the guys was Justin Timberlake's Suit and Tie. This was TOTALLY fitting because y'all already know how infatuated I am with Beyonce and JT. A flash mob? To Beyonce? So. There.

Sorry, no blackmail photos as of yet. I think everyone was just so damn stunned that they didn't get their cameras out in time. Ha ha ha.

Best. Fun. Ever.

But if you must know, it really looked a lot like this. Well kinda-sorta-but-not-really like this:



If I was about thirty-five years younger, I would have said, "I'm Beyonce! TAP TAP!!" (In my head I TOTALLY was. Like totally.)

Ha.

The other cool surprise was this:

We all put so much heart and soul into these students. This group in particular was very, very special to me. It meant a lot to be honored by them in this very special way. It truly did.

And no, this was not something I expected at all. I mean . . .who does that? I certainly don't.

I am thankful for this and was sure to flick that little voice away from me the minute it started up with all of the reasons why this was some freakish fluke. (Yes, the little voice is alive and well, y'all.)

Enough Already. Already Enough. Enough already. Already enough.

Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.

Yelling in my own head, "I am enough!"

I also knew that when I texted Tounces and Poopdeck this news, it would make them acutely proud. Or rather acute-on-chronically proud. That's always a bonus. It totally is.

And you know? I'm super thankful for that part, too.


That's all I got. I hope you let yourself remind you of love today. I'm happy that I did today.

***
Happy Friday.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . .Mr. Frankie Beverly sings about "Happy Feelings."  

Slumber party.

 

Now. Multiply this by 18 hours and you'll feel like you were there.

***

Happy Tuesday.

8 years and 8 million wishes.

To be young, gifted, and black
We must begin to tell our young
That there's a whole world

a whole world waiting for you

Haven't you heard the quest has just begun?

Don't you know the joy, the joy, the joy of the today
Is the day that we all.....that we all be proud to say
That we are young, gifted and black. . . 

and it's sho' nuff where its at

~ Donny Hathaway

_______________________________

Happy 8th birthday to my beloved manchild, Isaiah. This song makes me think of you and your brother. . . and every single thing I want you to always know. I want you to hold your head high, to believe in your gifts, and to understand the responsibility standing squarely upon your shoulders as a beautiful brown child of your generation.

I know you're young. I know. But still. I want you to achieve everything your heart desires and live to your full potential. . . . .but, see, I want you to do it all while understanding that it wasn't always that way. And I want you to look in the mirror and like who you see.

No, love who you see.

I don't want you to get lost in a fight to assimilate or to blend into whatever is considered "the thing." I want you to be you. I want you to know who you are and to be so cool with you that you give those around you permission to be the same. And I want you to stand up and say something when people don't.

Yes, son. On the day you were born and even eight years later on the day you always have called my "mommyversary", my hopes for you haven't changed. Your safety, of course. Your health, of course. But also that you will be as peaceful as your eyes were in this picture taken when you were only two years old. That you will be happy and confident and thankful no matter where you are. And that you become so grounded that you fit in anywhere you go.

Yes. I want you to bust through ceilings and tear down walls. But it is my prayer that you do those things without divorcing yourself from your culture and all that your ancestors did to get you here.

To get us here.

 

I will spend my whole life building you up and letting you know who you are. Over and over and over again. Because who you are is wonderful. Wonderful and special and cherished.

Happy birthday, my beautiful, beautiful, beautiful beautiful boy. May your bright future and smile always be a lamp at your feet, my son. And may you always know that you are young, gifted and black--and since that's who God made you to be--that that's sho' nuff where it's at.

***

Happy Monday.

Playing this for you, son, just as your grandpa played it for me at this age until I believed it. Mr. Donny Hathaway says it better than we can.

 

Grandparents and grandsons and doggies, oh my!

Hanging out on Saturday with Grandma and Papa (and the pups!)

If this doesn't make you smile, then something is seriously wrong with you.

***
Happy Cinco de Mayo!

I'm right here.

A group of young adults were gathered in a local pub for dinner. Air filled with a mixture of wafting plumes of cigarette smoke, hoppy beers, and music just loud enough to count as ambient noise. It was a perfect place for these friends--easily a dozen of them--full of that carefree exuberance you see in twenty-somethings. Their laughter was robust and their jokes unabridged. Not in that obnoxious way. Just in that way that says, "We're glad to be alive."

One seemed to be the life of the party. His hand motions were animated, his fingers splayed apart and almost exaggerated. He had the kind of smile that was so wide and full that you couldn't help but erupt into the same when you saw it. And perhaps this explained the energy at the table more than anything else.

A waitress who appeared to be close in age to them fluttered over to take their orders. She seemed mostly glad to be assigned to their table, almost as if she knew that infectious joy might catch the hem of her garment and ignite her with that same. She licked her finger and turned the page in the pad of paper in her hand. "Are ya'll ready to order now?"

The lively one answered first. "Yes! I don't know about them but I'm hungry like the wolf!" That made the group howl with laughter, maybe even like that metaphorical wolf.

The waitress glanced in the lively one's direction. Well, sort of. Something about him seemed to have caught her off guard. Her brow was furrowed and there was this awkward, forced quality to her expression. "Umm. . . that's. . . really funny, actually," she finally said. Although it isn't clear what she meant by that. She released a nervous chuckle and then addressed the entire table, "Has everyone decided on what they'll be having this evening?"

They all seemed to prop open their menus as if on cue. The waitress pulled the Bic pen from behind her ear and raised her eyebrows at the gentleman sitting to her immediate left. He got the message and started the litany of orders in this noisy pub. Still intermingled with laughter and jokes. The kind that says, "We're glad to be alive."

"Fish and chips. But only if you have malt vinegar. Because having fish and chips without malt vinegar should be a crime, chile!" (laughter)

"Give me the juiciest, greasiest all-beef burger you have. How would I like it cooked? Cooked? Bring it out here right now, baby, because it's already overcooked as we speak. Rare. That is, I want that sucka moo-ing and fighting me between two buns." (more laughter)

"Do you have any kind of salad? SIKE! That's a joke. Give me the bangers and mash. And a plate of onion rings." (laughter and high fives)

And all of this went on and on in a clockwise fashion around that table. All with witty one-liners, back slaps, and fun. Especially from that lively one. He seemed to have this infectious enthusiasm that made everyone at that table just a little bit happier.

"Myyy turn," he announced while waving his hand high over his head. The waitress offered him that same layered expression. She cocked her head sideways and sort of jutted her bottom lip out. Then she shifted her eyes away from the lively one to the young woman sitting directly beside him. "So cute," she said in that way you describe baby koala bears. "Will you be ordering for him, honey?"

And just like that, the mood changed. That easygoing happiness came screeching to a halt as everyone sat there looking nervously at one another.

"IIII can. . . .I can order . . for myself."

"Oh, honey. I'm sure you can." She feigned confidence in him and nodded quickly at him -- just like people nod at babies taking their first steps. Cute for babies and koala bears, but patronizing and offensive for adults.

A hurt expression washed over him but she missed it. In a somber voice he told her,  "I have cerebral palsy and that's it. I can read, I can choose a meal, and I can order."

Like all things you see and hear repeatedly, once you got to know him, the less noticeable his speech impediment seemed. In fact, it was almost nonexistent after a while. I am willing to bet that those friends of his were so far beyond it that they didn't really pay much attention to it. All they saw was their friend.

But still.

His voice was no longer laced with that mischievous wit from before. Now he seemed more self conscious of his differences from the rest of his "normal" friends. The rhythmic crescendo-decrescendo of his affected speech and his slow hand movements now appeared more pronounced.

The waitress just stood there, still pointing her pen at that pad. Her face was frozen, mortified, but weirdly unapologetic. "My bad, I guess," she said with a tiny shrug. She glanced back at the other people sitting at the table with him, still not giving him the dignity of her eye contact.  "I was thinking he was---"

"I'm right here," he interjected, pointing two awkward fingers at his eyes and then gesturing back toward hers. "Right here. You can talk to. . .to me."

And that? That wasn't unusual for him. He'd spent his entire life navigating through these uncomfortable assumptions of what his motor disability meant. He'd learned to counter the unwarranted pity he always seemed to garner with humor. With those who had the chance to really get to know him, that coping skill served him well. But still. Time after time, he had to face moments like this one--unknowing people who reduced disabilities like his to these limping, slurring caricatures portrayed by stand-up comics--complete with super-slow, simpleminded mentation that, for him and many others affected by cerebral palsy, wasn't a component of his differences at all. At all.

But now that I think of it, even if it was, there would still be feelings. I'm pretty certain that those feelings could be hurt by daily insensitivities such as being regarded as invisible or even infantile.

And so, like always, that moment stung. Piercing like a million angry wasps all at once and embarrassing enough to make his face just as red.

"Everybody thinks I'm mentally retarded," he said softly. "Everyone, Dr. Manning. Nobody sees me as a regular person, a man."

This is what my patient told me right before telling me that story. Tears were rolling down his cheeks and he clumsily patted them with Kleenex. "I do," I finally replied.

"You're. . .a doooctor," he responded. "That's what you're supposed to say."

And I sat in silence because I wasn't sure whether or not there was any truth in that statement. I hoped not.

"What makes me sad is not my disability. What makes me sad is how people see my disability instead of me." He patted his chest for emphasis. "Me."

"That makes me sad, too."

"Everybody wants to feel valued," he said. "Everybody wants you to just see them and love them for who they are inside. Not the things you see on the outside."

Something about that simple truth made my eyes prickle with tears. He went on.

"Black, white, boy, girl, straight, gay, old, young---it don't matter. It's like I told that waitress, Dr. Manning. 'I'm right here.'" He made that same motion with his hands to his eyes again. "Right here."

And I just listened and nodded and took that all in. Because this was a good word. A really, really good word.

He asked me to share this with other people and I promised him that I would. He, too, writes and clapped his hands when I asked his permission to write about him on this blog. "As long as it ain't Perez Hilton," he said with that same sarcasm that had his friends laughing out loud. 

"Nope, " I responded.

"Okay. Then I'd like that. I'd like you to share my story and what I said."

"I promise I will."

"And Dr. Manning? Tell them not just for me with my cerebral palsy. But for you, too."

I stuck that on a mental post-it note in my head for later on because that? That word was as much about him as it was about everyone of us.

And no, I don't make this stuff up. And sure, I do use some literary license and change details because that's the right thing to do. But--I swear--I am always, always true to what I learned from the experience. Always.

That said, I described what I imagined when he told me that story at his bedside. His eloquent words painted a picture for me that I could see and feel. And honestly? The "literary license" was at a minimum this time because I was paying forward this important lesson he gave me permission to teach to others.

And this, my friends, is what Grady gave to me on a rainy day last week. A good word, a new insight, and an opportunity to remind myself of something we all spend our whole lives wanting. To matter. And to not have to tell people repeatedly that I'm right here.

Yeah.

***
Happy rainy Saturday-night.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . which, okay, is really a song about intimacy but I heard the song differently after thinking of this today. So get your minds from the gutter and listen to Miss Minnie Riperton as she reminds us to see inside each other (even if she had something else in mind.)

If I were a bell.

May 1, 2004

"If I were a bell

baby, I would ring from the hilltops  

Ring from each and every mountainside

Yes, if I were a bell

baby, I would ring through every valley  

Tell the whole world 'bout 

these tears of joy I cry. . ."

~ Tina Marie

May 1, 2013

 "Ask me how do I feel

Ask me now that we're cozy and clinging
Well sir, all I can say, is if I were a bell I'd be ringing!

From the moment we kissed tonight
That's the way I've just gotta behave
Boy, if I were a lamp I'd light
And If I were a banner I'd wave!"

~ from the Broadway show "Guys and Dolls"

__________________________________

Yeah. That. What both of those versions of "If I were a bell" said. The Tina Marie late night slow jams version and the perky "Guys and Dolls" one. No, people. I am not a bell. But even though I'm not, can I please just ring for a minute? Don't mind if I do. . . .

It's our anniversary, y'all. Or as Isaiah calls it, "The day our family was born." Feeling kind of rambly and random. . .so forgive me in advance for wherever this is going because your guess is as good as mine. . . .

Oh. And here's a disclaimer for those new to this blog: I talk about all kinds of stuff. Patient care, medical education, clinical stuff, yes. But also I talk about my life outside of Grady Hospital because that part of me has everything to do with the person I am inside of Grady Hospital. And that always includes effusive shout outs to the BHE (the Best Husband EVAAAAH. That is, my BHE. Yours can be your BHE--I'm cool with that.)

Ahem. Let's start, shall we?

Nine years ago today, I had the great fortune of exchanging vows with The BHE in front of a room filled with many of our favorite people. We laughed and danced and . . .uhh. . .imbibed until the wee hours of the morning. And you know what? It was awesome. Just awesome, I tell you.

with my med school classmate and dear friend, Jada

First of all, the energy that day just felt . . .right. I mean, everyone was smiling and just walking on clouds. Everyone. Not just the two of us, but all of our friends and family, too. That added to the special. It truly did.

Just like the college days. . .

I remember that when I woke up on May 1, 2004, it was raining. Hard. My bridal attendants and I braved that weather to go to -- of course -- the hair salon (and yes, it was my dear, dear Sakinah back then, too.) Anyways. There is no point in telling you that other than to say that even though it was rainy and yucky, our spirits were like sparkling blue skies. Sakinah and Yandi (stylists in the salon) had brought us champagne and snacks -- and they even picked up those little plastic flutes so that we could make toasts under the dryer. And I recall that part making me very happy. Even if it was raining.

I trusted Sakinah with my hair on that day, too. And my veil.

The wedding was indoors, but our cocktail hour was scheduled to be in the outdoor garden. It was obvious that this wouldn't happen with the way the sky was pouring that morning. And, you know? I remember not even really being worried about it. I was just so damn happy to be marrying Mr. Harry Manning, that none of that even mattered. I mean it. It did not.

That reminds me.

I also recall the florist saying to me, "What are your colors?" And me saying, "I don't have any colors really." And he said back, "So what color flowers should I get?" And I said, "Pretty ones that make you feel happy inside when you see them." I sure did. Okay, I did say that I didn't necessarily want a pink and green combination, partly because I am a Delta girl (and pink-and-green-together is kind of the antithesis of that) but also because I kind of find that the whole Lily Pulitzer pinky-greeny combination makes me sort of throw up in my mouth a little bit.

Just a little bit.

Linesisters-turned-bridal attendants, Joy and Ebony

Oh. What else? I also picked this fabric that came in like a gabillion different dress styles for the bridal attendants. Then I told them to pick the one that made them feel the most beautiful. Which they did. And I felt good about not asking my beautifully fuller-figured attendants to wear an identical dress to the more petite of the group. Because that's just wrong, man.

It is. And the whole "everybody wear your hair up" or "everybody must wear amethysts" or whatever? Man, please. The theme was "happiness." Wear what you feel good in. If that's red lipstick, cool. If it's a green manicure, cool. I would've even accepted a pink-and-green-Lily-gaggy-Pulitzer manicure/pedicure combination if it made you feel beautiful.

Mmmm hmmm.

My sissy, Deanna, calmed me that day when I got jittery

So yeah. Everyone seemed like they felt beautiful and I recall looking at myself in the mirror and feeling that way about my reflection. I even said to me, "You look beautiful." Because I knew that I was marrying the love of my life and knowing you're blessed and being happy makes you beautiful.

At least, that's what I think.

Anyways.

These made me happy when I saw them.

That day was raining cats and dogs, yes, but still awesome. Nobody was gonna rain on my parade. Not even Mother Nature herself. And damn if those flowers didn't make me happy when I saw them and you better believe that I told Adam, the florist, that he got it exactly right. Because he did. He totally did.

I took my daddy's arm and he walked me straight down that aisle to promise God and promise Harry that I would be down with him like four flat tires for the long haul. And nobody had to twist my arm to do it. No they did not.

Then we jumped that broom (literally) and skipped out of that room and straight out toward the doors leading to that garden. And, I kid you not, it was as if God himself told every last cloud and every last raindrop to go on break. That sky was bluer than Frank Sinatra's and Paul Newman's eyes put together and there was not a cloud in sight. In sight! So my husband and I strolled around that garden holding hands and making all sorts of plans and that part was really, really great, too. Damn, it was.

We took a few pictures and returned inside where our friends were both in high spirits and drinking a few spirits to boot. Yes. That bar was wide open, which was the single thing Harry suggested when we planned our wedding. And no, the BHE is not a big drinker, but he said very plainly, "Grown folks like to have a few drinks when they celebrate."

So there you go.

 Maaaan, celebrate? Did we celebrate? Maaaaan, whatchoo talkin' bout, Willis?

We shook a tail feather and our groove thangs. The DJ pumped old school R&B/soul groups like Shalimar and DeBarge mixed with some Luther, Rick James and Tina Marie--WHAT? Yes. DeBarge. As in "Ooooh, and I like it" which y'all pre-Thriller babies probably don't know NOTHIN' about. Mmmm hmmm. And the best part was that everybody knew every word to those songs. They sure did. That whole party included a whoooole bunch of synchronous sing-a-longs.

Like this one, which I promise you, no less than 200 people sang in crazy partially-inebriated campfire-karaoke style:



Bananas, man. Y'all pre-Thriller chil'ren don't know NOTHIN' 'bout this here! That's back when you pushed record on your tape deck to get your favorite jam off of the top eight at eight. Seriously? Seriously, people.

If you are snapping very loudly and know the words to this song, you are:

a.) African-American and born in the 70's or before
b.) Old
c.) a and b
d.) Married to, related to, or raised with a and b.

Mmmm hmmm.

We did Soul Train lines and Harry and his Omega fraternity brothers even "set out a hop." Which, if you don't know what that is, involved a bunch of grown men jumping, chanting, and stomping in unison -- and in black tie. For me, that was cool because what it mostly meant was that nobody was taking themselves too seriously. And I like that in a wedding.

Maaan, look. I know it was our wedding, but I kid you not--it was one of the best parties EVER. (Please, one of you guys who was there cosign for me.)

Someone told me to take a moment to look around the room that day. To pay attention and feel the love of all of those people because the likelihood of the two of us ever having that many of our favorite people together at the same time in one room for a celebration and not a funeral in our lifetimes would be pretty much zero. And I took that advice and will always, always be glad that I did.

There are so many people who were there that day that are since gone. Like my sweet sissy, Deanna, who stood right by me as a bridesmaid. Like my daddy's baby sissy, Auntie Liz, who went home to be with the Lord last year. Even baby C.J. was there--he was but a tiny peanut in my sisterfriend Davina's womb-- but he was there. You know what? That florist who picked those flowers that made me happy when I saw them? He passed away shortly after our wedding. So when I look at his cheerful arrangements and also room decor on pictures, that brings him to life and makes me smile. Yeah. There was also Cousin Pete who, along with his wife Anne, won the anniversary dance. Yep. I paid attention to it all and can see it in high definition so I remember.

Sure can.

Anniversary dance, you ask? Oh. That. It always mortified me when I was single at weddings and in a pack of rabid women trying to catch a bouquet. Once I hit thirty, I vowed that, should God ever be so kind as to hook me up with a husband, I would never-no-not-ever make my single friends go through that. It's cute at twenty. Not so cute at thirty five. So, yeah. Instead I did the anniversary dance that, I think, I'd read about in a magazine somewhere. Essentially all of the married and damn-near-married folks get on the dance floor and they get eliminated based upon how long they've been together. The last couple on the floor (which by the rules of the dance are the ones with the longest romance) wins and gets the garter and bouquet.

No bouquet toss. No creepy garter-grab to Marvin Gaye's "Let's get it on" in front of everyone and their grandmama, either. And no, I am not as icked out by the garter thing but it just wasn't for us. So we didn't do it. Nope. 

What else? Oh. I gave my "real" bouquet to my grandmother and my "tossing" bouquet to the anniversary dance winners. And can I tell you that I had no idea that there was a such thing as a "tossing bouquet" until then? Who knew? Not me. But dear Adam-the-florist (who I told to get flowers that made him happy) did know. So there you go.

We got a ridiculous room rate at the Westin (where we married) and LIT-TRALLY, like our whoooole guest list got rooms. Seriously. We are glad they did because right after we came in from the cocktail hour, it was a monsoon outside. Also since most of them were a wee bit over the limit to drive anywhere other than up the elevator shaft to a room. Mmmmm hmmm. That reminds me -- Harry made one other planning suggestion: No "end time" on the reception. Yeah. So it was kind of like a rave party. But, you know, without all those illicit substances and stuff.

Mmm hmmm.

So my point? Look, there isn't one really. I loved my wedding day immensely. I did. And right now I am sitting in my kitchen typing this on my anniversary. No. We aren't at some upscale restaurant tonight and no, we aren't surprising each other with diamonds. (Although I'd never reject any should something change.) Tonight we are just doing the things ordinary and happy families do. Like homework and dishes and putting drops into itchy eyes after school. And all of that is great to me because I can still recall a time where I would have given anything in the whole world for an ordinary, happy family of my own with a husband and kids and a boring kitchen table full of half done homework.

Yep.

Sure, we'll celebrate properly at some point, but if we don't, it's cool. It is. Because nine years to the day after marrying my husband, I love him exponentially more than I did then. For different reasons and on a different level. I find him more attractive now than I did then and I would have married that dude on the back porch with pollen and carpenter bees as our witnesses. I sure would have.

You know? He's just an effing prince of a man. And yes, I debated not putting that near f-bomb there but I just can't find a more emphatic adjective for it. I love that man. I love him in ways that I didn't know it was possible to love someone. He makes me better. He makes me happy. He makes me laugh. He makes me want to shout from the roof tops. He makes me want to ring like a bell, man. 

And let's just be clear. I am NOT a bell. But, dammit, if I was? I'd be ringing like a mo-fo. Do you hear me? Ringing. Ringing like a clock striking twelve or one of those old school rotary telephones. Ringing like somebody's ears at a gun range, man. Ringing like the cash register at Toys R Us on Christmas eve. RINGING. But I'm not a bell, so tonight, this is as close as I can get to it.

I am a married woman who is in love with her husband. And he loves me back. It might sound simple but it's not a given and I know it isn't. So I pay attention and let myself feel acutely glad for every second of it.

I am at ease and myself and at my best in his presence. I am. I don't wish to be someone else or feel conflicted about where we stand--I don't.  I am so, so thankful for these 3,285 days we've had as husband and wife. Mostly, it's been easy. I'm grateful for that, too.

Yeah, man. I know. I'm rambling. But I have to ramble because I'm not a bell. And I've been married for nine years, y'all. That's something to ramble about.

Yeah, it is!

So shout out to Team Manning on the day our family was born. Shout out to husbands who get it and wives who get it, too. Shout out to real friends who stand by you and take a vow to keep your marriage strong right along with you. Shout out to grandparents who keep grandkids so that mommies and daddies can keep the flame hot with date nights. Shout out to the whole village and to every single person who has ever looked at either of us lovingly because that got us ready for each other. Sure did. Yeah. But especially, shout out to LOVE. Real, true, bona fide ordinary-on-a-Wednesday-night LOVE.

 Naaaah, man. I'm NOT a bell. But if I was? Right this second I'd go ding-dong-ding-dong-ding.

That's right. I said it.

***
Happy May Day. 9 to the good, baby!

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . many versions of "If I were a bell."

First, Tina Marie SANGS THE HECK out of this song, do you hear me? SANGS not sings. There is a difference. That's the soul-filled version of "If I were a bell." Totally original lyrics but the same point as the original Broadway one. I implore you to listen to it. Tina is singing LIVE. LIVE on old school BET Video Soul. And she KILLS it. RIP, Lady T! (Y'all youngsters don't know nothin' bout Lady T!)




Second, the tried and true version--you know. . . .the "Guys and Dolls" rendition. I listened to this song no less than twelve trillion times today; I love the jazz greats' takes on this bubbly song. Love it. But the problem is that my absolute FAVORITE version of this is by the incomparable Dinah Washington-- and I can't find it anywhere on YouTube. Bummer. So here is the next best thing, Ella Fitzgerald--who I also love. That said, unfortunately, this version just makes me badly wish you all could hear Dinah sing it. (Sorry, Ella.) Don't you hate when that happens? Kind of how I feel when I watch Glee. Ha ha ha.



Okay, okay. And just to make myself feel better, I must play the diva Dinah Washington herself--the very best jazz voice of all time--singing "What a difference a day makes." Because she does this song justice like no other. Even Nat King Cole. Yeah, I said it. Every time I listen to her on my real iPod, I constantly yell out, "YOU BETTA SING THAT SONG, DINAH!" Ha ha ha. . .not. even. kidding. Because Dinah was a BEAST, do you hear me? A complete BEAST with a microphone, man.



YOU BETTA SING THAT SONG, DINAH!!!!!*

*(Picture me driving on I-20 while hollering that out repeatedly today for full effect. I also yelled the same thing about Tina Marie. Hee hee.)