Talking about your generation.

 

Today at Grady

What has been will be again,

what has been done will be done again, 

 there is nothing new under the sun.

Ecclesiastes 1:9

_____________________________________

Here is what they're saying about your generation:

They're saying that--since you don't work for thirty-six to forty-eight hours straight and since you get to actually take at least one day off in every seven and since during your emergency medicine rotation you don't get twenty-two twelve-hour shifts plus four separate continuity clinic days (that count as your "off days") and since you aren't falling asleep at stop signs and getting startled by security guards knocking hard on your frozen windows to wake you up in the parking lot post call in the dead of winter--they are saying that since you didn't experience all of those things you don't care the same. That, because your playing field is easier that your hearts don't ever get primed in that way that is necessary to become the kind of doctors we learned to be.

Nope.

They are saying that all you and your generation want to do is hurry up and leave. That you are of a "shift-work" mentality and that you aren't as invested as we once were. That you haven't taken enough lumps to understand that being dog-tired is just part of the job and that over time, if you put in enough hours, some kind of anti-exhaustion muscle builds up for you that allows you to function well on fumes of sleep. 

Yep.

Since the rules no longer allow anyone to tell you to "shut your piehole" and since you getting to have a say in just about everything is now the rule and not the exception, they're saying that you and your generation would prefer to spend your time complaining instead of hanging fluids or checking vital signs. That you and your smartphones and your social media live in such a different culture that none of you and your ways can ever align with us and ours. 

And that because of this you aren't as invested. That you are collectively selfish. And that you just don't and won't get it. 

That's what they are saying.

But today I saw this.

In the hazy afternoon sunshine, I saw a student doctor quietly wheeling his patient outside to get some fresh air. That's it. That's all. And I witnessed him smiling and talking and listening and connecting with his patient. Saying words like "Yes, ma'am" and "Beg pardon?" and making sure to go slow enough for it to feel like it was all about her and not about him. 

Yeah.

It made me think back to the day I clipped and filed my patient's finger nails and then painted them with dark red polish right at her bedside. A young woman with AIDS who was taking AZT but who was embarrassed by the way it discolored her nailbeds. And I remember going to Stop'n'Shop on Cedar Road to get a polish dark enough to cover up those tell-tale fingers. 

image credit

I was an intern in 1996 when that happened. No one was there watching over my shoulder when I gave my patient that heartfelt manicure. Not a single soul. But I was. And she was, too. The look on her face when I leaned over that tray table and then fanned her finger tips dry with my hospital-issued antibiotic card said it all. 

I saw that patient's face when that student rolled her by in that wheelchair today. Her eyes were dancing and her smile was easy. And the moment I laid eyes on her I knew that expression because I'd seen it before. Because it was the same look that my patient gave me on a late night in Cleveland, Ohio when a simple gesture involving a three dollar bottle of Revlon nail polish provided her more relief than anything else we'd done for her that whole hospitalization.

Yeah, man.

My eyes are open and I see things like this every single day. Right here, right now. 

Here is what I know for sure. . . . .

Patients are still people. Connections are still connections. Empathy is still empathy. And, even with a new set of rules, caring is still caring.  

And so.

What has been will be again.

What has been done will be done again.
 

  
And there is nothing new under the sun. 

Amen.

***

Now playing on my mental iPod. . .Listen to The Who and you'll see what I mean about there being nothing new under the sun. Don't worry--people were talking shit about their generation, too.

Feeling 22.

June 8, 2013

"I don't know about you--

but I'm feeling twenty-two."

~ Taylor Swift

__________________________

I wasn't off but I did get out of the hospital early yesterday. I told my interns that having a good "off day" (or in this instance "off time") is an art. And, like all art, it requires a bit of creativity at times. If you're lucky, it isn't all consumed by sleep and laundry.

If you're lucky.

Sure. Sometimes you have to go and get your license tag renewed or your teeth cleaned or a mammogram on your off day. And, if you have children, you also might have to do a whole litany of things for them and not you which is mostly fine but sometimes even more exhausting than your "at work" time. That said, a lot of the time you don't have to get your license tag renewed, your teeth cleaned or a mammogram. And sometimes the planets even align such that your kids are with their grandmother and not you which leaves you open to do the things you want to do. Which, if you have fine-tuned the art of off day-ness, could and should go beyond sleep and laundry.

At least, that's what I think.

As for me and my "off time" yesterday? It involved a lot more than sleep and laundry. It involved laughter and fun. It involved dancing and shaking my groove thang to a live band. Which is exactly what I plan to tell my interns today on rounds.

Yep.

I want them to know that we are better inside of the hospital when our lives are fulfilled outside of the hospital. And part of that involves luck. But most of it is just about intention.

Yeah. So I don't know about you, but last night? Me and all my girls were feeling twenty-two. I hope every now and then you do, too.

***
Happy Sunday.

I am coming out of the closet as a Taylor Swift fan. #dontjudgeme

The B.P.M.E.

Happy Birthday to my amazing professional mentor and friend, Dr. Neil W. I am so fortunate to have this guy pushing me to be my best. Through his example, I am inspired to be a more selfless mentor and human being. Through his encouragement, I am inspired to go past the potential that I see for myself to catch up to the one he sees for me instead.

Everyone needs a great mentor. Or mentors. And specifically, I'm speaking of the professional setting, but it goes without saying that the very best professional ones care about your personal growth, too.

Wondering what makes a great mentor? Take a look at this post here. Have one already and not sure if it's working? That post should help you with that, too. I was thinking of the B.P.M.E. (best professional mentor ever) in mind, when I wrote that post. Essentially, I came up with a list of why our mentor-mentee relationship works which I think is relatable to others, too.

If you haven't found a mentor yet, let this be your nudge. You need one. You telling you what you need is critical. But you telling you things can get overly subjective. Or overly objective. Or neither of these. . . . perhaps overly fretty instead.

I'm fortunate to have Dr. W. on my side. We aren't in competition. We have genuine respect for one another. He doesn't need me to be a "mini-me" version of himself. And most importantly, this guy wants to and likes to see me win. And, even though I try hard to offer it, requires not a single drop of the glory when I do win.

Now that's what I'm talking about.

***
Happy Saturday. And Happy Birthday, buddy.

Who's your mentor? What makes them great?

Top Ten: Easygoing Day with a surprise top ten.

Today was an awesome day in the hospital. And usually, I wouldn't say that about a day like today, because the students and interns were all off. The resident and I were left to our own devices which wasn't too bad since we weren't admitting any patients on this day. I could tell that my resident had a big "to do" list that she was trying to jump on top of. One that included things like discharge summary dictations and logistical pieces of patient management. So instead of launching into a bedside soliloquy on the latest heart failure guidelines or taking her through a Socratic barrage of questions, I simply "work rounded" with her. We made management decisions together and kept things focused and to the point.

Yep.

So honestly, all of that was finished by 10:45 AM. So that left me the rest of the morning and the afternoon to go back to see my patients at my own pace. Our census today wasn't very big. That was even better because it meant that, if I wanted, that pace could be a snail's pace.

This doesn't happen to me so often. Even when I do have a chance to round alone, there's usually some other commitment looming over my head and bookending things. But not today.

And so. On my by-my-own-self rounds today, I simply went around talking to a few of my patients. Checking in on them and mostly just shooting the breeze. Because the "work rounds" part had already been done.

Man, oh man. I had the best time. I held an impromptu family meeting with one patient and his family. It lasted nearly 45 minutes and everyone asked questions and nobody was rushed. And I could tell while I sat there that they appreciated that. Like they could feel that I wasn't in a hurry so they just asked and asked and I just explained and explained as much as I could. And that part was really good.

I listened to a Grady elder speak to me on all of the things that people of African descent invented in the world. He wagged his crooked finger and narrowed his eyes as he spoke. Told me to be proud of that. To not forget. And I told him I don't and I won't. Then I told him that I really, really felt honored to care for him. And he told me that he could tell. That response made me very, very happy.

I laughed out loud with a patient and his wife of over thirty years. He told me on his first hospital day that the secret to longevity in marriage is simple: "Jest do what she say." And so I brought this up when his wife was there and she furrowed her brow, looked around and said, "Who said that? That hard-headed man right there?" And we just cracked up laughing.

He claimed that he was "delirious" when he said that. And his wife, who was sitting in the bedside reclining chair with her arms folded said, "Yeah. That's the only way you would'a said somethin' like that!" And their collective laughter was so harmonious that right then and there I knew exactly why they'd been married for so long.

But the best of them all? OMG. One of my patients was talking to me and her television was muted. She was trying to get the sound back on and couldn't figure out how to do it. She was a Grady elder and her hands weren't as nimble as they used to be. So she handed me the remote and said, "Why y'all got to have all these highfalutin' thangs up in here?"

Her choice of words made me smile. High-falutin'. Hee hee.

But it got better when her unmuted television ended up being on the Real Housewives of New Jersey Reunion Special. At the very moment she turned it on, those women were shouting and cursing and pointing and all kinds of mess. And my patient, the Grady matriarch said, "Now what is this foolishness you got me watching up in here now? Lawd have mercy! Turn this mess off, hear?"

And through a tiny snicker, I did.

"Why you laughing?" she asked. And her eyes were twinkling when she did, so I told her the truth.

"I think the South is just another planet sometimes. I just love it when I hear those words and phrases that you only hear in the South."

"Like what?"

"Hmmm. Like 'foolishness.' And like . . .'highfalutin'."

"Oh, that ain't really jest Southern, see. That's what you call 'country.' There's a lot of words that's a dead give away that you country if you say 'em too much."

I clapped and squealed in delight. I pulled out an index card from my pocket and said, "Okay. Let's make a top ten list of stuff that will make people KNOW you from the country when they hear you talking."

"Not jest the South. The country."

"Yes! The country!"

"I don't know if I got ten. You gon' help?"

"Of course!" I was already laughing. Seriously. Out loud. I knew that this was a blogworthy moment and I couldn't wait to tell you all. So I told her about my blog and showed it to her on my phone. And she seemed very amused by all of it and seemed to like the idea of making you guys smile.

Okay, so here's our top ten. . .with the help of my Grady elder patient, I bring you:

THE TOP TEN WORDS OR PHRASES THAT WILL MAKE PEOPLE KNOW FOR CERTAIN THAT YOU ARE EITHER FROM THE COUNTRY (AND PROBABLY OVER THE AGE OF FIFTY) OR CLOSELY RELATED TO SOMEONE FROM THE COUNTRY.* 

*(ALL HAVE BEEN APPROVED BY MY PATIENT WHO IS OFFICIALLY FROM THE COUNTRY.)

Like to hear it? Here it go!


#10  You call your mother "Mother."

According to my patient, even though it sounds high-falutin', calling your mama "Mother" is a practice that only real, real country folks do.

Also: See Mudear and Madea.

#9  You call shorts "short-pants."

Before there were shorts, there were pants that got cut off to make. . .wait for it. . ."short pants."

#8  You knew at least three families that had more than ten children in them. 

Bonus points if one of those families is your own.

#7  You pronounce the word boil as "berl" instead.

Um, yeah.

See also: East Pernt, Georgia

#6  You refer to Jesus Christ as "sir." Loudly and often.

"Thankya, sir! You're a way maker, sir!"

Um, yeah. Kinda like that. No. Exaggeration. (This one REALLY tickled my patient. Ha ha ha!)

#5  You have asked someone for a slice of "light bread" before. And you have intentionally drank buttermilk. Bonus points for pouring buttermilk over cornbread for a meal.

See: Extreme country-ness.

#4  You punctuate statements with the word "hear" and you refer to things as "mess" and "foolishness."

"Turn this mess off, hear? What kind of foolishness they got on this television at Grady!"

#3  You have eaten the following: Rabbit, squirrel, or possum. You have also eaten berled peanuts and pigs' feet more times than you can count. Bonus points if you put chow-chow on your greens and you refer to them on a first name basis ("collards", "mustards", "turnips.")

(Rabbit? *cough* Sorry, just threw up in my mouth a little bit.)

#2  You not only know what Alaga Syrup is, you prefer it.

I have tried it. And I have one word. Eew.

#1 At least one of your siblings was (literally) born in your home and at least one of them goes by the name "Brother", "Sister", "Skeeter", "Junior", "Junie", "Sissy" OR is a female with a male name with a cute spelling followed by the middle name "Mae", "Lou", or the suffix "-etta."

See: Johnnie Lou, Willie Mae, and Charles-etta. 

We also laughed about a few other ones, but the list started getting too long. I'm sure some of you country folks reading this will have a few that we missed. Now as I read over it more, I'm realizing that you don't even have to be "country" for a lot of these--some just require sustained exposure to elders.  :)

Ha ha.

It was an awesome day. It made me happy. Happier than a camel on Wednesday, y'all. And man, oh man, am I just glad to be here.

***
Happy Friday! And BT-dubs. . .I call my M-I-L "Mother", my dad is one of eleven and his mom was one of ten, I say "foolishness" to my kids at least seven times per week, and I have an uncle named "Skeeter." This means that I am officially a little bit country!

Don't get the "camel on Wednesday" joke? Peep this. "HUMP DAAAAY!" (I know it's Friday today but I couldn't resist. This is hilarious to me!)

Beyond pleasantries.

He spoke in those ways that doctors like; those ways that make our job easier. Sitting all the way upright in bed, wide and relaxed smile on his face and eyes on our team and not Judge Judy blaring over his head. And I could tell that, because of this, he stole the hearts of my students and residents. That part I knew for sure because he'd stolen mine, too.

With every word, a sure nod of his head accompanied. Unsolicited compliments came from him about the bedside manner of his student doctor. She blushed quickly; it was endearing.

We were there to see him about his hospitalization for something serious. The diagnosis was one of those ones you don't wish on even an enemy and, as of this encounter in the hospital, the list of options for medical interventions had officially run out. So this, his pleasant demeanor and dancing eyes, we welcomed. We weren't contending with fear or anger or any of those other sticky things that often set up road blocks to patient care.

At least it didn't seem that way.

"What is your understanding of why you're here?" I asked. We were in a semicircle around his bed on rounds. The student caring for him on his left and me, on his right. He swung his head from side to side when speaking. Ever-inclusive of that student. Ever-pleasant which we all appreciated.

"Well," he said, "my student doctor here said it's swelling in my brain. I also saw another doctor--and he was REAL, REAL GOOD--and he say he don't think I need no more chemos or radiation. And I said, okay! Just do what you gotta do! Whatever y'all think!"

"I see."

"Yep. So now I'm getting some medicine for the swelling."

"That's right, sir. Can you tell me why you have the swelling?"

"Because of some cells, they tell me. Cells all together making some tumors. But the cells got some swelling on 'em."

"Gotcha."

And after he said that, he smiled even bigger. He turned his head to face his student doctor and nodded again. He wanted her approval.

This mostly seemed fine. But, see, I'd been doing this long enough to notice how vanilla these answers were. And I know how easy it is to get lost in pleasantries, especially during difficult discussions.

I asked a few more questions but in different words. I needed to know whether or not he realized what was going on. What it meant for someone to say "no more chemos or radiation" and exactly what that meant from a big picture perspective. So through my questions I tried my best to excavate the truth.

Was he afraid but aware?
Did he lack insight?
Was the pleasantry a mask that hid some early dementia?
Or was he simply a nice guy with a bad, bad disease?
Or worse, was it all of these?

Turns out it was. It was all of those things.

A little afraid. And seemingly aware that anything causing someone to be called to come get admitted is serious. He was right about that. His insight was poor about just how serious, though. He didn't seem to recognize that these were usually talks that open the door to ones about hospice and end-of-life care. Even though, according to the hospital chart, that REAL, REAL GOOD doctor he'd seen earlier had tried to explain this.

We proved that some of this he couldn't grab because of cognitive dysfunction. I asked his student doctor to come back and perform a mental status examination on him. The intern caring for him with that student seemed surprised by that request, but they obliged. He, too, got lost in the pleasantry and didn't see the need to question his cognitive ability. That test confirmed what had perhaps been missed before--a dementia component. Or maybe not missed but, from what I could see, not discussed. And that part would muddy up the full explanation part and likely had for some time.

So, in the end, all of this made it harder. That and the fact that there was no denying that, indeed, he was simply a nice guy with a bad, bad disease. A bad disease that he doesn't understand.

***

Realizations.

"You know what I just realized, Mom? She was one of my very best friends in the world."

~ Isaiah, Age 8, on Tuesday morning

___________________________________

He asked me if the tears those words brought to my eyes were "happy ones or sad ones." 

"Both," I told him. "But mostly happy ones from hearing that you feel that way about her. Because I feel that way, too."

***

Happy Friday.

Now playing on my mental iPod and making me cry more. . . but happy ones. . . 

Come undone.

Who do you need?
Who do you love?
When you come undone

~ Duran Duran

________________________________________________

Outside an ambulance is still hot with exhaust. A man in an EMT uniform leans against the driver's side door. His face is crestfallen and his teeth press so hard into his bottom lip that perhaps he'll be next to need those emergency services.

A shrill sound pierces the humid summer air. A woman has fallen to her knees; the weight of whatever is pressing upon her is too much. Two other women flank her and try to help her to her feet. It doesn't work.

That cry is primal. A sound from so deep down in that cellular matrix that you just know it had to be built during the earliest embryonic phase. The kind reserved only for moments such as these; the kind that tells you the story even when you don't know all of the details.

Just before I heard that sound, I was daydreaming actually. Sifting through my brain and swirling inside of my own world while taking a simple walk down the concrete outside of Grady. Wondering about the four-dollar special at Subway and hoping it was one thing and not something else. And specifically, I was thinking that as long as it wasn't meatball marinara, I'd be fine with just about anything else. Mentally counting up how much money I'd spent in the last week on lunch and vowing to pack mine the following day. I stayed on that same path--on the street and in my head--which led me to the Children's Hospital right next door to Grady.

But then I heard it. That blood-curdling cry. I saw that woman buckling to her knees. Clawing at the air and coming undone. Not piece by piece but all at once. And the more those women on each of her arms tried to help her stand and console her the more her cries escalated. Louder, higher. . . up into the air. Like the haunting and longing howl of a lonely wolf; a gut-wrenching call of the wild.

And the second I heard it, I froze in my tracks. Because an alarm had been sounded and all under its clanging rattle were to take notice. To pause in deference, in acknowledgement.

So from across the street, I did. And from the corner of my eye I saw that two others had done the same. All of us stiff like statues. Eyes glistening, chests tightening, and making fleeting eye contact with one another from our separate squares of asphalt.

Eventually that woman and her two pillars of support gave in to gravity. There they sat, rocking and moaning in a tight huddle right there on the street in front of that ambulance. More people were surrounding them, their cries now confluent.

But still there was hers. Hers was different. Guttural, unsettling, primal.

And I knew. And since I did, I didn't even fight the hot tears that pushed straight out of my eyes and onto my cheeks on instinct. Nor was I surprised when I glanced back at that man whose back was against that ambulance and noticed his emotion, too. Fist pressed hard to his lips, eyes clenched tightly, face toward the heavens.

I still don't know the details. But, really, no explanation was necessary. The chilling in my bones when that cry left her lips was enough. The bell had tolled. A mother has lost her child.

And it turns out that meatball marinara was indeed the four-dollar special.

***
Now playing on my mental iPod, Come Undone by Duran Duran. Thank you, Simon, Nick and John for this beautiful song to accompany my thoughts.

Givers, Takers and Matchers.

The gentleman being interviewed in this video clip (from Wharton Business School's Knowledge@Wharton series) was featured on NPR yesterday. He was discussing his book and research on "givers, takers, and matchers." Really, really fascinating stuff that I'll be thinking about for a long time.

If you get a moment, check this out.



Take home point: Givers win more than takers and givers have bigger networks than matchers so tend to win more. Nice.

***
Happy Monday.

Take the test to see what you are here.

The back story.

This morning walking into Grady

I saw this Grady elder with a very unusual tattoo over his hand yesterday. It was this really elaborate yet super crude thing going over his knuckles and over his fingers from the thumb clear to the pinky. He was a chatty fellow and seemed like the type that wouldn't mind if I asked him about it. And even though Harry would totally tell me to "stay in my own lane" and not get in the man's business, you already know that I couldn't miss a chance to at least try to get the back story.

"That's quite a tattoo you have on your hand there." I could hear my miniature Harry in my ear groaning and saying, "Here. We. Go."

My patient smiled when I said that. Nearly every last one of his beige colored teeth showed when he did, too. The top and bottom rows, but not in a way that seemed forced. I immediately liked it.

"There's a story behind most tattoos," I went on.

He splayed his left hand out before us and chuckled. "Whew-wee. You sho' right about that."

And that answer was rather non-commital so I kind of felt bad for veering out of my lane. Harry was right. I mean, this had zero to do with why he was there. But lucky for me, that bad feeling was short-lived. This dear elder was delighted to share the journey to the ink on his hand.

"See, when I was a young man, I was with this lady and boy was she something. I'm talking 'bout a brick house!" He threw his head back on that part and I couldn't help but laugh right along with him. "She was fine as cat hair, you hear me?"

And I laughed again at that metaphor. "As cat hair, sir? Dang. That's fine."

"Whatchoo sayin'? I'm talking everything in all the right places. My nose was wide open!"

"What about hers? Did she like you, too?"

"Oh, now don't think I didn't used to pull 'em back in the day, now. I was smoov."

"Smoov?"

He rubbed his chin and nodded. "Smoooov." With a 'v.'

"So then what happened?"

"Well. We fell all in love and got married. And she had five letters in her name and I got 'em tattoed one letter on every one of my fingers. You know, since I ain't never been one for wearing no rings."

I narrowed my eyes. "Uh oh. Since I don't see the letters something must have gone wrong?"

He started cackling and slapping his knee with that inked hand. "Well she got to acting crazy and we end up splitting up."

"That must've been rough since she was a brick house and fine as cat hair."

"Naw. She the one that taught me that it take more than looks. You don't even see them curves when somebody get to stomping on yo' last nerve. Whew-wee. I had to get up outta that situation."

I leaned forward and rested my chin in my hand. This was entertaining. I waited for him to continue. Which is exactly what he did.

"So then 'bout three-fo' years later, I meet my wife now. We been together for more than thirty-some-odd years now."

"Nice."

"Well. She was a fine thang, too. I'm talking smart and good looking and real sassy-like. And I liked that about her. She wasn't worried 'bout no whole buncha mess. So we got on real good, me and her. Tha's when I figured out what real love was." He smiled the most tender smile when he said that.

"That's so sweet, sir."

"Mmmm hmmm. Can't even 'magine what it woulda been like had I stayed with that first one. Whew-wee!" He shook his head and seemed to genuinely shudder at the thought. "Yep. But me and my wife been two peas in a pod ever since. Sho' have."

"Wow." I kept waiting for him to get back to the tattoo but he didn't. He just sat there grinning that double decker grin and thinking about his better half. "So I think I can guess how that tattoo got there."

"Well, here's what's funny 'bout that. I was spending a lot of time with my wife and all but we wasn't together, you know, in the biblical sense or nothing like that. But then one day we got to fooling around and it started looking like we was gon' get into something. And I had been seeing her for some time then so I was real excited."

I squinted one eye and listened. "Uh, okay. Is this about to get R-rated?"

He raised his eyebrows and looked skyward. "Lawd, I wish. That woman looked down at my hand and seen that other woman's name on it and that was it. She said, 'You ain't touching me with that hand! Not with some other gal's name on it!'"

"Oh no!"

"Ha ha ha. . . and I called myself trying to keep on with the keep-on but jest with one hand."

That image made us both erupt in laughter. "I take it that she wasn't having it?"

"No way, no how."

"Dang."

"You best believe I went to one a my buddies that very next day. I said, 'You gon' have to put some kind of something over these letters. They got to be covered all the way up soon as possible."

"The next day?"

"Sho' did."

"That's hilarious."

"Yep. Been like this ev'ry since. Ugly ol' thang, ain't it?" He lifted his hand out to inspect the rudimentary work of his friend some several decades ago. "I ain't care what he did. It just had to be gone so I could be with my wife."

"That's actually kinda-sorta one of the sweetest things I've heard in a long time."

"You got any tattoos, doc?"

"Maybe." I winked after that cryptic response.

"I hope it ain't nobody name, is it?"

"Nope. No names."

"Phew. Tha's good. Seem like that jinx you puttin' somebody name on you."

"To each their own, I suppose."

"Yep."

I gathered my note cards and stood up to leave. "Good talking to you, sir." I chuckled and added while gesturing to his hand again, "Glad it worked out for you."

"Five kids and twelve grands so far. Can't work that kinda magic with jest one hand, can you?"

"Ha ha. . . I reckon you can't, sir."

I unmuted his television, waved goodbye and headed out of his room. As soon as I got on the other side of the door, one of the nurses saw the goofy grin plastered across my face.

"What you thinking about, Dr. Manning?"

I looked at her and told her the truth. "I'm thinking I love this place and I'm thinking I'm just glad to be here today. That's what I'm thinking."



***
Happy Sunday. Again.

Fighting inertia.

The brother and the sister have cleared the kindergarten hurdle. And yes, this took place at different elementary schools, but that has never affected their status as family.

And so, last night on a balmy summer evening with no school in the morning, the sibs, Zachary and Fiona, fell back into their old routine. . . .and into their metaphorical lockstep as always.

Us, their parents, made this commitment to always work at allowing them to keep that special friendship. We know that when kids are this age, sometimes really important relationships fizzle into the  wind because of inertia more than lack of caring.

I guess the same could be said of adult relationships, too, now couldn't it?

Well, lucky for us, that same commitment that was made about those kids has been made about the relationship between the parents of those kids, too. So the four grown ups sat on the deck on a summer evening sipping adult beverages and having adult conversations. One of the papas was on the grill while the little ones found as many shenanigans as they could to get into.

And all of it was natural and easy and right.

The older kids, Isaiah and Cassidy, go way back to the two year-old room in their first pre-school. Now that they're both rising third-graders, it's fair to say that they, too, are old friends.

Yesterday Cass told Isaiah ,"You boys are trouble!"

His response?

"Cassidy, trouble just means you know how to start the fun."

Ha.

So yeah. Those two--Isaiah and Cassidy--have also transcended the bumpiness you encounter with less familiar friends and always seem to gel no matter how much time has passed.

But for whatever reason, it's not quite the same as what goes on with Z and Fi aka "the real-true" brother and sister.  Man. Z and Fi? Seeing them together always makes me feel like we've done something right as parents.

I've described it before. Z and Fi interact more like family members than friends. They are protective of one another and so. . .I don't know. . . safe in each others' presence. It's endearing. I guess that's what happens when you start out as infants on Boppy pillows together.

Yeah.

As we sat outside laughing and talking and watching our kids, I thought a lot about inertia.

inertia:  a property of matter by which it remains at rest or in uniform motion in the same straight line unless acted upon by some external force

I recognize that with relationships, we are that external force. Either we allow our own busy-ness and lives to break special bonds that had already been set into uniform motion or when they stagnate we look up and no one has set it back into action. So yeah. However you look at it, we are the external force good, bad or indifferent. With the little ones, it's up to us to put our kids into cars and drive them over to those friends. We have to carve out that time to maintain the friendships that matter. I guess there just has to be some willingness to act.

And, of course, we can't do that with every single relationship. Nor will we always feel compelled to. But have you ever reflected on a friend that got away or faded into the background and wished or at least wondered about it? Like thinking that it could have been different or have continued had either of you just added some tiny bit of external force to keep the momentum? Or removed it to keep it from halting? Or something like that.

I have.

Not with all relationships. Or even most relationships. But I can think of some friends from more remote parts of my life that I've thought about this way. I also know that if hearts align it doesn't take much to set things into motion again.

Especially when it's magical.

Z and Fi have a magical friendship. I'm proud that we've helped them to fight inertia. I am.

***
Happy Sunday. Off to rounds!

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . .Cassidy knew it when they walked in. (But it really just means fun.)