Team S.J.G.R. Thursday Huddle #15: The Workout Snackémon.

Man. I have a confession to make. Last week I fell prey to what seeks to take down well-meaning worker-outers all over the country every single day. The stealthy little saboteur that rears its ugly little head right around the same time EVERY time.

Mmmm hmmm.

Oh. You haven't met him yet? Chile, please. Every man or woman who has ever kicked their workouts into higher gear has been introduced to him. And if you haven't, it just means you haven't been working out hard enough or running far enough.

Who is he, you ask? I'll tell you. He's what I call the Workout Snackémon. 

Yes, people. He's a nasty little hater who wants to see you gain weight instead of lose weight after running a bunch of miles or doing a Zumba marathon or going Crossfit crazy. And you know what? He tapped me on my shoulder last week and whispered softly in my ear. Because, you know, that's how the Workout Snackémon rolls.

Mmmmmm hmmm.

So check it. Last weekend, I got it in, man. I mean, here I was feeling like a BAWSE after surviving a 8.3 mile run around hellaciously hilly Stone Mountain with Crystal H. last weekend. I had gotten up early and met her up there at the appointed time -- and let's be clear -- I don't even live near there. But, yes, I went and stuck with my running mate like it wasn't nothing.

Okay, well not like it wasn't nothing. But still. I stuck with her.

Anyways. I stretch with her and then get in my car feeling like THAT CHICK. I am resisting the urge to go tweet it on the mountain for all to know. So I sip my water and sing with the radio because I'm feeling all super proud of myself. And, you know? That's the furthest I've ever run in my LIFE so that was a big effing deal for me. So, yeah. I drove on home feeling great.

And when I got home, it was still early. I walk on in and Zachary and Harry are just getting ready to go to Zachary's football game. Which made me feel even more like a BAWSE since I'd actually gotten my butt up early enough to have run and come back home BEFORE his game even started.

Yeah.

So I start getting dressed so that I can drop Isaiah at a playdate and then hightail it on over to Zachary's game. And all was well mostly. Until the Workout Snackémon started brushing his lips up against my ear.

"Hey girl. You know you just ran 8 miles. Go on. Have you a couple of them Oreo cookies that you bought for the boys. Go on. Wit' yo' fine self."

And can I just say that I am usually quite disciplined when it comes to separating kid foods from Mommy foods and that something like some Oreos are generally easy for me to refuse. Because usually the dialogue in my head is stern and realistic. So yeah, an Oreo cookie? That's a no.

Usually.

"Come on, girl. You know you fine. Look at you in them compression capri pants looking all fine. You ran 8 miles. EIGHT POINT THREE miles, actually. Eat you one cookie. Matter fact, eat two. And go on. Eat that hot dog that Isaiah thought he wanted but changed his mind about. You know ain't nothing better than a ol' juicy Hebrew National. Go on, girl."

And I need you to know that the Workout Snackémon talks like Billy Dee Williams talked to Diana Ross in Mahogany. All smooth and sultry-like. And how can you say no to that? How can you?

"Hey girl."

So you know what happened? I ate three Oreos with a cup of soy milk. Then I ate a hot dog. A HOT DOG! And damn, it was good, that hot dog. But a HOT DOG, y'all. A hot dog. Ugggghhh! It's all The Workout Snackémon's fault. It is!

So I drop Isaiah off with his buddy. Then I head up to the game. But my mouth felt parched. It did.

"Hey girl. You don't want that water. You just ran 8 miles. 8 freakin' hilly miles, babygirl. Look at you with yo' fine self in those jeans. You look good, girl. And you 43, too? Go on and get you one of them big azz electrolyte drinks. Go on. I know that one bottle has four servings. But you have to be dehydrated from running that far. With yo' fine self."

Sigh.

So I stop up in QT and come out with this gigantic blue Powerade. Which I commence to drink up. And me? I try not to EVER drink my calories. But the Workout Snackémon had me thinking I deserved them and could easily handle them.

Yep.

And you know? That happened two or three more times that same day. It did.

Now. Let me tell you. The Workout Snackémon is the reason why you see significantly overweight people running marathons and long distance races. He is the one that tells you to eat a big plate of pancakes after that run or a ginormous burger on a patio after that race. He tricks you with that voice. Woos you. Lulls you.

And oh, yeah. Did I mention? If you prefer women, the Workout Snackémon has that soft and sexy Jessica Rabbit voice.

"Hey big daddy. Look at you with that six pack. I see it trying to bust through that last layer of insulation. I'm so impressed with that bike ride you did. Wow. And is that your bicep? Oh my. Go on, sugar. Have you a milk shake from Chik fil A. You know you deserve it. And you're a growing boy. You need to go on and order the whole number one. Those fries won't hurt you since you work out so much. With yo' buff self."

800 calories later, she turns back into a pumpkin. And so do you.

Look, people. The Workout Snackémon comes fast and furious. He comes after workouts but also after fasts, illnesses and anything else that you can imagine that might make you think you can have "just a little more" than usual.

So me? I got GOT. I ate stuff I shouldn't eat because I made a bunch of allowances due to my strenuous workouts. And I KNOW that I am not alone. I'm not.

But half way through munching on a bag of REGULAR popcorn on Sunday it hit me. I was being wooed by the Snackémon. And if I didn't stop right then and there, I'd have a few extra pounds to show for it.

Late that night, Snackémon was trying to spoon me talking about:

"Hey girl. Go on and have you a bowl of cereal before you go to bed. Girl, you know Fruit Loops can count as a carbo load. With yo' fine self."

And me, I just gave him the stiff arm and said, "Back it up, homie. You ain't getting me this time."

And, see, the Workout Snackémon doesn't like rejection so he keeps it moving when you dis him.

But know this: He (or she) always comes back. That is, if you get in a really good workout.

Have you fallen prey to the Workout Snackémon? Have you tricked yourself into high calorie alcoholic beverages, guacamole and fried tortilla chips after a really good one? Have you?

Well consider me your homegirl in the dorm who warns you about the bad guys who are only out to break your heart:

"Girl, he don't love you. He just wont one thing." (Yes, I meant to say "wont.")

Mmmm hmmmm. 

Stay strong, Team. Don't let the Workout Snackémon TAKE YOU OUT!  Remember:

We get fit in the gym. We lose weight in the kitchen. And the Snackémon is determined to try to make you forget that. But on this team, we know better. So we do better.

Plus, he don't looooove you, girl. He just wont one thing. 

Now, raise your right hand and repeat after me:

"I CANNOT"

(I cannot)

"OUTEXERCISE"

(outexercise)

"CRAPPY FOOD CHOICES."

(crappy food choices.)

"I CANNOT"

(I cannot)

"OUTRUN"

(outrun)

"A BIG BEHIND"

(a big azzzz.)

"TO DO THAT I MUST"

(to do that I must)

"PUT DOWN THE FORK WHEN I'M SATISFIED"

(put down the fork when I'm satisfied)

"AND STEP AWAY FROM THE PANTRY."

(and step away from the pantry.)

"AND THE REFRIGERATOR."

(and the refrigerator.)

"FOR REALS."

(for reals.)


Yes, people. Shit just got real. Again.

That's all I got for tonight. Holla.

***
Happy Thursday. Check in, people.

Celebrating Poopdeck, Part 2.

 

Okay. I'm still on the high of my dad's birthday so had a little more to share. I meant to post this a bit earlier but I've been on the phone with him all morning. Oh--and for those wondering why I call my dad "Poopdeck," here's where that comes from:

The old Popeye cartoons. Yep. One day I started calling him "Poopdeck Pappy" like Popeye called his dad and it just sort of stuck. I then abbreviated it to just "Poopdeck." So there you go. 

Ha.

JoLai made this really cool collage of photos that you see above. How awesome are these snapshots? The top left quadrant has photos of Poopdeck with all of his kids--biological and by marriage. The top right quadrant is a walk down memory lane. My favorites are his little boy pictures and, of course, the super smooth Omega frat boy shot with the swanky Raybans and lapel pin.  Bottom left quadrant is the family including his whole brood of grandkids. And the lower right includes him and sweet Tounces (my mom), him trucking on one of his many power walks, and then a perfect example of him looking lovingly at JoLai both as a baby and as a law school graduate. 

Yep.

So if you read my top 70, just use these pictures as a supplement, too.  Oh! And this. 

Kimberly and Daddy, StoryCorps from Kimberly Manning on Vimeo.

This is from when I interviewed my father for StoryCorps. I'm sure many of you have heard of StoryCorps and have likely cried while hearing it on NPR. I cherish this so much and I count it as one of my very best life experiences. What a gift not only to me to just listen to my dad in this way, but also to get a reintroduction to some of the people that made him who he is. 

I recommend that everyone consider doing a StoryCorps interview at some point in their life. I can't wait to let my boys hear this as men and love imagining them letting their kids hear it, too. 

I made a few minor edits to it, but it is mostly in the raw. Dad gave me his permission and, in fact, was eager to have it shared. More because he liked the idea of getting people talking to people they love. We now appreciate having things like this even more and love knowing that it might inspire someone else to do the same. 

Even if it leaves us a bit vulnerable. And this? It totally does.

But you know? Our loved ones--especially the older of them--have stories to tell. Even when we think otherwise, they have stories to tell that we've not yet heard or known.  And as the folks at Storycorps say: "Listening is an act of love." It so very is, isn't it?

This interview is the perfect punctuation to celebrating my father. He is simply wonderful and I am better for knowing him.

Happy 70th, Poopdeck. Again.

***

Learn more about StoryCorps and get information on doing your own here.

70 reasons for 70 years.

My dad (aka Poopdeck) turned seventy today. Seventy, y'all!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, POOPDECK!

Man. I don't even know where to start. (Obviously since I'm just getting this up at damn near midnight.)  But technically it is still his birthday so relax already, people.

Ah hem.

Look. Let me just say this quickly before I end up a blubbering, ugly-crying mess of snot bubbles and violin string spit in my mouth. . . .

I absolutely LOVE this man.

I recognize how deeply fortunate I am to have been raised by him. I am fully aware and appreciative of the fact that it was him and not some ill-equipped or selfish person in his place. I know that this has shaped me--perhaps more than anything else.

Of course,there are people who slug it out and make it without good fathers or father figures. But I also know that having one is like someone giving you a giant boost over the big fence of adult life.

Yeah.

Well. At first I started to put together of top ten in honor of my Poopdeck. Like the top ten super awesomely awesome things about my dad. But then I realized that ten just wouldn't cut it. And so. Instead I bring you something even better:

THE TOP SEVENTY (YES, SEVENTY) REASONS WHY MY DAD IS TOTALLY, TOTALLY, TOTALLY AWESOME AND WHY IF HE WEREN'T MY DAD I WOULD TOTALLY, TOTALLY, TOTALLY WISH HE WERE.

Like to hear it? Here it go.

#70    Nobody tells better stories than my dad. Except for his dad before him.

#69    He goes to the gym every morning and then walks five miles.

#68    He proudly wears a fannypack and doesn't care what you or anyone else thinks about it.

#67    He taught me how to drive on a stick shift Volkswagen van. Knowing how to drive a stick makes me always feel like a badass analog girl in a digital world.

#66    He doesn't mind talking to me on the phone while I drive to work.

#65    He drove with me from Los Angeles to Tuskegee, Alabama and settled me in my first dorm room.

#64    He drove with me from  Los Angeles to Nashville, Tennessee to settle me into my first apartment when I started medical school.

#63    He drove with me from Nashville, Tennessee to Cleveland, Ohio to settle me into my new apartment when I started residency.

#62   He flew in to Cleveland, Ohio from Los Angeles, California to help settle me after moving from my old apartment on the west side to my new apartment with a roommate on the east side.

#61   Yep. He helped settle me again when I moved from Cleveland, Ohio to Atlanta, Georgia. (Although that time he met me in the ATL.)

#60   He always looked at me like he was happy to see me when I was a child.

#59  He still looks at me like he's happy to see me now. And his whole face lights up when he sees his grandchildren. No matter what.

#58  He made all four of us feel like his favorite. And does the same for his grandchildren.

#57   He curses better than anyone I know and drops an f-bomb like no other.

#56  He loved my mom in front of us as kids.

#55   He gave me a blueprint for the kind of man I wanted to marry.

#54   He helped me to love myself enough to receive the love of a man like Harry.

#53   He loves my husband and my sister-in-law, Fran.

#52   He believes in my dreams and those of my siblings.

#51  He has a beautiful smile and smiles often.

#50  He has an infectious laugh and laughs constantly.

#49  He has always stood up for the underdog and used his powers for good when he was in corporate America.

#48  He helped me to be proud of my heritage.

#47   He played Donny Hathaway's "Young, Gifted and Black" for me when I was in middle school and told me to listen to the words carefully. That day changed my life and my self image.

#46  He was a good son to his parents.

#45  He is a good brother to his siblings.

#44  He was a consistent disciplinarian and taught me right from wrong.

#43  He always role modeled a life filled with regular exercise and has worked out for as long as I can remember. Even before it was sexy.

#42  He told me I was beautiful in seventh grade. Which was a total lie. Ha.

#41  He reads my blog.

#40  He is my mom's best friend even though they are amicably separated as a couple.

#39  He taught me how to stay levelheaded in a crisis.

#38  He loves, loves, loves his grandchildren.

#37  He sees about the elders in the community.

#36  He isn't lazy.

#35  He gladly hosts Camp Papa for five weeks every single summer.

#34  He potty trained BOTH of my kids.

#33   He would potty train YOUR kids, too, if you don't mind an old school approach.

#32   He loves peanut butter like me.

#31  He mows his own lawn.

#30   He was on the School Board when I was growing up and did the right things.

#29   He takes my kids to cool places like LegoLand and SeaWorld in San Diego.

#28  He taught BOTH of my kids how to read. Yup. First the potty, then literature for the potty.

#27   He takes care of my mom even though they are no longer together as a couple.

#26   He grew up in the height of the civil rights movement in Birmingham, Alabama and tells me all about his experiences. I feel privileged to hear about it from someone in the first person. And especially so since that person is my dad.

#25   He paid for our wedding.

#24   He understands social media better than me. (Not very hard to do.)

#23  He's not too tough to cry. And cries often.

#22  He helps anyone he can. Personally and financially.

#21  He is passionate about the things he does. Like really, really passionate.

#20  He used to make us listen to Martin Luther King, Jr. sermons in high school as punishments and required us to write essays on what we learned. I was mad then but am ever grateful now.

#19  He used to do Jane Fonda aerobics and was the only man in the class. Awesome.

#18  He tutors neighborhood kids every single day and wants to see them do well.

#17   He looks out for my sister JoLai and she looks out for him.

#16   He laughs at my jokes. Like really, really hard.

#15  He bought a minivan in preparation for Camp Papa and still drives it. Oh, and he named it "Snowflake" which the kids refer to it as like it's a person or a pet.

#14  He has always been there for the important things. Always.

#13   He keeps his word.

#12  He writes me sweet things filled with typos. I love his messages and love his typos, too.

#11  He made me partial to the Omegas since he's an Omega man. And it's cool that he's The BHE's fraternity brother.

#10  He's not a liar and doesn't try to one-up anyone. Ever.

#9   He knows who he is and recognizes the importance of using his gifts.

#8  Because of that, his children are the same way. And someday his grandkids will be, too.

#7  He comes up with awesome nicknames for people like "Plinko" his nickname for Deanna.

#6  He gives me his hand-me-down Apple devices. Woo hoo!

#5  He's an amazing leader and is my guru for all things leadership (next to the BHE.)

#4  He does the driving on long drives. (Yay.)

#3  He knows how to fix shit. And if he isn't sure, he'll study the manual until he can.

#2   He puts his money where his mouth is. And his time and effort. (See #30)

#1  He loves me for me and accepts me the way I am.

Yeah, man. My dad pretty much is THAT DUDE.

Happy birthday, Poopdeck. You rock for an old dude.

***
Playing this for you this time, Dad. Listen to the lyrics and know what you gave me by asking me to do the same.

Feet of iron and clay.

image credit

 ³¹ “Your Majesty looked, and there before you stood a large statue—an enormous, dazzling statue, awesome in appearance. ³² The head of the statue was made of pure gold, its chest and arms of silver, its belly and thighs of bronze, ³³ its legs of iron, its feet partly of iron and partly of baked clay. ³⁴ While you were watching, a rock was cut out, but not by human hands. It struck the statue on its feet of iron and clay and smashed them."

- Daniel 2:31-34

 ____________________________________________

What would it be like if the world around you was just a cacophony of voices repeatedly trying to make you understand? Like, if your body was sick with complicated things that require a real, solid explanation and you couldn't get one because of something really simple? And okay, maybe it isn't simple, but mostly it's a hurdle that we can almost always find some way to jump with some effort. This time, that wasn't working out so well.

Especially because I was tired.

I admit that this has always been one of my deepest fears both as a caregiver and a human being. That I'd find myself somewhere where no matter how hard I tried or how many people I asked NO ONE could speak a shared language with me. And, perhaps, being a native English speaker who admittedly doesn't have much of a travel bug, it's a little less likely to happen to me in the first person sense but the truth is that, especially in a public hospital, this could happen while caring for a patient. Fortunately, even when it's super difficult, we generally find a way to overcome this for patients. So my fear has always been that someone would come who'd landed here through some obscure means. Wait. "Obscure" sounds pompous so I take that back. The word I'm looking for is one that describes a person making it some place without any clear explanation of how. And I took back that word because usually it is more tragic than obscure and perhaps not knowing the fine details isn't such a bad thing.

Sigh. I'm rambling. I know.

So check it. This is what happened to me recently. I saw this man who'd come to America from a very small village in a remote part of Africa. He spoke not a word of English. Hmmm. There I go exaggerating again. He spoke like ten words of English and one of them was his country of origin and another was what sounded like the dialect he spoke. My resident carefully teased out what he could and learned that, just maybe, his native tongue had enough similarities to French to use this to interpret. And so, through the language-line interpreter, he tried to see if this might break through and explain to our patient what was going on.

"This is not French or even close," the interpreter said. "And he is not understanding French. I'm afraid this won't help."

And this time the right word was selected because we were "afraid" too.

So we were back at square one. Looking into the eyes of this man with skin of such a strikingly dark hue that I longed to hear more of his story. Who are you? How did you get here? What brought you here? Where is your family?

None of these words were clicking. He just sort of smiled and nodded his head repeatedly. Which only made me want to communicate with him more.

Shit.

A few more phone calls were made. Dead end. Dead end. Dead end. Somebody speaks THIS but not THAT. And THAT is what we needed but thanks for offering THIS.

Shit, again. This was exhausting.

"These lab abnormalities are serious," my resident said. He pressed his lips together and sighed hard. "I don't know what to do. But let me think for a minute, Dr. M. There has to be something we can do."

And me, I admit that I was already feeling defeated. Like in my head saying those white flag rebuttals like "DO WHAT?" and "WE'VE DONE ALL WE CAN."  So thank goodness that resident was there with me with his fresh eyes and spirit to advocate for this patient in ways that I fell short in doing.

Yeah.

And so. Let me tell you what happened next. That resident started hunting even more people down. Two different refugee support organizations to be exact and even a phone number from the patient's cell phone. Eventually, like nearly an hour later, he found someone who spoke the patient's language. No, it wasn't easy at all, but he did. And that person assisted in at least helping our patient know where to go and why.

And, honestly, I was kind of amazed and ashamed at the same time. I call myself a patient-centered physician and I think I mostly am. But there are these days that I run out of steam. The road is muddled with speed breakers and my energy wanes. I know this is what happened to me. I know it is. I gave up. I admit it, I did. I'm so glad that my resident didn't.

"Thank you for standing up for him," I said quietly. "You made a difference today. I think I felt myself giving up. No, I know I did. I'm glad you were tenacious."

And that resident looked at me and half smiled. Then he said, "You know what, Dr. M? I said to myself, 'Somehow this guy figured out how to get this appointment at Grady and even get the lab work that has us all freaked out.' Even if you speak English that's no easy feat. But he managed it which told me that somebody, somewhere was helping him and that if we could find that person they'd help us, too."

Simple enough. And not obscure at all.

"That makes perfect sense," I said.

"Yeah. I guess I just imagined this man walking all the way here. Maybe not literally but definitely figuratively, you know? Like he marched here all the way from his village and through whatever situation that was bad enough to have forced him away from everyone and everything he knows to be in this strange land. You know? That made me want to at least try."

And I liked the way he said that because it wasn't melodramatic or self-important or any such thing. It was just filled with the kind of humanity that you hope and pray more doctors have than don't.

We are not a perfect species by far, we doctors. Even the senior of our brood are works in progress. One of the hardest parts of our job is to allow ourselves to keep learning, keep growing and keep seeing. To be unafraid to examine our feet of iron and clay along with our patients in an effort to be better.

And so. This morning, I woke up and thought of this. I sip my coffee, stare out of the window and reflect. I imagine a man walking from sub-Saharan Africa all the way to Grady Hospital with his feet of iron and clay and imagine that it took more iron than clay to make it. And then I take a deep breath, dust off my own and prepare to fight for all of the people on journeys like him. I allow myself to learn from the examples of my junior colleagues and to be reinvigorated by their zeal. Then I try to do better.

I do and I will. 

Yeah.

***

A little boost.

I came into the room and there was already commotion. A nurse was laughing out loud, leaning over onto one knee holding on to her side. Another woman, who had just come to pick up an empty food tray, was there, too. She was shaking her head and trying to keep a straight face. The moment I saw his mischievous expression, I knew he was the culprit.

He saw me and immediately gathered up the covers to hide his bare chest. Out came an animated squeal, like what you'd hear if the daintiest lady ever had just seen a mouse or, worse-- if after seeing that mouse--she'd then locked eyes with a peeping Tom in her kitchen window. Everything about it was funny. Effortlessly so. The kind of funny that some people are just born with that brings the kind of joy that requires little to no planning or trying.

I didn't even bother to find out what the joke was that he'd been telling them before I arrived. I was just meeting him but could already tell that he'd have a fresh set of jokes uniquely for my encounter.

And that he did.

"I drank two of them Boost drinks. But you know? They don't agree with a grown man that can't process lactose." He raised his eyebrows and smirked. And just when I thought I could get away with not laughing out loud, He rippled the covers on his bed for emphasis and feigned passing out. "That's the best way to get your own room, you know. Hey, keep them Boost shakes coming, hear?"  That made me laugh a lot which seemed to make him happy, too. 

He was waiting for a biopsy. And when I asked my predictable questions like "Are you in pain, sir?" or "Is there anything that you need, sir?" he pretty much said no. "Unless you got some Lactaid pills in yo' pocket."

"Regrettably, I don't," I replied. "But you know? I'll look into it. I will."

"No! Don't! I'm trying to stay in my own room, remember?"

We both chuckled again.

I examined him from the right side. My stethoscope gently touched his chest in the places where good doctors always listen no matter what. Then my hands searched his abdomen for masses to explain his symptoms. Hearing none and feeling non, I smiled in his direction. "You sound great," I said.

And when I said that, he somehow found a way to make that amusing, too.

"No pain in your belly at all, no?"

"Nope. But you know it's kind of a pain that y'all don't have no HBO up in here! Who I need to talk to to get me some premium channels in Grady?"

More fluffy laughs. All of which were good.

So that's how the encounter went. Him with his witty one-liners and me oft times weak with laughter just like the two women I saw earlier. And as it ended, he gazed at me carefully.

That's when I was jolted back into reality.

Those yellow eyes. That unnatural and fluorescent hue now replacing the whites. And while he was on to telling me the next joke, in my head I was thinking, 

"Shit. Painless jaundice. This is bad."

 I was thinking about that and he was still talking. "So my biopsy is tomorrow, right? Nothing by mouth after midnight. Except Boost." He gave me an exaggerated wink and fanned his blankets once more.

"Umm. . . I'd go easy on the Boost, too." I tried to smile, but it wasn't really convincing. I know it wasn't because of what he said next. His expression appeared serious for the first time since I'd been there.

"So I'm told having yellow jaundice and nothing else is pretty bad news, huh? Like this is a time when you want to have pain at the same time, right?"

I just kind of stared at him when he said that. He'd been joking so much that I wasn't sure if he this was setting up a punchline or what. But his face remained straight. He wasn't laughing.

"It can be pretty serious," I finally replied.

"I know." That was all he said. Except for when he shrugged one of his shoulders and repeated himself. "I know."


"What other questions do you have about the biopsy? Like. . .is there anything I can explain?"

"Naaaah."

"Okay."

He stared out of the window for a beat and then, suddenly, he perched himself up tall in the bed and smiled. "If you ask me, your mood about something is a choice you make. I choose joy. Even when things don't look good, I make myself choose joy."

I narrowed my eyes and nodded. Because that? That was a good word. And one I knew I'd think about for the rest of the day, if not much longer.

I choose joy. Even when things don't look good, I make myself choose joy.

His imaging and biopsy confirmed the worst but most likely scenario.

But you know what? I saw him again and he was still smiling and putting people in stitches. And no, he wasn't in denial and no, he didn't lack insight. Not one bit. But what was obvious was that he'd made up his mind to be as happy as he could. This was his choice. This was his way.

And this? This is Grady.

Choose joy today, okay? Even when things don't look good, make yourself choose joy.

***
Happy Monday.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . . I like this song. It made me think of my patient.

The Crossing of the Super Cross Crossing Guard.

Warning: Totally ridiculous and non-medically related post ahead. Proceed with caution.

 

Dude. My life is just one big Seinfeld episode. Why? Because I not only bear witness to the most ridiculous every day things--I also deeply appreciate them. Like, totally.

Maaaaan, so check it. I was driving down the street on my way to drop Isaiah off at school. Simple enough, right? And let me just say that when driving from my home to Isaiah's school, I have to pass something like seven hundred trillion other schools, public, private and otherwise, to get there. So, yeah, that means traffic and it means kids walking with their ginormous backpac-ity and even some parents with bicycles built for two all throughout the commute.

Mmmm hmmm.

And, okay, maybe it isn't like seven hundred trillion schools public, private, and otherwise, but I do have to roll through a substantial number of school-related traffic for what I think is far more schools in an eight mile radius than the average person. So really my point in saying all of this is that what I witnessed could have been on one of maybe eight crosswalks in in-town Atlanta, so that's my disclaimery way of saying to any and every crossing guard who might be reading this, particularly those from the ATL, that this does NOT mean I'm talking about you or your crossing guard cohorts. But hypothetically, I could be.

Mmmm hmmm.

Okay. So here we are. Me, Isaiah, and a crap-ton of freaked out Atlanta parents eking through bumper to bumper mayhem trying to make it into the carpool lane on time. And mostly, we just talk in the car about our day and what we plan to do with it or Isaiah (reluctantly) reads to me until we reach school. Which is totally fine and not really too eventful. And as a master procrastinator who is the duchess of tardiness, for some reason when it comes to Isaiah getting to school, I have managed to have my act remotely together in terms of getting out of the door on time. That's good because it means that, unlike a lot of folks on the roads during that time, I'm mostly relaxed and not freaking out.

Yeah.

So the other day was unusually more congested. And it seems like every parent had decided to let their kid out of a car somewhere so that they'd need to walk across one of the busy streets we pass. Which is really no big deal since there are like three hundred and twenty trillion crossing guards out there.

Now. Let me just pause for a moment on the crossing guards around Atlanta. At least, in town Atlanta. It appears that they are a combination of police officer-y, sherriff-y people and, when you get super close to the schools, parents who have volunteered. Or. There's one last group that I failed to mention--the elders who, I think, might be retired grandpas and grandmas or just kind civil servants who have agreed to get out of bed at the crickety crack of dawn to keep things on the straight and narrow. And that latter group? Those are the ones that you KNEW not to mess with when you were a kid.

Mmmm hmmmm.

So even though we were at a snail's pace, at one point a light changed and we started going at, like, five miles per hour instead of one. Isaiah and I were singing some Bruno Mars songs in unison so either way we were fine with it all. And right when things began moving, a youngish man in the car in front of us didn't move because he appeared to be fooling around with an iPhone. And me? I give people an obligatory few moments before getting all heavy handed with the horn. Fortunately, I didn't have to obnoxiously toot anything--but only because the person behind ME already did. Yeah. So iPhone-dude lets his foot up off of the brake and eases on down the road. And all was well.

Uuuuu, not so fast.

Here's the problem. He was still holding his phone in his hand and apparently texting. And, look, I'm just saying--we were literally going zero point two miles per hour, but still. iPhone-dude, who I then noted to be also wearing some Apple earbuds, too, allowed his late model sedan to roll straight into the cross walk. But not just any cross walk. He made the great mistake of texting mindlessly whilst entering the hallowed lines of. . . . . wait for it. . . . the the Super Cross Crossing Guard.

DUNH-DUNT-DUUUUUNNNNNNHHH!

O. Em. GEE-zy.

So, clearly, the Super Cross Crossing guard wasn't in the first two subtypes of crossing guards. Nope, she wasn't a cop and no ma'am, no sir, she wasn't a parent who'd volunteered. This lady appeared to be in that aforementioned and deeply feared last group--and, like I said, she wasn't the one to be . . .uuuhhh. . .crossing.

First, let me describe her to you. So picture this seventy-something year old woman with a closely cropped salt and pepper afro in a bright-bright yellow jacket and a pair of garden gloves holding a lighted stop sign. Imagine a pair of half moon glasses perched on the tip of her nose and a facial expression that should serve as the gold standard for the original mean mug. Face serious. Brow furrowed. And a hand perched so hard on her hip and arms waving so animated-like that you can't help but smile to yourself.

Dude. She was SERIOUS about this gig, do you hear me? SERIOUS. Matter of fact, she reminded me a lot of Martin Lawrence's "Otis" character from the Martin sitcom back in the day.

Yeah. Like that.

You can ask Isaiah to affirm that I am NOT exaggerating one bit before I tell you what happened next. Okay. So it turns out that there were like five kids ranging from little ones to high schoolers in that cross walk when he stuck the nose of his BMW into it. And iPhone-dude was probably so in his own world trying to figure out what the hell was going on with his new iOS7 that he was in total la-la land.

But that didn't last long.

Let me tell you. That crossing guard lady leaped into the air like a ninja and landed with a giant karate chop down on the hood of his car. And her fluorescent jacket was blinking and her eyes were kind of blinking, too.

"HEEEEEEEEEYYYY!!!!!! WHAT IS YOU DOING!!???!! DON'T YOU SEE THESE KIDS TRYING TO CROSS THIS CROSS WALK??!!!!"

Okay, so iPhone dude nearly jumped into the passenger seat when that happened. Damn, he was startled. And I think he just sort of froze in terror at the sight of her blinking jacket, blinking eyes, and ninja posturing.

Then. THEN y'all ain't gonna believe me when I say this but I promise it's true. The Super Cross Crossing Guard does this wrist rotation gesture telling him to roll down his window. You know--the kind that mimics the old school windows that weren't automated but instead required a rotating handle. And I think the dude was just so freaked out by the whole thing that he did exactly as he was told.

LAWD.

What did he do that for? Maaaaan, please. When I tell you that that Super Cross Crossing Guard WENT OFF on him? I'm talking WENT THE *bleep* OFF! Aaaaaw man. She was hot. I was 99% sure that she was going to whip off her belt with a one hand motion, fold it in half, yank him out of his car and then commence to whipping his behind like a child that just got caught stealing in church.  So the poor dude has the nerve to still be holding the phone in his hand and wearing the headphones.

"GET OFF THAT DAMN PHONE!! THAT'S YO' PROBLEM RIGHT THERE!! YOU 'ROUND HERE TEXT-MESSAGING SOMEBODY AND NOT LOOKING WHERE YOU GOING AND NOW YOU 'BOUT TO RUN ONE O' THESE KIDS OVER!!!"

And, okay. I mean, dang. iPhone dude was wrong, but this was cold blooded. Everybody could hear and what's worse is that folks were hooping and honking in approval. Ha. And you know what? That's not where it ended. He had the nerve to say something back to her. Yes. He did.

"I'm sooooorry, ma'am! But you don't have to be so rude about it!"

Now me? Maaan, I had my head ALL out the window because I didn't want to miss a single word. And seeing as I grew up with all sorts of elderly folks just like this Super Cross Crossing Guard, I knew this was not about to end pretty. No, 'twas not.

She got ALL UP in his face. Yes, she did. (He had rolled down the window remember?)

"RUDE?!! OH, YOU AIN'T SEEN RUDE!!! AND LET ME TELL YOU SOMETHING--WAIT A MINUTE!!--GET THEM DAMN HEADPHONES OUT YO' EARS WHILE SOMEBODY TALKING TO YOU!!!!"

And yes, again he did as told. I think having a grandmama shouting at him like that just put his actions on some sort of autopilot. I don't know. But wait, where was I? Oh, yeah. So she kept going off.

"IF YOU HAD HIT ONE O' THESE BABIES WITH THAT CAR??!!! YOU WOULDA BEEN WISHING I WOULD BE RUDE WITH YOU!!! NOW PUT THAT DAMN PHONE UP AND PUT YO' EYES ON WHAT YOU S'POSED TO BE DOING!!! GET ON OUT OUR WAY, HEAR?!"

And with that, she was done. As a matter of fact, she slapped the side of his car with her hand like it was somebody's bottom. And that part? I think that might have been the funniest part of all.

Maaan, Isaiah and I laughed all the way to his school after that. And we kept saying stuff like, "GIT OFF THAT PHONE!!!" every time we drove past somebody who was on their phone. (Don't worry, they couldn't hear us.)

Yawn.

So my point in telling you that? Oh, absolutely none whatsoever. It was just super funny so I couldn't keep it between just Isaiah and me.

Wait--I do have something that this made me think about. So. . .everyone was sort of forgiving of the Super Cross Crossing Guard even though she was ridiculously hard core. I mean. . .people were literally CHEERING and clapping from their cars. I'm really not kidding. I think there is like a certain age that a person reaches where they have carte blanche access for just going off on people. I mean, as long as it's in reason and isn't something crazy or discriminatory, you know?

Like, in the hospital, I see some of the Grady elders and they have no problem saying exactly what they are thinking no matter what. Today, this Grady elder looked at me and said, "Why you got on glasses?" And I said, "I wear glasses some days and contact lenses on the other days." And that lady pushed her lips straight up to her nostrils like she just smelled something bad. "Mmmm. I don't like them glasses on you AT ALL." And you know? I just sort of rolled with it.

 So I am just thinking that maybe that Super Cross Crossing Guard had reached the threshold of something even higher than backhanded comments about glasses. She had moved all the way on up to karate chops and even insisting that a grown ass man get off of his phone AND take his ear buds out.

Ha.

Now. If any of you happen to be reading this on your iPhone while driving?

GET OFF THAT DAMN PHONE!! THAT'S YO' PROBLEM RIGHT THERE!!!

Bwwwaaaah! Ha ha.

Okay, that's all I've got. What random shenanigans have you witnessed lately? Do tell. And have you ever seen somebody who just took their job super, duper serious like this?

***
Happy Thursday.

And here's a little more of Ol' Otis for you. . . ha ha ha. . .

Team S.J.G.R. Thursday Huddle #14: The Messages We Speak.

Hey Team. (And hey anyone else reading this who hasn't fully committed to being a part of the team.) I hope this Thursday has been treating you well. Welcome to the Thursday Huddle!

The BHE on his way to the Atlanta Publix Half Marathon (with best friend Shannon)

Yeah, so today I have been thinking a lot about the messages we send our children through our health-related actions. I thought a lot about how much they see the world through the lens of what we model and how hard it is to undo the things that you did or did not see growing up. You know?

No?

Okay, I'll be more clear. So when Harry and I first married, we lived in a lovely home just outside of the perimeter of Atlanta. Our subdivision was really great and was filled with amazing people. It was quiet and friendly and a nice place to live. But. From a health standpoint the surroundings weren't very inspiring. There weren't many healthy places to eat, you couldn't walk to any store and rarely, if ever, did I see anyone outdoors doing much more than mowing their lawn. We moved closer into town because of our jobs a few years later. And, outside of this "new" home being far more vintage than our first one and our commute being much shorter, there was one thing that IMMEDIATELY stood out when I moved:

Everyone around this new neighborhood was moving their bodies. Everywhere you looked, there were people outside EXERCISING.

Man. It was crazy. I quickly learned to look out for runners. And bicyclers. And folks with their doggies. Whole families. Teen agers. Little kids in jog strollers. Just out and about. And exercising for no apparent reason.

Yeah.

When I say "no apparent reason" I mean that these people appeared to be fit and healthy already. They didn't appear to be on a diet or any such thing. These were folks who just got up and exercised for the sake of exercising. That made me wonder. Who did they see doing that? What wired them just to get up and move?

Some saw it growing up. Others worked in gardens or did chores requiring that kind of physical effort and learned to value activity. My dad is that way, I think. He has always exercised. Just like those people in my neighborhood. Exercising for the sake of exercising.

Yep.

And honestly, even though I've known that I should exercise, I've just always had some kind of goal in the back of my head. Like to lose a pound or two or to fit into some kind  of outfit. But just getting outside and running just because? Hmmm. I wasn't there yet.

But over time I kept watching. I watched these people jogging with little kids and walking golf courses together. Then I would see them in restaurants. Kids eating salads and sushi. Drinking water and saying no thank you to fried foods. And that's when it really started clicking for me.

Oh dang. These kids are going to follow my lead.

So that's when Harry and I started making sure our kids knew we were exercising. When they were very small, we'd pack them up and taking them to the gym with us, popping them right inside of the child care center while we broke a sweat. Then we'd hit Subway as a family and make healthy choices or come home and eat something good for our bodies. And we'd do it like it was no big deal and like this just was what it was.

And as for "cleaning their plates?" Nope. Not a mandate.

Nope.

The BHE's best friend Shannon riding bikes with his daughter

And this was intentional. Kind of like JoLai's close friend Claudine who works out every single day with her kids right next to her. Yes. She's a stay at home mama of three with a body that's a total ten. And you know? Those kids get a mighty lesson from her discipline. They do.

Harry and I realized that a lot of parents do really well at taking their kids to participate in organized sports. They cheer them on and don't miss a game. We know that first hand. And those kids run like crazy and chasten their bodies to do amazing things. And it makes them healthier and that's great.

But.

What about when those sports end? Will those kids still have a point of reference for moving outside of team sports or recess? I say no. Unless, of course, their caregivers set a standard for moving and eating right. How many people either played or know someone who played a bunch of really tough sports coming up? And how many know of those same people struggling with weight later on?

(Not these lovely runner girls, of course.)

Hmmm. See this is, I think, what Mrs. Obama is up against more than anything else when it comes to her "Let's move" campaign for kids. She's fighting generational curses and shaky examples. She's trying to convince an entire generation of kids who watched "The Biggest Loser" on TV to run and jump--just because. When a lot of them see that only as an activity one does when they want to win some prize or fit into a slinky dress.

So here's the questions I'm asking you today, Team. What kind of messages are you sending the children in your life about health and wellness? Are you teaching them that food management is punitive for being overweight? Are they overhearing you refer to yourself as "fat" or "lazy?" Are you insisting that they clean their plates? And if you are, does that rule stand even when the meal is something that isn't necessarily of great nutritional value? 

Do your kids know that you exercise? Do you make it an everyday thing like emptying the dishwasher or taking out the garbage? Or is it made out to be some really big to do?

Zachary stretching before a run with mommy -- at age 4

And the big question is this: What do your food choices tell our kids? Does your example suggest that eating healthy means being on a diet? Are they seeing you eat supersized portions at dinner and then a mindless bowl of cereal or ice cream after? If so, what do you think that's saying?

Because THAT is what gets the message to them. It has to be MORE than sports. They have to see YOU doing the right things HABITUALLY. You making healthy decisions that don't feel like anything but living. THAT'S what makes a difference.

Not picking on them. Not worrying about them.

Nope.

Are your kids on the stout side? Are they unusually sedentary? Or unmotivated? Ask yourself -- what are they seeing from me? And if you're married or in a committed relationship, what are they seeing from both of you? Are either of you perched on the couch all evening watching a screen? Are you? If so, you have no right to poke at them for anything like that.

PERIOD.

Look, y'all. Here's the point. The realness starts when you are a little kid. As parents and role models, WE have the power to create a legacy of health and wellness for our future generations. They will grow up running just to run and knowing how to stop eating when they're full. And that? That is quite possibly one of the best legacies one can provide.

How exciting is it that we can shift the gears on the future cardiac health of our family members just by our own examples!? How cool is that?!

My good friend's hubby running in the ATL marathon--his kids watch him run all the time.

Don't you see? This--ALL OF THIS--is so much bigger than us. It's bigger than losing a pants size or being told that you look good at homecoming. It's our chance to give ourselves a gift of health and wellness--and our loved ones, too.

Yes. Shit just got real. AGAIN.

There's a lot at stake. But we can do this. We can, man. That's what's up.

***
Happy Thursday.

Everything.

Hold fast to dreams 

for if dreams die

Life is a broken-winged bird

that cannot fly

Hold fast to dreams

for when dreams go

Life is a barren field

frozen with snow

~ Langston Hughes

_______________________________

Support is everything. It is. I come home from work some days and feel tired and exhausted. Like literally, completely spent. Then I sit and reflect and think and write. I talk to my colleagues and my husband and lean on them. I run into my students and see the belief, trust and support that they have in their eyes. Then I'm reminded of the reasons that we do the things we do.

And I feel recharged.

It was a random hallway conversation. I saw this student, Swaisha F., standing there in the lobby of the medical school one day. I realized that I'd seen her many times before but didn't really know her. And I will be very transparent in saying that I feel it is my responsibility to personally know all of the medical students at Emory who happen to be underrepresented minorities. Even if someone else doesn't think that, I do. And yes, I'd spoken to her a few times here and there but, again, I didn't know her. Until that day in the hallway.

The discussion was mostly light. And in it, I asked her questions about who her mentors were and what kinds of career aspirations were on her horizon. And she told me all of these things but when she did I noticed this inexplicable emotion coming through. I couldn't place it. But instead of subjecting her to some analysis, instead we just agreed to get to know each other better. And as we did, I got to understand more of what that heaviness was about.

Anyways. Around this same time, my friend and fellow Grady doctor, Stacy H. and I had just begun co-mentoring a colleague. And in those tag team meetings, we recognized that we are a hell of a team. First of all, we are friends. But second of all, my "hype man" tactics perfectly compliment her meticulous and even-keeled approach. I asked Swaisha to reach out to Stacy H., too. And she held up her end of the bargain. She did.

And from there, we became her rag-tag mentoring team. And no, we are not responsible for any of the things she has successfully accomplished. But we do stand ready, willing and able to remind her of who she is. We do.

Here is the best part:

Every affirmation we give to Swaisha is an affirmation we give to ourselves. I see her and I think: This is what it looks like when someone holds fast to dreams and doesn't let them die. And being involved in her medical education journey gives that same gift back to me. We remind her of who she is which hits us right back like a boomerang telling us of who we are. On a day when I was tired as hell and wanting to crawl out of the hospital on all fours, I saw her while walking into the entrance with Stacy. And we enveloped her in a group hug and all of us in that moment knew that it was symbolic of so much. So, so much. Things hard to put fingers on but that you want to grasp tightly. And that? All of it made me really, truly want to hold fast to what I am supposed to be doing.

All of this is so much bigger than us. My dad has always told me that and now, more than ever, I believe it. What good is any talent or accomplishment or opportunity if it's only about you? I guess my rambly point is this: Nothing is ever just about us. It never, ever is.

At least that's what I think.

Yeah.  So I look at this picture and I feel myself wanting to cry. Taken just yesterday right in front of Grady Hospital on a beautiful and warm yet cool and autumnal afternoon. A young woman of color who is striving to become a doctor is flanked on both sides by two of her mentors. Both of whom not only look like her but believe in her -- and already are doctors.

The light in her face--in ours, too--is triumphant and hopeful. And I swear I stared at this photo for a long time yesterday just imagining us, her two mentors, lifting her straight off of the ground and casting her high into the skies to soar like an eagle.

And her doing just that.

Support is everything. Belief is everything. And with both, dreams never die. They simply expand to include more than any of us ever realized they could. Any of us.

Yeah.

***
Happy Tuesday. Again.

Damn, I'm glad to be here. In this life, at this moment, I am.

Coming up for air.

Man. The hospital service was busy-busy-busy for these last two weeks. I had so many things I wanted to talk about and write about but was literally face-planting over my computer every single night while trying to type into the electronic medical record.

Yeah.

But the words are there. They are swirling and waiting with hands up saying, "Let me in, coach!" And so I take a deep breath and start the process of calling them into the game one by one. And for me, this is necessary. Very, very necessary.

Yeah.

***
Happy Tuesday.