Old School.

Me: "Are you from Georgia?"
Her: "No. I'm from Alabama."
Me: "Really? Where 'bout?"
Her: "Tuskegee."
Me: "No way!"
Her: "Yes indeed."
Me: *I lean forward and pluck my lapel for her to see my Booker T. Washington pin*
Her: "You went to Tuskegee?"
Me: "Yes, ma'am! The pride of the swift growing south!"
Her: "So you went to Tuskegee AND you my head doctor, huh?"
Me: "Yes, ma'am."

She beamed at me. And I beamed right back.

After that she asked me to take my lapel pin off so that she could see it better. I did as I was told and held it out to her in my palm. She raised my hand up to her eyes, squinted at it carefully, and rubbed her finger over it.

Her: "It was called Tuskegee Institute when I was in school there, you know. I graduated before you was even born! And probably 'fore your parents was born, too."
*laughter*
Me: "You know. . .all the folks who went when it was Tuskegee Institute call themselves 'old school.' So I guess that makes you old school, huh?"
Her: "Nah. That ain't old school. Mother and Daddy? Now THEY was old school. They was there when it was still called TUSKEGEE NORMAL"
Me: "Whoa. Tuskegee NORMAL? Now that IS old school."
Her: "Mmm hmmm. . . It was THE TUSKEGEE NORMAL SCHOOL FOR COLORED TEACHERS." She annunciated every word when she said that and then she let out a sigh. "Mmmm hmmm. You could be a teacher or a farmer--or do home economics. That's what I did. Mother, too."

After that she just sat there . . . first staring at the pin in my hand and then back up at the stiff lapel of my white coat. A complicated expression washed over her face followed by a wistful smile. Then she closed my fingers around the pin, patted my hand and gave it a loving squeeze.

My patient didn't say much more after that. But honestly? She didn't have to. I strapped her onto my back along with the rest of my ancestors and vowed to go even harder.

Damn right.

I love this job.

____________________________

The Tuskegee Song
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

I

Tuskegee, thou pride of the swift growing South
We pay thee our homage today
For the worth of thy teaching, the joy of thy care;
And the good we have known 'neath thy sway.
Oh, long-striving mother of diligent sons
And of daughters whose strength is their pride,
We will love thee forever and ever shall walk
Thro' the oncoming years at thy side.

II

Thy Hand we have held up the difficult steeps,
When painful and slow was the pace,
And onward and upward we've labored with thee
For the glory of God and our race.
The fields smile to greet us, the forests are glad,
The ring of the anvil and hoe
Have a music as thrilling and sweet as a harp
Which thou taught us to hear and to know.

III

Oh, mother Tuskegee, thou shinest today
As a gem in the fairest of lands;
Thou gavest the Heav'n-blessed power to see
The worth of our minds and our hands.
We thank thee, we bless thee, we pray for thee years
Imploring with grateful accord,
Full fruit for thy striving, time longer to strive,
Sweet love and true labor's reward.

On forgiveness.

“I wondered if that was how forgiveness works. . . not with the fanfare of epiphany but with pain gathering its things, packing up and leaving in the middle of the night."

- from “The Kite Runner”

Just finished re-experiencing the exquisitely painful book “The Kite Runner” by Khaled Hosseini. It was just as beautiful yet totally different this time. For this second round, I listened to it over Audible, hearing the author’s own narration. Just as before, I am gasping and tearful with the book’s final words. 

This particular quote near the end struck me so hard. I don’t remember it from before. That’s what’s so cool about returning to stories you’ve already known. You hear them with new ears. I’m sharing this today for someone pledging allegiance to a hurt or a grudge. Remember: when we least expect it, pain can tip-toe away like a thief in the night. And once it does, it’s up to us to let it go.

I kind of think life is like that. Just a series of forgivenesses waiting to happen. I think that’s why I love this book so much. And why I love people so much, too. We are all broken. But mostly? We are good. We are.

That is all. 

_______________________

Happy Tuesday. ❤️
#angerisjustsadsbodyguard #storiesrock #forgivenessrules #teamhassan #loveisthewhat

A.D. (After Deanna)

"The only advice I can give someone about when you lose someone like that is you won't ever get over it. And the more you know that and embrace it, the better off you are."

~ Billy Bob Thornton

________________________________________________________

The Day before Ides of November, Year 5

It's been five years since the day before she left us. For me, they all kind of run together but there's always something about November 14 that stands out. That was the day before things shifted. Now? I will always see my adult life as November 14, 2012 and before-- and then everything after that collectively as A.D. -- After Deanna.

A giant line was drawn in the sand of my life that day. All that was before that day seems like it was so simple, man. Even when it wasn't simple. See, what was simple was that you could trust the day to be what it was. Happy would be happy. Sad would be sad. Lumpy would be lumpy. But it was what it was, you know? I mean, you could walk into that day or that month or that week believing that this is what it will be. And trust it to be just that.

And up until then, I mostly felt that way. I did.

But then came November of 2012. It started off so seemingly normal. The sky bursting with this extraordinary blue and the leaves on the Japanese maple evolving into the most painstakingly beautiful shade of bright red that it seemed like they weren't even real. Just two weekends before the day she departed we sat together on the bleachers screaming and cheering at a pee wee football game. Deanna had painted a poster for Zachary's team by hand and he was so, so proud of that. So proud that he refused to let the team run through it because he didn't want it to tear.

Ha.

My text exchanges the days before were about Thanksgiving week. I had to work for part of it. She had the week off. She offered to help me out with the kids but only up until Wednesday because she had plans to attend the Turkey Day Classic football game in Alabama that day. She loved our alma mater Tuskegee so her being unavailable to me so that she could be available to Tuskegee made sense to me. All of that was cool with me. Yeah, man. It was.

I have read those text messages no less than 1,000 times. I scroll back as far as I can and remember the innocence of that time. How my fear of bad things like sisters suddenly dying were mostly hypothetical and outlandish and not the kinds of things that could affect me in real life. That is, until they actually did affect me in real life.

So that November of 2012 was pivotal. It shifted my view on life and the world I live in and what is promised to me. What is sure is right now. Not even today but now. And so what happens after something like this is that you start to really, really look at your now with different eyes.

Does this even make sense?

For those who have lived through one of these moments, you already know. You know that you can start a Tuesday thinking it will be just the day after Monday and nothing else. But once you experience one of these knock the wind from your chest moments? You know not to fully and completely trust Tuesday. Or Wednesday. Or any day completely. Negative sounding, I know. But that's not how I mean for it to sound. I'm just saying now I understand that there's always some piece of what will happen next in a day that is impossible to predict. So you learn to keep a tiny piece of yourself "woke" just in case that day pulls a fast one on you. And no. That doesn't mean live in fear or don't appreciate it. I guess, to me, it instead means savor the piece of it that is before you. The slice right in front of you sitting on your plate. Savor it. Dig into it with your fork and close your eyes when you take that bite. Yes. Taste every bit of it that you can. Because something could shift and make it where you can't.

Sigh. Rambling, I know.

I think what I am realizing is that every day could be the day before November 15. Which, in a way, makes me both happy and a bit scared at the same time. But mostly happy.

Here's why:

The day before Deanna died was just about as perfect as a day could get.  I had given a lecture that afternoon at Grady that she'd helped me with. It was something that called for courage because it was so different than most standard medical lectures. And, at first, we had some glitches in the AV equipment. But then it worked out and went wonderfully. So great that I have given that lecture several times and even in several different states. I called Deanna in the middle of that day and told her how great it was. How really, really great it was. And, like always, she said that she knew it would be. That was one piece of that day. Later on, she picked up our kids and when I came home she was doing crafts with them on the dining room table. There was glitter everywhere and everyone was so happy. I'd come in with a handful of groceries and started making some dinner. Spaghetti. 

"Join us for dinner?" I asked.

"Sure, why not?" she replied. 

And I cooked while they kept on sprinkling that glitter. She listened as I rehashed every single detail of my lecture and the kids screamed and made as much noise as possible. Harry came in and all of us just laughed and talked and ate and hugged until well after 9PM. And I remember thinking how awesome it all was. How happy I felt that we lived in the same city and how grateful I was that she was there to help me with my kids. I even recalled that moment just a few weeks before crying while telling her all of this. Sitting at the kitchen table weeping and saying how truly, truly, truly grateful I was that she was there to help me because I needed it. I needed her to help me raise my kids and to be brave. And she would just smile and say, "You do need me. You're a mess. But you got me so it's good." 

Then we'd just laugh and laugh. 

I am laughing and crying while typing this because she was so right. I was and am a mess. And I still need her. I do. The cool thing is that, while I know she isn't here in the flesh, I know I still have her. I can hear her when I close my eyes and sit very still. Her strong opinions, her unfiltered advice, her favorite pet name for people she loved "Pookie." And, as crazy as it might sound, the parts of me that are a mess without her are a price I'm willing to pay to honor her. 

Sigh.

Man, oh man. I had no idea that the day after the great glitter and spaghetti night that she'd be physically gone. Just like most people who live through such a thing feel, you know? But there is such a tremendous comfort in remembering how wonderful that November 14 was for us. That she would think to stay late on a school night even though she had to work and that we laughed out loud and did the most ordinary extraordinary things. I love that I was given the gift of discernment in that moment, too. Like, that I knew to think "this is a great day and a special moment" right then and there while it was happening. That was a gift, man. A real gift. Which is a very, very good thing to hold in my heart A.D.

It is.

And so. Now I'm really into trying to do that more. I want to  feel my life and experience it all in high definition. I want to see it and touch it and savor it. Each hug, each laugh, each kiss. Fill it all up with the people who bring me joy and not anxiety. And permit myself to be okay with not giving that precious space in time to those who don't. Because I'm never fully sure if this is the day before a day like November 15. And some piece of me is always praying that, since I never can know what is coming around the corner, that I will live with enough intention to have very few regrets. I'll know I loved hard and was wide awake for it all. 

And I get it that the intensity of it all probably sounds exhausting. And no. I'm assure you that I don't get it right a lot of the time. But you know what? Damn, do I try.

Damn, do I try as hard as I can.

I miss my sister every single day. And I hope that I always will. 

Yeah.

***

Be intentional with your days, okay?

This resonated with me. I get his melancholy and don't see it as a bad thing. Some piece of me will always be sad and I'm okay with that. It's okay.

Twenty for Twenty: Number 7

image credit

After School Special

"You sound like an after school special." She snorted and laughed at the same time. Her eyes lids were at half mast and she settled her back against the back of the chair.

I just twisted my mouth and didn't say anything. This was just some attempt to throw us off of the conversation. I at least knew enough to see it for what it was.

She was old enough to remember "after school specials." That alone made me sad about this predicament she was in. It did. Then again, no matter what the age, this was a sad and bad situation.

All of a sudden she popped up in her seat and leaned toward me with a pointed finger. "Wait. I take that back. You sound like that lady that be with Oprah. Iyanla. The 'fix my shit' lady." That made her laugh out loud. Hard.

"Maybe," I replied. "But I still mean what I said. You don't deserve to be hit or grabbed. He can be a strong person like you said but not hit you. It's not okay."

"Well. Just don't go getting any ideas. You know that last time the police came to my house I told them I was good. I'm a private person. I don't want no drama like that."

"Would you like us to help you with finding a safe place to go? Like somewhere that you could be besides there? No one has to be in your business when we do. There are folks we are connected to and this is their jam." That last part made the corner of her mouth turn up on one side. I went on. "Like, it could be super low key until you sort things out."

For a few moments, she didn't speak. It looked like she was thinking--like maybe we were about to get somewhere. But then her phone rang in her purse and she snapped out of her thoughts. Before I could say more she was looking at the phone and, since I was sitting right across from her, I could see that it was him. Because "YOUR MAN" came up on the screen. In all caps, no less.

Not even kidding.

"I'm good," she said with a tiny smirk after silencing the phone. "Yeah, I'm good."

"But you have bruises on you. And you told me how you got them. And--"

"And you guys have called police and sent people and if I don't cooperate, it don't matter do it?"

I swallowed hard and felt my eyes prickling. "You. . .it. . . I wish you would accept some help. You are a beautiful and--"

"Here we go. Iyanla is back." Her chest rose up in a big sigh. "I got the message that you care. I'm for real. And what you need to know is that when you come from where I come from? You learn how to handle all kinds of shit. Trust me on that."

"They are stronger physically."

"Well. You just need to know that it ain't as simple as it look on the after school special, okay?" She could see that her words were hurting my heart. "Look, here. People think everything can be like the Huxtables for everybody. But that ain't how it work." Another throwback pop culture reference. Which again made me sad.

"I get it. I just feel scared for you. Maybe we can give you some resources? Have some people check on you in case you change your mind?"

"I guess."

"That's better than a no."

"It's not a no."

I smiled. She smiled back. And we just sat there in silence.

Until her phone rang once more. She pulled it out again and looked at the screen.

YOUR MAN.

"I gotta take this," she finally mumbled.

I didn't say anything. But here is what I thought:

No, you don't.

Yeah.

***

Twenty for Twenty: Number 6

His voice sounded like music. Rolling up and down in these soft, lulling rhythms telling of lands far away from Georgia. It was so beautiful that I had to coach myself not to get lost in it and to, instead, pay close attention to his story.

"It started with a bit of nausea first. That lasted most of the day. The pain in my abdomen and actual vomiting didn't start until that evening. I had been in queue at the grocery store and thank the good Lord that I was able to make it out of those sliding doors."

"You vomited as soon as you got outside?"

"Indeed I did. It was just terrible. I did feel better for a beat but not even thirty minutes later, back it came. I was home by then."

Abdomen. Queue. Indeed. A beat. This was not a native Atlantan.

 Eventually we got to the bottom of it all. A fairly straightforward, albeit inconvenient, case of gallstones complicated by a mild pancreatitis. He had been started on pain medication and was resting his bowels. With that and the fluids, he was feeling better. That's when I knew I could ask.

"You aren't from Georgia," I said.

He smiled. "You aren't either."

"You're right."

"Want to see who can guess where the other is from first?"

My face erupted into a grin at the suggestion. I squinted one eye playfully. "Game on, sir."

He narrowed his eyes and sniffed once. "Big city. Not the south." My eyes widened. "Not a northerner." He looked me up and down and twisted his mouth.

"Caribbean?" I asked. He deadpanned. "Well?"

"Yes. Well sort of. Depending upon who you ask."

"Okay. Then I know."

"I doubt it." He laughed at me when he said that. "California. Los Angeles." My face gave it all away. "Bingo."

"Man," I said. "You're good."

"Your turn."

"Caribbean depending upon who you ask, huh?"

"Yup."

I tapped my lip with my finger for a beat. Then I smiled and nodded. "Guyana, South America. Final answer."

He sat up in his bed and leaned forward to give me a fist bump. The sides of his mouth turned downward and his chin jutted out. I could tell that he was impressed.

And you may wonder how I knew. I knew because I was taught by another patient a few years back.

And I listened.

Within two days he was feeling better and ready for discharge. And in those two days not only did I learn much more about him but more about Guyana, too.

Guyana, South America, that is. Not to be confused with Ghana in Africa. Or French Guiana. Or anything else.

And that's just one more thing I love about working at Grady. Every day we learn something, too. On this day it was geography.

Yeah.

***

Twenty for twenty: Number 5.

Please remain standing.

Back in the 80's at my Southern California high school, every single day we started the morning the same way: By standing and reciting the pledge of allegiance. First in English and then in Spanish. Every. Single. Day.

Yep.

After we finished the English version, the person on the PA system would say in this booming voice, "PLEASE REMAIN STANDING." After that, came a chorus of Spanish--from everyone. The nerds. The jocks. The gangsters. The mean girls. The popular kids. The weirdos. The new wavers. Even the teachers. It was actually pretty cool. Back then we thought nothing of it but now I realize the symbolism in those three words:

PLEASE REMAIN STANDING.

It was so unifying and was an act of inclusion. Every single kid in our school recited those words together. And whether you are a fan of the pledge of allegiance or not--somethng about a few hundred (unilingual) kids speaking Spanish in unison with their bilingual sisters and brothers is kind of powerful. I bet you every kid who went to Morningside High while I was there STILL remembers saying this every day:

"PLEASE REMAIN STANDING. . . .

Juro fidelidad a la bandera de Los Estados Unidos de América
Y a la república que representa
una sola nación bajo de Dios 
indivisible con libertád
y justicia para todos."

I stand with the DREAMERS, man. Indivisible con libertád y justicia para todos.

Para TODOS.

Yeah.

***

Twenty for twenty: Number 4.

Overdrive.

If I won the lottery--like the big, bad, super-inflated, multimillion dollar PowerBall? Let me tell you exactly what I'd do:

1. Get some sheets in the highest count attainable.
2. Get my currently periodic housekeeper to make my home her main and only gig.
3. Get a driver.
4. Make sure the driver is down for driving 24-7-365-52.
5. Get one of those cars with internet access so that I can do stuff like blog while riding.
6. Philanthropize like a BOSS.
7. Have a cook.
8. Pay off my house and my student loans (yes, I still have some.)
9. Keep my minivan

Oh, and of course, keep working at Grady.

I need to emphasize numbers 3 through 5. I really, really, really don't like driving. Outside of that? My life is rich enough, man. Like, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't do too much different if I suddenly hit a windfall of moolah on a random Wednesday. But the thing you could bet your life upon is that somebody other than me would be driving.

Everywhere.

So, this is on my mind because in the past few days I've driven WAY more than I want to. I mean, I really don't want to ever at all. But when I do, I'd like it to be as limited as possible.

Anywho.

Yesterday, I was rounding and my patient kicked me out as soon as I walked in. He said, "I'm not happy. Y'all are making me leave and I don't even have no shoes, man. This is some bullshit."

And so. I tried to tell him that we'd go find him some shoes in the social work office but he announced that he had to pee and that I needed to get out. And that was that. But before I left, I did ask him what size he wore. Which was a twelve.

Yep.

Well. Turns out that the BHE is a size twelve and since he is from the midwest where sneakers get retired after just one speck of dirt gets on them, I knew EXACTLY where to get this man a fresh pair of kicks.

Yep.

It was Labor Day so I knew the BHE was off. I tried to get him to bring the shoes but he was hanging out with the kids and the dog away from home.

Grrr.

So you know what I did. At lunch time I drove my butt home. To get the shoes for the man who kicked me out of his room. And can I just say this? Bringing those shoes back to that brother made it worth driving across town, man. It was.

"Got you some shoes."

"Who shoes is those?"

"Yours."

"Them shoes look like new."

"Yeah. They come from a dude from Cleveland."

"Awww shit. Them cats from Cleveland, Detroit and Chicago? They crazy 'bout some shoes getting dirty."

"You know it."

"Damn. This is a good look, doc. What size they is?"

"Twelve."

"No shit?"

"Nope."

"And they mine?"

"All yours."

"Damn."

"Can I examine you now?"

"Lady, you can make me do jumping jacks for all I care. Man. These shoes is great."

"I brought a pair of socks, too."

He just stared at me on that one. And looked almost like he wanted to cry. I've learned that socks are a big deal when you don't have stable housing. For reals.

So yeah. I drove for that.

Then there was today. I was at Grady in the morning rounding. And I had seen all but one patient but that patient belonged to the med student. It was noon and the students and residents were supposed to go to Grand Rounds. I didn't want to delay them going but I also had this one more patient. There was an easy solution: See the patient while the team went to Grand Rounds.

Oh, did I mention? Today I had to be at Emory at 1PM to teach my first year med students. So I'd need to either see the patient alone and not give the student a chance to present his patient to me (a big deal when you're a student) or go to Emory and come back explicitly to let the student have the chance to present his patient.

Sigh.

Yeah. So you already know what I did. I went to Emory. Came back to hear the student discuss the patient. And then? Did I mention? I had to go back toward Emory to meet my third year students. Oh, and I had to get Isaiah from school, too.

Now.

That student knew that I valued him when he saw me walking back into Grady to hear his presentation. That was worth a lot to me. But dude. That was a lot of driving. A lot, man. I really need a driver. For reals.

Yeah. So I've been in overdrive this week, man. But all of it is give and take, I guess. And if I could do it all over again, I'd do it the same.

That's it. Oh, that and the fact that I have nightmares about someone forcing me to drive Uber for the rest of my life. Like, full on nightmares.

I think that's it. Yeah.

****

Twenty for twenty: Number 3.

Mother and son.


When I walked in and tried to shake his hand, he took one step back. He clasped both hands together and nodded in my direction. His expression was warm, though. Kind even.

But, still. He didn't shake my hand.

The center of his forehead had this slight hint of hyperpigmentation. Because his skin was already a velvety confluent espresso shade, most wouldn't have noticed it. But coupled with him not wishing to touch my hand, it came together for me.

This wasn't personal. No, it was not.

The conversation about his mother was serious. His face was cloaked in pain and his eyes were glistening with tears that he dared to counter his stoic persona. "Please, doctor. Do everything. Everything you can possibly do," he said. The words came out staccato and firm, blended with his unmistakable mother tongue. I understood him, though.

I did.

But his mom. She was sick. The kind of sick that doctors can't simply put back together. The kind that, in an elder with other serious health conditions, often leads to everyone agreeing to step out of the way of the inevitable. "Let go and let God" the Grady elders call it. A concept that, in this situation, almost always resonates.

And you know? Even for the ones who don't hold fast to Jesus Christ--they, too, are usually on board with the letting go piece. At least, in my experience, they are.

So I realized that these two scenarios are where I am most comfortable. The bible thumping, hallelujah shouting families who have Jesus on the mainline at all times and the pragmatic ones who either don't subscribe to or are unsure of higher powers but who are just steadfast in their belief in love. The approach is the same really. It focuses on reducing suffering and achieving death with dignity. You tow the line of faith and pragmatism the best you can.

"We want everything," he kept saying. "Everything you can do to help."

I swallowed hard and glanced at my feet. I explained about how sick his loved one is. And I spoke more about how her body is nearing the end of life.

"We can focus on her comfort," I said. "Helping can often mean doing the things that make her not feel so bad. Sometimes when we do things we stand in the way as a person tries to rest. Like, the feeding tube we talked about. It could help her live longer but it could also cause suffering. And, like I said, stand in the way." I was grasping. I felt my voice trailing off.

"Stand in the way? That is not possible," he replied. Now his thick accent had a ripple of something indignant.

"I'm not sure I know what you mean," I said. I could tell he seemed offended.

He sat up straight and stared at me intently. "In my faith, we don't believe this is possible. To stand in the way of His will. You are a part of the will of Allah. The doctors and the things you can do to keep her alive. No person can stand in the way if she is to die."

I just stayed quiet. It was super uncomfortable. Still, he let me writhe in it. Finally I spoke. "When you say everything, tell me what you mean."

"I mean all that can be done to keep her alive. If her heart stops, you help it come back. Whatever things you have that can be tried. We want her to stay alive."

"But--" When I said that one word his eyes trained onto mine and away from his mother. "You want this. . . even if it could mean her suffering?"

"We do not look at it in this way." He swallowed hard and sighed. I could tell he wanted to cry. "We do not. . " his voice cracked and he cleared it hard and went on. "We do not say do nothing. We do not do that. What you do to try to help is okay. We want it all. If Allah is ready for her, she will go."

After he said that part he stood up from his bedside chair. That was his way of letting me know this discussion was over.  "Okay," I said. Then my voice grew softer. "Okay."

"Thank you."

"Thank you for talking to me," I responded.

We both just stood there for a few beats staring at his mother. Her comatose body lay limp and peaceful. Her chest rose rhythmically with each breath. And that was it.

"Okay, sir.  Remember, my name is Dr. Manning, okay? Let me know if there is anything that you need or if you have more you'd like to discuss later." And just like that I reached my hand for his, immediately wanting to kick myself for forgetting that he wouldn't shake my hand. "Oh, yes. I'm sorry."

I turned toward the door and slipped through the partial opening. As I pulled it closed, I could see him placing a cover over his mother's shoulders and pressing his lips to her head. Then he dropped his forehead to her chest and held it there. At that point I turned away since watching felt like a violation of his privacy.

What I am learning is that the expression of love looks so many ways. But no matter what, there is always something universal about the tenderness between a mother and her child. Regardless of what I thought about the decisions he made, there was no denying that every single thing he did was rooted in love. In that sliver of a moment, I made up my mind not to ask him about this again.

I would respect their wishes. I would respect their faith. I would respect their love.

Yeah.

***

Twenty for Twenty: Number 2.

The Alley Oop.


I imagine what life is supposed to be like in the sixth and seventh decades. I see grandkids screaming through houses, knowing full well not to stomp too hard in certain areas because something precious to grandmama will fall and shatter. Those kids have it down to an art. They hop and leap in the other areas. And the grandmama is cool with it.

And if, by chance, grandmama is not well enough to sweep her own floors and make her own bed and scramble her own eggs due to some unfortunate health detours, I see the same family responsible for making those rambunctious grandchildren stepping in to see about her. Coming to get grandmama to her doctor's appointment or going to the store to pick something up for her if she needs it. Lightening her load because that's what family does.

Yeah.

But that isn't what is going on here. You are a sixty-something grandmama. Wait. I take that back. I am not fully sure if you are a grandmama but, still, in those far away eyes I see the love and tenderness of one. So, in my mind, that counts. And you are here in front of me in this hospital bed staring into far away places. Your body is sick. But it is sick with the kinds of things that could be managed with some support. I mean, mostly managed. With support, that is.

But you don't have that.

Mental illness is what robbed you in broad daylight. Held you up at gunpoint one day and then came back for more. And nobody jumped in the way to stop the crime so you eventually lost all the things that people need to just be. Especially as you get up in age.

"Where are your people?" I ask.

You don't fully get it. It's like I threw a basketball for you to catch and shoot and instead you grabbed a bat to swat it like a baseball. Our conversations don't align; they don't match. "We were eating peach cobbler. And I said, 'Do you think this cobbler need some ice cream on it? Or some heavy whipping cream on it?' But everybody just kept on eating it."

My brow furrowed. "Who made the cobbler?"

"I just eat it. But not without any kind of cream."

"Who gave you the cobbler?" I wanted to know. There is love in peach cobbler. And just maybe that meant there was someone somewhere loving you. "Who served you peach cobbler?"

"Somebody said it feel like the autumn coming. To me, it feel mostly like summer time still. The mosquitoes still here. But they don't like me."

This time she kicked the basketball like a soccer ball.

"Where do you live?"

"There was the bench where we had the cobbler but I had to move from there. I had a daughter. She died from sickle cell."

My breath hitched. You lost a child?

"Jesus." I covered my mouth because I didn't mean to say that out loud.

"They came and cleaned up out there so you can't lay on the bench over there."

I swallowed hard and just kept gazing at you. Your hair matted down to your head in one confluent dreadlock. Your teeth fractured and denuded down to tiny browning chiclets. Your eyes super wild and industrious, oblivious to all of this. And your hands, unusually soft-looking in their appearance with a tapestry of bulging veins that look just right for grandmothering.

Sigh.

Oh, and the other thing about those hands? No burns or callouses on them suggestive of holding glass pipes or flicking lighters. Your labs also told the same story--this was all just unruly mental illness with low resources and no support. This was something I've seen and I see.

I hate it. Perhaps more than or as much as the things I see that I hate the most in this work.

And so. I will treat your illness. At least, the medical one that I can handle. I will call the social worker and try as hard as I can to advocate for you just like the doctor did the last time you were here. I will attempt to grasp the names that fly out of your mouth into word clouds above you, hoping to attach them to phone numbers and peach cobbler. This is what I will do.

And, even when it feels futile, I will keep passing you ball after ball. Praying with all of my might that, just maybe, this will be the time that you lean your body back, press your palm to the back of it and shoot it straight into the air and into the basket.

And it that doesn't work? That someone, somewhere will run to your rescue to tip it in on the alley oop.


Yeah.

***
Happy Monday.

Twenty for Twenty: Number 1.

I will set a timer for twenty minutes. Then I will write. 

When the timer goes off, I will stop. 

That's it. That's all.

_____________________________

Magical places.


"Where you from?" I asked as I unfastened his gown to place my stethoscope on his chest.

"Opelika," he replied. "You probably ain't never even heard of it."

"Opelika, Alabama. Lee County."

His eyes widened when I said that. You could tell it was the last thing he expected me to say. "You don't even sound like you from Alabama."

"I'm not. I'm from California but I went to school in Tuskegee."

"Macon County," he responded. We both chuckled.

I pressed the diaphragm of my scope into his chest and instinctively he knew it was a drill to be quiet. As soon as I lifted it off of him, he spoke again. "What made you come all the way out to Alabama for school?"

"Oh, my whole family went to Tuskegee. And I knew I'd have to leave California. I'd always wanted to attend a historically black college so knew I'd have to at least go to Texas."

He squinted one eye and gave one nod. Then he pressed his hands down and sat up in the bed to lean forward. I listened to his lungs as he took big, deep breaths.

"I got a question," he said when I finished listening. "What makes somebody pick a historically black college anyway? Like, maybe me being a white guy and all, you know, that might sound like a dumb question. But I always wondered what the appeal was."

I paused for a moment to see if he was serious. He was. I pursed my lips and gave the question some thought. "I knew it was like a magical world. And that it was different than the real world."

He looked confused. I decided to go on.

"Like. . . . I had visited colleges back home. And I had also been with my parents to historically black colleges. And . .  . I don't know. It was just this special little slice of the world where you could be exactly yourself and then all of this culture surrounding you, too. It's hard to explain."

"A place to be comfortable?"

"Kind of. I mean. . .I guess the thing is. . . . a place where you get very comfortable in your own skin. While growing up, too. I knew that's what happens at an HBCU. I knew because of my parents and my friends' parents. Oh, and Spike Lee."

"Spike Lee?"

"Yeah. He'd just put out the movie 'School Daze' when I was a junior in high school. I was sold after that."

"I never saw that movie. Maybe I would've gone to one if I had seen it."

"Ha. Maybe you would have." We both smiled.

"I did like the TV show about the black college. The one with Will Smith's wife. Or Lenny Kravitz' wife, I think. Which one of them was it?"

"It was both of them."

"Oh."


I got to the end of his examination and sat on the end of his bedside chair. He asked a few questions about his hospitalization and I did my best to answer them. And that was that.  I shook his hand and prepared to leave.

"Hey doc? One last question--how far is Tuskegee from Opelika?"

"Maybe 30 minutes?"

"Hmmm. I think I'm on go there and see it next time I'm home."

"You really should."

"Can't believe I lived so close to a magical place and never went to see it."

That made my face light up. "You know? It's never too late."

And he gave me a bright grin with a thumbs up. I returned the gesture and left the room.

And that was it.


Not sure what made me think so much about this exchange. I guess he made me think about how we are often right next to people and places where there is magic happening. . . . but because of our cultural differences or believing our comfort zones don't align, we miss it all. By allowing just a few glimpses of ourselves to one another, the magic is shared.

Yeah.

***