Covered.

I walked in and found her sitting up in bed with pieces of the Atlanta Journal Constitution spread all around her. Her face was hidden behind the crossword page but those elegant, espresso-colored fingers gave it away. That was my patient. And I could tell she felt better.

Me: “Good morning! How are you feeling today?”

Her: *puts down paper and smiles* Well hello, sweetie! Other than being cold, I’m fair to middlin’.” *gestures for me to sit down*

Me: “Ha! Did you say ‘fair to middlin’?’” *sitting down* “Wow. My granddaddy used to say that.”
Her: “Is that right? The Tuskegee granddaddy or the Birmingham granddaddy?”

Me: *smiling wide because she remembered* “The Tuskegee one.”

She jutted out her bottom lip and shrugged. Just then I realized how much of myself I’d shared with her during this hospitalization. Even though she was the patient and I was the doctor, she asked far more questions than I did. I reflected on what a privilege it had been to soak up her wisdom in that bedside chair each day. Listening to her stories unfold through that gravelly voice was the best thing ever.

Like:
*The dress code they used to have when she was at Tuskegee (long skirts and stockings always!😳)
*When they used REAL china and REAL silver in the Tompkins Hall cafeteria!😮🍴 🍲
*When she and her friends were giggling at George Washington Carver’s funeral because somebody had on a crooked wig. 🙊🙈

Yes. THE George Washington Carver, man. I’d be sad to see her go.

Me: “Guess what? I have something for you.” *reaching down to pull a package from my bag* “You ready?”
Her: *eyes widening* “For me?”
Me: “Yes ma’am.” *opening it up* “Look. It’s a Tuskegee blanket just for you. And it’s right on time since you feel chilly. Here let me help you.”

For the first time since I’d been caring for her she was speechless. Her eyes glistened with tears as I lay the soft fabric over her lap.

Her: “You got this. . .for me?”
Me: “Actually it wasn’t me. It was someone else.”
Her: *eyes widening again*
Me: “Remember that picture of our hands? The one with the pin that you gave me permission to share?”
Her: “You mean share on the Facebook?”
Me: *chuckling* “Yes, ma’am. The Facebook.”
Her: “Where I had all the people that like me?”
Me: *laughing* “Yes ma’am. They sure did like you a whooooole lot, too!”

Now she was holding the cover up to her cheek rubbing it against her face. My face started feeling super hot.

Me: “A classmate of mine shipped it to my home. Just for you. And he said to thank you and your parents for the legacy you helped leave for us at Tuskegee.” *clearing my throat so I wouldn’t get emotional* “He also sent you a pin just like the one of mine that you liked so much.”
Her: “He did? Isn’t that something!”
Me: “Yes ma’am.” *handing her the pin*

Her mouth fell open. Then she stared at me so tenderly and incredulously that my eyes immediately filled up with tears. She was genuinely touched.

Her eyes then cast down to the blanket and pin again. She spoke softly:

“Mother Tuskegee sure made some good ones, didn’t she?”

I gave her a big smile. “Indeed she did.”

Indeed she did.

***
Happy Wednesday.

Something to cry about.

Arm folded over his eyes, tears rolling down his cheeks, and body heaving to the rhythm of a beat all its own. "I'm so sorry for crying like this," my patient said. He pulled back his arm, wiped his face hard and looked back up at me with glassy eyes.

I wasn't sure how to respond so I just reached for his forearm and held it. I sucked in a drag of breath and searched for something affirming. "It's okay, sir. Really."

"I want to do so much. I have people I love so much. That's the thing. For me, it's not so much the me parts. It's the me AND them parts."

I swallowed hard and felt words escape me again. I held his gaze for a moment in silence. To break the tension I finally spoke again. "I'm sorry for all of this, sir. I really am. But we're here, okay? And so are you, okay? You ARE here. Right here, right now. And you've got a testimony."

He pursed his lips and started fighting back a fresh wave of emotion. "I'm just grateful for. . ." He tried but couldn't finish his sentence. Up went his arm again and muffled into the crook of his arm were those same guttural weeping sounds. This time, though, they were stronger, deeper. . . almost primal. "I'm just so gr-gr-grateful for . . "

"Take your time," I told him.

"For the. .the . . .the kindness. . .just the ki-hi-hi-hndness." He erupted all over again, his body shaking so hard that he had to grab the bed rail and steady himself. He finally regrouped and tried to finish. "The kindness. From the EMS people to the nurse in the triage to the people in the emergency and now this team . . .I was just so scared and. . . everybody was just so. . .so . . kind." He took a deep breath and blew out hard. "Make you feel so much better when people are kind to you. Especially when you're scared. . . .especially when you scared you might. . . you might. . . ." He put both of his flattened palms over his entire face this time.

And again he wept. Hard.

He didn't even try to finish. And I didn't need him to.

Here's the thing:

Humankind is mostly good, I think. Even at the places where you least expect it--like a "notorious" safety net public hospital. And listen--you don't have to be a doctor caring for folks at Grady to extend unnecessary kindness to people. You don't. I'm learning that our kindness can be the difference between hope and despair. . .. which often become synonymous with life and death.

I will remember this when I am having a particularly crappy day or when I find myself consumed in all things me.

Yep.

I've seen a LOT of grown men cry at Grady. And what I've noticed is that it is almost always about two things and two things only:

Family and kindness.

And you know? That's something to cry about.

Yeah.

***
Happy Tuesday.

All three verses.

"Do you know the words to the national anthem?"

That's what my patient asked just before I got ready to leave the room. Instead of answering right away, I squinted my eyes and puffed my cheeks out.

Uggh.

Were we about to unpack the NFL controversy? I mean, I could. But honestly? It had been a late night yesterday and I didn't have the bandwidth.

Fortunately, I wouldn't need it. My patient clarified that query: "Not that spangled one, neither. I'm talking 'bout the negro national anthem. Do you know it?"

I sat a little taller and smiled. "Yes, ma'am. As a matter of fact, I do."

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "ALL the verses?"

"Not by heart. But I know them mostly."

"You need to learn 'em by heart. 'Specially that last one. That's the one that remind you of who you are."

"The 'God of our weary years' part?"

"Oooooo weeeee!" She slapped the blanket in front of her and sighed. "Yes indeed!"

"I actually do know that one." I stared upward and tried to make sure. Then I had to be honest. "Well--I take that back. I mostly do." We both laughed.

"See that first verse tell you to make a joyful noise from how far you come. Then the second one help you not forget the past. The last one is my favorite 'cause it tell you to give Him the glory for helping you make it over."

I sat for a moment sifting through the words and realized I was drawing a few blanks. So I did what I always do in situations like that. I pulled out my iPhone and punched in "Lift Ev'ry Voice and Sing Lyrics" into a Google search. Then I turned the screen to show her the words. "Want me to read it?"

She nodded. "Read it, not sing it, hear?" We both laughed again, me a little louder than she.

Then I slipped on my reading glasses and read. Speaking each stanza slowly and carefully, not caring who else in earshot could hear:

"Lift ev’ry voice and sing,
Till earth and heaven ring,
Ring with the harmonies of Liberty;
Let our rejoicing rise
High as the list’ning skies,
Let it resound loud as the rolling sea.
Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us,
Sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us;
Facing the rising sun of our new day begun,
Let us march on till victory is won.

Stony the road we trod,
Bitter the chast’ning rod,
Felt in the days when hope unborn had died;
Yet with a steady beat,
Have not our weary feet
Come to the place for which our fathers sighed?
We have come over a way that with tears has been watered,
We have come, treading our path through the blood of the slaughtered,
Out from the gloomy past,
Till now we stand at last
Where the white gleam of our bright star is cast.

God of our weary years,
God of our silent tears,
Thou who has brought us thus far on the way;
Thou who has by Thy might,
Led us into the light,
Keep us forever in the path, we pray.
Lest our feet stray from the places, our God, where we met Thee,
Lest our hearts, drunk with the wine of the world, we forget Thee;
Shadowed beneath Thy hand,
May we forever stand.
True to our God,
True to our native land."

"That make me want to CRY!" a voice said from the other side of the curtain. It was the patient in the next bed. After that I heard a moist sniffle. My eyes were stinging, too.

"Not me," my patient said. "Make ME want to shout."

Whew.

Damn, I love this job.

***
Happy Tuesday.

Now playing on my mental iPod--my favorite version of this song arranged by Roland Carter . .  all three verses. Always gives me chills.

Home Training.

“Not too heavy-handed, hear?” she told her great-grandson. “You know Mama tenderheaded.” She turned to look him in his eye and he froze with the comb in his hand and nodded.

Up until then, he’d been sitting in a chair, looking bored—typical of any middle school kid asked to sit in a hospital room. He had, as the Grady elders say, “good home training.” So he knew to ready himself to speak when I walked in on my afternoon rounds. His mom glanced at him and, on cue, he stood, looked into my eyes, and shook my hand. Then he sat back down, returning to his tweenaged thoughts.

I examined the patient and then sat on the edge of the bed to speak her and the family. At some point in the discussion, my patient said, “My hair is a mess.” And again, as if prompted, that same great-grandson rose from his chair.

Yep.

A woman once told me that I needed to have a daughter since boys don’t see about their elders once they become men. As a boy mom, that used to worry me. It doesn’t any more. Because now I’ve seen enough to know that children do what they see. Boys included.

“Don’t worry, Mama,” her great-grandson replied as he resumed stroking her silver hair with a comb, “I’m tenderhanded.”

And that he was.

Yeah. 

****
Happy Almost Monday.

Good news.

"I KNOW I almost died," he said. "My chest was hurting so bad in this way that wasn't normal. It wasn't getting better neither."

"I'm so glad you came to Grady when you did," I replied.

"You know? My friend had a heart attack just like me. Just a year older than me. He died."

His brother was sitting in a bedside chair and chimed in. "And don't forget the dude from the car wash. That dude wasn't even 50 and left his wife and like 4 kids behind."

"Ahh man. I forgot about that dude. And remember ol' dude from the Sopranos? He had a heart attack, too. And died." My patient shook his head and sighed. "That was my dude, too. I used to love that show."

The room fell awkwardly silent after that. I guess something about mentioning Tony Soprano seemed to make the possibility of death seem more real. His eyes started glistening and his face cloaked over with sadness. A tear slipped out of his eye and disappeared under his chin. He turned his head away, hoping his brother wouldn't notice.

"You know what? My dad had a massive heart attack at 56." He glanced up at me, permitting me to add another sad story to the library of cardiac sorrows. "He had to have an emergency quadruple bypass and everything."

"Damn," my patient replied. "56? That's close to my age. And your dad, too? Aaaah, I hate hearing that." I could tell he meant that.

"Yeah. But that was almost 20 years ago. Now my daddy is 74 and still round here fixing stuff and talking junk" I squeezed his hand and smiled. "You know, sir? Not every story ends with bad news, okay?"

He tried his best to smile back. "But. . .is your daddy. . . like. . . sickly?" I saw him look over at his brother, both of them bracing themselves for my answer.

I took my phone out of my pocket, scrolled through it and then showed him a recent photo of my dad. "No, sir. He is not."

He stared and stared at my daddy on that screen. "Whew. Thank you for telling me that, hear? Seem like don't nobody ever share the good news, do they?"

I stuck that on a mental post it note and vowed to remember it. Sometimes the news is bad. And Lord knows the longer we live, the more bad stories we have. But sometimes? Sometimes things work out. Sometimes they do. And those stories need to get told, too.

Yeah.
****

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.

***