Get here (if you can.)

 You can reach me by railway

you can reach me by trailway
You can reach me on an airplane

you can reach me with your mind . . .
 

. . . .You can make it in a big balloon

but you'd better make it soon. . .

from Brenda Russell's "Get Here" 

(made more famous by Oleta Adams)

 __________________________________________________________
Turn on the news in Atlanta this week and all you'd hear about were the following in this order:

snow

ice

snow

ice

accidents

snow

ice

oh, yeah, and school closings

School was closed for an entire week. It was crazy. The novelty died off by day two. Grrr. A city incapacitated for a full week? Are you kidding me? I have to admit. . . .even as someone who lived in Cleveland, Ohio where some sho' nuff snow comes down. . . the roads here were bad. We just don't have the equipment here. So six inches equaled a paralyzed city.  Literally.

Now.

What about the hospital?  Surely folks can't just turn on the TV and look for "hospital closings" the way our kids can diabolically rub their hands together waiting for school closings, can they?  You guessed right--hospitals stay open. By any means necessary.

Well, sort of.

As you saw from my Monday post, we did close our Grady primary care clinic for one day. That was the morning after the big frost hit us.  Fortunately, I wasn't on the inpatient schedule so that meant that I got to stay home. But my colleagues caring for the hospitalized patients or emergency-related conditions weren't in the same boat.  They had to come in.  Hook or crook. One of my friends was even picked up to take call by a hospital vehicle when she couldn't get out of her garage. Bananas, right?

Because sick doesn't happen on schedule.  It happens rain, shine, snow, or sleet. (Still want to be doctors, you sweet little medical students?)

The good news for our patients is that we have some pretty hard core and committed doctors working at Grady Hospital.  They will reach patients by a speed boat, climb a tree and swing rope to rope. They don't care how they get to 'em. Trust me. They'll get there. 

Speaking of which.

It definitely would have been less tricky for this colleague of mine (in the upcoming video below) who had to make it to rounds that morning to get there in a big balloon. Anyways, he managed to get out of his driveway and onto the road. However. He decided that he'd capture his treacherous travels all on film. I am thinking that the whole filming, narrating, and driving together combo made it a bit riskier . . . .umm yeah. 

Now. You have to know this Grady doctor to get how funny this video is. Nothing would keep him from his Grady patients. Not even six inches of snow that' has been untouched by human plows.

While he doesn't actually spin out on this video (which would have been really funny in that train-wrecky-America's-funniest-home-videos-falling-off-of-a-roof-or-getting-kicked-in-the-cajones-kind of way) what does make me laugh out loud about this is the fact that Grady doctors just can't stop teaching.  This Grady doctor was alone in his car, getting pelted with sleet yet still launches into a few teaching points about bridges freezing over.  If I didn't think that it would make you cover your mouth and gasp, I would tell you that his windshield wipers were broken and that every time they swiped he had to hit a switch--manually. But that would make you think he was crazy, and that's not what I am going for here.

The real point is for you folks to see what your nerdy doctors will schlep through to get to you (and to make you feel glad that you have the kind of job that doesn't require you to go out a-teaching in these kinds of elements.)

Universal disclaimer: This very skilled camera man-slash-Grady doctor is a Long Island, NY native (just listen to his voice), a car-mechanic-on-the-side, and has been doing one handed snow-driving tricks since he was knee-high to a grasshopper. That said, the author of this blog in no way endorses such one handed, snow-sleet, narrating driving and, in fact, recommends against it. (As does the camera man's better half, Tamara!)


Oprah disclaimer: Dear Oprah,  I signed the no-phone-zone pledge. Not only do I not text behind the wheel or look at texts, I don't film during blizzards either. That was him, Oprah. Not me. Love, Kimberly. (Yes, she gets her own disclaimer.)
  
Heading to rounds at Grady: "Untouched by YOUMAN plows. . ."


Don't try this at home, people. (Or on the way home.)

Parking meters.

*details changed to protect anonymity, based on an amalgamation of true events.

"My patient is back," spoke one of the residents in our clinic one day. She had just signed out one of her new patients with me a few moments earlier, and when we both returned to the room for my supervisory encounter, the only thing we found was an empty room.

"She was paying the meter," one of our nurses chimed in while passing us by on our way back to the exam room. I nodded, knowing this scenario well. Parking in the garage is often too expensive or too much of a hassle for some patients. Other than getting dropped off or taking public transportation, the only other option for many of our patients is feeding a meter and keeping your eyes on the clock.

Once we reached the room, the patient had a few more questions. I instructed the resident to go back to the patient she had just started seeing, and sat down to wrap up the visit with the woman who I originally thought was AWOL.

She apologized a few times for her absence, and then launched into a set of excellent questions. Overall, I was impressed by her knowledge of her body and enjoyed the challenge of fielding her queries. On a sheet of paper, I drew a picture of her liver, explaining how her cholesterol pill worked. She probed about side effects, and we dove into that, too. Overall, it was a good encounter. She folded the picture up and put it into her purse with a satisfied smile. I was happy to know that she thought it was a good encounter, too.

"I have to admit to you, doctor. . . . . Grady is nothing like I imagined it would be."

I'm pretty sure it was meant to be a compliment, but something about the way she said it didn't quite feel like one. The patient, who I estimated to be somewhere in her forties, reached inside of her handbag and nonchalantly pulled out some lip balm. After giving a quick swipe to her lips, she pressed her mouth together and nodded. "If I hadn't lost my health insurance, there is no way I would've been in here. No way. I mean. . . no offense."

Uuuhh, yeah. No offense.

I decided to take the high road. I wasn't sure if she realized that she was actually talking to someone who could hear her--hello?--and who happened to not only work at but love Grady Hospital.

"Yeah, a lot of people say that once they come here," I finally replied.

"I don't know," she continued while still rubbing her lips together intermittently, "I guess I thought there would be people running through the doors with bloody gun shot wounds or a bunch of vagrants sitting next to me in the waiting area."

Vagrants?


That's amusing. I wasn't sure I had ever used that word in a sentence during idle conversation. Vagrants. I raised my eyebrows and smiled. I wasn't sure how to respond to that.

"And the doctors." Oh mercy. "I'm really impressed with you all. Seriously. Everybody I've met here is so . . . .smart. You guys were like regular doctors anywhere."

Yowza.

She pulled a Coca Cola from out of her tote bag, untwisted the top and took a quick swig. "I hope you don't mind me drinking this pop while I wait. Whew! I'm parched."

"No, I'm fine," I replied before I could even decide how I felt about it. I had a fleeting consideration of telling her (as a return dig) about how much sugar one gets in just one can of Coke (ten sugar cubes, actually) but decided against it. I instead focused on her quasi-compliment. "I'm glad you've had a positive experience. I really am. I hope you'll come back to Grady to see us."

"I will be coming back," she replied with a smile. "Not that I have a choice about it."

Uhh, okay.

"I mean. . .now that I know what Grady is like, I would come back any way. This experience was totally different than I expected."

I cocked my head to the side and smiled at her as she reapplied yet another coating of Chapstick. She popped the tube back into the weathered designer purse once again, and looked slightly embarrassed when she noticed that I was watching her. In those few seconds I had already started imagining parts of her story.

A northerner? Perhaps. From the minute we started talking, I knew she was no Atlanta native, particularly because she kept saying "you all" instead of "y'all." But her reference to soda as "pop" sealed that assumption. Definitely no Georgia peach.

College educated? My guess was yes. Who says "vagrant" or "parched" in random chit chat unless they were forced fed such words in a required English class at a university? I vote a bachelors degree at least. Maybe even an advanced degree.

"Is. . . uuhhh. . .everything okay?" She went ahead and called me out for studying her. Against my better judgment, I told the truth.

"No. . .everything is fine. . . . I was just wondering about. . . .you know. . .your story." There. I was totally honest.

This encounter for a medication refill of her blood pressure and cholesterol medications was over. I had already missed the window to ask personal questions under the auspices of "getting some background information" or "we ask everyone this." At this point, I was just curious.

"You're not from Atlanta, are you?" I explored. I needed to feel her out first.

"Oh no. . . . .I'm from Chicago, but I've been here forever. Well, since college. But it feels like forever."

Ding. And ding.

"I guessed you weren't from these parts when you said 'pop.'" We shared a light chuckle. She seemed open to talking about herself, so I went on. "So, 'Chi-Town', how'd you end up at Grady?"

She shook her head and sighed. I was obvious that she got the meaning of that loaded question. Like not how did you end up here literally. More like how did you end up here-end up here.

"Do you really want to know how?" she replied with a icy gaze in my direction. I nodded quickly. She sat there with her eyes closed; shaking her head. The right side of her mouth turned upward in a sarcastic half-smile. She sighed once more and shook her head again, this time almost rhythmically. Like she wanted to shake the memory she'd just conjured up out of her head.

"I'm sorry. It just pisses me off every time I even think of it."

She was taking to long to spill the beans. My mind started filling in the blanks.

A bad divorce? Didn't pay your taxes? Laid off by a Fortune 500? A chance encounter with Madoff?

"Parking meters," she finally said, now scowling. "F--king parking meters. That's what brought me here."

Huh? I knew that Ms. Wilcoxson had just told me that she was out paying one, but now I was confused.

"What do you mean 'parking meters?'"

This time she launched right into the explanation:

"I came here to go to college a while back. I was at the AUC (AUC = Atlanta University Center -- a consortium of historically black colleges in Atlanta including Morehouse, Spelman, Clark Atlanta, and Morris Brown College) and fell in love with Atlanta so stayed."

"Okay," I said, facilitating her story. I wanted to hear more.

"My degree was in Finance, and after that I went for an MBA. At first I was working for a big company in marketing, but always had that entrepreneurial spirit, you know?"

"Yeah, that makes sense."

"Well, anyways. . . .I was always a great cook. Me, my momma, my nana, my sisters, and even my brother--we know how to burn in the kitchen. We used to have a booth at The Taste of Chicago and everything. So. . . I opened up a restaurant downtown about eight years back."

She told me the name of it, already predicting my next question.

"Really? My husband and I have been there. That's your place?"

"It was."

"Wow, I'm sorry. . . . the economy?"

"No," she answered dryly. "Parking meters. F--king parking meters."

Every time she used the f-word, I bristled a little and sat up a bit more in my seat. This ultra-polished woman who used words like "parched" and "vagrant" didn't seem the type to be flinging f-bombs around unless there were no reasonable alternatives in the lexicon.

Without thinking, she quickly reached for the lip balm and nervously rolled it over her lips for the umpteenth time. "They put f--king parking meters in front of my business. Right there. All up and down the street. Two dollars an hour. Quarters only."

"Damn." I covered my mouth, realizing that a profane word in this instance was also my expression of choice. It felt suitable.

"At first, it wasn't that noticeable. But over time, it annihilated us. My lunch crowd, my dinner crowd, my breakfast regulars? These are folks that come downtown to handle business, and stopped at my place for a quick minute, you know? Who has all those quarters? It's easier to just find a drive-thru." When she shook her head again, I thought I saw steam coming from her ears. "My customers kept getting tickets. Twenty-five dollar tickets. Then they stopped coming altogether. It was just too inconvenient. And Atlanta just isn't a pedestrian city like Chicago is, you know? Folks drive here. And when you drive, you need somewhere to park."

Now I was shaking my head. I was speechless.

"Those parking meters took me out. They really did. Such a simple thing, right? Who even thinks about what parking meters might do to someone's livelihood? I'm sure all the powers that be thought, 'What's the big deal? It's just a few quarters.' I'm sure all they were thinking was that it would bring money into the city. Lower some taxes. Simple enough, right?"

Damn. This was some real talk. I shifted forward and sighed.

"I tried everything. Specials, advertising, all that. And my place used to do well. We stayed busy. Eight years of steady, good business. But . . .finally. . . . I had to just let it go. Let it all go." She looked like she would cry if I said another word, so I waited. I knew more than anyone the danger of being provoked when you're right on the tippy-tip edge of crying.

The emotion passed, and she let out a big sigh. "So that, Dr. Manning," she announced with an exaggerated smile while leaning in to read my badge, "is how I found myself at Grady Hospital."

I sat in silence, not really knowing what to say. Words like "everything happens for a reason" or "it's darkest before the dawn" didn't really seem appropriate. Especially when something as simple as parking meters--effing parking meters--snuffed out everything you worked for.

::sigh::

Ever since that day, I remember that conversation every single time I see a parking meter. Especially one in front of a small business. I say a tiny prayer for those establishments as they disappear into my rear view mirrors, and hope that my patient managed to open her restaurant elsewhere. But mostly, I reflect on how something so seemingly insignificant can be so pivotal to someone's everything. Someone's life.

A bad divorce? Nope.

Laid off? Nope.

Buzzzz. And buzzzzz.

Correct answer? Parking meters. Effing parking meters.

I will never look at them the same.

California vs. Cleveland

Atlanta Snow Day, Part II

Harry is from Cleveland, and I am a Los Angeles native. Although Harry doesn't seem interested at all in moving back to the Lake Erie area, he's definitely kept his lake-effect snow roots. With the six inch cover of snow we got in Atlanta, you could tell that he was no novice the minute we all got outside.

"Daddy, let's make a snowman!" Isaiah exclaimed.

"This isn't good snowman snow. This is good snowfort snow, though."

"What about igloo-making?" Isaiah countered.

Harry thought about that for a moment and then said, "Yeah. It's good igloo-making snow, too."  

Interestingly, our kids seem to be clearly divided between Dad's Ohio roots and my California sunshine genes.  Isaiah can play in the white stuff all day. He'll be out there with chattering teeth, soaked gloves and a big ol' smile as long as you allow him. For an Atlanta native, he's a natural. (Just like his Cleveland native dad--the entrepreneur who, at 8 years old, asked for a snowblower for Christmas--but that's a whole 'nother story. . .)

Now this is a complete contrast to Zachary. Zachary is similar to his California dreamin' mother in that he likes to go out there for a minute, be a part of some fun photo opportunities, and then head in for some cider or hot chocolate. My kind of kid.

But seriously? Zachary might be a bit worse than me.  First of all, he came out there with all of his beach-digging equipment. Very naïve to think that it would work on six inches of wet snow, I know.  He had to learn the hard way . . . . 

2 minutes outside: check out the shovel

 Four minutes outside

Meanwhile, Harry and Isaiah happily built a snow fort (that allegedly will be remodeled into an igloo tomorrow.) Zachary, on the other hand, did this:

Goin' back to Cali: The sixth minute.

And then requested this:

Happy Snow Day!

Let's hear it for photo opps!

Awake, Thou Wintry Earth.

Atlanta Snow Day, Part I:

This is what we woke up to this morning here in Atlanta, Georgia:

 

And here is the text I received at 6:05 this morning as I fearfully dressed to go into Grady:

"I'm sure y'all have figured it out but they just called and decided to close the clinic." 

The Grady Hospital Clinic? Closed? Say whaaaat?

This is something that I have never seen happen in the ten years I have worked here. Ever. 

Obviously, a lot more than Atlanta had to freeze over for that to happen.

Happy Snow Day to all. . . .and to my colleagues in the Grady ER and on the wards holding down the fort--thank you.

Spelling Bee.

After school one day last week:


Isaiah:  "Mom, can I watch T.V.?"


Me:  "No."


Isaiah:  "But I did my homework. And my sight words. Why not?"


Me: "Because it's a school night, that's why -- and because I said so."

Silence.


Isaiah:  "Then can I play with my Nintendo D.S.?"


Me:  "No."


Isaiah:  "What about playing on your iPad?"


Me:  "No, sir."


Isaiah:  (groans) "Well, what CAN I do?"


Me:  "You can practice your spelling and your sight words. Or read a book to Zachary. How 'bout that?"


Silence.


Isaiah:  "Mommy?"


Me: "Yep."


Isaiah:  "How do you spell 'ING'?"


Me:  "ING? Uhh, I-N-G."


Isaiah:  "Okay.  Because this--what we are doing right now--is B-O-R-I-N-G."

Touché.

Dirty Little Secret.

The original.

"Mmmm, mmmm
Something's coming over me

My baby's got a secret. . ."

~ Madonna

About a month ago, something happened to me. Something that I have said over and over and over again that would never happen. Something that I have always seen myself as too cool to ever, ever even consider.

Let me tell you what happened.

I got into my car to take Isaiah to school one day. We had missed the bus that morning intentionally since I didn't have to go to Grady that day. When I pulled out of the garage, it was raining. And not just any kind of rain--it was one of those cold rains. The kind that you don't want to have any part of.

We get to the school at the most busy point in the morning. I finally find a park and manage to hustle Isaiah into school while balancing my umbrella, my purse, and holding his hand. The rain is cold but soft and billowy enough to roll right under the umbrella, which is the kind of rain that converts my hair into an afro. (Note: I have nothing against afros or natural hair. It just didn't happen to be the look I was going for that day. . .but I digress. . . .)

I finally get Isaiah into school, and scurry out to my car as fast as I can. But not before seeing this woman pull up really close to the front of the school in a minivan.

Okay.

I am freezing and teeth-chattering and repeatedly patting my hair to see if I have become puff-mama while this woman in her cute little North Face fleece is sipping her Starbucks casually. Then--boom!--the automatic doors pop open, and two kids jump out, blow kisses, and wave into the building. She hits some button, they close, and she pulls off.

Just like that.

Later that day, I'm at the grocery store with Things 1 and 2. They are brawling next to the door as I alternate between loading groceries and keeping my kids from getting run over. The rain is still coming. I no longer care about my hair at this point (since now it has become unsalvageable) but I am fully annoyed by the enormous amount of energy it is taking me to get my boys into the Volvo.

That's when I see another mom heading out to her car with two (equally rambunctious) kids. They reach--yep--a minivan. The back opens and Mom throws the bags inside. Then, she walks around to the driver's seat with her kids in tow and--boom!--those automatic doors roll open for her, too. The ninos leap inside, jump into the captain chairs and buckle themselves up. The doors close smooth and easy, and she throws it in reverse.

All while I'm reaching over Capri Sun bags and Batman figures to finish getting mine situated. That's when it happened. The thing that I swore would never happen.

I said, "Damn, I want a minivan."

(thump)

*That's the sound of all of my friends fainting from this confession.

I looked into my backseat and saw the two boosters, the DVD player, the toys, the crumbs, the coloring books. I took in the entire vehicle--a Volvo SUV--and wondered if I knew of any non-mom who had one. I couldn't come up with a single person. I think the Volvo SUV is nothing more than a not-so-thinly veiled attempt to show people that you could live without and are waaaay too cool to drive a minivan.

I called myself getting that Volvo SUV so that I wouldn't be like those women whose vehicles scream KIDS ON BOARD!! Now that I know better, I realize that this particular SUV does not communicate the same thing that say. . .a Range Rover Sport does. It says, I have kids that I wish to keep safe.

But that wasn't my goal when I got it. I wanted to be the (unbelievably awesome looking) woman that steps out of her (clearly not purchased for chauffeuring kids around) late-model ride at the valet, and has the young attendant look incredulously at her car seats and say, "You have children?"

I've never been able to reconcile the thought of driving places by myself and a minivan being my sole means of transportation. I mean what could possibly be lamer? Minivans have always represented the point of no return.

But that day, when I looked at the Cheeze-its and silly bands all over my (cool) non-mom-mobile, I realized that I had already reached that point. The point where you care as much if not more about function than being the fly-girl. The point where automatic doors make your heart go pitter patter.

And so.

I started surfing the net. Coveting--gasp--minivans. Peaking in their windows in parking lots. Comparing them on websites. I even started imagining myself pulling up at a swanky restaurant to meet my friends, and stunning the valet dudes with my ridiculously youthful and non-momtacular appearance. So much that they'd look at me, marvel at my hotness combined with the oxymoron of it all oozing from a --whaaattt???--- minivan, and say, "You have children?"


Yeah.

So there it is. My dirty little secret is out there in the open now. I am seriously digging the minivan these days. And as it turns out, I am not alone. Even the NY Times published a story on minivans being hip--errr, sort of hip, I mean.

I can't believe this. I have changed my previously firm position on the minivan. And unless one of you can suggest an excellent, roomy, vehicle with a third row, a state-of-the-art media package and ---a non-negotiable must--- the ultra-fabulous automatic sliding doors, a minivan is very likely in my future.

Seriously.

And so. To Lesley M., Stacy H., Erica B., Jada R., Tracey H., and Marra S.--I apologize from the bottom of my heart. For the hairy eyeball that I have given each of you (whether you knew it or not) for the last several years that you have been flippin' switches on those (freakin' awesome) automatic doors. For not wanting to ride anywhere with you. And for--okay, I'll admit it---hating on your mom-mobiles. Now, I get it. I so get it.

I have accepted that far more of my time is spent with my kids in my car than alone. And. The more I think of how proud I am to be my kids' mother, I question my original thought of not wanting to seem mom-ish.

I am mom-ish. And now that I think of it? That's as cool as it gets.

***

Where my mother-fathers at?



What do y'all think? Have I lost it completely? Does this mean my player card is revoked for good?

Perspective.

Same-day-sick Appointment in the Grady Primary Care Center:


"I can't sleep, doc."

"Really?"

"Yeah. And it ain't like I ain't sleepy, either. I just be sitting there. Just up and bored."

"Tell me about your evenings."

"I get in bed at like eleven. I turn on my television and just watch some TV. You know, Leno and the news."

"Okay."

"My old lady falls asleep and then I just sit there. Wide awake.  After while, I shut off my television and just lay there."

"Hmmm."

"I know . . . .  I ain't supposed to watch TV in bed, but I'm telling you, doc, it ain't that."

"That television can be harder on you than you think. Has it always been hard for you to sleep?"

"No, ma'am. I used to sleep fine. And as for that TV? Naw, it ain't that. I been sleeping with my TV for years."

"What kind of work do you do?"

"I'm run a barber shop so I have some long days. I walk around a lot, spend a lot of time on my feet. So I know I should be good and tired. I just can't fall asleep."

"Hmmm."

"But see, I know just what the problem is."

"What's that?"

"I'm a light sleeper and the noise-- it keep me awake."

I needed more information. "Noise? Does your ladyfriend. . . uhhh. . . snore?"

"Naw!" He chuckled at the very suggestion which made me imagine his better half as a dainty, princess like woman who gently sighed all night. "She sleep quiet as a mouse." I smiled at the image.

"So. . . you mean the TV noise? I'm confused."

"Naw.  Not the TV. This."  He pointed at his chest.

I looked puzzled. Was he some kind of human beatbox that played involuntarily? I didn't get it. He saw the confusion in my face and elaborated.

"This, doc." He pulled down his shirt to show me his midline sternotomy scar from what was obviously some kind of open heart surgery. I narrowed my eyes and tried to get his point.

"I got this mechanical valve put in my heart almost a year ago. And doc, I promise to God, when it get real, real quiet in my house, I can hear it. Loud. I'm for real."

Wow. This was a new one for me. Though surely this was not a new problem under the sun, it was definitely my first time sitting across from a patient who had it as their chief complaint. His chart said, "Can't sleep."  Now that, I could deal with. In fact, I'd grabbed his chart to help move things along in the clinic thinking I could knock this out (and him out) in two seconds flat. In my head,  I was already preparing to launch into my shpiel on "sleep hygiene." Insomnia is such a common issue, and almost always, the patient is doing something that can be easily modified. Like watching television or sitting on their laptop/Kindle/iPad all night sending light to the brain and telling it that it's time to get up and boogie. I thought this guy had me at "television", but never expected this. Dang.

"So. . .what are you hearing?"

"The click. That thang click nonstop. Same thing you hear when you put your thing on my chest to listen, tha's what I hear up in my ear.  Like somebody snapping some metal fingers."

I furrowed my brow and tried to think.

"Messed up, ain't it doc? How anybody 'posed to sleep with that in they ear all night?"

Wow. That was messed up. I had no answer for that question. I really didn't. I leaned my chin into my hand and sighed. A concerned, perplexed, mindsearching sigh.

"Have you. . . . tried a noise machine? You know. . .like one of those ones that has all the soothing sounds?"

"What you mean 'soothing sounds?'"

"Like rain. . and thunder. . .the beach. They have machines that do that. Stuff like that?"

"I think it ain't nothin' I can turn up that will be louder than some metal clicking in my body."

Pretty much, he was right. So I just sat there, staring at him kind of like the way a dog stares at you when you are eating. Alert, but sort of dumb-looking.  I realized that it was like someone trying to drown out their own hum--covering the ears only makes it worse.  I wanted him to get some rest. I really did. But the truth was that I had no answers.  None whatsoever.

***

Today I'm reflecting on the fact that (more often than folks realize) sometimes doctors just don't have an answer to your problem. Or as I once heard a medical student say, "I got nothin'."

The good news is that, since common things are common, this is usually not the norm. Most of the time, we do have a strong idea of what's going on, and with that we can set out on a clear cut plan toward reaching a solution. But sometimes the problem or complaint or ailment is one that, for the life of you, all you can say (under your breath, of course) is, "I got nothin'."

You can't sleep because you are disturbed by the mechanical click of your life-saving artificial heart valve?

Earplugs? You'll still hear it.
White noise? You'll still hear it.
Sleeping medicine? Ability to sleep isn't the issue and you'd  be too groggy to cut hair.

Yeah. I got nothin'.


Over the years, I have learned that one of the best things to do in those "I got nothin'" times is something I should be doing all the time anyway: enlisting the patient as my consultant and collaborator on the plan. There's something called the "explanatory model" that we teach medical students to use during the history-taking portion of their patient encounters. The explanatory model is this point where you essentially ask the patient what they think is going on.  Some wise medical educator finally put two and two together and recognized that patients often are spot on when it comes to pinning the diagnosis.

Case in point:

"I have back pain."

"Did you injure yourself? Pull a muscle? Lose weight? Gain weight? Do something new? Do a new exercise? Sleep somewhere unusual?"

"No. No. No. No. No. No. No."

"What were you thinking this could be?"

"I think it's a urinary tract infection, because it's exactly like the last time I had one."

"Aaaah."

Urinalysis comes back ten minutes later:  > 100 white blood cells per high power field--diagnostic of exactly what the patient said.

Aaaahhh.

So, yeah. We often use the explanatory model to assist us with diagnoses, but I've come to lean on it a lot more for treatment plans--especially the ones that don't involve prescriptions or procedures. This day, more than ever, I needed my patient as a consult.

"Sir. . . . I'm going to be honest with you. I am wracking my brain trying to think of what you can do for this. I'm just not sure how to make it where you can't hear that clicking.  How 'bout we put our heads together on this one, okay?"

"That sounds good."

I turned the computer monitor around and started doing a literature search on the noise of mechanical heart valves. "First, I'm looking to see if any experts have any ideas." I punched in a few terms into a search engine. "What kinds of things have you tried?"

"Honest, doc? I tried having on the TV. I tried having a couple drinks, but then I knew that getting myself drunk wasn't gon' be something I could do every night."  We both laughed.

"Yeah, you're probably right about that solution," I said with a playful wink. "Hmmm.  Everything I'm seeing here just talks about the fact that some valves are noisier than others."

"Mine is the St. Jude."

"Yeah. . .that's a noisy one according to this. . . . Let's see what the patients are saying, okay?"

St. Jude Mechanical Valve

"Okay." He closed one eye like he was debating telling me something for a moment. Then he said, "You know what I did try one time that did kinda work, Miss Manning?"

I offered him a quick glance while still skimming a few message board. "What's that?"

"I slept with a pillow over my chest, and my old lady gave me one of them eyeball masks. Something about that mask make you sleep good."

I stopped what I was doing and looked at him. A mask. Hmmm.  I never thought about a mask. Good thought, actually. Closing out light is good for melatonin production which is good for restful sleep. Hmmm.

"I felt so funny with that mask on," he went on with a slightly sheepish grin, "like I was some kind of . . .I don't know. . . what my old lady call it? A diva."

I cocked my head to the side and then giggled. He was anything but. "You are so not a diva, Mr. Jefferson." We shared a smile before I went back to reviewing the comments on one of the patient web sites. "I'm seeing here that one person said they learned to love the click since it reminds them that it's working." I'm not sure why I mentioned that, but something about that suggestion stood out to me.

"That's a good way to think about it."

"Have you worn the mask any more than the one time your ladyfriend gave it to you? I like that option because they really can help you get good sleep even if you can hear the sound."

He sat there for a moment and squinted his eyes.  "You know, what? I can try that. I only wore that thang once or twice and -- real talk-- it did help even though it don't cover my ears. Why don't I try that."

"You cool with that?"

"Yeah, doc. I'm cool with that. Plus I take enough medicines."

I nodded my head and charted our plan into the computer.

"And you know what else I'm thinkin?" he added as I typed into the electronic medical record. I raised my eyebrows and turned in his direction.

"I'm thankin' that I like that part about seeing my click as my reminder that my heart got fixed." I paused again and gave him my full attention.  "I almost died before they changed out my valve, Miss Manning.  It was infected and they said I could almost die. I was in the intensive care and everything."

"Wow."

"Yeah. And I got kids, and even a grandbaby now."

"So I guess it's like every click is another second that you get to be here loving your family."  I let that marinate for a second.

"Kinda like every click got a testimony in it. My testimony."

Wow. 

"That's a beautiful way to look at it, Mr. Jefferson." I thought about his poignant statement and shook my head. "Mmm mmm mmm. Every click is a testimony. I love that."

He looked down at his chest and then up at me. "You know what, doc? I love it, too."

Reflections on a Day Off from Grady: The Mama-and-Paparazzi.

Shots from "The Mommy and Zachary Day" as attempted by the mama-razzi.
































(And you thought the Kardashians had it bad.)

Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Mike check.

"What are you getting the boys for Christmas this year?" my girlfriend asked during a phone chat last month.

"Oh, you know. . .standard boy stuff. . . superheroes, trucks, yadda yah," I replied while thumbing through a magazine and balancing my iPhone on my shoulder.

"Are you getting them new video games?"

"Video games? Uhh. . .that would require some kind of video console, which the Manning ninos do not yet have," I said sarcastically, "Although Isaiah did ask for a Nintendo DSi which we are somewhat considering."

I heard my friend pause and laugh. A deep and hearty laugh. "Girl! How old is Isaiah? Five and a half, right?" I could tell she was going somewhere. "He doesn't have a Nintendo DS yet?" She laughed again. A deeper, heartier and somewhat incredulous laugh. Which sort of made me feel fleetingly like I felt when my mom sewed a penguin onto the polo shirt she had sewn me for the first day of school in 6th grade, and all of my friends had store-bought alligator versions. I thought the penguin shirt was gnarly until I got on the bus and ruthlessly learned otherwise. (Sorry, Mom.) But seeing as this friend is not a mean girl from my middle school bus route, I decided that I wouldn't take it personally. She added, "You guys haven't caved and at least bought the Wii or the Xbox yet?"

I wondered if I really was as uncool as I was feeling at the moment. Then I remembered how pricey those things were the last time I perused them in Target. I shook my head and said, "Dude! My kids are four and five years old!" I firmly turned the magazine pages without reading them and tried to stay cool. "Plus I just don't get the whole hype of those things." My friend is a "wii" bit too silent, which makes me take pause.

Oh no! History repeats itself! My kids are going to be penguin shirt kids, too! (Errrr, no offense, Mom.)

First day of 6th grade: La Penguin complete with double belt + scary glasses

Finally she speaks up. "The Wii is for the whole family, girl! Seriously, some of them are a good work out and are super fun."

"Uuuhhh, okay." I decide that those penguin shirts had love in them and saved my momma a lot of money. I return to my position on the video games. "For all that money they'd better be a damn good workout."

"No, I'm serious!" my girlfriend playfully pressed me, "It's really worth it."

"Uuuhhhhh, okay," I repeated. "How 'bout you warm it up before we come visit you so we can get our workout, too." We both laughed out loud.

"Cheap-y," she teased before we got off of the phone.

Ha. Viva "La Penguin," my friend. (Not to be confused with the pricier "Lacoste.")


Okay. . . now while I am pretty. . .errr. . . thrifty, I have been known to splurge here and there. We did break down and get the kid a Nintendo DSi, which certainly qualified as a sho' nuff splurge. But. . . .I wasn't exaggerating when I told her that I haven't quite understood the hype of all these video games. As a kid, they never did it for me, and I think I may be traumatized by the boy I dated in college who had a way too serious love affair going with Techmo-Bowl on Sega Genesis. Harry is no big fan of video games, either and seems to harbor some kind of bizarre paranoia that any boy who touches one might immediately turn into a gaming addict. Combine all that with the price tag and it shouldn't surprise anyone that, up until Santa brought Isaiah that Nintendo DSi, no video game had crossed the threshold of the Manning house and into the sticky little mitts of Things 1 and 2.

Yeah. The ads for those things do look kind of cool. But as novel as the advertisements for them seem, it always looks to me like something that would be fun for a couple of days and then thrown into a cabinet somewhere for months at a time.

At least that's been my take on them.

But then, I had a recent experience that just might force me to change my position. On New Year's Eve, Harry and I went to a party given by two of our good friends. I had just finished a grueling stint on the Grady inpatient service, and was super tired. So tired that I would have been fine to ring in the New Year with Bravo and my remote control. Fortunately, the gathering was fairly low key, so it was perfect for a pooped Grady doctor. It was primarily couples; easy conversation and a nice vibe. Once everyone planted kisses on each other at the stroke of midnight, the men retreated to the deck with cognacs and cigars while the women shared pleasant conversation around a table. Despite our best efforts, we found our way to the default topic choice of every mom--our children.

After hearing about every milestone of every one of our kids--something happened. One of our girlfriends reaches into her purse and says to the hostess, "This might sound funny, but. . . . uuuhhh. . .do you happen to have a Wii console?"

The hostess (being like every other non-penguin-shirt-wearing American with children four and older) quickly answers, "Sure, we have one. What's that you have?"

That's when she unleashed it from her purse. Michael Jackson -- The Experience.

What is it, you ask?

Unless you've been under a rock like me, you already know exactly what it is. But in case you don't, essentially, Michael Jackson The Experience is a Wii game with a bunch of Michael Jackson songs on it. The objective of this "dance game" is to let you get your full Michael Jackson on--despite how foolish you look doing it. You hold the "numchuck" or whatever you call that hand device, and follow the moves of the King of Pop (or one of his gnarly back up dancers.) And that's it.

MJ in a box.

I secretly gave Lana (the friend who packed it in her purse) the hairy eyeball when she clapped her hands, squealed with glee, and pulled it from her bag. I internally decided that, even though I was secretly intrigued, that nothing could possibly be lamer than what we were all following Steph, the hostess, into her living room to do.

O.M.G. We're about to play some kind of dancing video game on New Year's frickin' eve. W-ow. Is this what happens when you're forty and you finally get a night away from the kids?Really? Really.

Steph turns on the Wii as a few good sports get up to try it out. They pop on "Thriller" first. I offered a few obligatory laughs when I first saw the computer-generated Mike with his two back up zombies. I imagine what others might be doing at parties across the globe and raise my skeptical eyebrows at this alleged party in a plastic box. Wow, we are officially old. And lame. The lyrics roll across the bottom and the music starts pumping. I try to fold my arms and be cool, but before I know it, my foot is tapping. A few moments later I'm singing the lyrics under my breath. But remaining cool, of course.


"They're out to get you demons closing in on every side. . . ."

My butt starts rocking in my chair, I can't stop myself. Part of me wants to join in. But I'm wearing car-to-bar, scary-tall party shoes. Not at all meant for this kind of thing. Plus, it would be lame of me to do this. A foot tap and a head bop will have to do.


"They will possess you. . . .unless you change that number on your dial. . . "

Next thing I know, I can't help it. I'm full-on singing every word with my outside voice, swaying from side to side, and. . .oh shoot. . .occasionally kicking up my leg, Michael Jackson style. Like it was some kind of phantom limb. What the heck is going on?


"I'll save you from that terror on the screen. . .I'll make you see. . . ."

That did it. Like a woman possessed by the same thing that made those creepy ghouls boogie out of their graves in the original "Thriller" video, my body was taken over. In five seconds flat, I kicked off my stilettos, leaped out of my seat and morphed into something that even I didn't see coming--a full on MJ explosion.

You know you've performed it in your mirror, don't lie.

"That this is thriller! Thriller night!
Girl, I can thrill ya more than any ghoul who ever dared try!
Thriller! Hooooo! Hoooooo! Thriller night!
And let me hold you tight and share a thriller! killer! thriller night!"

O.M.(expletive) G.

It was bananas. We were marching side to side with the monster claw hands, dropping our hands to our knees and doing the classic MJ semicircle scoot complete with the head shake (you know you've done it), kicking up our legs, swirling. . .but mostly laughing, panting and reliving the first time we ever saw that video. It was so, so, so fun. . . and unexpectedly unifying.

It was also exhausting!

By the time we got to the MJ hit "Remember the Time" we were all dripping with sweat and breathless with hysterical laughter. My girlfriend was right about this Wii thing. It really was a great workout. So great, in fact, that I think I'm going to suggest it to my patients who have Wii consoles at home as a way to exercise. Yep. Even the Grady elders whose grandkids have them tripping over the crazy contraptions.

I'm 100% serious. I always tell my patients that the best exercise is exercise that you'll actually do. And I think Michael J. The Experience qualifies as an exercise regimen in which anyone would willingly participate. (Even a Grady elder.)

Here's why:

After my experience with Michael Jackson The Experience, I've come to the conclusion that inside every person--old, young, black, white, brown, blue, Jew, gentile, straight, gay, animal, vegetable, or mineral-- resides an inner Michael Jackson. Yep. You heard me. Whether you're four years old, forty years old, or have grandchildren and great-grandchildren who are four through forty--your inner Michael Jackson is in there.  Complete with hip thrusts, crotch grabs and high pitched squeals. Heee! Heee! Heee!

"Mike" check. . . 

Got to be there.

Yours might be little Mike circa 1969 with shoop-de-doop Jackson 5 moves. . . . or the post-surgical pop star circa 1999--you know. . .the one with a high speed fan and a billowy white shirt being blown open to the belly button. Yeah. Whether you know it or not, your inner Mike is in there. So in there.

Belt-buckle Mike

Don't believe me?

Just try to sit in a room where someone is playing Michael Jackson The Experience, and see what happens. Your inner K.O.P. will come leaping out of you when you least it expect it. No matter how tightly you fold your arms, or even if you weren't even born when the "Thriller" album was released. He's in there. And trust me, he wants out.

The one I had a crush on

It's hard to know who your inner Mike is. For all you know, you might be a "Billy Jean" kind of MJ. . . but then you just might be a foot stomping "What About Us?" Michael with gauze blowing in the wind from your outstretched right hand. And trust me, people, there's something about unleashing your inner King of Pop that's so . . .so . . . liberating. This is why I maintain that your inner Mike wants out.

My inner MJ fully emerged on "Black or White." I lost my mind and went completely crotch-grabbing, leg kicking crazy on the reprise.

See? Who knew?

Black or White: My inner Mike

So now I guess I'll eat some crow and call up my girlfriend to admit that I was wrong about . . . I won't say all video games. . . but definitely the Wii. (Although I don't think she reads this blog, so I might be safe.) No, I think I will tell her. Especially since now that my inner Mike has been rubbed out of the genie bottle my whole life might be on a different trajectory altogether, man.

For real.


***

Last funny thing: Today I took Isaiah to my fellow Grady doctor and friend Lisa B.'s house for a play date that was definitely fun. Karate chops, Iron Man and the like. But suddenly Aaron (Lisa's son) busted out the Wii and fuggeddaboudit. That's when the party really got started.

Let's get it started!

Go figure.



All I'm saying is this: Your inner MJ wants out.  Don't fight it.  It's futile, people. And don't worry if releasing him makes you feel a little uninhibited because that's the point. You can blame what ever happens next on the boogie.

Love is in the air.

*warning: random rambling ahead.

Mexico City: You think you know, but you have no idea.

"Love is in the air

Every where I look around

Love is in the air

Every sight and every sound. . ."

from John Paul Young's "Love is in the Air" (hear it here.)

_____________________________________________________

I was reading an article the other day that asked a simple question:

"What was the single most fun thing you experienced in 2010?"

Usually, that answer would have been one that I pored over, scratching my head saying, "Oh, maybe Isaiah's fifth birthday party. . . .no, no. . . when we went to Lake Lanier with the kids or. . . .no, no. . . when Harry and I were in Jamaica for New Year's, yeah that's it . . . .no, no. . . .wait, definitely when Zachary started singing his country n' western version of Hey Diddle Diddle. . ." And so on. And so on.

But no.

This year, answering that question wasn't hard at all. Yes, the moments with my family were collectively, more often than not, super fun. But I am almost ashamed to admit that the single most fun thing that I did in 2010 did not involve my family at all. Yep. I said it. Not a Manning in sight.

Fun defined.

Question: Have you ever done something that was so unbelievably fun that while it was happening you knew that it would go down as one of the best times ever? Like so exhilarating that every two seconds you shrug your shoulders and spread your fingers apart yelling to the nearest person, "THIS IS CRAZY!" Sort of like you need to bookmark each moment of it with some kind of interjection because it's just that freakin' fun?

I certainly have.

Like the time that I took a last minute trip to Mexico with my best friend, Lisa D., while we were still in residency. It was literally thrown together with a bootleg online travel agency, and we crossed our fingers hoping it would all work out. And did it ever. From the moment we arrived to the moment we left, it was so fun that we could barely stand it. The kind of fun where we kept looking at each other and hollering out at random times, "THIS IS CRAZY!" and all the other person could do is shake their head and say back is, "CRAZY!!" Or like when, the week after we graduated from medical school, two of our best friends, Jada R. and Felix R., got married in Memphis. Everyone was so over the moon with happiness for them and for life that the weekend morphed into legendary fun status.

Yeah. Like that.

With Lisa the weekend of Jada and Felix' super fun Memphis wedding 5/96

I was in my twenties when we took that trip and when Jada and Felix got married, and the only other time I think I even came close to that kind of fun was at my wedding reception in my early thirties (which quite possibly could have been related to a love-high.) Anyways, I say this all to make my long-winded point that, up until recently, these moments have been my benchmark for crazy fun.

Okay.

The other thing about "WOW! THIS IS SO BANANAS!" kind of fun is that it almost always catches you off guard. Like that Cancun, Mexico trip Lisa and I took had every right to be a complete bust. I mean neither of us could have been upset if the resort had been infested with bugs and cats or if it smelled like a dirty dishrag. (What could you possibly expect for $500 including airfare?) Jada and Felix's wedding came so fast after med school graduation that it was hard to see how fun it would be. And even my wedding reception had it's fair share of hiccups leading up to it that could have also made it a nice enough fete yet not one to shriek in adulation over. Yet all of those experiences snuck up on us and exploded into that crazy kind of fun that took on an identity of it's own.

Confession: Based upon the aforementioned experience, I thought that this kind of fun was limited only to childless people under the age of thirty-five. I really did. But in 2010, I discovered that, yes, such fun is very much out there and just a-waiting to be experienced by ridiculously young-appearing forty-year-old-mommy-slash-doctors, too. (Ah hem.)

That's how this thing to which I am referring as the most-fun-ever-in-2010 was. Seriously. It was fun on steroids. All I could say when it was over was, "IT WAS CRAZY!!! CRAZY!!!"

Crazy like being on the fastest, most fun, most exhilarating roller coaster ever, but without feeling sick or like you really, really needed to get off.

Yeah. Like that.

Enough suspense? Well wait no more.

Q: "What was the single most fun thing you did in 2010?"

A: The Grady Doctors' Mexico City Wedding. 

(Final answer, no hesitation.)

As you may recall, I made a brief post about my decision to take that trip, but seriously--I was still so giddy about the whole experience that every time I started trying to write about it, I just didn't know where to start. But since that question inspired me to reflect on it once again, I thought I'd give it my best shot.

Bringing you along for the most-fun-ever-of-2010. . . .

Talk about a fun weekend. Like crazy fun. (Picture me shaking my head.) Before I get into the details, let me be clear: This was not that fun-only-because-you-are-inebriated kind of fun. (Although folks were imbibing that weekend) I assure you, this thing would have been crunk whether the tequila was flowing or not.

Let me explain.

First, the couple. Paulina R. was one of our Grady chief residents a few years back. She is not only one of the kindest, sweetest, and most thoughtful people you'll ever meet, she happens to be ridiculously smart and drop dead gorgeous. But in that effortless kind of way that makes you smile every time you see her instead of hate her every time you see her. Paulina R. fell in love with Russ K., who was one of our favorite former residents, too. Both of them stayed to train to be Infectious Disease specialists (which is really fitting considering their love is kind of infectious.)

So the two get engaged. And being the kind couple that they are, they invite a number of current and former Grady doctors down to their wedding in Paulina R's hometown of Mexico City. No. Not Mexico City, Georgia. Not Macon, Georgia or even Miami, Florida. Mexico City, Mexico. As in a you-need-a-passport-and-some-time-off kind of location. And yeah. You can go ahead and admit that if all you know of Mexico City are a.) random news stories about drug busts or b.) that violent movie with Denzel Washington and Dakota Fanning (Man on Fire) that totally paints the scariest picture ever of the sprawling metropolis, or c.) all of the above . . . . .that, yeah, whole idea of a Mexico City get away might have made you take pause.

But you don't know this couple. When it came to that wedding, the infectious Infectious Disease doctors were liked two little pied pipers. More than fifteen former and current Grady doctors danced down to Mexico City behind their music to toast to their love.

Bright lights, super-big city

And so we get down there, and immediately the energy is so positive that it punches you in the chest and knocks your wind out. Nearly everyone is in the same (awesome) hotel, and is so infected with the infectious love of the Infectious Disease doctors that they're all over the moon with excitement. This infection was airborne. Love was sho' nuff in the air.

We all go out to dinner, and enjoy authentic Mexican food and authentic laughter, too. All there for the same reason, which immediately made every person there feel like old friends whether they were old friends or not. Every single person their was high on Paulina and Russell's happy, and there wasn't a wet blanket anywhere in sight. That was the first night.

The next day we tour historic parts of Mexico City. . .churches, museums, Aztec ruins. . . .amazing. A city built right on top of another city, with so much history swirling all around you and under you that it makes your head spin. We all kept looking at each other and saying, "This is crazy!" (See what I mean?) I had no idea how amazing the sights would be, which gave it catch-you-off-guard fun status already. That was the second day.

Grady doctors in the City

A mass

Later that evening was the rehearsal dinner. Paulina R. and Russ K. were nice enough to shlep all of the Grady doctors to the swanky rehearsal dinner which, I am certain, put most wedding receptions to shame. Complete with a margarita bar and a super fun band. Yes, it was nice. But it wasn't the bells, whistles or acoutrements that made it so nice. It was the energy. The infectious love of the Infectious Disease doctors was now an epidemic. Little did we know, that in less than one day it would soon reach pandemic status.

with Stacy H. at the rehearsal dinner

The Man and Woman of the hour

With the blushing bride

The Wedding Day.

People kept warning us. "Get some rest. You'll be up all night!" They said it in English. They said it en Espanol. They said it with smiles. They said it with raised eyebrows. "This is how people celebrate in Mexico City", they said. "Yeah, Yeah," we replied. Besides. I'm from Los Angeles. And my travel compadre and fellow Grady doctor Stacy H. is from NYC. We know how to handle a good party, thank you very much.

Stacy H. and I hit the spa of our hotel for some R and R before the big event. A lady sat down and joined us for herb tea and healthy snacks and gleefully told us about her daughter's wedding earlier this year. Stacy is bilingual which is great considering the woman got so excited that her English exploded into muy rapido Spanish.

"The reception lasted until 7:30 a.m." she gushed, "We danced all night! This isn't unusual here. I hope you have comfortable shoes." Zapatos para bailar. No translation needed.

Hmmm.

The Wedding and Reception.

Beautiful bride, proud dad.

We get to the wedding. And a lovely wedding it was. Likely the most lovely I've ever seen (no offense to anyone reading this whose wedding I attended, including my husband.) Fragrant flowers everywhere. Paulina speaking her vows in Spanish. Russ giving his heartfelt lines in English. Both moms patting the corners of their eyes. The dads doing the same, and not the least bit ashamed. One family member read a scripture in English. Russell's brother, who happens to be bilingual (and one of our current Grady chief residents) melodically reads another scripture in Spanish. A choir sings songs that sound directly commissioned from heaven itself. I look up to see if a cherub strumming a harp will fly by. Instead I just see beautiful flowers, beautiful people, and beautiful everything. But mostly beautiful energy.

They provide us with vans and we caravan back to the St. Regis Mexico City. It starts off normal enough. A cocktail hour. Everyone looking swanky in black tie attire, which is always a nice touch. Hor d'ouvres so yummy that you embarrass yourself by taking two fistfuls every time they walk by.

With one of my most favorite Grady doctors ever, Dr. del Rio

The dinner was equally lovely, complete with delicious fare and heartfelt toasts. Sweet first dances. More eye patting and tight hugs. All wonderfully worth the trip. And though wonderful, it was pretty much the kind of wonderful that I expected. Completely acceptable for good times when you are a forty-something.

With Shanta Z.

a few Grady doctors that followed the pied pipers

First dances with family

But then something happened.

The band comes out to start the reception. And I cannot give words to what happened next, but I will do my best.

This band. This band. Sigh. They played. And they played. And they played. Up tempo music. Music everyone knew every word to. All. Night. Long. To the break o' dawn. Literally.

Once a Grady doctora always a Grady doctora!

They kept changing wardrobes, too. First it was these funky black ensembles. Then, all of a sudden, they start handing out flags for us to wave on the dance floor.

"This is interesting," I thought.

It was sort of like when you get a horn or a hat on New Year's before you do the countdown. But flags.

"Okay. I'm a good sport," I say to Stacy H. and one of my other favorite former Grady doctors, Gabe W.

So we dance. And we wave our flags. Which was strangely exhilarating.

But then. This band. This band. All of a sudden they come out dressed like King Tutankhamen. Singing Walk Like an Egyptian. And they hand out new props. Sphinx man masks. What? Yeah. I know! Crazy!

But it just. kept. going. Next? New wardrobe change. Some kind of sparkly get up. And now, they hand out pom-poms, y'all. Pom poms. Metallic ones. Why? Who knows. But it worked. It so, so worked.

Next? Metallic wigs. Who needs pom poms when you can just wear a wig and jump up onto a stage with the band? And if I'm not mistaken, some glow in the dark headbands and glasses somehow got inserted into the mix and began floating around the room. Why? I don't know. But was it fun? Crazy fun.

Crazy!

Think of sitting down? No way. Somebody's auntie would be sure to hand you a shot of tequila and pull you back on the floor. Or perhaps somebody's seventeen year old niece. Either way, there was no parking on this dance floor or any where near it. You needed to strap on those zapatos para bailar, fo' sho.

Next. "Lady Marmelade." New clothes and we get new props. Woo hoo! This time, fuzzy pimp hats and feather boas. Crazy! We jump on stage and sing it loud. "Hey sista, soul sista!" The Moulin Rouge version and then-- the PATTI LABELLE version next. Are you kidding me? This soul sista was lovin' it.

Oh. Forgot to mention the GIANT SHADES that also got passed out at some point shortly after Lady Marmelade. Why? Who knows. But did it work? Sho' nuff.

It gets better. Next. Gloria Gaynor. "I Will Survive." Are you kidding me? First I was afraid and petrified-- when I saw the band's new costumes. Impossible to describe fluorescent thingies. And for us? This time, giant inflatable microphones. Crazy!

It took all the strength I had not to fall apart!

At this point? Panting. . .nearly in tears. The fun is ridiculous. I am sure I cannot take another second of it.

But next up? Wait for it. . . . .some old school Journey circa 7th grade -- Don't Stop Believin'. OH yeah. Imagine a flash mob with 400 people all doing their very best Steve Perry impersonation. The giant microphones immediately become electric guitars during the electric solo (of course) which for me seals the deal for this reception as one of the best times ever. But just when I thought it could not get better, the song builds to its famous climax and everyone -- everyone, do you hear me? Young, old, feeble, able-- begins JUMPING UP AND DOWN like they were inside of some kind of multi-generational, multicultural mosh pit. Pointing in each others' faces and belting out at the top of their lungs:

"Don't Stop! Believin'! Hold on to that feelin'!"

Those lyrics couldn't have possibly been more apropos. There's no way you could have been there and not have had the intense desire to hold on to that feeling. Everyone was into it. E-v-er-y-one, do you hear me? (Even a few senior faculty Grady doctors who shall remain nameless and picture-less. Ah hem.)

It was crazy. Crazy, do you hear me? Crazy.

1:45 a.m. They hand out slippers. Slippers. Zapatos para bailar, for real. Trying to sit down? No way. Here's a shot of tequila with your name on it. And an auntie working your arms side to side back onto the dance floor. Crazy.

Zapatos para bailar courtesy of P and R.

Next. Another funky wardrobe change. And with this one, they hand out these fish and octopus masks. Why? I have no idea. But did it work? Oh yeah. There was also a giant jelly fish that on stilts that was dancing around the room. Gabe W and I kept saying, "Did you see that jellyfish?!? This is CRAZY!!" And oh yeah, forgot to mention that a few random beach balls somehow started getting volleyed around. Why? Who knows. But was it fun? Fun on growth hormone, dude.

2:45 a.m. Shut the front door! Waiters come out. To serve a whole 'nother meal. Yes. Hunger cannot and will not end this party. Super delicious chilaquiles and more. Only to be boogied off in slippers a.k.a. zapatos para bailar. Um yeah. It was, quite possibly, the best thing I have ever seen go down at somebody's reception. For real. Officially has reached a new category of fun: ultra-legendary jubilation.

I wish the giant jelly fish had been caught on film!

You would think that this kind of celebration would lead to scores of people staggering into hallways and falling over tables in inebriated stupors, but interestingly, no one even came close to that. We were all so high on the happy of the couple and the moment, that it just wasn't that kind of vibe. Which, to me, was just one more aspect of why this particular event was so cool.

Moment after moment, I kept saying to myself, "This is the best part!" Then a few minutes later, I'd say again, "No, this is the best best part!" But now I know that of it all, my favorite moment was this:

When we all hoisted Paulina and Russ into the air as the band played "Love is in the Air." Everyone was singing and clapping and cheering and dancing and. . . . . yeah. I loved that moment best of all. Why? Because, in a nutshell, that's what made the entire weekend experience of celebrating the infectious love of the two Infectious Disease doctors so extraordinarily memorable -- the love that was in the air.

At first, all I could tell people was, "You just had to be there." Now, I hope you feel like you were.

I have said it before and I will say it again: There is no better high than the high of being a part of someone else's happy. And now that I think of it, there's no better pandemic infection to catch than the infectious love of two wonderful people in love.*


*Especially when it involves giant inflatable microphones, metallic wigs, and King Tut masks.

The Bride was in the air, too.

Final thoughts:

1. Folks in Mexico City know how to party. For real.
2. For the most awesome reception ever, book this band (and Paulina's aunties.)


I hope you had some ultra-legendary fun in 2010. And I really hope that love is in the air for you in 2011, too. :)

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most photos courtesy of Grady doctor Ameeta K. ~ thanks!:)