Him: “I’m shook about this spinal tap.”
Me: “Yeah?”
Him: “For real, for real. I don’t know, man.”
*silence*
Me: “What has you most scared?”
Him: *shaking head* “I don’t know, man.”
Trepidation was all over his face.
2/ Me: “I get it. A lot of people feel nervous about needles.”
Him: “I don’t even be tripping on needles like that.”
Me: “No?”
Him: “I mean nah, not really.”
*silence*
Him: “You know what it is?”
Me: *listening*
Him: “It’s WHERE you sticking me.”
He shook his head again. Hard.
3/ Me: *still listening*
Him: “You sticking me in my BACK. Where I can’t see.”
*silence*
Him: “How I’m s’posed to know what’s going on when I can’t see?” *mumbling* “Hell naw.”
*silence*
Me: “I could tell you.”
Him: *looking up*
Me: “Like. . . tell you what is happening.”
4/ Him: “Yeah but what if you not being straight up?”
Me: *listening*
Him: “Y’all might tell me anything.”
*silence*
Me: “I want you to feel safe. What would make you feel more safe?”
Him: “I think I just need a minute, man. To think on it.”
Me: “That’s fair.”
And so he did.
5/ At first I chalked it up to medical mistrust rooted in historical disses and amplified by current racial injustice. And while some of that might have been a part of it, I thought about what I could have done differently.
Hmmm.
6/ My explanation of WHY he needed the tap seemed robust. But the actual process and procedure? I’d scooted over that part rather quickly.
I’d said:
“A needle in your back to sample the fluid that bathes your brain and spine. . .”
Which, on second thought, sounds hella scary.
7/ I recalled the fear I felt about my first colonoscopy. Even as a doctor, I was nervous.
But.
My doctor sensed that. She described more of it in fine detail—the what that would actually happen and the how. Not just the why. Which made me feel better.
Yup.
8/ So I got my little whiteboard and went back to him. And drew some pictures and broke down the what that would be happening behind his back.
He asked some damn good questions. Which I answered best I could.
And it made him feel better. Which made me feel better, too.
9/ The tap was uneventful. And fortunately the problem he had did not involve the CNS.
When I came back to talk to him about it, it was light. He thanked me for “slowing it down” so that he could “get his mind right.”
And I thanked him for making me.
10/ I’m realizing that a lot of forces are at play when patients say no. While long-standing factors that cause mistrust are real, sometimes it’s just us—the healthcare team.
Rushing.
Fast-talking.
Or just not explaining every part as fully as we could or should.
11/ Or not recognizing that a no might be an opportunity to double down on humanism.
Or respecting it as a right.
Sometimes it’s complex. But you know? Sometimes maybe all a pt needs is for us to slow it down so they can get their mind right.
Me: "How're you feeling today?"
Him: "Well. I been better. That medicine y'all gave me made me run off!"
My team looked puzzled.
I did not.
Me: "Oh no! You talking 'bout the medicine we gave you for your gout flare up?"
Him: "Yeah! That one!"
2/ Him: "Shit, you coulda warned a brother."
Me: "Dang. I really should have. I'm sorry."
Him: "Yeah, if it wasn't for that bedside commode it woulda been a clean up on aisle 1!"
He laughed.
I was glad he was making light of it.
Me: "I apologize, sir. Colchicine can do that."
3/ Him: "It's cool. My knee is feeling a little bit better so that's good."
Me: "I'm glad. And again, I'm sorry for not giving the heads up."
Him: "I'm okay, doc."
I turned to my team.
Me: "'Running off' is diarrhea."
Them: "Ohhh."
Him: "Oh my bad, y'all."
1/ Her: "Why haven't you left for L.A. yet?"
Me: "Huh? Oh. Yeah. I'm pretty much almost done. It's okay."
*silence*
Her: "But, like is it?"
Me: *sighs* "Me rushing there won't change anything."
Her: "Depends on who you ask."
And after that, we both went back to charting.
2/ I was on the hospital service last April when I got the news. Dad had this sudden onset of disabling vertigo. We'd learn it was a cerebellar stroke. My sister was there in LA. At the bedside and wringing her hands as next-of-kin.
So she kept me posted.
And I kept rounding.
3/ On that first day, I walked right in and told my team.
Me: "My dad has been admitted to the hospital. It seems that he's had a cerebellar stroke."
And I said it in that "but I'm fine" voice. Because at that time that's what I was telling myself.
1/ Me: “I’m glad to see you.”
You: “You know what? I’m glad to see you, too.”
*silence*
Me: “You know how you’re loved, don’t you?”
You: *smiling gently* “I do. I think that’s what makes this so hard, you know? Can’t feel a loss like that without feeling a love like that.”
2/ We both let out big exhalations. After a few beats, you swung your head in my direction.
You: “How are you?”
Me: “Me?”
You: “Yeah. You.”
Me: “I’m fine. I just wish... um… you didn’t have to feel what you’re feeling.”
You reached out for my forearm. And then sighed again.
3/ You: “Yeah. But I’ll be okay. We were soul-connected. That will comfort me.”
I nodded. Then we sat in silence.
You: “But for real—how are you? Like with all this cool stuff you’ve been doing.”
Me: *puzzled look*
You: “It has to make you miss your dad and your sister.”
1/ I just finished this beautiful, courageous, and searing memoir “I Can’t Save You” by @CQ__MD. It was . . . in a word. . . sublime.
Whew.
And full disclosure—as his former med school advisor & friend—I love Dr. CQ.
But.
I also love books and honesty.
And he knows that.
2/ @CQ__MD will be the first to tell you that I won’t endorse anything—even a book my my beloved little bro CQ—unless I’d read it myself and believed others should, too.
And now I have.
And wholeheartedly I do.
But before you jump in—and you should—let me say this. . .
3/ There are some parts that explore depression, thoughts of suicide, and self-harm. No, not recklessly. But yes, with raw honesty. So you need to know that up front.
He does NOT play it safe around his lived experiences as a Black man in the ivory tower.
1/ I had imagined what this day would be like. Played it out in my head and saw various iterations of me exploding in celebration.
In some versions, I was doing the running man or, quite literally, running in triumphant circles, #MatchDay envelope in hand.
"Wooo hooo!"
2/ I also saw these visions of me quietly weeping, one hand extended to the heavens in gratitude. My lips quietly murmuring prayers of thanksgiving.
See, I was my ancestors' wildest dreams. And not even just my enslaved ancestors but the Jim Crow survivors who raised me, too.
3/ So, yeah. This was about to be big.
I was even on the #MatchDay party committee. And since we were broke, that meant soliciting donations from faculty & parents & anybody who felt proud enough of us to shell out a few coins.