1/ I was sitting down doing some work in a quiet area at Grady one day and this little girl, who was with her grandma, walked right up to me and touched my stethoscope.
Her: “Are you a doctor?”
Me: “I sure am.”
Her: “For real?”
Me: “For real!”
I handed her my stethoscope.
2/ She slung it around her neck.
Her: “Is it fun being a doctor?”
Me: *squinting an eye* “Hmmm. You know what? It’s hard sometimes but, to me? It really is fun on most days.”
She seemed to like that answer. Now she was putting the ear tips into her ears. I helped adjust them.
3/ Her: “I can be a doctor, too.”
I loved her firm tone and the way she said it to me pwith full eye contact. This was a statement—not an aspiration.
Me: “You know what? I bet you can.”
She placed the diaphragm on her chest. Then her eyes widened.
Me: “What’s your name?”
4/ Her: "My name is Pretty."
Me: "Pretty?"
Her: "Yep. And my middle name is Lady."
Me: "Wait. Your name is ‘Pretty Lady?’” *looking over to her grandmother who looked amused* “Wait. . . is that your real name?”
She deadpanned for a moment. Then burst out laughing.
5/ Her: “No, ma’am. But that’s what everybody call me.”
Her grandmother nodded in affirmation. Then she reached for the stethoscope from Pretty Lady and handed it back to me.
Grandma: “Sorry ‘bout that.”
Pretty Lady was now leaning forward to read my white coat.
6/ Her: “Kimberly Manning. . M.D.”
She enunciated each syllable.
Grandma: “You know what the M.D. stand for?”
Her: *thinking* “It stand for Miss Doctor?”
And while I let Grandma correct her, I stayed quiet. Because her interpretation made me happy.
For so many reasons.
7/ Me: “Well listen, Pretty Lady. . . make sure you tell everybody to call you SMART, too.”
1. If you are planning Grand Rounds or national/regional conferences, I’m suggesting #URiM people you should invite to speak.
2. This is a way to increase the number of professors from underrepresented & historically excluded backgrounds.
Mmm hmm.
2/ Because, for example, out of ~ 39K full professors in US med schools only ~ 300 are Black women. (Do that math—it’s <1%!🤬)
So while it’s cool to follow them here, I’m saying INVITE THEM and CITE THEM so that they can get promoted.
But wait—there’s more. . . .
3/ I explicitly say “with honorarium” because time is NOT a renewable resource. AND because while the “honor” is cool, when you don’t come from generational privilege, it’s even COOLER with an “arium” next to it.*
It was a Sunday. The students and interns had the day off so it was just the senior resident and me. This Grady elder was our last patient.
Yup.
Me: "What questions do you have for us?"
Her: "I don't have any questions. Y'all answered them. Thank you."
2/ Me: "Okay. Is there anything else you need before we go?"
Her: "May I have one minute of your time?"
Us: *looking at each other*
Resident: "Sure. Tell us what you need."
She extended both of her hands out toward us, gesturing for each of us to take one of them.
We did.
3/ She held our gaze and then spoke.
Her: "I'd like to pray for y’all. Is that okay?"
Shoot.
My breath hitched. I didn't want my resident to feel pressured or uncomfortable.
Shoot.
Had I been alone? This would’ve been a no brainer. But I was not.
1/ Random moment while in line in the Grady coffee shop:
Her: "I remember you. You that lady that said I need to lose weight and get a better fitting bra when I said my back hurt."
Me: "I remember you, too. You changed your hair. It looks nice."
2/ Her: "It's a wig.”
Me: *shrugs* “I still like it on you.”
She folded her arms and sucked her teeth.
Her: “I didn't like you at all."
Me: “No?”
Her: “No!”
Me: "I can respect that choice. How's your back?"
Her: "Respect what choice? A wig or me not liking you?"
Me: "Both."
3/ Her: "My back is a lot better."
Me: "Oh yeah? What did the trick?"
Her: "I lost some weight. And got a different bra."
*laughter*
After that, she reached out and gave me a big hug. And I hugged her right back. Hard.
I could feel your grief the moment I stepped into the room. The resident had already told me of your loss.
So fresh.
So recent.
They said you cried on an off for the whole visit. BP controlled. Labs fine. And a depression screen was negative.
Yeah.
2/ So me? I was just tasked with closing the loop as the attending physician. And, with no concerns with your chronic conditions, there wasn’t much to add or teach.
Or say.
I mean, other than sorry. Because I was.
I so was.
3/ I’d never met you before this day. But when I walked in and saw your face cloaked in pain, I searched myself for something. . . anything . . . to help.
But what was there? You had funeralized your son. And yes, though he was “grown” as you said, still.
Me: “I know other people have mentioned this to you already, but just wanted to check in about the #COVIDVaccine. I’m told you’re still thinking about it.”
You: “Yeah.”
*silence*
Me: “Wait, so yeah, you thinking about it?”
You: “Yeah.”
2/ *laughter*
Me: “Would you be okay with me talking to you a little more about it? Like, to give you more things to consider as you deliberate about it?”
You: “Yeah.”
You gave one eyebrow a playful raise.
Me: “Yeah?”
You: “Yeah.”
3/ You: “Although I think I done heard everything you ‘bout to say.”
I gave a hard nod and thought for a moment.
Me: “Okay. Then I need your help.”
You: “Help how?”
Me: “I have your ear but I sort of don’t know what to say. So I’m hoping you can tell me what’s stopped you.”
1/ You used such beautiful words. Words like “gingerly” to describe how you approached the physical therapy maneuvers you tried that morning. And “cacophony” in reference to the food tray someone accidentally knocked to the floor.
I loved them all.
2/ Me: “You have such beautiful words. Such lovely and unexpected ones. It’s becoming my favorite thing on rounds this week.”
You: “Oh, aren’t words just grand? And so many to choose.”
You released a gentle chuckle. Then you coughed.
But gingerly.
3/ And so. Because it was established that we were both lovers of words, I closed each visit the same.
Me: “So what’s the word?”
And each time you would smile, stare off for a beat, and then share one.