Means a lot coming from one of my favorite humans in medicine. 💛

13/
You did. Which was the main point.

Sigh.

It’s been a tough few weeks working the Grady inpatient service. Grateful for patients like you who remind me that being so visibly a mother—or so visibly a caregiving parent—is more than okay.

Sometimes? It’s great.

Yeah.

#humanismalways 💛

12/
Because sometimes? Being so visibly a parent is just what is needed. Even if it’s off label.

You know?

Anywho.

I never found out what “she gone now” meant. You didn’t what to talk about it when I asked so I honored that.

And that was fine with me. Because when I came back, you felt better.

11/
And I imagine that there’s probably some psychoanalytic or DSM term somewhere that pathologizes the appropriateness (or not) of being mom-like with learners and especially patients.

I mean, I maybe there is.

But here’s what I know for sure: I can’t un-be who I am. Or un-feel what I feel.

10/
It all got me thinking about certain aspects of who we are and how that shows up in our professional lives. Which, in this instance, is being, well, a caring parent.

Or, for me, a mom.

It’s funny how conflicted I used to feel about bringing my whole self to work. But not any more.

Nope.

9/
When we left the room, one of the interns spoke.

Him: “Wow. The mom in you was so front and center. It was beautiful to see.”

Which immediately made my eyes prickle with tears. I was reminded of this beautiful essay in @jama.com by Dr. Emily Pinto Taylor.

jamanetwork.com/journals/jam...

8/
And so. I sat for a bit and watched you. Then I pulled a cover over your shoulders and under your chin. And just sat still.

I spoke softly.

Me: “Get some rest, okay?”
You: *whisper* “Okay.”
Me: “I’ll be back. I promise.”

You gave a tiny head nod again.

And that was that.

7/
Me: “I know. But we got you, okay?”

And I could tell you believed me. Because your face washed over with something peaceful. Like you felt safe.

Maybe.

I am a mom. And I have seen that look before.

I have.

6/
There was something so tender and child-like in the way you gazed up at me. Even though you weren’t a child at all. Then, suddenly, your face crinkled up.

You: “I just don’t feel good. I just. . . “

And now came the tears. Hard, fast tears.

You let them come, too.

5/
And you knew that. You’d been living with this long enough to know that.

Me: “What else can I do for you right now?”
You: *head shake*

I scooted my chair in close and rested my palm on your forearm.

Me: “I am so sorry you’re in pain. We are here for you, okay?”

Your eyes turned to mine.

4/
I didn’t know what that meant. Like gone to a place? Gone from this life? Gone from an illness?

But you didn’t say. All you said were those three words.

“But she gone.”

I had examined you and reviewed your chart closely. We were doing all the appropriate things. It would just take time.

3/
Her espresso colored skin matched yours. And, like you, she had two big dimples in each cheek. The softness in her eyes, though, was how I knew.

This was your mom.

Me: “Is this your mom?”
You: *tiny nod*

And before I could ask more you added.

You: “But she gone.”

Ooph.

3/
Your cell phone had been tossed on your lap and was tangled in the covers. But when you moved that last time, it awakened.

That’s when I saw.

You when you weren’t sick. Your smile big and bright with your arms wrapped over the shoulders of an older woman. It was a happy photo.

2/
Me: “It looks like you’re still in pain.”

You didn’t speak back. Instead I saw your masseter bulging as you gritted your teeth. Then you closed your eyes.

Deep breath in.
Deep breath out.

Then, you stilled your youthful body, bracing for another wave of pain.