The Reflex.

This morning, I woke up to the laughter of my children. The sun was shining and my heart was light. I loved on my boys for a few moments, turned on "The Electric Company" and my coffee maker, and then made the boys some breakfast while simultaneously cleaning up the kitchen that I hadn't felt like dealing with the night before. It was so perfectly mundane that I felt myself basking in it while scrubbing a pan in the sink. I smiled and savored it.

Shortly after that, I sat down to send an email to my friend Tasia G.'s son Omar who just finished 5th grade. He earned all 'A's and received countless citizenship awards. I loved the idea of an eleven year old receiving an unexpected congratulatory email from an adult. He is a great kid, and his parents are great people, so I wanted to tell him so. Sending that email felt good, too. I smiled again. Yes, this was a good day.

As the children chattered at the kitchen table about pancakes and swimming pools, I watched them and again allowed myself to be present in this every day moment. When Isaiah cleared his plate, he came and wrapped his arms around me saying, "You know, Mom? I really love you." And I looked back at him and said, "And you know, Isaiah? I really love you, too." Then he hugged me tight and I hugged him back, kissing the top of his head hard and deliberate.

"Mom?" he asked with his nose wrinkled, "Why do you always have to kiss me every time you hug me?"

I thought for a second and laughed. Then I said, "It's a reflex."

And he said, "What's a reflex?"

And I said, "It's something you can't help doing no matter how hard you try."


About twenty minutes after that conversation, my friend and fellow Grady doctor, Neil W., sent me a text message telling me that one of my F.P.'s had passed away this morning. "I knew you'd want to know," the text read, "I'm sorry to bother you so early on a Sunday."

And just like that, reflexively I cried. Quietly with my back turned in my kitchen with the third episode of "The Electric Company" playing behind me belting out over and over "It's electric!"

I'm waiting for this point to come where hearing this kind of news doesn't affect me in the deepest parts of my soul. I am waiting for enough years to pass where I don't ball my fist up and press it against my chest while tapping my foot. I remember how people would always tell us as interns that you have to detach yourself a little or else you'll go crazy. Hmmm.

This morning I am thinking that perhaps this kind of reaction is like trying to hug Isaiah without kissing him. It's a reflex. Kind of like waking up and seeing a sun shining and hearing your kids laughing and thanking God for it. Something I can't help doing no matter how hard I try.

This patient taught me one of the most beautiful lessons I have ever known:

"If you're lucky, everything you do is in the context of love."

Today, things as uneventful as turning on "The Electric Company," making pancakes, and sending an email were all done in the context of love. Crying about the passing of this very special patient was, too. Maybe because she was trying to teach me to make love a reflex. . . . .

Hmmm. I just thought of something--the last two words she ever said to me were these:

"Love you."

How apropos. Damn. Now I'm crying again. But that's okay, because I know it's only a reflex.

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Happy Sunday.