, , , , ,

introducing...the people's nephrologist!

, , , , ,

I made a simple wish list for Christmas. Some new fuzzy Uggs since I wore down the last pair to fuzzless. A lavender candle or two for my bubble baths. And a pretty journal for writing.

If you knew my hubby (and holder of my left kidney for 16 years now), you would not be surprised that not only did he present me with new fuzzy Uggs, bubble bath swag, lounging PJs because he had grown weary of seeing me in the red plaid Target PJ set I bought at least three years ago, but also a trough of journals. And not just simple journals. No, the trough from my forever and wonderfully extra Robert was filled with soft brown leather-jacketed journals with a fancy wrap-around tie, each embossed with: Dr. Vanessa Grubbs, The People’s Nephrologist.

how dare this Black doctor complain about racism?

I’m classy but a cuss a little. Sometimes a lot. And it often spills over into my writing. The kind of shit that gets censored on my professional Facebook page.

So when I co-authored this profanity-free piece about equity with my friend and badass-hijab wearing-mama of 6-trauma surgeon colleague Dr. Qaali Hussein in July, I seized the opportunity to amplify it on Facebook.

how to ally

Last summer, I was invited to write for a group book project about physician loss, in the various ways “loss” can be defined. Others were writing about their loss of a spouse, a child, a marriage, even a sexual harassment lawsuit. I was invited to write about my experience as a Black woman leaving academia, representing the loss of the only work community I had known for the prior 15 years.

I integrated the project.

my mother been gone

My mother’s body died today. With the lack of hospital care available to Black people at the time and parents lying to children to keep them working the land a little longer, her body was 90 or 89 or 91 years old, depending upon which document one chose to believe. I think we’re gonna go with 90. It’s a nice round number.

But the mother I knew died years ago. I mourned her then, when she died—the woman who I spent hours upon hours alone with.