Chapter 2
A Short Time Later . . .
Here I was explaining to a family from my community that their son would be paralyzed from the waist down because of a bullet.
These young niggas shot guns just to shoot them.
There was no real rhyme or reason. I hated these cases.
The fact was that as the anesthesiologist on the case, I shouldn’t be the one out here.
It should have been the lead surgeon. The problem was that Dr. Jordan was a whole scary bitch.
Any time the case had to deal with African Americans from certain communities, I was asked to step in and speak to the families.
Although I was the youngest black anesthesiologist at the Medical University of South Carolina, my outward appearance didn’t show that to the naked eyes.
My colleagues came to the assumption that I spoke hood because of my appearance.
“Mr. and Mrs. Dawson, you know that I would do everything in my power to ensure that Kareem gets the best care. That is not an option when it comes to me,” I told them.
“If we removed the bullet, you would have been planning a funeral more than likely instead of creating a more handicap accessible home. We have to look at it that way.”
Mr. Dawson shook his head. “You’re right, son. I know you’re right. This shit just hurts. That’s my little boy back there.” He smacked away the tear that rolled down his cheek.
The Dawsons lived down the way from me and my mother in our old neighborhood.
They literally watched me grow up. Kareem’s older brother, Rashad, and I ran the streets together tough when we were younger.
He was murdered when he was seventeen. After losing one son so young, I knew this situation devastated them.
Kareem was sixteen and a good kid, so most would say this shouldn’t have happened.
I learned a long time ago from my uncle, Beaunir, that if you played in the streets for even a second, it would tag you in happily.
“Trust me, you know I get it. Unlike most doctors in this hospital, I know what it’s like to be a patient for something like this. You know that as well.” When I was nineteen years old, I was shot three times when these niggas tried to rob me.
Shit was crazy, and I worried the hell out of my mother.
Hell, I was worried because I thought I would have to drop out of school.
I didn’t want to lose my place in my BARSC-MD program (Bachelor of Arts and Science degree and a Doctor of Medicine).
First, that program was hard as fuck to get into.
To get into that shit, I had to get at least a damn 1450 on my SAT. For a student like me that wasn’t shit.
I had to apply to the Honors College by the early deadline, then be invited to the program.
Once you’re in the program, if you didn’t keep at least a 3.
6 they would kick your ass out with the swiftness.
It was only God’s grace that my professors worked with me.
A big part of the reason they did was because my mentors, Dr. Samuel Pinkney and Dr. Croy O’Brian, advocated for me.
Dr. Pinkney was an older black anesthesiologist who saw me and nurtured the potential in me. He was good friends with Dr. O’Brian who was a general surgeon. From that relationship I gained a new mentor. I appreciated those men in my life.
I spoke to Mr. and Mrs. Dawson for a few more moments before I left them.
I was tired as hell after I worked a shift that should have been twelve hours but ended up being twenty-six.
The emergency room was filled with nigga-shenanigans.
Sometimes Charleston niggas did too much too often.
I could say that shit because I was from Charleston.
Straight downtown boy that graduated from Burke High School.
“Erygon.” Someone called my name from behind me. When I turned around, I saw it was Dr. Guster. He watched my legs spread shoulder width and my hands cross over the front of me. He cleared his throat. “My apologies, Dr. Carson.”
You fuckin’ right apologies. From time to time these crackers walked around here with the thought that they didn’t have to respect me.
I demanded my respect as I should. They saw a black boy with full tattoo sleeves and a tatted neck.
I didn’t care about none of that shit because it didn’t negate my intellect and precision in the operating room.
Just like when I was in the streets stirring up baking soda, my hands worked magic in the operating room when it came to this anesthesia thing.
I was the same tatted, black boy that graduated second in my class from medical school.
“Yes, Dr. Guster.” My stance became relaxed. I didn’t care for him. He tended to cover his condescension with feign compliments.
“I read your case notes on the McGregor case. You did an amazing job with the notes,” he said. The smile he displayed didn’t reach his eyes because he was full of shit.
This was what I talked about. To the naked eye, you would take that as a true compliment.
I knew better. I crossed my arms over my chest. “Let me ask you this, Dr. Guster. Did you think that I wouldn’t do a superb job on the notes?
I’ve been writing notes since my residency as you have.
I’ve been a doctor for three years at this hospital while you’ve been out of your residency for what, less than a year. ”
His jaw tightened and his face heated like an eye on a stove that was on high. “Dr. Carson, all I did was simply compliment your notes. There is no need to be so combative and aggressive.”
Adjectives that had been associated with me since my residency.
Ask me if I gave a fuck. “Dr. Guster, last I checked your concentration is general practice. You tell people when they have a damn cold, high blood pressure, and cholesterol. You are not in the operating room administering anesthesia. With that, make it make sense why you would review my notes in the first place. Let me know.”
He had no kind of answer, and he knew he didn’t. Hell was still taking admissions, and I didn’t mind putting his ass in the entry line. He scoffed before he spoke. “Have a good rest of your day, Dr. Carson.”
Was I an arrogant or cocky man? Nah, I was confident in who the hell I was as a person and my skill set as an anesthesiologist. You had to be around here. Let me get the hell out of here to go see my baby.
"Daddy!” My four-year-old daughter, Ayriss, ran to me. I felt whole when she wrapped her little arms around my neck. “What are you doing here?”
I surprised her today by picking her up from school.
This was a rarity because of my busy schedule.
I tried my hardest to spend any free time that I had with her.
Luckily, I had a baby mama that didn’t trip.
Hope and I were still friends. We broke up amicably when our baby was six months old.
We realized that we were better as friends.
I took very good care of her. The house and car she lived in and drove, I bought for her. I also gave her four thousand dollars a month in child support that we agreed upon. Her home and car were paid off, so she didn’t have a lot of overhead.
“It’s been too long since I’ve seen my beautiful baby girl. I needed to see my baby,” I replied. I kissed her cheek as I held her in my arms.
Her little face tightened. “Are those mean doctors messing with my awesome daddy again? I can go kick them in their leg if you want.”
I chuckled at her protectiveness. She got that honestly.
I would blow the world up over my baby, then dare the Lord to send me to hell for it.
“No, baby. You know your daddy handled it.” When she gave me her little I know that’s right, Daddy I laughed hard.
Once I had her in her booster seat inside of my sedan, I asked her, “Okay, do you want to go get some ice cream or go see your granny?”
Her face lit up. I knew what her answer would be. “I want to go see Granny. I want one of those apple cinnamem rolls.” Saying cinnamon was tough for my lil baby.
When she mentioned apple cinnamon rolls my head tilted. I pretty much knew my mother’s menu, and I didn’t recall that on the menu. I never saw cinnamon rolls on there at all.
Ayriss’s school was about fifteen minutes from my mother’s bakery, Sweetgrass and Sugar High. She was located downtown in a prime location right off the Market Place. Broughton Realty did the damn thing when they found that location.
Ever since I was a little boy, I remembered my mother in the kitchen cooking cakes, pies, and all kinds of pastries to sell to her church and work people.
If she wasn’t slaving as a nurse’s aide, she was in that kitchen.
There were times I had to help her because her orders were so large.
Before my cousin Beyuna moved to Philly, she helped.
My mother’s work as a nurse’s aide was a big influence on why I wanted to become a doctor.
She would come home some nights crying because of the inadequacy of care that doctors would give to our community.
They would gloss over our issues as if it wasn’t as important as other ethnic groups.
I wanted to make a change. For me, that meant I needed to get involved from the inside.
“Granny!” Ayriss’s voice filled the shop as soon as we walked in. “Look!” She pointed back at me. “Daddy picked me up from school.”
“Look at my grand! You look beautiful out here. Yo bet not let dem boys mess wit’ you. Let dem know ya grandmama fight churn,” my mother jested. Well, knowing her ass, she wasn’t joking at all.
I laughed. “Mama, stop threaten’ people churn. Somebody mama gonna come in here an box you off.”
Her head bucked back. “Who da hell in dey right mind would come in ya and try to box me off? They ass ga meet my hands and my bullets. Stop playin’ wit me, Erygon.”
I burst into laughter. The shop was full today. I was so proud of my mother, Beauvia, for the success of the bakery. It was opened five years ago after one of my investments at Washington-Smith Brokerage Firm hit big. It was a gift to her for Mother’s Day.
Not only did the shop sell sweets, but it also sold sweetgrass baskets.
Her claim to fame was her signature sweetgrass cake.
She was blessed with the gift of being able to decorate a cake to look like a sweetgrass basket.
A customer could literally bring in a basket, and she could replicate its style in cake form. It was exquisite.
“Granny, can I have a apple cinnamem roll?” Ayriss asked her as she pulled on her apron. “Did Miss Lovina make dem today?” Lovina?
My mother leaned down to kiss my baby’s forehead. “You know she did. She back der. Go ask her to get you one. I think some jus came out da oven.”
You didn’t have to tell Ayriss twice. She shot off to the kitchen without a second thought. She knew how to be safe in there and watch herself.
“Mama, who is Lovina? I ain’t never heard of her before,” I told her. My mama was picky as fuck about who worked in her shop as a cashier more less who baked in her kitchen.
My mama moved behind the counter. She helped a customer before she answered me.
“She the sweetest lil thing. She’s friends with Beyuna and just moved here from Philadelphia.
She needed some help, and the Holy Spirit told me that I should.
When she told me she could bake, I had her bake me some things.
Son, it was the best pastries that I’d ever tasted. ”
My mama told me that she would get her from the back and bring me one of Lovina’s cinnamon rolls.
A few moments later, my baby came out of the kitchen with a plate in her hand.
On it was the biggest cinnamon roll that I’d ever seen.
Well, damn! If it tasted as good as it smelled, then I understood why my mother hired her.
“Daddy, taste mine,” Ayriss demanded when she set the plate in front of me.
I used the fork that she handed to me. I forked off a piece of it and put it in my mouth. I had to close my eyes from the goodness of the taste.
“Son, this is Lovina.” My mother’s voice knocked me out of my admiration for the taste of this cinnamon roll that I had a feeling I would be addicted to.
When I opened my eyes, my right ear lowered to my shoulder.
I was confused as hell by what I saw. Lovina was a beautiful and I do mean beautiful girl as plain as she was.
I could tell that she didn’t have on a lick of makeup.
It highlighted her flawless skin and complexion.
That wasn’t what threw me off. What she wore was . . . I don’t even know what it was.
“Daddy, Lovina is Amish. Her house in Philadelphia ain’t had no lights and stuff. She used lanterns and she ride horses with buggies on dem,” Ayriss detailed. “Right, Lovina?”
Leave it to a child to tell all your damn business without a prompt. Lovina smiled down at Ayriss. “That’s right, Ayriss.” Her eyes connected to mine. “It’s nice to meet you, Erygon. Your mother has told me so much about you.”
I didn’t know anything about her, but I damn sure wanted to know. A black, Amish girl, that was something I never envisioned meeting. How did she find her way to Charleston, South Carolina?