The Invisible Black Woman

The day finally arrived for me to head to the cardiologist. The hospital referred me to a practice, but I decided to find my own. I’m sure the folks they referred were perfectly fine, but I was determined to find a Black cardiologist. No, I won’t apologize for that. Hubby has been seeing a cardiologist for two years now. He was diagnosed with heart disease right around Christmas of 2021. I’d reached out to a girlfriend to get a referral to the best hospital system in the area for heart conditions, and we have been under that umbrella ever since. She also referred us to her own cardiologist, who we followed up with after hubby was discharged from the hospital. The only issue was that the practice had two cardiologists and we wound up with his partner rather than the doctor she referred us to. It felt rude to tell them we wanted the other doctor when they talked up Dr. Kim so much. Plus Dr. Schwartz couldn’t see us for another several months: he was booked solid.

So hubby started seeing Dr. Kim, who was perfectly nice and knowledgeable. The trouble is he wasn’t quite listening to hubby when he was explaining to him that he still had this lingering discomfort in his chest. Dr. Kim seemed to chalk it up to the residual effects of him having a clot in his lungs that weakened his other lung and ultimately his heart. Yeah, it was a whole ordeal, y’all. That coupled with the fact that the pain and complaints of Black patients are, sadly, often overlooked, I decided it was time to go to “one of our own.” I’d figured I’d make myself the guinea pig. If we liked the doctor I went with, then hubby would transfer over to him. Two birds, one stone.

I scoured the directory for a Black cardiologist and settled on one that had very high ratings, years of experience, and a kind face, based on his online photo.

I booked the appointment as early as possible since hubby and I have opposite sleep patterns. I’m a morning person whereas he’s a night owl. The majority of all his jobs have been late or overnights, so it works for him. Me, on the other hand, if I have to stay up past midnight, it will involve a lot of Red Bull. So when I have appointments, I try to book them as early or as late as possible so he’ll either stay up until we go or he can sleep in until we head out. Surprisingly, I managed to get a 7 AM appointment.

We headed out around 6:30 since the office wasn’t that far from our place. We got there with about 10 minutes to spare. We walked in to a bright and spacious office. Every single person at the reception desk was a Black woman. They were all sporting NFL team jerseys, presumably in honor of the team they favored. It was a Friday morning, so I made the wild guess it was some type of team spirit day at the office.

Now, I’d be remiss if I didn’t address the elephant in the room and didn’t call out my own bias. Most, to be fair, based on past experience. A reception desk that is most if not all Black can go one of two ways: really good or really bad. Either the team runs like a well-oiled machine, or the place is disorganized and chaotic. There is no in between. Does this happen at offices where the office staff isn’t Black? Absolutely. But I had to call it out nonetheless. It’s what I call a Blackism: a fact based purely on lived experience as a Black person. This Blackism is no different than never bothering to arrive at a Black function on time because it always starts at the earliest 1 hour after the time stated (if you’re lucky).

I was pleased to learn that this office was the former: a well-oiled machine. I was greeted by a friendly, young woman at the reception desk who asked for my last name and date of birth. Since I’d already checked in electronically, all they needed from me was to confirm I hadn’t experienced any COVID symptoms. Once that was completed, she asked me to have a seat and that they’d be with me shortly.

We picked a pair of chairs in the corner. There were a handful of folks already there and as is our custom, we like to sit away from folks (pre- and post-COVID). An older Black woman walked in, and said good morning, and we responded in kind. There was an older white gentleman sitting in a chair at the far end who just stared and said nothing. It has always fascinated me how people who don’t look like me react when people that look like me greet them. I found it peculiar when this man stared, then looked away and tried to pretend he didn’t hear or see the woman who glanced at them with a smile, as well as at us, before saying good morning. I’ve yet to understand what it costs them to say it back. Must be a lot.

A few minutes after we sat, the door to the back opened and a young lady in scrubs called me by name. I smiled, stood up, and asked if hubby could come back with me. She said absolutely. At this juncture, I have to point out that Mr. “I can’t speak or say good morning” was seated at the chair closest to the door where we were headed. I watched him with a look of sheer confusion. He looked at her, looked at me, then looked back at his watch. He did this a few times. I’m going to hazard a guess that he assumed he’d snagged the first appointment of the day. He was mistaken. It made me chuckle a bit and I thought to myself, serves you right.

I was asked to make an immediate right so she could take my weight. So I guess we’re choosing violence to start my appointment this early in the morning!? Cool, cool, cool. The scale read back none-of-your-damn-business pounds. No surprise there. She then walked me over to one of the exam rooms and asked me to take a seat so she could take my pressure and my oxygen levels. Afterward, she told me the doctor would see me in a few minutes.

My pressure was high. I wasn’t surprised. She asked me if I have a history of high blood pressure. I told her nope, that I was just anxious about the visit. She nodded in understanding and said she would take it again in a bit.

She stepped out for a few minutes and when she came back and took my reading, it had dropped a few points. She seemed satisfied.

“Okay, the doctor will be in, in a few minutes to see you.”

I thanked her and as she was heading out, hubby asked, “can you tell me where the restroom is?”

One of the heart meds he’s on is a diuretic. It’s a fancy term for medicine that makes you pee more than usual. Because they’d found a blood clot in one of his lungs and on account of his heart disease, they put him on medication that would ensure fluid didn’t build up around his heart or lungs.

I for one was grateful. He was too, but also annoyed at the side effects. I can’t say I blame him.

As hubby stepped out to use the facilities, I knew that’s when the doctor would show up.

Murphy did not disappoint. Instead of Murphy’s Law, I’ve taken up the notion that the law is in fact a troll called Murphy. His sole purpose is to add that extra oomph of irony, sourness, or just aggravation for the sake of aggravation at any moment.

Two minutes after hubby stepped out, Dr. Smith walked in. He said hello as he closed the door behind him.

“Ummm, my husband’s stepped out.”

“Does he know what room you’re in?”

“Yeah, but he’s going to walk right past it with the door closed.”

“Okay, let me open it.”

As he opened the door, he noticed someone walk right past.

“What’s your husband’s name?”

I told him his name.

He called after him down the hall.

A few minutes later, hubby walks in.

“Damn, I made it a point to memorize the exam room number, but the door was closed and I blew right past it.”

I giggled. We know each other entirely too well.

Dr. Smith introduced himself again and then asked what brought me here.

I told him about my ER visit, the symptoms that led me there, and what they recommended on discharge.

When I told him how long I was experiencing the symptoms for, he repeated them out loud.

“Your heart was racing, your chest was tight for 7 hours before you went to the ER?”

It’s not that he didn’t believe me. If I was interpreting his tone and look, it would have gone something like this in a social setting: “what in the entire hell made you wait 7 hours before going to seek medical help?”

He couldn’t say that, but his expression did.

I felt a bit sheepish, but what was done was done.

He asked about my family history, whether I or an immediate family member had a history of blood clots. I told him about my aunt on my mother’s side and her cause of death.

“Have you had any leg swelling?”

“Yes, but no one listens to me.”

He looked puzzled.

I pulled up my dress to show my legs covered by black tights underneath.

“I had surgery on my left knee, so it might be because of that, but my left leg is bigger than my right leg.”

I pointed where the difference was.

“I just don’t think they pay any attention because I’m fat. Look, I know I’m a big girl, but I also know that this leg didn’t always look like this.”

He looked at both intently, pressing on the left and then examining the exact spot on the right.

For once, I didn’t hear, “oh it’s just your makeup” or “I don’t see any swelling.”

“I’d like to rule out heart disease and make sure there aren’t any blood clots in your legs.”

Mmkay.

“I’m going to schedule an echocardiogram and a venous Doppler.” The first would take pictures of my heart. The second would take pictures of my legs.

“Also, I want to monitor you, so I’m going to order a heart monitor.”

Come again?

“I’ll put in the order so we can get that set up for you right away. Have you ever had to wear a heart monitor?”

“Ummm, no?”

My intonation was more out of sheer confusion and less out of not understanding what he was asking.

“Okay, so we’re going to monitor your heart for 2 weeks so we can identify what are the stressors that cause the symptoms you’re experiencing. If anything looks alarming, we’ll get a call and we’ll reach out to have you come in. You have a smartwatch, right?”

He said this as he pointed to the Apple watch on my left wrist.

“Have you ever used it to do an EKG when you’re having those symptoms?”

“Yeah, when I first got it, but that was a while ago.”

“They’re surprisingly accurate. So I would get in the habit of doing an EKG whenever you feel those symptoms so you can keep track as well.”

I’ll be damned.

“So I still need to do the heart monitor?”

“Yeah, that will send us alerts, so you’ll do the heart monitor. But the smartwatch will give you a sense of what’s happening when you’re having the symptoms.”

“Okay.”

“I’m going to put in this order. The nurse will be right with you. If anything comes up between now and your next visit, just call the office. Do you have any questions?”

We both shook our heads no.

“It was nice to meet you both, take care.”

We repeated the same pleasantries and sat there as we absorbed what he’d just thrown at us.

There wasn’t really much time to soak it in though, since no sooner had he said that, that a nurse came into the exam room. She was quite tall but looked no more than 20.

“Hi, my name is Aisha,” she said, with a lisp so thick it was hard to place her accent.

She walked over to the small metal table and proceeded to empty out the contents of the white padded envelope she was carrying: a phone, several alcohol wipes, a few adhesive-looking items, and a manual.

“Okay, so Dr. Smith prescribed a heart monitor, so we’re gonna go ahead and get you hooked up before you go.”

Come again now? I don’t know why I thought I would go somewhere else to get the monitor or that it would arrive in the mail. I was really curious now about all the items on the table.

“Okay, I need to put this on your chest, so I need to prep the area first.”

I managed to clear enough room without having to take off my dress for her to swab me with the alcohol wipes. Once the area was dry, she grabbed the butterfly -shaped contraption that sat on the table. She placed it on my chest and then grabbed the phone. I was intrigued.

She clicked the phone to turn it on and went through a few prompts to connect the phone to what was now on my chest. Ah, Bluetooth.

“Okay, now you’ll need to swap this out in a week. So use the removal wipes because this is really sticky. It will hurt otherwise. Once you apply the new monitor, you just need to pair it. You need to keep the phone close by. It will upload your vitals throughout the day and make sure you charge it every day. That’s really important.”

Seemed simple enough.

“Any questions?”

I had none.

“After the two weeks, make sure you ship it back. Use this envelope. It’s already self-addressed and paid. Just place the phone in the envelope, seal it, and mail it.”

I nodded in acknowledgment.

“Okay, you’re all set. Take this to the front so they can set you up for your echocardiogram and Doppler.”

She handed me papers I was to take to the front desk.

I thanked her, made sure I looked as together as I did before I stepped into the exam room, then headed to the front desk to make the next round of appointments.

The scheduling was pretty straightforward. It would be a few weeks though because there was nothing available for the times we were hoping to do the tests. So I settled on a few dates a few weeks out. We said our goodbyes and thank-yous then headed to the car.

Once we were in our car, away from prying ears, I turned to hubby and said, “so, did you have, ‘wife goes to see cardiologist and leaves with a heart monitor’ on your bingo card for 2023?”

He chuckled wryly, but I still saw the tinge of worry on his face.

“Nope, not even a little.”