The Invisible Black Woman

When I got home, I gave hubby a rundown of my early morning adventure. Although it didn’t go the way we expected, I was glad that Odette had gone above and beyond to help me. A little bit after I got home, I got a call from the IOP folks, just as Odette said I would. Carrie was warm and pleasant on the phone. She said they’d gotten my information from Odette and just needed to ask me a few questions to get things moving. She asked for my insurance details and afterwards told me she would call back, if not that day, on Monday to let me know next steps.

A few hours later, Carrie called back. My insurance approved 15 sessions and they had one starting up that Tuesday. Was I ready to get started? I said yes almost immediately. I was nervous but excited at the same time. She repeated the hours and days again, and I remembered about class, but I figured I’d cross that bridge later. Right now I needed to focus on getting better.

Carrie said she would send over some additional paperwork for me to complete. I would need to do an intake assessment. I would have to arrive to the center at least 90 minutes beforehand so I could do the intake then straight to therapy. Cool, I thought. Aside from talking to my professor about this new conflict, I felt there was something else in the back of my mind I was forgetting. I brushed it off since I couldn’t quite put my finger on whatever nagging thing wouldn’t quite come to the surface.

On some level, I was secretly hoping the treatment would take me through the end of the year so I could have some more breathing room without work. It had been roughly a month since I’d taken leave from work. The thought of having a legitimate excuse to stay away from the office, to have time just for myself, to recalibrate, to breathe—it was new territory in all the best ways possible. But how long I would remain on leave was not fully in my control. So I kept reminding myself that the only thing I needed to focus on is being present and attending the program.

I drafted an email to my professor, asking her if we could connect next week. She responded yes almost immediately. I really liked her; she was a mix between Phoebe from Friends and Cloud from Firefly Lane (but only the good qualities). I think it was more that she looked like Cloud and less acted like her. She was the kind of professor who didn’t take deadlines too seriously, which was a Godsend given what I was dealing with. Yet, she knew her stuff inside out. I never left her class without learning something new, and she had this down-to-earth vibe that made her so approachable. So, yeah, I was banking on her understanding about me missing 30 minutes of class. Well, I hoped, but I did not expect.

After sending the email, I popped into hubby’s office to give him an update of what was coming up. He listened intently to everything I told him. And then, as he is wont to do, he cut through the proverbial fluff with one question and one question only. A very related aside I should add is that really and truly—despite his arguments to the contrary—he is the brains of this operation. I may be the talent, but he is most definitely the brains. Anyway, he leaned his head to one side and very matter of factly asks me, “What about your heart monitor?”

Son of a biscuit.

Remember the thing that kept nagging at the back of my mind that I just couldn’t quite remember? Yep, that was it. The damn heart monitor.

“You’re supposed to wear it for 2 weeks, right?”

It had only been a few days.

“Do you think it’s a good idea for you to wear it while you’re going to therapy?”

No, no I didn’t, but I had completely forgotten about it.

“Crap,” is all I managed to say back, coupled with a heavy sigh.

So I replied back to Carrie’s email and let her know that although I was very eager to start therapy, there was the matter of the heart monitor that hubby so kindly reminded me of that I had plumb forgotten about.

Not sure why on some level I expected some annoyed response back. It was almost as if I felt I owed some level of compliance just for the immediate accommodation. Her response made me feel even more at ease, that I was making the right decision for myself: “Thanks for the update. Your physical health comes first, so it is commendable you are prioritizing that and it sounds like your husband is a great reliable support!”

I was so relieved. Given what I was used to dealing with at work, this was foreign to me. To have someone other than friends and family actually invested and caring about my wellbeing. How incredibly refreshing!

I asked Carrie what that would mean for my start date and she told me I’d have to go on a waitlist for the next available timeframe. I wasn’t fully panicked, but I was in the neighborhood of worried. It made me worry what this would mean with my health insurance and my job, since I was pushing out the start date of IOP.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t worried that I somehow put myself in jeopardy, but I hadn’t been cleared from the cardiologist yet, so I didn’t want to make any assumptions. They were still ruling things out and I didn’t want to take a chance that there was an underlying physical condition.

So I said a silent prayer and decided that all I could do in that moment was wait.