The Invisible Black Woman

So it was time to get my heart scanned for issues. I scheduled it for 7 AM that morning so hubby wouldn’t have to stay up too late into the day. It was barely light out when we headed out. We’d never been to this location before, but it looked like it was in an apartment complex. Not that it was dodgy, just didn’t have the feel of a medical building/facility from the outside.

Thankfully, it looked much more legit from the inside. We got there pretty early, with at least 15 minutes to spare. Thanks to the patient portal, I was able to check in online and it was just a matter of signing in. The one thing I didn’t count on was the fact that they decided they would take my photo so they could upload it to my patient profile. I look every bit as thrilled as one would expect when having to take a photo they weren’t planning on that early in the morning.

Even though my test was slated for 7 AM, they were running behind schedule. So instead of having my test done at 7 on the dot, it was more like 10 after before we got going. Then to top it all off, there was the snag I didn’t expect would be a snag: my heart monitor. I told the scheduler on the phone that I had a 24-hour heart monitor. Would that be an issue?

“No, that won’t be a problem, she said.”

Surprise, surprise, it was a problem. I asked again when we were escorted to the back—because, trust but verify—and the nurse said I couldn’t have it on during the test. Duh, of course not.

So I carefully peeled off the heart monitor and placed it upside down on a nearby counter. I figured if they didn’t have a replacement, I would at least be able to put my old one back on and reinforce it when I got home with the additional adhesive they’d given me just for that reason. Well, not for having to remove it during an echocardiogram, but on the off chance that the adhesive wore off, they gave you some backups.

The nurse told me they would apply the monitor back on after my test. Fine by me. A little bit later, the technician who would be doing my test, Maria, walked in. She gave me a rundown of instructions on what to expect and what was expected of me.

“You’ll need to undress from the waist up,” she said.

Then she turned and grabbed a paper “shirt,” for lack of a better description. I’m sure that’s not the formal name for it. But instead of a full gown, it’s just a half gown—sort of looks like a shirt. Then she turns around to hand it to me. But before she does, she says the most culturally “sensitive” thing to me—and by sensitive, I mean it was the most insensitive thing that a woman of my “enough to go around” physique needs to hear.

She looks me up and down and says, “I only have one size.”

Sigh.

Like, I get I’m not exactly small, but I’m positive they teach you better than this in school. Hell, maybe in life. Maybe I’m asking too much.

I screamed internally, took a deep breath—all the while stifling a giggle as I caught hubby giving her major side eye—then smiled and did all I could not to snatch the paper T-shirt from her hands.

She then told me we were on a tight schedule because there was someone scheduled right after me, as if somehow the fact that she was running behind was my fault or problem. I smiled, said okay, and waited for her to leave while I got undressed.

When she stepped out, hubby and I shot each other one of those knowing looks that said it all without saying any words. It was a whole conversation we had in a matter of moments.

“Did she really just say that to you!?”

“Yep, she really did just say that to me.”

“I mean, the nerve of that woman!”

“I know. You’d think they’d train them better, but what do I know.”

We concluded our eye convo with a chuckle and shake of our heads.

Oh, I would like it to be noted for the record that I did in fact fit into the stupid paper shirt she provided me.

Maria comes back in and tells me we’ll begin shortly. She also has some instructions for me.

“This test will take approximately 45 minutes. You need to be absolutely quiet during the test. When I ask you to hold your breath, hold your breath so I can get a proper scan. If you do not hold your breath, I will have to take the scan over, so it is very important you follow the instructions closely. Okay?”

Internally I’m wondering to myself if this woman believes that people come there deliberately trying to sabotage their own test, or if they just don’t follow instructions to mess with her. To have this woman tell it, absolutely.

So I stayed quiet as instructed as she proceeded to do an ultrasound of my heart. The instrument is pretty identical, yet I can say the level of pain is something altogether different. The way she pressed down, as if she was trying to unearth a third dimension in my chest cavity without cutting it open, fluctuated from mild discomfort to full-on pain.

Despite my discomfort, I was trooper. I didn’t wince or scream out, lest I face Maria’s ire. I simply tried to focus on my breathing or not breathing, depending on what the instructions were at the time. There were moments where I felt I wasn’t exactly ready for holding my breath and that my lungs would explode from lack of oxygen, and I was sure I was going to skew the results at some point.

On some level, I definitely felt like she was using the instrument to teach me a lesson for carrying around excess weight. Almost as if it was saying, “if you weren’t this size, this wouldn’t hurt at all.”

I’m sure it was mostly in my head, but the moments where Maria herself looked like she was putting in work as she pressed and maneuvered the wand all over my chest made me wonder if I wasn’t onto something.

One random aside: no one ever tells you how much like the ocean your heart sounds when you’re having an ultrasound done. It’s as terrifying as it is amazing. No, just me? Okay, cool. I’m just gonna leave that right there then.

True to her word, forty-five merciless minutes later, she was done. She gave me some tissue as well as some wet wipes I could use to clean off the gel from the test.

“All done, okay?”

Not sure why she felt the need to yell that out. Last I checked, my ears worked just fine.

“Just go ahead and get dressed and I’m going to get the nurse assistant to come in to help you with your heart monitor.”

Maria told me they would send my test results to the doctor and the office would let me know what was next.

I thanked her and waited for the nurse assistant to come in—or so I thought.

Maria needed me to scoot into another room though because there was another patient coming in and she needed to prep the room.

Mmkay.

So I was escorted into another room and Heidi came in shortly after to set me up. I saw her carrying in a familiar envelope and I thought to myself, oh, maybe they don’t have extra monitors hanging out, so she’ll need to take it out of another set. That seemed weird to me.

It was weird.

Heidi thought I needed the whole setup, which I realized when I saw her whip out another phone to connect me to.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I just need a replacement monitor, not a whole setup.”

Question, am I the only one who apologizes when someone else misunderstands what it is you’re in need of or asking for? Asking for a friend.

“Oh!” Heidi said, “you just need the monitor? No problem, I can do that.”

I figured she’d just hand it to me for me to put on at home, but she was kind enough to do it for me.

In case I haven’t mentioned this before, the heart monitor looks very much like a large bowtie pasta, if it was a bit more elongated in the middle. I forget the technical term at the moment, but it basically has to be placed over where your heart is, to the left, so mostly over your left breast. The first few days it was just annoying, but then somewhere along the midpoint, it gets downright irritating and you just want to rip it clean off.

Once Heidi applied the new monitor, we were sent off on our merry way. I think up until that point, the focus of getting to the appointment, holding my breath in at intervals, and doing my level best not to wince out loud kept all the anxiety surrounding this next test at bay.

I’d never had a history of heart problems—something that ignorant medical professionals that I’ve come across have a hard time believing. Not high blood pressure, no heart condition, nada. In fact, my blood pressure was fantastic considering I am what would be termed morbidly obese. I loathe that term, by the way, but that is a rant for another day.

So there I was, as I made chitchat with hubby on the drive home, all the while feeling a lot of anxiety around what the test would or wouldn’t reveal. I didn’t know which of the two outcomes I should hope for.

All I knew is that I wished I could fast-forward to the other side of this chapter.