The Invisible Black Woman

In the middle of all the tests, waiting, and life in general, I was very much on the clock as it were for my leave of absence. One minute I was a few weeks into my time away and the next thing I know, I was 1 week away from my 30-day leave of absence expiring. I had to push out my start date on IOP and was more than a bit nervous on how that was going to affect my leave. Every time I had a new appointment, I uploaded my paperwork to the disability website. And while they were worlds better than the ones I had to deal with at work, I was still worried. It’s not like I’d ever had to do this before, and I was used to horror stories of insurances denying claims and having their subscribers jump through hoops before they’d approved something—thanks to my years working at a hospital. I checked in with them weekly and they would let me know if there was anything else they needed from me and by when.

When I postponed my start date for the outpatient program, I was put on a waitlist. They didn’t have a date for me of how long I’d be on the list, but they told me they’d let me know. So all these thoughts ran through my head of how things would go when I told them why I postponed my outpatient treatment and that I didn’t know when it would be starting back up. But I made up my mind to cross that bridge when I got there and just share more rather than less. The rep handling my case, Ross, was super nice and helpful. I uploaded every single test, appointment, result, email—anything and everything related to my health.

The one I was most nervous about was my exchange with the outpatient therapy folks. I couldn’t help but wonder if the fact that I had to wear a heart monitor was going to be enough or if I’d get penalized for not doing the therapy now. Honestly, I couldn’t call it. So I did a lot of hoping and praying for the best. Meanwhile, I did the best I could to keep myself busy while I waited for them to finish reviewing my case. Even though I was getting alerts every time there was an update on my account, I was checking it daily, faithfully, just in case.

Right around the “few-days” mark, as in a few days before I was supposed to go back to work, my phone rang. I’d gotten better at recognizing the number and not letting it go to voicemail. If I don’t recognize the number, I’m not picking up. Sorry, not sorry. But I’d gotten enough calls by then that not only did I recognize the number, I went ahead and added them to my contacts—just in case.

I picked up and Ross told me he was calling me with an update on my case.

“Hi, how are you?”

“Hang—hanging in there.”

I still hadn’t managed to get to a place where I wasn’t short of breath. It was starting to get more than a bit annoying.

“So I wanted to call and give you an update on your case. First, thank you for that additional documentation you submitted. We’ve reviewed everything you’ve provided and we’re extending your leave until—”

They added another 60 days.

And it wasn’t until he told me the new date that I realized that at some point when he was giving me the rundown, I instinctually held my breath. And in one fell swoop, I let out the biggest sigh of relief.

Then came the tears. Fast, furious, and unrelenting. I’d earned a reprieve and I wasn’t quite sure how to react, so I cried. Right there, on the call with Ross. And he absolutely knew I was crying despite me doing my level best to sob quietly.

All I could muster is to tell him thank you over and over.

And he was beyond kind.

“You’re okay. It’s totally all right. It’s totally understandable, given what you’re dealing with.”

This man should be hired to teach a course at my place of employment, but I digress.

“I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. Just—thank you. Thank you.”

“No need to apologize. It’s okay!”

I fully believed him.

Once I gathered myself a tad, he gave me a rundown of what was next and let me know to keep them posted on when I started the outpatient program.

He could have asked for my firstborn and I would have given it to him gladly. I was so eternally grateful not so much for the approval, but for what it meant: more time. Time to see my way clear on what I needed to do next. Time away from that God-forsaken place I called work. Time. I’d lost more of if than anyone should to a place that wasn’t checking for me in any shape, form, or fashion, except for my daily contributions in blood, sweat, and very literal tears.

And it was probably the first time since the whole saga began that I felt not a drop of guilt about being gone the equivalent of what was more than all of my vacations combined. Considering how doggone long I’d worked there, that’s kinda sad. Also sad that it took this for me to finally just stop and catch my breath.

Hubby, the ever-vigilant sweetheart that he is, heard the commotion. As has been his custom way more times than he or I remember, he leaned towards me and handed me some tissue. If I had a dollar for every time he has had to do that as I’ve told him the latest BS, courtesy of my “wonderful” job, we’d both be retired by now. Damn shame.

He stood by at a safe distance with an inquiring look on his face. The one that says, “who did it and where do I find them?” I looked at him, gave him a quick smile then mouthed, “I’m okay.” He nodded, satisfied the coast was clear, and ducked out.

After it was all said and done, I told him what the call was about and that I didn’t know what came over me.

“Sweetie, you’ve been stressing about this for a minute.”

“Damn, I guess you’re right. I didn’t realize just how worried I was until he told me they were pushing out my leave.”

“I don’t blame you. Finally some good news for a change.”

“Seriously!”

As I hung up the call with Ross, he said the kindest thing.

“I hope you get better and you get the help you need, okay?”

You and me both, sir. You and me both.