The Invisible Black Woman

It was barely 11 AM. I was putting some clothes away in the hamper. Then I heard it. First, a soft thud. Then a cross between a wince, a gasp, and a yelp. Before he could finish saying “sweetie,” I was already running to the living room. Hubby collapsed into one of the recliners, his hand over his chest. Despite being absolutely terrified, I forced myself to remain calm.

“What’s wrong, Babe?”

“I don’t know,” between gasps. “It feels like I just ran a marathon and someone’s sitting on my chest.”

“Okay. You’re okay,” as I rubbed his arm in hopes of soothing him. “We need to go to the ER.”

“Okay. Let me just—let me just take a quick shower.”

If he had seen what I was seeing, a shower would have been the last thing he was thinking about.

“No, Babe. We need to go. NOW.”

“Okay, let me put some clothes on.”

He tried standing up then crumpled back.

“You sit. I’ll get you some clothes.”

I raced to the closet to pull out some clothes while I nonchalantly spoke to him about what I was grabbing. Honestly, I was just doing that so I knew he was still conscious.

I helped him get his clothes on then his shoes.

“Can you walk?”

“Yeah, I can walk.”

He couldn’t. He tried to stand up again.

“Sweetie, I’m not gonna make it.” Fear was written all over his face.

“That’s okay, just sit there.”

I dialed 911 and as calmly as I could muster, I told the operator I needed an ambulance.

I was so busy trying to stay calm I missed her first question.

“What’s the address of the emergency?”

“My husband can’t breathe. He’s having chest pains. He needs to be taken to the emergency room.”

“Okay, ma’am. I need your location.”

“I’m sorry. Yes, okay.”

I gave her my location.

“An ambulance has been dispatched.”

Less than 60 seconds later I heard the sweet, sweet sound of sirens approaching. I couldn’t have been happier.

“They’re here, Babe. They’re here. You’re going to be okay.”

He nodded and gave me a weak smile.

Maybe it was knowing help was on the way that gave him a much-needed shot of adrenaline, but he managed to put his arm around me while my five-foot-eight frame did her level best to prop up his six-foot-and-change one. The hallway in our place was entirely too narrow and I knew the stretcher wouldn’t be able to make it in.

So we managed to make it to his office and get him to the chair. I figured it would be a good makeshift wheelchair, push came to shove.

I kept my eyes firmly fixed on hubby while I listened for the sound of voices and approaching footsteps.

“Okay, Babe, I can hear them. You sit tight, okay? I’m going to let them in.”

In the midst of my fear, I couldn’t help but feel an incredible amount of shame. Our place was a mess. Between his health ailments and my own, keeping the place straight had been an almost impossible task. And as I walked to the door, I grabbed items strewn on the floor and tossed them in hallway closets or pushed things against the corner.

I opened the door.

“You called for an ambulance?”

“Yes, my husband’s having trouble breathing.”

“Where is he?”

“In the room right behind me.”

As they walked in, I looked past them and scanned the area.

“Where’s the stretcher?”

“We’re firefighters. The ambulance is on its way.”

Fraggle Rock my life.

I did my best to stay calm. I reminded myself that the firefighters almost always arrive on the scene first. These were trained professionals. He was in good hands. All of that I told myself in the split seconds leading up to me walking them to the back.

“We’re gonna check his vitals.”

I remembered a few from the last time. Yeah, this wasn’t the first time we had to call the ambulance—and not the first time this year. It had been less than 3 months since the last time. But I’d barely brought myself to acknowledge or think about the last time. And here we were again, and I had to relive the same fears from before, magnified times 1000.

“Does he have a history of a heart condition?”

“Yes, he does. He had a blood clot in his right lung a few years back and developed heart failure.”

While I was talking to one, another firefighter was hooking him up to an EKG.

“Sir, have you had a heart attack in the past?”

“No, no heart attacks.”

That was a lie, he just didn’t know it.

Having worked at a hospital, become a certified nursing assistant, and gone to nursing school has been a blessing and a curse. A blessing because I can understand all the terminology that is in our MyCharts. A curse because I can understand all the terminology that is in our MyCharts.

So while he had every reason to believe he’d never had a heart attack, I knew better. I’d pored over his charts more than once and saw words I’d wish I could unread: “history of myocardial infarction, age unknown.” Myocardial infarction is the medical term for heart attack.

I read that over like 10 times before it sunk in. No one told us. No one talked to us about it at any point in the hospital. It was just there, lying in wait. And I guess everyone made the assumption that we knew so it never came up.

And I made what some may think to be the horrendous decision not to tell him. When I found out, he was still recovering from his last health crisis. It wasn’t a good time. There was never a good time after that.

Now here I was, hearing them ask for a complete history that he couldn’t give because he didn’t know.

So I cheated. I cheated because I knew he didn’t know the terminology like I did. I told the one within earshot, “He has a history of MI.”

He nodded and wrote it down.

I told myself I would have to find the time to have that conversation with him. But how in the world do you tell someone with a heart condition that their heart has already attempted to take them out once?

That would be a battle for another time. Not today.

The elevator dinged and I heard voices. I darted out and sure enough, there were the paramedics with the stretcher—going in the opposite direction. By then there were curious bystanders in the hallway.

“Hello! Excuse me,” I called out.

I could hear one of them talking to one of the neighbors whose curiosity had gotten the better of her and was poking out of her door.

“Did you call an ambulance, ma’am?”

“No, not me.”

“HELLO! OVER HERE.”

The paramedics heard me, wheeled around and headed toward me.

As they got closer, I cringed. I recognized one of them from the last bout. I prayed he didn’t remember.

“Wait, didn’t we come here a little bit ago?”

He remembered.

“Yep, that was us.”

“I thought y’all looked familiar.”

At this point, three paramedics were escorting him to the stretcher. He seemed to be walking on his own, although very slowly.

“I guess it’s out of the question for you to take him to our primary hospital, huh?”

“Sorry, ma’am, we can’t cross state lines, and we need to take him to the closest one.”

“I figured. I had to try though. Can I go with him?”

“You’ll have to ride separately and meet him there in the emergency room. He’ll be in the back and you’ll need to ask for him.”

I wondered to myself at what point they stopped allowing the spouse to ride in the ambulance or if that is just something they do on TV.

I nodded and grabbed my bag I had been stuffing with the essentials while they were getting him on the stretcher: phone, wallet, power cords, charging block, laptop, iPad.

Once they had him on the stretcher, I walked over to him, after putting on my bravest face.

“I’m gonna head to the hospital. I’ll meet you there, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Then I raced to the ER, silently pleading repeatedly:

Please, don’t let him die.