The Invisible Black Woman

Once we decided, everything seemed to speed up for a second. I was still processing when they came, ready to take him for surgery. He would be heading to ICU, the intensive care unit, once he was done. They needed to monitor him closely after the procedure for 1 to 2 days, then he’d be downgraded—assuming all went well—to a medical floor, stay for 1 to 2 days, then home. I made a mental note that all things being equal, he’d be home by the end of the week. This latest adventure of ours took the term “manic Monday” to a whole other level, if I’m being completely honest.

“Oh hi, I remember you.”

It was one of the nurse who saw me in the elevator crying my eyes out.

Of course it would be.

“Are you doing better now?”

“Yep.”

Talk about not reading the room. She was on the team getting ready to wheel my husband into a potentially “catastrophic” surgery and she thinks circumstances had improved since last she saw me. I did the deepest eye roll internally while I smiled at her externally. Hubby was of course thoroughly confused, but I refused to explain.

Also, Idk, maybe this is a PSA for medical professionals—hell, people in general: maybe if you encounter a person who is visibly distraught and you see them again, maybe you wait until they’re not surrounded by other people before you ask about the moment you saw them visibly distraught? Please and thanks.

“Do I go with him now?”

I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to wait there or not.

“Yep, you’ll follow me. There’s a waiting room upstairs you can wait in.”

So I followed her to the next “station” where I’d get to wait one to two hours before I heard any news, one way or the other.

I held his hand on the elevator and told him (and myself) that it was going to be okay.

Before we were escorted from the ER and for the brief moments when we were alone, he leveled with me.

“Sweetie.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m scared.”

“Me, too. But it’s gonna be okay. Your mom, my mom, they’re praying. I’m praying, too. We got here in time. You’re gonna be okay. I refuse to believe otherwise. But it’s okay to be scared.”

He’d never said those words to me in our 20 years of marriage. I’m worried? Sure. I’m annoyed? Definitely. I’m worried? Yup. I’m scared? We’d entered new territory. And the fact he’d even say those words aloud made my heart break. But thanks to sweet baby Jesus, the three wise men, Mary, and Joseph, I held it together, y’all. I was so incredibly proud of myself for even pulling that off.

All too soon, we arrived at our destination. The point where he would be wheeled one way and I would walk into the waiting room.

“All right, here is your stop. The waiting room is right here and the restroom is just around the corner. Someone will be out with an update once it’s done.”

“Okay, thanks.”

I leaned down, cupped his hand in my face and gave him a kiss. It was instinctual and for no other reason that I wanted him to know I was here, waiting, and I loved him—and he damn well better come back to me. I didn’t say the last bit, but it was heavily implied.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

The only times we went to bed or left the house without each other and did not say “I love you” was when one of us was fast asleep. We have opposite schedules: me an early bird and him a night owl. No matter what time he came to bed, with very few exceptions, I would stir and almost always, the convo would end along these lines.

“You okay?” I’d ask him half-groggily. It was my way of making sure he was okay physically, mentally or otherwise.

“Yeah, I’m okay.”

Depending on how long the pause was between “Yeah” and “I’m okay”—or what time he’d actually made it to bed that morning—I was satisfied with the answer. If not, I’d prod some more.

“You sure?”

He’d usually cave and tell me what was eating at him, whether it was physically or otherwise.

“I’m sorry, sweetie.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“Are you okay?” he’d counter.

“Yeah, just the usual.” That was my catch-all for the chronic issues I was dealing from one day to the next that kept me up much longer than I’d hoped.

“I’m sorry, luv.”

“I’ll be all right.”

“I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

I never wanted a single day to go by when I didn’t tell him those words at least once. If fate saw it fit to take me away from him, I never wanted him to wonder if I did.

So I had no qualms in telling him I loved him with nurses and other staff members within earshot. A few of them cooed and awwwed, but I didn’t well care.

I just needed him to know no matter what, I loved him and we’d get through it together.

As they wheeled him away, I waved at him. Goofy, I know, but that’s who we are. We’re goofy together. I couldn’t help but think how fortunate we were to have found each other. All the things that had to go perfectly right for us to meet. Neither of us wanted to go out that fateful night, but we were dragged against our will for a night out by friends.

Ironically, we lived in close proximity to each other and didn’t even know it. His brother even lived in the same apartment complex at the same time I did and he’d visited a few times. I’d like to think that one way or the other, we’d have found our way to each other.

Now here I was, waving at him and praying to God it wouldn’t be for the last time.

And in true doomsday fashion, my brain began to recall the worst possible memories. Not only of when he was here a few years back, but what happened to my aunt. Remembering that she went to the hospital for the very thing he was being treated for. But she didn’t make it. And the more I tried to suppress that memory, the louder it got.

I tried to rationalize my way out of it by thinking that the only acceptable outcome had to be a good one. I was long overdue. So much bad happened these past two years, with this last one being the worst. Surely the scales of karma could see I was owed a break … right?

But what if the worse did come to pass? Then what? How would I reconcile that with believing that everything would be okay? What would that do for my belief that good things still can happen to decent people? I wavered between hoping and believing everything would be okay to being resolute with whatever fate (or blow) the universe decided to throw my way. I felt the latter would leave me less resentful, hopeless and bitter. All the while, I beat myself up for my inability to be all the way in one way or the other.

I also felt incredibly alone in that moment. It’s easy to take for granted what the person waiting for news on a loved one goes through. Honestly, I’d had enough waiting rooms in these past few years to last a lifetime. It absolutely blew my mind that this was the hellscape that was my husband’s life the majority of our marriage. That he managed to stick around and not run for the hills was impressive.

Everything I’d been dealing with at work seemed so incredibly insignificant in that moment. In fact, if it meant I could undo what was happening to him, I’d have gone through it again a thousand times. But that’s not exactly how life works. I also wouldn’t have minded if I could just press pause on all the other stuff so I could just deal with this one crisis. If only, right?

But again, life doesn’t work that way.

The one thing that helped me through was reaching out to my village: family and extended family by way of work friends that blossomed into so much more. I was hesitant at first. I didn’t want to burden them and somehow telling others made it more real than what it seemingly was at the moment. So, I texted and the outreach and love and care was almost instant. And the messages I received and exchanged made me cry, but I felt less alone.

If nothing else, I told myself, if all of them half-believed hubby would be okay, all of their halves combined would make up my shortfall. And for the first time since everything spiraled completely out of control, I smiled through my tears.