The Invisible Black Woman

Time was completely dragging as I sat and waited. I reminded myself that it could take up to two hours, so I shouldn’t be up in arms simply because it was one minute over an hour since they wheeled him away. Every time a person in scrubs walked by the waiting room doors, I looked up from my iPad expectantly, hoping for any information. No such luck.

I had been texting my mom, his mom, and his sister with updates. I remember updating his sister Denise about what we decided on surgery.

“He’s having a thrombectomy to remove the clots. I’ll let you know when he goes in for surgery. He’ll be in the hospital the rest of the week.”

“Yes please keep me posted my nerves have been all over the place.”

“I’m sorry. Welcome to my world. Gotta laugh to keep from crying at this point…”

“Yeah, I can only imagine.”

I was alternating between her and the other text threads that were happening simultaneously. I welcomed them. Even though they were about him, it helped pass the time and keep me company while I waited.

The most valuable gem came from Janet, my former boss turned dear friend. She sent me a lot of encouraging words, but the ones that I needed to hear the most were these:

I know this is scary. Breathe.

There were moments I found myself holding my breath and forgetting I was doing so, until my brain kicked me back to reality and I’d do a large exhale. It seems to be the one thing that is so easy to forget: just breathe. It was the simplest and most necessary thing in the world, yet it felt impossible in the midst of all the worry. I took Janet’s advice to heart, literally. I closed my eyes and forced myself to take slow, deep breaths.

But two-and-half hours in, my nerves began to get the best of me. My heart raced, my stomach churned, and the panic that I had been holding at bay slowly crept in. This is taking too long. What if something went wrong? I couldn’t help but think the worst. My mind ran wild with terrifying scenarios that I couldn’t shut out, no matter how hard I tried.

Every time the chime sounded and the loudspeaker called out a code, I felt my pulse quicken. I listened intently for the location. I felt like I was in the worst version of the game show “Double Dare” where I was pleading to the universe for “no whammies” as I waited, holding my breath, to hear the operator call out the location of the code. I exhaled when the location was anywhere else then quickly said a prayer for whomever it was who was in the midst of their own crisis. In those moments, it felt like Murphy was playing Russian roulette with my nerves.

I texted my found sister, as I felt myself spiraling.

“It’s going on 3 hours.”

“They probably got started late.
Which always happens.”

“You’re right. Thanks for reminding me.”

“Not trying to minimize anything—just trying to make you feel better.”

Her words did make me feel better, but only briefly. I glanced at the clock. The 3-hour mark was inching closer and closer. I decided that if I didn’t hear anything by then, I was going to find someone and demand answers.

I couldn’t sit still. I tried my level best to will myself into some sense of calm. The seconds ticked by agonizingly slow. I had nearly worked myself up enough to stand when, as fortune would have it, a woman in scrubs approached the waiting room.

She looked familiar.

“Family for …?”

“Yes, I’m his wife.”

She sat in the chair next to me. I wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or not.

“So, the surgery went very well. We were able to get most of the clots out. They were real big and juicy.”

My brain was like, wayment, did she just say big and juicy?

Yes, brain, yes she did. It made me burst out laughing unexpectedly.

She still hadn’t come off the high of the surgery and it was very much written on her face. Then I remembered: this was the “Nope: multiple” person from earlier.

Of course.

To have her tell it, we’d brought her the best early Christmas presents she could have hoped for. Honestly, I thought only TV surgeons got that excited about procedures. Apparently not.

“He’s stable and we’ll be taking him to the ICU in about 30 minutes. You’ll be able to see him then,” she added.

I felt my shoulders come down and my breath coming in more steady. We were through the first leg of the marathon.

“Thank you so very much.”

“Of course!”

As much as her words brought relief, this was the first leg. The next four hours would be critical. Dr. Patel let us know that after the procedure he’d have to lie perfectly still on his back to prevent complications. No shifting, no turning. Any movement could disrupt the incision and cause bleeding.

“The likelihood that we’d be able to stop the bleeding after the surgery if his incision opens back up is very low.”

His not-so subtle way of telling me that we couldn’t afford for the incision to open back up. I remember taking a hard gulp when he said that.

I made a mental note that if all went well with this post-op period, he’d be monitored in the ICU for a day or two before being downgraded to a medical floor. The goal was to get him home by the end of the week. I clung to that thought, as if wishing it hard enough would make it so.

After she left, I sat down and began texting updates to everyone:

“Surgery went well! They got most of the clots out, and he’s stable. He’ll be in ICU for a day or two.”

Responses rolled in one after the other, offering cheers, love, and support. And while my nerves were still on edge, it was nice to know I wasn’t going through this alone. People were holding space for us, praying, sending love, and hope. Knowing I had my village behind me helped me breathe just a little bit easier.

I leaned back in the chair, closed my eyes, and whispered a silent prayer of thanks. Not just for him making it through, but for the love and support we had around us. We still had a long night ahead, but for the first time in hours, I felt a tiny sliver of peace.