The Invisible Black Woman

I headed up to the ICU to see hubby. It was still ten minutes shy of the thirty minutes I was told to wait, so I took a seat and responded to a few more messages. I waited a few minutes more past the ten-minute mark, then buzzed the nurse’s station.

“How can I help you?”

“Yes, I’m here to see my husband.” I gave her his name.

“He’s getting settled in the room. Give us 10 more minutes.”

I’d been waiting hours already. What’s another 10 minutes, right? I gave it 15 more for good measure then buzzed again. This time I was buzzed through. His room was at the far end of the ward, past a maze of doors, monitors, and nurses hurriedly moving from room to room. When I reached his room, I saw his nurse writing on the dry-erase board by the door. She turned around, noticed me, and smiled.

“Hi, I’m Marie, his nurse. And you are?”

“Hi, nice to meet you. I’m his wife.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Finally, there he was. His appearance made me want to giggle: they’d wrapped him up like a burrito, all the way from his feet to the top of his head. I was half tempted to take a picture to show him later.

“Hey, you.”

“Hey.” He flashed me a tired smile.

His voice was hoarse, which surprised me. He wasn’t put under for the procedure, just heavily numbed and sedated since the anesthesia would cause a bad interaction for his particular condition.

“How are you feeling?” It was an impulsive ask. I could look on his face and tell he wasn’t doing too great.

“Sore… my back.”

Then it hit me. I had completely forgotten about his stress fracture in his lower back. He’d been dealing with it for years. And now, after lying flat on his back for the three-hour surgery, he had to do another four hours in the same position.

Shit.

“I’m having spasms.”

Crap. The last thing he needed was spasms when he was supposed to be lying perfectly still. Leave it to Murphy and his impeccable timing.

“Can he get anything for the pain? He has a stress fracture in his lower back. He’s having spasms.”

“Yes. Let me let the doctor know.”

A few moments after Marie left, Dr. Patel and his team of residents came in.

“How are you feeling?” Dr. Patel asked.

“Back is sore.”

“How about your incision?”

“It’s fine.”

 “Good. The procedure went very well. It was quite a large amount of clots we got out. How does your chest feel? Still feeling pressure or pain?”

“No, no pain.”

“Good.”

“You’ll need to lie flat for the next four hours to make sure we don’t run into any complications from the procedure. This will give the incision time to clot. It’s really important we don’t dislodge the clot.”

“I’ll prescribe something for the back pain.”

“Okay, thank you very much.”

“Okay, take care.”

Once he left, I scanned Hubby’s face. I could tell by the expression on his face another spasm was starting.

“Okay, babe. I know this is going to sound goofy but lean into it. When it starts, take a deep breath in and blow it out slowly for the duration of the spasm.”

 “I’ll try anything at this point.”

For the next forty-five miserable minutes, we fought through each spasm together. They came in waves, hitting every three to five minutes. I sat next to him, holding his hand, and breathed through each one with him. I told him to squeeze as hard as he needed to.

Finally, the nurse returned with a syringe filled with pain medication and a muscle relaxer pill.

“Have you had dilaudid before?”

“No.”

“It’s a strong narcotic. It will give you some immediate relief and the muscle relaxer will be more long acting.”

I knew he was in for a “fun” ride. Having taken it more than once myself for my stints at the hospital, I knew he’d have an initial rush then likely be off to sleep.

A little after she administered the medication, hubby goes, “I feel dizzy.”

I chuckled. “Those are the meds kicking in. Enjoy and try to get some sleep.”

Sleep at hospitals is mostly elusive. They spend so much time popping in to check on you, prodding and taking some type of measurement to make sure you’re improving and not going in the opposite direction.

Sure enough, he drifted off for a solid 15 minutes—then the nurse came back to check in on him. He would have to settle for sleeping in spurts.

I just watched him drift for the moments he could, grateful it was still a luxury afforded to me. I wondered if I’d be able to stay the night with him. I didn’t have to wonder for long.

The nurse came back, minutes before 10 PM.

“I hate to do this, but visiting hours are over at 10, so you’ll have to head home soon.”

“I understand.”

My heart sank. The last time we were in the hospital, I wasn’t allowed to stay overnight either. I hated leaving him alone. Not just for him, but selfishly for me also. Never got any good sleep when I was home alone. The place always seemed to creak and squeak.

“Get some rest, sweetie. I know you’re tired so try and get some sleep when you get home.”

“When have you known me to get any kind of sleep when I’m home by myself?”

I chuckled a little, but my heart wasn’t in it. He was right—neither of us slept well when we were apart. But I had to go.

“Ma’am, can I have your number? It’s good to put it on the board in case we need to contact you. I know it can be stressful, but just think of it this way: no news is good news.”

So now on top of heading back to an empty place, I had to hope that I got no calls in the middle of the night. Great.

I gave him a kiss then told him I loved him.

“I love you, too. Get some rest, okay? Try to. Take some Zzzquil.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“You need to eat, sweetie. You haven’t eaten anything. So make sure you eat. You should pick something up.”

“We’ll see.”

I gave him another kiss, told him I loved him again for good measure, then headed out.

I went to the security desk to pick up my keys. I’d used the valet and it was after-hours, so the keys were left there.

I walked up to the desk to security.

“Hi, I need to pick up my car, please. I left it with valet.”

For reasons I have yet to understand, the security guard was particularly annoyed that I was asking for anything at all.

“Valet? You’re gonna have to go get it.”

“Okay. Do you have the keys?”

“Where’s your ticket?”

I pulled up the e-ticket and showed him.

“Here.”

He plopped the keys on the desk.

“Okay, so where do I get the car?”

“It’s at the Colonial Parking Garage. You’ll need to pull it up on Google Maps.”

“Okay. Can you give me the address?”

He gave me the address and I headed out. It was late, in the city, and I wasn’t particularly keen about walking to the vehicle that late, but I figured it couldn’t be terribly far. I was right about that, except I walked two long city blocks before I realized I was walking in the wrong direction. By then, my back and my left foot made it very clear they weren’t going any further than where I was.

I walked shuffled to the corner and decided to call an Uber. A few minutes later, the Uber pulled up and drove me to the address I was told the car was.

It was a parking garage of 5 floors. I wasn’t told what floor the car was on. I shook my head. I stopped on every floor, clicked the panic button and waited. Naturally, the car was on the very last floor.

I shook my head as I hobbled to the car. By then, I was in pain, sweaty, and super annoyed—but I knew better than to tell hubby any of what happened. He’d be trying to find a way to head down to security, gown on, to have a talk with security. Never mind that he was still in the midst of recovery, but that wouldn’t even register.

So instead, I called my found sister so I could rant and tell her the unplanned adventure I had on my way home. We had a great laugh about it by then, since I was safely in the car. It briefly took my mind off the fact that I was heading home alone.

Once I pulled up and got to our place, I texted hubby to let him know I got home safely. I then showered the day away and had a bite to eat.

I spent the rest of the night tossing and turning checking in with hubby and listening for the phone to ring—and hoping it wouldn’t.