The Invisible Black Woman

This time around, I decided to shovel off early. I didn’t have the oomph for another adventure to our car, and for once, I felt very at peace knowing he was through the worst of it. Okay, okay, I’m totally lying. Hubby kicked me out. He refused to let me stay past the valet window again after telling him about my ordeal. Actually, he tried a few times to get me to go home because he felt guilty I was keeping vigil by his bedside. Every time, I retorted, “I’m sorry, have we met!?” But, once the valet was getting ready to close up shop, I couldn’t use that excuse any longer.

The compromise was we texted every hour on the hour, on account of my inability to go to bed. The struggle was real, y’all. I slept in fifteen- to twenty-minute spurts and finally gave up at 2 AM. Since I wasn’t getting any more sleep, I decided to go on a cleaning rampage. If Mumma was reading this right now, she’d say something like, “ah yuh!?” Very simply stated, it would be her incredulous way to ask, “Wait, you!? Since when!?”

Cleaning was not my passion or forte growing up. I was very, very good at giving the appearance of clean, but that only got me so far. I remember one particular Saturday—or Sabbath, as it was called in our house—Mumma insisted I clean my room. So, I decided to get real cute and write out Exodus 20:8-11 in real big letters on a piece of paper and post it on the door. If you’re curious to know what that says, you can click the link, but it basically says you’re not supposed to do any work. Y’all, I had the nerve to underline words: “thou shalt not do any work,” “daughter,” “rested.” What possessed me to be that brazen I’ll never know, but best believe I still cleaned that room because, Caribbean mothers.

Thankfully, she found it hilarious, so she clapped back with, “Cleanliness is next to godliness.” Now, I know y’all know I knew that wasn’t a Bible verse, but I figured it was in the book of Mummalations, chapter 3, verse 11. I knew better than to say anything and was just grateful I didn’t get what was rightfully coming to me.

So, I cleaned. My hope was that hubby would be coming home that day, so I figured I should act like it and help it come to pass. By the time I was done, showered, and ready to head out, it was 6 AM on the dot. I was so proud of myself. Those docs weren’t gonna miss me today.

Even though visiting hours didn’t start until 7 AM, I rang the buzzer at 6:30 on the off-chance they wouldn’t give me a hard time. They did not, and I was happy as a pig in shit. I popped into hubby’s room to say hi, and he blinked at me in surprise. “You here already?”

“Damn right. Told you I’d be here bright and early.”

Hubby was looking a little better. Some of the color had returned to his face, which made my heart do a jig.

“How you feeling?”

“Better. Still tired, but better than yesterday.”

I nodded, my mind running through a mental checklist of everything I’d been keeping track of over the past few days.

“Good! I’m gonna head down and get some Starbucks.”

Starbucks was blessedly empty at that hour, and this time, I got my order right.

I got off the elevators once I got upstairs. As I turned the corner, I did a double take. There was a large crowd outside of his room. A whole gaggle of them, all in white coats or scrubs, standing in front of his door.

I moved quietly around them, managing to slip into the room without drawing too much attention. I sat back down, sipping my coffee, and decided to ear hustle just in case there was anything I needed to know. I didn’t have to do that for long.

I’d barely sat down before his nurse poked her head in the window. She whispered, “They’re discussing your husband’s case outside. If you’d like to come listen, you’re more than welcome.”

I decided to stand in the doorway and listen—with my coffee, of course.

The resident leading the discussion was going over the details of what happened, all very matter-of-fact, like he was rattling off grocery items from a shopping list.

“He was admitted to the ER by ambulance, complaining of chest pain. Upon examination, multiple pulmonary emboli were confirmed. A thrombectomy was performed, and he was moved to the ICU for monitoring. Late yesterday morning, he was transferred to the cardiovascular floor.”

I nodded along, satisfied. Everything seemed routine, and I appreciated how thorough they were being. But then, the resident said something that made me want to say, “hold up, rewind that back.”

He must’ve seen the look on my face. “I’m sorry, did you not know he was insulin resistant?”

SIR, DOES MY FACE LOOK LIKE SOMEONE WHO KNEW THAT!?

I screamed that on the inside, obviously. All I could muster was to shake my head no.

I really hoped to God hubby wasn’t listening to all of this. I glanced back at him, only to find him leaning forward, looking as confused as I was.

“What did they say about insulin?”

Fraggle Rock.

“Just give me a sec, Babe.”

I turned my attention back to the group. Everyone was now intently staring at me. This time the doctor spoke up.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Jones. I’m sorry to spring this on you and that you’re finding out like this. Basically, what this means is that his body is not using insulin as effectively as it should. It’s a condition where the body produces insulin, but the cells are not responding to it in the usual way.”

I’m usually pretty good at rebounding, but I just kept blinking at all of them as they stared at me. It felt like I got a good punch square in the gut and I was trying to catch my breath. A million and one questions floated in my head.

 “Okay, so… what now?”

“Well, this is something that can be managed with lifestyle changes—specifically diet and exercise—and medication. We’ll monitor his glucose levels here to ensure everything is stable, but it’s important to maintain that vigilance once he’s home. Avoiding sugar-heavy foods is key, as well as watching portion sizes and balancing carbs.”

She went on, but by that point, my brain had hit its limit. I was absorbing maybe half of what was being said, all while feeling like hubby was boring holes into my back. I almost didn’t want to turn around.

So it wasn’t bad enough that I almost lost him, that his heart failed, his lungs weren’t in the best shape, now his body wants to get cute and resist insulin? Seriously? I had way more questions than answers but all I kept wishing is that he hadn’t overheard any of what was mentioned.

In that very moment I overstood the title of the series Kerry Washington stars in called Little Fires Everywhere—at least what I understood it to mean. Sure, one little fire is not that big a deal, but pretty soon, you have enough of them, you can’t put them out fast enough before a flame lands somewhere else and another little fire starts up. Inevitably, those little fires find a way to link up and turn into a raging five-alarm blaze.  

Frankly, I wasn’t at all sure there was enough fire-retardant material left in my very-singed suit to put this latest one out.