The Invisible Black Woman

The ride to the next hospital was filled with a nervous quiet. Hubby’s exhaustion was palpable, and I couldn’t blame him. We were both physically and emotionally drained, but I kept glancing at him, then down at his side, worrying that the bleeding might soak all the way through and I’d regret my decision to take him to our regular hospital. I wasn’t at all worried about whether we’d get better treatment. I was worried we wouldn’t make it.

When we arrived at the ER entrance, I put the car in park and hit the blinkers before taking off like a bat outta hell to find a wheelchair. I practically ran back to the car and helped hubby into it.

“I can try to wheel myself,” he offered weakly.

“Don’t even think about it. You just sit there.”

“Okay.”

I think he knew better than to argue with me, especially after seeing the look on my face.

As I wheeled him inside, I approached the security guard at the desk.

“Good evening. I just need to get him checked into triage. I’ll be right back to move the car.”

“Okay.”

I wheeled hubby to the side of the triage window and spoke to the nurse.

“My husband was discharged from another hospital earlier today. He’s on blood thinners, and he’s been bleeding from his incision. It won’t stop.”

I held my breath, waiting for her reaction, and was relieved when she immediately understood the seriousness of the situation.

“Let’s get him back,” she said, signaling another staff member to grab a wheelchair.

“We’ll get him a room as soon as possible, but I need you to check in at registration.”

As much as I wanted to follow hubby straight to the back, I knew the drill. Paperwork always came first. I thanked the nurse and quickly made my way to the registration desk, where they took his information. After a few minutes, the clerk informed me that I could go back to him once he was settled in a room.

This was exactly what I had expected from the hospital that had discharged him earlier—hear the words “blood thinners” and “bleeding,” and immediately recognize the risk of heavy blood loss, then take him straight to the back. But that hadn’t happened.

I raced outside to move the car to the parking lot, then hurried back inside. Not long after, my phone buzzed with a text: “I’m in a room. You can come back now.”

Thank you, Jesus.

I followed the signs to his room, where I found him lying on the bed, looking slightly more at ease than earlier.

“You doing okay?”

“Better than before. I think we made the right move coming here.”

“No shit.”

That got a laugh out of him.

A little later, Amber his nurse came in. “What brings you in today?”

“He was discharged from another hospital earlier today. He’s been on blood thinners, and his incision started bleeding.”

“Let me take a look,” Amber said, stepping closer to check his bandage. “I’m not going to remove the dressing just yet, but I’ll see if the bleeding is still active.”

She carefully examined the area. “It looks like the pressure from the gauze is doing its job. I’ll make sure the doctor is aware and we’ll keep an eye on it.”

Amber left the room, and hubby and I exchanged relieved glances. Finally, someone who understood how serious the situation was.

As we sat there waiting for the doctor, the clock on the wall seemed to slow down. It’s always the waiting that’s the hardest part—waiting for results, waiting for reassurance. I tapped my foot, trying to distract myself from the anxiety gnawing at my stomach.

“Why do hospitals always make time feel like it’s standing still?” I muttered, half to myself.

Hubby chuckled softly. “Probably so we don’t notice how long we’ve been here.”

I smiled at the joke, but the worry hadn’t completely left. We were in better hands now, but after the experience at the first hospital, I wasn’t ready to let my guard down.

Not long after, the doctor walked in. He had long black hair past his shoulders and looked more like a rock star than a doctor. Just when I thought it couldn’t be more cliché, he did that “brush the hair back with one hand” move, and I had to stop myself from laughing.

“Hey, how’s it going? I’m Dr. Vasquez, the ER doctor on duty. I understand you’ve been having some issues with post-surgical bleeding?”

“Yes. He was discharged from another hospital earlier today. He’s been on blood thinners, and the bleeding started shortly after we got home. It hasn’t stopped.”

I was repeating myself a lot these days.

The doctor approached hubby’s side, inspecting the area.

“I gotcha. I’m gonna take a look, but first, gimme a nice deep breath out.”

By the time he said that he had his stethoscope pressed to his chest.

Hubby complied, and the doctor continued his examination.

“Is that like once a day? Twice a day?”

He was referring to the blood thinners.

“Twice a day,” hubby said.

“Got it. How is that in here?” He motioned toward the area around the incision. “Nice deep breath.”

Hubby took another deep breath as the doctor instructed. “Any pain or discomfort right now?”

Hubby shifted slightly. “A little sore in the area.”

“Gotcha. Do you want some Tylenol or Ibuprofen?”

“Could I have water?”

“Water? I’m not a stickler about that. If we need to take you to the OR, we’ll do it whether you’ve had water or not. But you look stable right now, so I don’t have any concerns.”

Y’all, I felt like my emotions were on a wild roller coaster listening to this man. First “take you to the OR” and my heart starts racing, then “I don’t have any concerns.”

Sir, pick a lane and stay there, for the love of God.

Hubby nodded, and I could see some of the tension leaving his face. The doctor continued, “Let’s hold off on eating until we get the CT results, just to be sure. I’ll let them know you can drink something. You doing okay otherwise?”

Hubby shook his head. “Not that bad.”

I’d like to know who the hell is thinking about eating when they’re in the ER bleeding.

“Good. We’ll get those labs and the CT done, then go from there. Just let me know if anything changes.”

He wanted to check for internal bleeding, which made me nervous, but the fact that hubby was still conscious and talking made me less so.

He told us it was not actively bleeding and when I told him I had used the clotting gauze, he said, “right on. That was the absolute right call.”

I mentally gave myself a pat on the back.

“A lot of times you just need pressure, right? And it might have just been a shift in your body. It might have been that the movement just broke up some of that, the hematoma.”

He was referring to the large clot that had formed where they did the incision.

“So a lot of times it’s really just a little bit of pressure more than anything will do the trick. From what your wife did already, the bleeding stopped for the most part. So let’s just get those labs, let’s get that CT, make sure we don’t have active bleeding going on, and then we’ll go from there.”

“Okay, thank you so much.”

“Absolutely.”

As the doctor left the room, I felt a wave of relief. Finally, we were in the right place.

I squeezed hubby’s hand.

“It’s not bleeding. It’s just a little pinprick where the incision is, but it’s sealed up pretty good.”

He smiled. “I told the other nurse earlier to be careful when she was taking a look at it, before you came back and she looked at me and said, ‘Honey, I work in a hospital.’”

I laughed out loud.

“She said that?”

He chuckled softly. “Yep, she did. Made me laugh pretty good.”

For the first time in hours, we both felt like things were under control. As we waited for the tests to come back, I leaned over and whispered, “I’m so glad we came here.”

I sounded like a broken record about being glad we came, but I could care less.

A few minutes later, a tech came to wheel him to get his CAT scan done. I stayed behind. When the scan was done, they brought him back to the room, and we resumed our vigil, waiting for the results.

About 30 or so minutes later, Dr. Vasquez finally returned, holding a chart in his hand.

“Good news. The scan shows no signs of internal bleeding. Everything looks good.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “Thank God.”

“It looks like the bleeding was superficial, probably caused by a shift in the dressing or some light movement. We’ll keep monitoring you, but I think you’ll be able to go home soon.”

Hubby nodded, visibly relieved. “Thank you, doctor.”

A few hours later, once his bloodwork came back with the all clear and they checked his vitals a few more times, the nurse came back with some paperwork and we were finally cleared to leave.

As we slowly made our way out of the ER, I couldn’t help but think back to the ER from hell, where we were first, compared to this one. The sheer difference in care between the two hospitals was staggering. Hubby had nearly gone unnoticed, his condition dismissed at the first hospital. But here, they understood it was a better safe than sorry situation that should not be be taken lightly.

I took his hand in mine as we walked to the car.

“I’m so glad we came here.”

“Me, too. Me, too.”

And with that, we drove home, grateful that our latest “adventure” was finally officially behind us.