The Invisible Black Woman

I didn’t expect a cryptic message I received would lead to my first gut punch of 2026.

J: Hi T, this is J from XYZ. It sounds like you on the voicemail, but I wanted to make sure. When you have a moment, would you mind giving me a call? Thank you so much. I promise… I’m not asking you to do anything. (Smile)

T: Hey J! I get a lot of random messages since leaving. Lol I’m pretty sure I know who this is, but just confirming… We have a mutual friend in common. Name, please?

J: A

And now I know it’s you, because that is DEFINITELY something I would ask!

I sent her an ROFL emoji then picked up the phone and called.

I hadn’t spoken to her in a hot, hot minute. But she sounded exactly the same. We chatted, had a light kiki, then she said five words I won’t ever unhear—which led to two more.

I have some bad news.

I honestly don’t remember what I said after she said that.

A passed.

F. M. L. 

It wasn’t lost on me that the very name I used as a passcode was the very name she uttered as no longer in this world. The irony was as heavy as it was deafening.

I know I uttered a few words of disbelief and asked what happened.

We had just talked over the holidays and in the new year. Hashing out plans for a possible collab. I owed them a phone call. 

Life kept getting in the way. But I promised myself I would not let this month pass without calling. 

And now it had become irrevocably too late. They were gone. 

The nature of their passing hit me like a ton of bricks. They were having some health issues, so they went to get checked out. Then got scheduled for a routine procedure.

I’d love whoever came up with the idea of “routine procedure” to label surgeries to take it and shove it exactly where you know I mean. There is nothing routine about surgery. Any surgery that lists  possible risks is NOT routine. Every time I’ve gone in for a “routine” procedure, I pray. I’ve gone in for routine and wound up seconds from coding when I came to and had to be put right back under. But sure, tell me how routine and mundane surgery is that causes that.

So no, I don’t take any form of surgery with a grain of salt. 

The grief, anger, surprise, and sadness hit me in waves. And the thing I couldn’t help but think of most of all is that less than 2 years ago, I was A’s spouse. Sitting in a waiting room gripped in fear, wondering if hubby would make it. 

It felt like it just happened yesterday. And thinking of the parallels is terrifying. 

Yet the irony and the extreme outcome on the opposite end killed me.

A walked in on their own two feet. Hubby was taken away by ambulance and I couldn’t ride in the back with him.

A had a “routine” procedure. Hubby underwent surgery with a high risk of fatality from just movement in the first hour of recovery.

Their partner had no reason to think they wouldn’t be okay. I had every reason except for the faith I barely clung to, to believe this could be it.

And yet A is no longer here. 

Recently I came to the conclusion that the only way I can explain my faith to a nonbeliever or someone who says pain and suffering are the reason God can’t be real, is that God is the original Dr. Strange. The only way to ensure the greatest number of saves and lowest number of losses, things have to play out in the way they play out. I have to believe that every spectacular tragedy that is senseless and absurd and makes us question the existence of God is the very reason God must exist. That every single heartbreak is part of a chain reaction that ensures the greatest number of lives will make it.

That has to be it. Otherwise none of this makes any sense whatsoever.  

And that’s what I sit with right now. The waves of sadness that are now cumulative because grief doesn’t just focus on the one now lost, but on all the ones that came before them. Grief’s a bitch that way. Forcing you to remember every loved one, every friend that you can no longer just call. 

The thing you are left with most of all is regret. Regret of time not spent, of phone calls not made. Of laughs not enjoyed, of conversations not had. They have a way of overwhelming the good memories. 

Even when you know their time is drawing to a close. Worse when you don’t because then you believe you have all the time in the world to make that call, to have that hang. To catch up on the latest happenings. 

I told hubby hours after the news that if he ever had the audacity to leave this world without me, I’d bring him back to life just so I could kill him. He only lightly chuckled. I think he knows that if anyone could pull that off, it’d be me.

So every day I pray for the thing I want most of all, above all else: a dual end. Because while I may have the physical constitution to endure everything, I know that would end me in every other way. So I am unequivocal in that prayer and put it above anything else I could want in this world. 

A’s spouse wasn’t so lucky and for that, my heart is in shambles. I weep for them and for the version of me that once sat in that waiting room, gripped by fear.

Because for reasons I’ll never understand but forever remain grateful, that could and for all intents and purposes, should have been me.