Black and Bruised
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Going to the hospital during a pandemic was a fear of mine that I never wanted to manifest into reality. But it happened.
I woke up around 5 a.m. with my heart pounding out my chest as if it wanted to escape. My heartbeat’s rhythmic drumming was so loud, it was filling the room. My stomach tight with fear, I felt tidal waves of nausea and dizziness before the room went black.
I’m awake now and calling my partner. He’s helping me calm my breathing en route to the hospital.
“Maybe this will pass in a few minutes. Please God, don’t make me have to go inside.”
My symptoms are getting worse. I’m terrified, but I have to walk through those automatic double doors into a Covid-19 war zone.
Much to my surprise, no one is in the emergency waiting room. The silence is eerie. There’s a new entrance protocol, but nothing else is drastically different.
We’re immediately directed to the back until an agitated voice stops us in our tracks.
“Sir, the hospital is on administrative lockdown. She can go by herself.”
I glance at the sign that clearly says one visitor per person. Unless he’d magically split into two, he met the requirement as one visitor. But is arguing in our current climate of racial tensions and pandemic stress worth it?
I decide to go at it alone and save the battles of questioning and snide comments for another day.
Before getting a read on my heart rate, a male nurse enters the room with a command doubling as a question.
“Convince me you don’t have Covid.”
I reply.
“I work from home, always wear a mask, and only go out for necessities. But I guess I can’t really convince you of anything.”
My mind is reeling.
This is odd. Can’t asymptomatic people easily tell anyone they don’t have Covid?
I digress.
The nurse breaks my train of thought with more advice.
“I need you to calm down because you could just be having a panic attack.”
I’m getting frustrated as I respond.
“I’m not. I know what a panic attack feels like for me, and this is not a panic attack.”
A silent pause on his end. Labored breathing on mine.
He walks out as an older Black woman enters the room to monitor my vital signs. She lowers herself in front of my chair so that our eyes can meet as she speaks.
“Listen to me. I believe you. I can see that something isn’t right, but we need to control your breathing.”
Her instructions help, and her words bring me comfort as she exits the room to arrange my EKG, scans, and blood tests.
After spending a few minutes alone, the male nurse returned. I’m calming myself, and his voice is more gentle now.
“Ok, sweetheart. They’re going to do your blood tests. I would have done it for you because I do have a lot of experience sticking things in the right places. Medically speaking.”
My mind starts to race again.
Is this really happening right now? Maybe I’m disoriented.
But the prolonged lingering of his hand on top of mine confirms my suspicions. Challenging him with a sharp look as I slip my hand away is the cue he needs to exit the room one last time.
I’m sure his day went on as if our interaction never happened. In my state of weakness and heart palpitations, I did the same.
It’s time to draw blood and administer fluids for dehydration intravenously. I’m guilty of not drinking the daily recommended amount of water, but not enough to become dehydrated.
During my wait, I learn that Covid-19 patients are admitted to a separate wing of the hospital. This wasn’t as reassuring as it should have been considering my one-question Covid screening when I checked in.
I’m waiting in my room as my heart returns to a predictable rhythm. My body is tired, but my spirits are lifting.
I’m in Room 25, reading the black and white writing on the board with gratitude for the women and men in healthcare who are taking care of us.
I started to doze off until another doctor entered the room to ask more standard questions. We begin to discuss my chronic migraines, and I tell him that I take aspirin fairly often for relief. Most prescriptions have been ineffective.
“Would you say you’re using aspirin recreationally?”
“Using aspirin recreationally?” I had to repeat the question.
“No, I’m saying I take aspirin frequently because I have migraines frequently.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“And you’re sure you’re not recreationally using over-the-counter medication?”
I confirm.
“I’m sure that I’m not recreationally using over-the-counter medication, and I’m not attempting to get high on aspirin.”
I don’t doubt that there are formulas out there that include aspirin to get high. I just don’t know what those formulas are, and I don’t care to know. But his tone is too familiar.
His tone reminds me of the time I made a late night trip to the emergency room for severe migraine pain in 2017, only to be randomly lectured about sexual promiscuity. There’d been no conversation or questions about my sexual history before my scolding. The doctor took one look at me, a young Black girl in a sundress with visible tattoos and decided promiscuity should be the topic of conversation. My best friend was sitting next to me in shock during the exchange.
The big difference in this situation is that I’m alone for what might be my next lecturing about my questionable character and poor decision-making.
He speaks again, interrupting my thoughts.
“Okay. Based on your blood work, I think you could have a blood clot so we’re going to give you another IV to prepare for a scan of your lungs.”
He walks away, and a few minutes later, another nurse walked into the room to prepare. I thought it best to warn her and save us both some time and trouble.
“Large IVs don’t work with me. There’s been many failed attempts.”
She is all but deterred.
“We can try anyway. We can’t use the small IV like the one you already have due to the fluid injection for the scan. Let’s think positive.”
I understand the reasoning, and it makes sense. I’m not amused, but I agree.
IV 1. Fail.
IV 2. Fail.
She gives up. “I’m going to ask one more person to try, okay?”
I agree. “Okay. But that will have to be the last time because I feel too tired and out of it to keep going.”
In comes another nurse. I tell him that larger needles don’t work for me and never have.
IV 3. Fail.
I’ve been in this body for 33 years now, yet the topic remains up for debate. He makes an offer.
“So, the decision is totally up to you to try again.”
I decline.
“This hurts too much. I don’t want to do it again.”
A moment of silence.
“Ms. Talley, Based on your bloodwork, this is important to do, so I’m going to make the decision for you.”
I froze.
IV 4. Fail.
IV 5. Fail.
“I don’t understand why this isn’t working,” he said.
In my frustration, I start to cry. I never cry publicly, but I cry almost uncontrollably. I’m not myself. I feel so fragile. Vulnerable. I’m tough, but not today. Today, I’m just a girl who wants her momma.
My voice rises and my heart starts to race for a different reason this time. I’m pissed.
“I told you it wouldn’t work but you keep doing it and you’re not hearing me!”
He pauses and stands up to leave.
“Let’s just take a break. We’ll do an ultrasound on both arms to make sure we get it next time.”
Next time? Through my tears, I send a text: Can you come back and try to get back here? I really really need someone with me.
I sent this text because I’m alone, ignored, and too tired to put up a fuss like I usually would. I’m too tired to use my leftover energy to make people listen to me and stop digging beneath the surface of my skin. Two more nurses return for the ultrasound.
I speak up again.
“I don’t want to do it again. Isn’t there some sort of alternative to this?”
The response was disappointing.
“No. Unfortunately, it’s not.”
IV 6. Fail.
IV 7. Fail.
IV 8. Fail.
IV 9. Fail.
That’s enough. No more. Just stop!
Now I’m being “aggressive,” so they stop to bring in the lead nurse to determine how to proceed.
I’m alone again. I looked at my one successful IV connected to the fluid bags for my dehydration. I’m attempting to disconnect it and take the IV out myself so I can leave. I’m afraid and it’s hard to process what’s happening right now. I just want to go home.
Codes keep being called on the intercom. The woman across the hall is screaming. Down the hall, a baby is crying. The sensory overload is elevating my desire to discharge myself. I have to get out of here.
The door is opening again, but this time, my partner walks in. He looks at my arms in confusion. His confusion quickly turns to sadness as I tell him the story.
Packaging, miscellaneous medical equipment, and some of the used needles were left in the bed with me. He searches the cabinets for gloves and proceeds to clean it all up.
“Let’s go.”
That’s all he can say and that’s all we can do. There are consequences if either of us get too upset and cause a scene.
My heart rate elevates again as the lead nurse arrives, catching us as we disconnect the equipment. I have no idea what’s coming next. He inspects my arms before becoming visibly upset.
“I’m so sorry and I’m going to report this as soon as I walk out of this room. No one will do this to you again. There’s another way we can do the scan.”
“So there’s an alternative?” I asked, repeating my earlier question to the nurses.
“Absolutely there’s an alternative,” he replied.
I want to scream. When I originally mentioned an alternative, I was dismissed and told there wasn’t one. Why?
A few minutes later, I’m being rolled off to for a standard nuclear lung scan. There is a tight black mask being strapped to my face and injected with radioactive gas.
You have to inhale and exhale for up to 3 minutes, but it’s easy to feel like you’re suffocating if you don’t stay calm.
As the mask is being strapped to my face, a comment is being made about my “cool hair,” and the tech tells me a story about a beautiful baby that recently entered the world.
“She was born with blue eyes and blonde hair, so she’s perfect.”
I feel like the star of a dark indie film, and I’m so ready for it to end.
As I’m rolled back to my room, I exchange glances with a few other patients in the hallway. I wished them the best and hope they wish the same for me.
Back in my room, the minutes rolled by slowly until the doctor returned to read the results. No blood clot.
He leaves and another hour passed by before a nurse comes to remove the only IV that worked. She’s just started her shift. She shook her head.
“This IV should have been out an hour ago, but they forgot you were still in here.”
“Forgot.”
Her words said so much to me at that moment.
In walks another nurse.
Princella, everyone feels so bad about what you’ve gone through. We can’t apologize enough. I can’t imagine how tortured you feel.
“Okay,” was all I could say as a response.
My arms were literally burning, and so was my mind. Sexualized. Questioned about my recreational drug use of aspirin. Ignored. Why couldn’t they listen? Why was I forgotten? Is God trying to tell me something or this just what’s meant to be? If I was that perfect blue-eyed child with blonde hair, would this have been different at all? All I need now is to be stopped by the police on the way home.
I could dissect this story with the eagle eyes of a social justice warrior, but I’m not. I’m only going to share my experience because there have been countless situations in my life where I’ve had to “toughen up” and pretend things never happened. But they did happen. And this has happened. And it wasn’t right.
My bruises last for a long time. I’ll be wearing long sleeve shirts for a while to cover my bruised arms from nine failed IVs — though I asked them to stop halfway through. I’ll remember the look on my mom’s face when I first came home and how she looked away from it. No words needed.
Someone will randomly come across this post. Instead of simply seeing me as a human being, that someone will politicize everything I’ve written. I’ll be labeled hypersensitive and accused of race-baiting. And to that someone, I would like to say you can politely dismiss yourself.
Worse things happen every day, but it’s these incidences like mine that we don’t call enough attention to — moments that could save someone’s life in the future.
For the first time in years, I’m asking God to take care of me. I’m Black. I’m bruised. But I’m here. And I’ll try again tomorrow. I’ll get out of bed, eventually. I’ll hope for the best. And I’ll stay grateful to be alive because that in itself is a victory.
