Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
LYNETTE
Such was my new arsenal after a diagnosis of microcytic hypochromic anemia.
I left the hospital Saturday with a referral to a hematologist for additional testing to determine if I had a blood disease. If so, was it genetic?
“Didn’t I say it was anemia!” Mama’s relief flew across the phone.
“Yes, Mother Nurse, you did.” The diagnosis was concerning. I had to further educate myself on my condition, but I was thankful it was treatable. Not life-threatening. “I updated Bria and Shay.”
They, too, expressed relief this morning. Along with Bestie.
Nichelle insisted on escorting me inside when she brought me home, but I put a pause on silliness when she offered to run a bubble bath and bathe my back.
Still, I couldn’t fully express my appreciation for her overnight presence.
But we’d both had enough “wifey time.” I pushed chick out the door and hugged her goodbye.
Still… she’s right.
I couldn’t afford this shero cape. Or being Mademoiselle Independent to my own detriment. My Sister Circle was small yet powerful. I could lean into them (same as they could me) and draw strength while navigating the new waters of my existence.
“Mama, I’m gonna hop in the tub.” Time in the ER made me wanna scrub and rub. “Thanks for letting Justus stay another night.”
“You’re welcome. Pauletta and I’ll caravan over tomorrow after church and family dinner and bring your car when I drop him off. You’re sure you’re okay? Should we come sit with you until you fall asleep?”
I’m not twelve, Mama. I’m forty-six.
I was amused by her hypervigilance but knew no matter his age I’d do the same for Justus. “I’m good. Love you. And thank you.”
“Love you more. Get some rest.”
I disconnected and pulled up my Spotify ambient playlist before testing the bathwater temperature and discarding my clothes. Weight seemingly lifted as I eased into steamy liquid, fragrant and frothy with vanilla bath salts and bubbles. “Woo… this feels delicious.”
I closed my eyes and rested my head against my bath pillow as serene melodies drifted over me until my phone decided to buzz from atop the bathroom rug.
Clay’s BBQ’ing later. Want me to bring you some?
I wiped my hands on a towel and texted a response.
No, thanks, wifey. Enjoy your husband’s cooking.
Nichelle responded with a rolling on the floor laughing emoji. Sis was undeniably touched as hell. But she’d always be my girl.
I placed my phone back on the rug only to snatch it up and push the voice control button. “Look up microcytic hypochromic anemia.”
I wish my students were as responsive as these smartphones.
Within seconds multiple sources of knowledge were at my fingertips. I opened one and read aloud. “…too few red blood cells… paler and smaller than normal… due to low levels of hemoglobin, which is a protein in red blood cells that sends oxygen throughout the body.”
I read the remainder before scanning the symptoms.
“…tiredness, weakness, pale or dry skin, shortness of breath, cold hands or feet, chest pains, dizziness, light-headedness…”
It explained a lot. Except for the chronic heartburn and indigestion that had me tossing back Tums like TicTacs for months, maybe years. I felt a shiver of fear. Perhaps the lab results were inaccurate. Maybe I had something more fatal or invasive.
I expected another text from Nichelle when my phone buzzed again, interrupting my spiraling thoughts, but the text was from Paul.
Michelle Obama’s new documentary’s on Netflix.
He knew I loved my forever FLOTUS, but nothing of my hospitalization.
How was I considering a relationship, yet it hadn’t crossed my mind to inform him? Meanwhile, Rodney knew everything.
I smoothed bubbles over my skin and tempered my faux pas by citing our longer history.
History didn’t excuse my leaving Paul in the dark.
Granted, Rodney was on the phone when I passed out.
Paul wasn’t. Still, I couldn’t ignore that Rodney was a natural confidant.
Perhaps that would change as Paul and I progressed.
As we did, I hoped Rodney wouldn’t feel left out.
“I cannot manage men.” Hopefully, their similar temperaments meant the two would get along. I’d do my best to keep lines clear. I couldn’t be in a triangular mess. Especially now.
I sank deeper in the tub to enjoy my music, opting for serenity while doing my best to make peace with my new health reality.
“I know it was uncomfortable but thanks for staying with me in the ER Friday.” Yes, he’d been noncommunicative until he’d gotten loud towards the end, but, unlike the trip when Aunt Bert shattered her kneecap, my son didn’t wind up stimming. “I love your bravery.”
Mama and Aunt Pauletta left minutes ago after dropping off my car and Justus as promised; and I believed in acknowledgment and positive reinforcement.
“You’re welcome. Did you know the first ER opened at Johns Hopkins in 1894? It had two beds. There were no ambulances, so patients were delivered by police wagons.”
“No, I didn’t. Thank you for daily random fact number six hundred.”
“By now we’re in the thousands. I’m gonna get my Chromebook to finish the homework I didn’t do ‘cause Brendan and I were having too much fun at Nana’s yesterday.”
“Please do, Mr. Honesty. I plugged it in like you asked. It’s charging on my nightstand.”
I continued lounging on the sofa as Justus headed to my room, thankful for having the entire Saturday to myself yesterday, and that I’d elected to tune in to church via live stream this morning.
Versus in-person. I was still wrapping my mind around my health condition, but I preferred knowing to ignorance. “Speaking of…”
I opened the volume of The Treasury Mama delivered. I planned to comb through its pages and our online ancestry account until something shook loose and made sense.
“Son, can you grab my laptop from my desk?” I wasn’t sure how long I’d be digging through family history and preferred a larger screen versus squinting at my phone. I looked up as he approached. “Thank—”
“Mom, you didn’t tell the truth!” He held up my new medications like a lawyer with evidence. “You said you were gonna be okay.”
“I am—”
“Not true! You got all this medicine on your nightstand.”
I’d asked my mother not to say anything, to let me be the one to inform my son of my diagnosis. “Baby, come. Sit.” I patted the sofa cushion.
He remained where he was, flatfooted and unyielding. “You said I can trust you, but I can’t!”
“My condition isn’t fatal, Justus. I have something called microcytic—”
“I don’t wanna hear it!” He threw the medicine bottles on the sofa and pressed his hands over his ears. “You’re a liar, Mom. You’re nothing but a Decepticon!”
“Justus, that’s enough. Go to your room. Get your fidget spinner. Breathe. Whatever you need right now. I understand you’re upset… but you wanna cool down.”
He spun around and raced to his room. I expected to hear his door slam although it wasn’t permitted. Neither was calling names or being disrespectful.
I inhaled, exhaled—slowly, deeply. “Lord, give me strength.” I wasn’t up to another episode after Friday night and calmed myself with breathing exercises.
That proved a bust when loud noises came from the back of the house.
I jumped up and rushed to my son’s room only to stall in the doorway at the sight of the chaos he’d created.
Clothing from his closet was strewn across his bed.
Their vacated hangers swayed in the closet like phantoms in the wind.
Shoeboxes sat empty. Dresser drawers were ajar.
Socks, pajamas, and underwear were everywhere.
His Transformer suitcase lay on the floor, gobbling up whatever he tossed into its greedy maw.
It was called eloping, his need to escape distressing situations. I’d experienced his running off and hiding once or twice when he was younger, but this packing with such decisiveness threw me off balance. “Justus, what the whole heck is happening?”
“I don’t wanna live with you anymore. I’m leaving!” He threw books in his suitcase, viciously kicked it.
I was in immediate conflict. The compassionate, progressive parent understood this was a massive meltdown in progress. Softhearted me wanted to embrace my son and soothe his distress. But I knew doing so could escalate the fight or flight mode he was in.
Conversely, I was tired, experiencing my own duress, and was running out of level-headedness. My Black Mama-itis had had enough. I was ready to crack down on my child for clowning like he didn’t know whose house he lived in and wanted to tell him to take his unhappy little ass to bed.
I claimed middle ground instead. “Do you want to call Nana and ask her to come back and get you?” I was disinterested in escalation or regression, and Mama was a safe intermediary. I definitely needed to lean. My mom tank was near empty.
“I’m not going to Nana’s. I’m going to my dad’s!” I knew he meant business when he added his stamp collection and prized, signed baseballs to his luggage. “I’m not living with you if you’re sick. You’re my only mom. If you’re gonna die I don’t wanna be here to see it!”
My irritation deflated. “Son…” I sighed heavily. “Being anemic isn’t a death sentence. It’s manageable and reversible. I’m researching to educate myself. Want to learn with me?”
“Can I call my dad?” He was locked in, not budging.
I knew to implement the First/Then concept. Reward after compliance. I was poised to instruct him to clean his room and then he’d be allowed to call Rodney. “You know what? Screw it,” came out instead.
“Screw anemia! And Granny’s dementia. And school budget cuts.
And Aunt Bert’s busted knee needing surgery.
” And the fact that I couldn’t afford Thrive Time.
Or that my sisters were doing big things while I was living a lackluster teacher’s life.
Screw whether I should spend time and energy to develop something real with Paul.
Or just do booty calls. And whether to start grad school this summer in an accelerated program or wait until fall. “Screw it the heck all!”