Just Breathe

“All around me everywhere/seems like nothing but despair/confusion disillusion hanging in the air…”

-“Breathe” by Lalah Hathaway

I couldn’t make it to the top of the stairs, I was out of breath. Gasping for air reaching the top, I went into the bathroom to wash my face. My expression in the mirror recalled last week when my wife and I were walking. I had to “catch my breath” as we ran up and down the staircase by the park. Walking up the slight incline of the hill last week wore me out. I was use to rapid walking up and down the hill several times. It was the little things; running to my car, going down to the basement, going up the stairs. I was finding it hard to breathe.

I scheduled a “Zoom appointment” with my medical doctors. Since the pandemic no patients are allowed to go into their offices. “If it’s an emergency,” said the automat voice service. “Go to the emergency room.” I clearly didn’t want to go to the ER. I called for a virtual appointment. It interesting and sorta scary that the medical assistant had a mask on talking to me on the computer (another post for another day).

“Mr. Murphy, what brings you to us today?” I explained I had shortness of breath, that even when I’m laying down I feel like I can’t breathe. “How are your sleeping habits?” Sleeping hasn’t been good. Since the shutdown, my body still thinks it has to get up at 6:00am for school at 7:30am. My brain at 1:00am the previous night is like, “why are you going to sleep for? YOU can’t go anywhere!” I just replied ” they haven’t been good.”

She asked, “how are your eating habits?” At first, the shutdown seemed like an excuse to eat chill with sour cream and bacon bits after midnight. To have more than one glass of vodka with cranberry juice. It became clear. I wasn’t going back to school, to work. Nor to normal – I ate and drank until it lulled me to a temporary sleep. I replied, ” Well, I’ve overindulged a bit since the shutdown.”

“Well, Mr. Murphy,” she said. She was reviewing my medical history, “you are a kidney donor (and wait for it…) which I have to say is a very admirable thing to do. (Why do that all say that once they see I’ve donated my kidney?) but we have to monitor you very closely. I see you don’t have a history of high blood pressure, hmmm. Assuming all black men will eventually have high blood pressure. You are not in any pain, are you? I replied, “No, I’m not.” But to be sure you are okay, I want you to go (don’t say it) to the Emergency Room. I’ll request an EKG and chest x-ray to make sure everything is fine and we’ll follow up from there.”

“But I gotta believe that this ain’t the end of the road/This is all a dream until you believe/and you gotta know the stories still to be told..”

The Emergency Room at Holy Name Hospital, named in the media “the epicenter of the COVID-19 crisis,” was mostly empty. Entering with my mask, making it harder to breathe. I signed in and told to have a sit in the “distance waiting” area. The room had a Latino man, with a head full of raven color hair, clean shaven, khakis and a nondescript t-shirt. There was an elderly white man, who had on a MAGA hat, that had seen better days, it was dirty. He wore a War Veterans t-shirt with the American flag, that match the hat that sat upon his balding head. Both seen to have been through a war and lost.

We all sat on separate sides of the room. I was called to see the doctors. They assigned me a bed in the back of the ER, deserted like the waiting area. A couple of beds and a group of medical assistants and nurses dressed in plastic jumpsuits, with mask and facial shields.

They put an IV port in my arm, which immediately made me breathing rapidly. I was assured it was in case if I needed an IV (but I don’t, I came in for shortness of breath??). Then another nurse came in to prep me for blood work. “Wait a minute,” I said not trying to sound like a Black man with trust issues, “Can’t you get it from my right arm, where the IV port is?” They couldn’t so she took blood from my left arm. I sat back there for awhile then someone came and took an chest x-ray, then left.

I needed to use the restroom, so I was trying to get one of the nurses attention. The more I yelled the more my bladder demanded to be released. One of the attendants came to “unhook me” so I could use the Men’s room. All the facilities smelled of fresh bleach, I saw the maintenance people cleaning and cleaning as if to scrub the color of the tile off. Finally a doctor came to tell me that my chest x-ray was good but they want me to follow up with my doctor for the results of the blood work. That I could leave, go home and rest. If only it was that easy.

I couldn’t watch the new anymore. The constant rotation of the Ahmaud Arbrey jogging without a care in the world. Ahmaud was enjoying the fresh air of the southern neighborhood, only to be chased and shot. The torture captured on video by someone who thought this was a “Kodak moment” as opposed a moment to save the 25 year old’s life from two men, a father and son, who didn’t consider him human, therefore not worth saving. Then, global viewing of the torture and death of George Floyd, who is simply trying to breathe while a group of police ignore his need for air. It would have been cliche’ and criminalizing for me to say “I Can’t Breathe”, but at the same time it was true.

“Its gonna be alright/Everything gonna be alright/ Remember to breathe/ you gotta believe me…

Weeks later my medical follow up was with a “family doctor”. We all affectionately refer to as “Doc”, who ordered additional tests (more blood work, an EKG, etc.) and has known my family for over five years. “Okay, Todd…your blood pressure is good, the blood work came back. Your kidney level is a little high. Nothing to alarm yourself with, but we’ll keep an eye on that, what’s going on?” “I find myself short of breath,” I replied. “Maybe it’s the weight gain, I don’t know.” “Well”, Doc said, “you did gain about 20 pounds since March. You said you were eating and drinking a lot…” Yeah, but…” Can I ask,” he said nicely cutting to the chase, “How you holding up?”

I took a deep breath and replied, “I’m okay, it’s not like I have anything to really complain about. He said very knowingly, ” Your mother has been hospitalized since February and you still haven’t seen her. That has to weigh on you some?” I couldn’t catch my breath to reply. ” You told me about the school shutting down, feeling a little out of order. Trying to make your students feel safe over “remote learning” is hard…right?” I managed to get a “Yes” out of my throat. “We are living in a time of a lot of civil unrest can take a toll on you, right?” I wanted to disagree. “What do you know about being a black man?” In my heart I knew he was right.

” I want you to follow up with these test, but , and I could be wrong. Ease up on the eating and drinking, get some fresh air, exercise….and stop being hard on yourself. It’s going to be alright. You, your mom…it’s going to be fine.” I couldn’t object or disagree with his armchair diagnosis, I just smiled and nodded. “And Todd…” “Yeah?” “Remember to breathe, okay.”

“You gotta believe me/ Just believe me…”

The videos of Arbery, Floyd, and others were in images of global protests from New York to Sweden. It seemed as if people were finally taking a breath of fresh air. On June 5th, my town had its BLM protest march organized by some of the alumni of the high school. This was one of the first times you saw people coming out of their homes. People were taking to the streets with masks and posters. I saw former and current students. When we couldn’t hug each other – we yelled and dance upon seeing one another.

There were families, community leaders, and neighbors all walking, chanting, and breathing. The marchers approached the business area of town, a wave of banners and voices flowing from the bottom to the top of the hill and about to descend into the valley. I stood there full of pride, before I knew it tears were falling from my eyes. My thought was to cover my face so that no one else could see me. Mostly those standing around me were full of tears also.

I thought about all of this in the days that past. So far, my physical health was intact. Granted, I need to lose some weight, exercise more, etc. My shortness of breath had more to do with my mental health as opposed to physical. I had grown “accustomed to the being black in America” or so I thought. I constantly reminded myself that my ancestors went through so much more than I have. What do I have to complain about? I am of “sound mind and body”, right?

I didn’t take into account that carrying “ancestral weight.” Then along with living, day to day, in a racist society. Acquiring some mental baggage over the past fifty years that had weighed me down, to the point I couldn’t breathe. I thought I was stronger, that I could handle all of it and then some. I told myself that I wasn’t one of those people who “didn’t have mental health issues”.

Secretly prided myself on not needing drugs, therapy, etc. Realizing instead that maybe, just maybe it was an anxiety attack, pushing it off as something else. Not me, not strong-spiritual- evolved-black-man – me. Not me. Yes, me. I needed a reminder to be gentle with myself and others. To relax, to be active and agitate. To pray with purpose and awake with joy to see the sun rise once again and to remember….just breathe. It will eventually be alright.