an annunciation.
Black women are done with a lot of things and people. But, we're not done with each other.
TW: bodily fluids
i thought i was bloated, and i was waiting for my cycle to drop. i clearly remember walking past myself in the mirror and making some rude remark about my fupa. it used to poke out right before my period, and that’s how i knew it was on the way. but, my period never came. so, i started increasing my cardio, thinking that i needed to get my heart rate up, burn some more calories, and lose some weight.
(it’s really interesting to me how my pregnancy story has exposed my poor body image.)
then, my breasts became tender. too tender to lay on my stomach. still, no period. my husband began to prompt me to take a pregnancy test. “it can’t be that,” i’d said. i was pretty meticulous with following the rhythm birth control method, and i’d never been pregnant before. at 38, i remember feeling that the window had already closed. but, after listening to me become increasingly stressed about my body, he said, “can you take a test, please? just for peace of mind? if it’s not pregnancy, at least we can move on to figuring out what’s going on.”
i continued to resist, until early one morning, as I passed Walgreen’s on my way to the gym, my Spirit nudged me to stop and get a test on the way back home. i thought nothing of it, until, while on my ride home, the traffic light at the Walgreen’s turned red and i had ample time to stop and hear my Spirit say, “stop and get a test.” so, i pulled in and got a box of two. just in case, i decided to wait until after i got home from work to actually take it.
later that night, i did the test right before i hopped in the shower. i’d taken my share of pregnancy tests over the years, and i’d long since learned not to watch the clock.
when i emerged from the shower, i picked up the test to find the two pink lines. positive. pregnant.
to this day, i don’t know how the social media influencers held the news from their partners long enough to plan these elaborate disclosures. the shock was too overwhelming to keep it to myself. i distinctly remember walking into the living room with the test in my hand. Olu was watching TV and I said, “i interrupt your regularly scheduled program to share this.” I handed him the test and said, “apparently, I’m pregnant.”
i was not immediately happy. i was not immediately elated. in fact, i felt inconvenienced. the more i’ve reflected, i felt like Mary at the time of Gabriel’s Annunciation. like Mary, i had questions. i had concerns. i had fears.
that night, i was particularly thankful to be partnered with someone who isn’t easily swayed one way or another. he’s a man of few words, but of deep conviction. at times, he can be read as stoic, but i’m learning that his faith runs deep and it’s not easily shaken. so, when he said, “we’re going to do this together,” i took a great degree of comfort. i had plans to see a show at the Alliance Theater with my parents that night, and rather than sitting at home in anxiety, i got dressed and kept my plans. it was nice, but it wasn’t a good distraction.
i recorded an initial reaction video that night, and to this day, my trepidation remains deeply palpable. i find myself often sending love to that version of myself. that woman who was so fearful of change. so fearful of all the violence happening to Black women and birthing folks. too cautious to get excited.
the morning after, i called my gynecologist’s office to make an appointment. but, based on the date of my last cycle, i needed to wait a few weeks before coming in for an initial visit.
i ended up in the doctor’s office sooner than anticipated. in the weeks that passed since my discovery, i started bleeding. the first night it started, i remember crying in the shower, which is when i knew that my heart was turning towards motherhood. my tears indicated that all of my ambiguities were coming into clarity, and that i did, indeed, want and love my child. i began to pray. i told God that if God let my baby live and saw us through pregnancy, i would trust in God to be with us for the years of learning, stretching and growing ahead.
when i called the doctor’s office the next morning, i was told not to worry and that implantation bleeding was normal. i pushed. “i’m really concerned. it’s a lot of blood,” i explained.
“can you come in today,” the receptionist asked. “we can take a blood test to check your hCG level, but you’ll need to come in for three consecutive days to be sure that it’s increasing.” i made the appointment on the spot. as i drove to the appointment, i thought to myself, “here we go.” i knew that this would be a long nine months of constantly advocating for myself. get ready to ask, implore, and press every professional you encounter.
when i arrived, there was a lab technician who was ready and waiting for me when i arrived. a Black woman. i was relieved to see a sister. when she took me to the lab to draw my blood, she asked what brought me in. when i explained the situation, she said, “i’m sure you’re anxious, but try not to be. your baby needs you to relax.” she drew my blood, and told me that she’d know something by tomorrow. my expression must have sank.
she handed me a cup and told me that she would check my urine, as it would give us an immediate result. she wasn’t supposed to administer this test. “but, i can see that you’re anxious, and if you’re still pregnant, i want you to leave here with some joy.” she waited for me to return with my cup. before she went to test it, she told me, “if you’re still pregnant, i’ll just give you a thumbs up and i’ll see you back here tomorrow.”
a few minutes later, she turned the corner and gave me a thumbs up. i was still pregnant. relieved, i walked back to my car and just sat there for about 30 minutes, crying. i knew that i’d entered a new era. i knew that for the rest of my life, i would be concerned for this child, and that they were now my first priority and my primary responsibility. my life had already changed.
for the next two days, she was there. waiting for me, and ready to administer two tests. all three days, my hCG levels increased and my urine tested positive.
i briefly shared a snippet of this story at Valerie Kaur’s Atlanta stop of her Revolutionary Love tour. to illustate the power of everyday acts of love, Valerie asked her interfaith panel of conversants to write and share notes about a time when love changed our lives. i spoke about this woman. who heard what i wasn’t saying, and saw what i was trying to hide. who invited me into soft space when i’d braced myself to be hard. who helped me see myself as mother, long before i had a bump to show, when she reminded me that my child needed me to relax. who broke protocol, just so i could leave the office with some joy. it was the first time in this journey that i felt seen. truly seen.
when i arrived back at the office for my first sonogram, i brought her a thank you card and a small token of my gratitude. she barely accepted them, saying, “i’m just doing my job.” but, you know what? i know she was doing more than what her job required of her. as a pastor, i know when someone is doing their job and when someone is utilizing their job as a vehicle for grace, mercy, and love. we can all be pastoral, when we can discern the need for an added measure of tenderness and presence and avail ourselves to giving them. when i desperately needed it, that woman pastored me. she shepherded my soul to joy.
that was the last time i saw her. over the following nine months, i was in that office at least monthly, and for the first three months, i looked for her. she may ever know it, but she set the tone for my pregnancy. because of her, i chose to believe that God would continue to send angelic presences to minister to me and my baby, to help me remain hopeful, optimistic, and faithful.
Black women are done with a lot of things. a lot of people. a lot of institutions. we show up with such commitment, such extravagant care and nurturing. we work hard. we do our jobs and the jobs of others. not to mention the emotional labor that goes into the work we do, which is impossible to monetize. but, we aren’t done with each other.
leave it to a Black woman to spot another one in the wilderness, to meet her among the weeds and in the pain, to sit with her, and ultimately, to walk her out.
leave it to a Black woman, to hold another Black woman up, with the resources that she has, even if it’s just prayer (or, a urine cup).
leave it to a Black woman to see another one contending with anxiety when she really should be feeling joy, and decide that if there’s anything she can do about it, she will do it.
to my sister in the lab, thank you for your sensitive care. i am because you are.
I love what you wrote. I too was ministered by a Black nurse. When I was diagnosed with cervical cancer, I was scared. After the doctor left the room and I started to dress, I started to cry. I tried to hold it in, but my tears and sobs became louder. The nurse came in and assured me that I was in good hands. I will lose my hair, but it will come in more beautiful than before and I will be whole again. Those words stayed with me and strengthened me on this journey. She has since left the practice, but I will always remember her and keep her in my prayers.
Beautiful! Thank you!