Exactly one week ago on Saturday, I was doing the Cuban shuffle and electric slide, and relishing the day with my neighbors and their children. We came together as part of our block association to organize a safe family day for our children in light of COVID-19. It gave me joy because a few months ago I’d had breast cancer surgery. I was also grateful that my radiation treatment had ended and that I was on the mend from the burning, skin peeling, fatigue and loss of appetite. One week later, it is Saturday, August 1st and I am sitting in my bed with my boxing hand wraps sloppily tying an oversized heating pad to my left leg, black compression socks on my feet, and Icy Hot, ibuprofen, melatonin, and several bottles of water littering my dresser.

This started when I felt a pain in my foot and my left inner calf started aching earlier in the week. I simply thought, getting old is such a bitch. Why am I already suffering from arthritis or tendinitis? I immediately made an appointment with my doctor. Due to COVID-19 restrictions the earliest available appointment was for that following Monday; I thought to myself that I could make it until then. When I realized that my ache was not going away, I told my big brother who made his way to the Bronx to take me to the emergency room. It turned out I had developed a blood clot. No dull moments. When I had my breast cancer surgery and month of radiation, I was in the moment of dealing with the immediate and now I couldn’t remember if I had been told that blood clots could be a side effect of cancer treatments. In fact, I was very proactive about reading online articles and staying informed, but still I couldn’t recall. It turns out that blood clots are a potential side effect. I have a superficial clot not a deep vein clot, but here I am in bed and tiptoeing to my bathroom with a cane. My grandmother used to say that the “Devil don’t have to work for the souls he got.” Now I know what she meant.

How do you spell “pneumonia?” I am digressing a moment, okay—this is going to be a winding reflection, so stay with me. As I sat in the hospital bed, alone, in that loud emergency room with sounds and smells that make you feel so vulnerable, I was extremely thankful to be in a corner against the wall. I was determined to keep myself safe from COVID-19. As I observed my surroundings, I could not help but be overwhelmed by the number of black and brown women of all different ages that I saw. As the techs skillfully pushed their beds through the hallways and past my newly claimed territory, I offered them a smile because I knew how they felt draped in green robes and shuffled blankets. I saw in their silhouettes someone who could be my mother, grandmother, sister or friend. I couldn’t help but listen to the black woman a few feet away from me. She was making an appealing call to her job to tell them that she couldn’t come in tonight to work the 11pm to 7am shift. Then when the doctor came, she asked her for a note to inform her employers that she had pneumonia and wanted to know if she would have to go back to work tonight or tomorrow. She noted to the female physician, “I work 6 days a week and most of the time 7 days.” I was very proud of the doctor who informed her that there were two separate issues to consider. First, her employer had no right to ask about her medical diagnosis due to HIPAA laws and she didn’t have to tell her diagnosis to her employer. Then, the doctor noted to her, “Well I can give you 2 or 3 days.” The patient reiterated, “You know I work 6 days a week and most of the time 7.” The young, female doctor, who I would absolutely describe as sympathetic, said, “I can give you 4 days, but I am not allowed to do more than that.” I heard the crack in her voice as it melted away and retreated inside. In that moment I wanted to jump out of my bed and scream (not at the physician) but out loud for everyone one and all powers that be—is that all you get for pneumonia? After all it is a really hard word to frickin’ spell! Yes, as ridiculous as it sounds, a Black woman working the graveyard shift, 6 and most of the time 7 days a week, only gets 4 days off for a sickness with a hard-to-spell name like pneumonia.

Now, back to the fact that I am doing my journal entry at 5 am with this heating pad and hoping to go out and play later today. Truthfully, I really want to have a pity party breakfast and invite all my friends over because I had dinner plans with a dear friend last night and couldn’t make it. I always gave myself a pat on the back for being proactive with my health and wellness. No, I was never crazy – I don’t have any juicers and, let me completely be honest, I have been gifted three Nutri-Bullets and I have shamelessly regifted each one (damn confession is really good for the soul). But I had learned how to work out and invested in a lifetime subscription to Jack LaLanne. (Now, I am really showing my age—it’s great to be 25 again for the 25th time. Who is counting? Don’t even try to pop my bubble.) Through the years it has been a continuous journey and I have felt rewarded as I’ve made my way to and from the gym. And truthfully, it was hot yoga that saved my life and gave me what I needed to get through my cancer treatment.

I guess I learned about the importance of having compassion for myself late in life. I didn’t know it in my 20s or 30s and now that I am 25 again, I am committed to it. And I am always advocating with the principals and teachers I coach to practice compassion for self. Compassion for self matters because you have to learn how to practice loving kindness for yourself before you can give it to others. Why must life answer me back—Selma if you are so good at practicing compassion for self, prove it. I honestly thought I was good at it and making great headway. I turn my phone off every night at 7pm, I exercise, and I drink water. I have been learning how to eat my vegetables and learning some new, healthy recipes. All of these things I have been doing as intentional expressions of compassion for myself. Surely, I was good at it by now and should be rewarded with a certificate or a lollipop. Well, you don’t get any of that. As much as my foot is paining me right now, I realize now that the reward is choice. I can choose to hold the grandest pity party or I can practice loving kindness to myself and ask for help and more importantly accept help today, tomorrow and over the next few weeks. I was practicing loving kindness when my darling brother announced that he would stay the night. I didn’t do the thing that we as black women and most women have ingrained in us to do at early ages. You know, when we learned the words, “I got it, no really I got it and I will be okay.” I set those words to flame and instead said, “Yes, stay the night – I don’t really want to be alone and I am afraid I might fall and won’t be able to get up.” I am going to have compassion for myself each and every day this week as I accept the offer from my besties to bring me lunch or pick up groceries. I am going to become a warrior in compassion when I talk with my team later today and tell them that this week, I am not able to be present on all of the Zoom calls and that I am going to relinquish a few of my scheduled workshops to another member of the team. And when the wonderful man in my life calls me later to ask me if I need anything—I will stab pride to death and announce that I want my favorite Caesar salad with extra dressing and I will practice compassion by not worrying about my hair being a mess. I look forward to stepping out this week and boldly wear the newest and most sought after, sexiest fashion item yet to be featured in the famous New York Fashion Week—compression socks. Yes, until we can get people to realize that pneumonia is a really hard word to spell, I am going to advocate that Black women and each and every woman learn the meaning of the word compassion and how to practice loving kindness for self.