When her eyes opened, she stretched her right arm across her full bosom toward the midnight-blue nightstand in search of her insulin pump, but it was not there. She pulled gently on the tubing until the device appeared from under the pillow. She gave the power button one short press and “117” lit on the display in green. Her fasting blood sugar was within range. “I made it through the night,” she thought to herself. “Thank God.”

This silent praise had become her morning ritual after beginning a new insulin pump weeks ago. Over the past four years, the amount of time insurance companies required before permitting upgrades or new technology had improved, but nothing had changed her body’s response to adjustments. Switching delivery methods or insulins always caused her to experience hypoglycemia too frequently, which produced fear-based insomnia. With the confidence of a two-week track record of not having had severe hypoglycemia in the middle of the night, she decided that she wouldn’t place a cup of apple juice by her bedside tonight.

She sat up, put on her eyeglasses, and surveyed the bedroom. She tossed the floral comforter to the side and removed the plantar fasciitis boots from her feet before getting out of bed. She did not need to wear them anymore, but after receiving a “Denial of Coverage” letter from her insurance company and paying $300.26 each, she decided to wear them nightly until she grew tired of them. She considered it as a way of getting her money’s worth.

She eased off the mattress, turned the light on, and entered the bathroom, where she emptied her bladder and released gas. On the toilet, she mumbled, “Today, I’m going to leave the house.” After washing her hands and brushing her teeth, she said the words more assuredly. She believed in the law of attraction. She looked into the bathroom mirror at her maple-syrup-colored eyes and said, “Today, I’m going to leave the house and go—.” She paused, puzzled, realizing that she did not know where to go. She decided to think about her options while getting dressed.

She thought about going to the local pharmacy since customers never linger inside. However, her prescriptions started being delivered back in March when the first COVID-19 pandemic lockdown began. The grocery store could have been a good idea because it was early in the morning and most people should be at work, but she had recently joined two meal-delivery services and committed to minimizing food waste. The mall was out of the question because her anxiety rose just from the thought.

Suddenly she remembered an appointment with her primary care physician. Since the pandemic’s spread, her doctor gave patients 30-minute time blocks to meet either in person or through videoconference. She had always chosen Zoom. However, it was December and she yearned to embrace the world a little.

Fully dressed now, she wore black yoga pants for comfort and a long-sleeve yellow t-shirt to brighten her mood. She freed eight large two-strand twists from her nightcap and styled her hair. She hunted for a lipstick tube, forgetting that eyebrows and eye shadows were the current trends, two things she could never make beautiful.

If she left the house now, she would be too early for the 10:30 a.m. appointment, but if she didn’t move with the courageous momentum swaddling her, she would never go. She put on a pair of black loafers, snatched the closest jacket from the closet, found an N-95 mask, and then grabbed the doorknob to leave.

When she unlatched the lock and opened the front door, she froze. She looked at her right hand gripping the doorknob and should have seen the need to lotion the thin layer of ashy skin between her thumb and index finger, but instead, she saw her umber brown hand and remembered a news article she read last night: “Pulse Oximeters Less Effective on Blacks.” She wondered if the melanin in her fingertips would negatively affect her ability to enter the doctor’s office because the nurse checked oxygen and temperature levels upon arrival. She then doubted her decision to leave the house. She recalled that the article linked to another headline, “Risk of Death Four Times Greater for People with Diabetes.” She closed the front door. She recollected a Black bus driver who posted a video on social media demanding social distancing after being coughed on. He died days later from COVID-19. She wondered if the waiting room at the doctor’s office was safe, as she returned the latch and locked the door. She reminisced about the details of a Black woman physician in the hospital with the Coronavirus pleading for antiracist treatment because her care team denied requests for pain meds. The physician died in agony.

She stepped away from the door and removed her jacket and shoes. She decided that she couldn’t leave the house. Not today. She sat on the sofa and turned on the television.

“U.S. Hospitals running out of ICU beds after Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays,” the newscaster said. She heard these words while reading the scrolling headlines at the bottom of the screen, “Half of Hospitals in Black and Brown Communities Have No ICU Beds.” She sighed. She closed her eyes, sensing the walls thicken around her like the boots she wore at night. She felt the sorrow, fear, and helplessness surge. Tears trickled pass her cheeks in slow motion. She inhaled deeply, putting into practice the skills obtained from a weekly Black meditation group she joined after George Floyd’s murder.

Then she screamed, “WILL THERE BE AN ICU BED FOR ME? WILL THE DOCTORS BELIEVE MY PAIN?” She continued to summon every thought that resided in her mind and soul. She should have stopped after the stress of liberating unconscious torment caused her blood sugar to rise, and her insulin pump alarm to blare, but she couldn’t. The two cried out in jarring unison, louder and louder, like a siren.

Dr. Phyllisa Deroze is a diabetes lifestyle blogger and literature professor who enjoys writing about the intersectionality of health, black women, and literature. She started blogging at DiagnosednotDefeated.com in 2011 and a year later founded Black Diabetic Info. She was a Fulbright scholar to the United Arab Emirates, has given keynotes and presentations about living with diabetes in five countries, authored a collection of poetry, essays, book chapters, and her forthcoming project highlights the representation of African Americans with diabetes in television and film.