What intrigued me about Arlinda was her attitude going into the medical appointments. She was downright playful with the parking lot attendant, friendly and conversant to the receptionists and nurses. When the doctor came in, she would get quiet. The appointment would start off with a few respectful comments from her. By the time the appointment was over, she said barely a word at all. A few times, she and I would return to my Jeep with her words as sharp and pointed as her steps.

Looking back on these incidents with the context of medical racism, I could see her response play out. Medical racism inflicts trauma. It is an abuse meant to subjugate. An indifference so removed from humanity it appears insurmountable. With this context, the appointments show more about how she prepared for and navigated past traumas.

The medical appointments began with Arlinda hoping, placating, fawning her way to a positive outcome. It would reason that if the medical professionals liked her (and I got the impression that they did), then maybe they might spare her the mistreatment. The doctors, though, took on a persona of authority, not so easily assuaged by Arlinda's personable demeanor. The information they would deliver was grave, and their face and posture showed it. Sometimes, the doctors seemed hopeless, other times, they projected an insensitivity to her feelings. After the latter, she would storm out of the hospital, spewing daggers of anger at them, all the while, I suspect, cutting herself with those same sharp thoughts.

Arlinda's health crisis was desperate. She wanted to be seen. She wanted to be saved. But the shroud of racism burdened her and weighed her down, when all she wanted was assurance. That she was a living human being.