There is an 11-year gap in Arlinda's biography. The gap is not in her story directly, it is in my telling it.

When I looked through her medical records, I realized the doctors were telling us one thing, and writing a harsher prognosis in their notes. I had intended to weave in the medical angle of what was going on in her body. In reading their notes, I got angry at their deception.

Being a white man, I was not attuned to racism. I didn't know what to look for. However, denying Black patients and their families adequate information to make informed decisions does sit squarely in the definition of medical racism.

I know the rage I felt when I was lied to. But it wasn't until I took a class on Understanding Power, Privilege and Diversity that I realized racism went far beyond redlining and unreasonable, often deadly interactions with police.

Arlinda's story now feels complete. She was raised in a racist culture and died in it as well. It could have embittered her outlook on life. She could very well have held up a mirror to racism and claimed that the environment made her angry. But she rose above and offered her gift of love to the world. She found joy in music and laughter, and welcomed others into that world. That is a strength and power that holds me in awe.