During my first pregnancy, I found myself in the emergency room more than twenty times. You might think that after a handful of visits, my healthcare providers would have expressed concern. Instead, I was repeatedly sent home with instructions to simply rest. As a single mother, I was unable to afford that luxury; I had to work and save my leave for the arrival of my child.
I visited the hospital for numerous reasons: debilitating fatigue, intense abdominal pain, and relentless vomiting. As a first-time mom, these symptoms were alarming to me. Each time I consulted with my obstetrician team, I pleaded for answers, yet none were forthcoming. Occasionally, a compassionate nurse would show empathy and try to comfort me, but as soon as the doctor arrived, my fears were dismissed with assurances that everything was fine.
Inevitably, after each consultation, I would leave feeling worse and end up back at the hospital soon after. Eventually, after a dizzy spell led to a fall down a flight of stairs, I decided I couldn’t take it anymore. That night, I laid out my clothes with the intention of returning to the emergency room the following morning. I was determined not to leave until they admitted me and addressed my concerns.
Despite it being my first pregnancy, I knew what I was experiencing was abnormal. Simple tasks left me breathless, and even a shower required a long nap afterward. After enduring five months of neglecting my worries, I knew I had to act before I lost my baby.
The next morning, I took a cab to the hospital, equipped with an overnight bag and a fierce determination. I didn’t know what the day would bring, but I was resolute in staying until someone recognized my plight. I was triaged swiftly and taken to a waiting room for expectant mothers. The nurses were kind, ensuring I had ice water and blankets while I sat waiting for a bed.
After nearly four hours, I was finally escorted to an examination room. I lay on the bed for hours, and after about eight hours in the hospital, one of my doctors finally visited. There was no acknowledgment of my distress, only a look of annoyance as she dismissed my symptoms with, “Pregnancy is uncomfortable.”
I was infuriated by her lack of empathy. I wanted to know if she had children, and when she admitted she did not, I crossed my arms defiantly and declared I wouldn’t leave. She rolled her eyes and exited the room.
I never imagined pregnancy would be easy; women have been managing their daily lives while pregnant for generations. Yet, here I was, unable to work at my desk job. I knew something was not right.
A short while later, a black midwife entered and reviewed my chart. After noticing I hadn’t had recent blood work, she ordered it and assured me I’d have a bed for the night. I ended up staying in the hospital for three days. The staff diagnosed me with hyperemesis gravidarum and prescribed medication to alleviate my suffering. More crucially, they discovered I was severely anemic; my energy levels were non-existent due to a lack of iron, and my dangerously low blood pressure was causing my dizziness.
Given that I was scheduled for a C-section, my obstetrician team was concerned about my iron levels and referred me to a hematologist. Within days, I started to feel better. If only my doctors had listened to me sooner, I might have enjoyed the early months of my pregnancy instead of enduring misery and constant trips to the hospital. I am certainly not alone in this experience; many black women face medical bias. Even prominent figures like Jasmine Carter, an acclaimed athlete, have shared similar stories. Alarmingly, black mothers in the U.S. are dying at rates three to four times higher than their white counterparts.
During my first night in the hospital, a fellow black mother in labor was next to me. She was on bed rest with a month left until her due date. As her cries of pain filled the room, a nurse entered and told her to calm down. Moments later, I noticed blood on her sheets and pressed the call button to alert the staff. They rushed in and wheeled her away. Later, I discovered she had delivered her baby.
Can you fathom the challenge of getting a doctor to listen to black women if they can’t even hear us when we’re in distress? The only way to combat this issue is to hold healthcare providers accountable and to learn to advocate for ourselves. I was unaware that I could file a complaint against the medical team that disregarded my concerns. Young and alone, I persisted for answers by sheer chance. Many women lack the strength to advocate for themselves, and tragically, some go into labor only to not survive to meet their children.
Now, I have an attentive black female obstetrician who listens and values my concerns. I find myself apprehensive about seeing a white doctor after my past experiences. The importance of having a healthcare provider who respects me as a human being cannot be overstated.
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Summary:
This article highlights the alarming trend of healthcare providers often overlooking the concerns of black mothers, emphasizing the importance of self-advocacy and accountability within the medical community. The author recounts her personal experience with dismissive healthcare practices during pregnancy and the need for change in how black women are treated in medical settings.