From a young age, I was acutely aware of the disparities in how people were treated based on race. Growing up as a Black girl in a middle-class household, discussions about racism were common. I learned to defend my identity with statements like, “I am just like you. When I bleed, my blood is red too.” Now, as a mother of three biracial children—half Sri Lankan and half African American—I find it essential to equip them with similar words to combat the racism they will inevitably encounter.
When I walked into the emergency room in mid-March, I was not prepared for the discrimination that could occur. As a Black woman, I have experienced racism in various forms and know how to identify it—through body language, choice of words, and actions. Yet, I had never faced it in a medical setting when I was in dire need of help.
My symptoms were undeniable: a fever reaching 102°F, a persistent cough, body aches, and congestion. It would be a grave error not to test me, not just for my family’s safety but for the community. As the COVID-19 pandemic escalated on the East Coast, I felt a mix of nerves and hope when I entered that hospital room. The crinkling of the paper covering on the bed matched my anxious heart as I awaited the doctor’s arrival.
When she finally entered, fully clad in personal protective equipment (PPE), accompanied by a medical student in similar garb, I felt a wave of apprehension. Their extensive precautions suggested a deep fear of the virus—fear that I might be infected with COVID-19. Despite my symptoms, I was left waiting for test results on other illnesses like flu and strep.
As I impatiently scrolled through Facebook, I saw posts from my white friends discussing their COVID-19 experiences and test results—both positive and negative. I hoped I would soon share similar news. My symptoms aligned perfectly; I believed I was entitled to a test just like them.
When my flu, RSV, and strep tests all came back negative, the physician stated, “We are going to assume you have COVID-19.” She handed me paperwork to excuse me from work while quarantining. I was instructed to isolate from my family—no sharing of utensils, towels, or even hugs. If my condition worsened, I was to return. Otherwise, we would simply wait.
I felt compelled to advocate for my family’s safety by explaining my situation. Surely the doctor would not want to risk my children’s health or my Sri Lankan American wife, a hospital chaplain, potentially exposing her patients. I had chosen this hospital because it was where I had given birth and felt comfortable. Yet, despite my pleas and my role in the healthcare community, I was met with indifference.
The narrative I had heard—that anyone in contact with a confirmed case could receive a test—did not apply to me. Perhaps my race or demeanor impacted my experience. I had heard stories of other individuals of color needing to travel to wealthier neighborhoods to even access a drive-through testing site. My pleas seemed ineffective; the doctor informed me that testing was limited.
Her hands were tied. They could offer a chest x-ray, which she warned might not yield useful results. I argued that my wife needed to know my status to prevent infecting others. The response was disheartening: “Let’s wait and see if she gets sick.”
As I navigated home quarantine, my wife began working remotely well before any official mandate. We relocated our son to ensure I could isolate, while our daughters stayed away from me. I longed for their hugs, which I had to explain I could not give.
Three days after my ER visit, I called the state hotline seeking a test, only to be referred back to my primary care physician, who lamented the challenges in obtaining tests. My symptoms varied; my fever subsided, but fatigue lingered. By Day 8, my energy had returned, but I was still grappling with the emotional toll of isolation.
Finally, two months later, I received an antibody test, which came back negative. However, I now understand that these tests are not foolproof. I may never know whether I was actually infected. My experience taught me that access to testing is not equitable. Perhaps my symptoms were not severe enough, or maybe my skin color played a role in my inability to secure a test.
In summary, my journey highlights the significant role that privilege plays in accessing healthcare, especially during a crisis like the COVID-19 pandemic. While not everyone can secure a test, systemic issues often lead to disparities in healthcare access, particularly for marginalized communities.
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