What Police Do to Black Men, Doctors Do to Black Women
In the midst of a very real war for justice and the obliteration of racism, there are so many narratives that are rising to the surface. While black women are on the frontlines, voicing our frustration with the overwhelming abundance of black men killed at the hands of police - we are also facing another battle.
Three weeks ago I spent 12 hours in the emergency room of a hospital here in Dallas. Several doctors and nurses visited my bedside, examined me and struggled to take my blood to get to the root of my chest pain. After 12 hours, one of the attendees said to me “we can give you the Covid-19 test if you want it.”
I replied “I’ve been in this hospital for half of a day - I’m not leaving without taking the test.” They were reluctant, but gave me the test. During that long walk at 4 a.m. from the emergency room, through the waiting area, past the pre-screening tent and then to my car - I kept thinking, “what if I happened to be one of those passive patients who didn’t ask questions and demand answers?” I could’ve contracted the virus in that hospital and left out to expose others.
Fortunately, my test results returned negative the next day and I’ve done everything within my power since then to not contract the coronavirus, but still I’m left wondering how many people who are just like me - black and female are dismissed daily because of the subconscious belief by medical professionals that “we (black women) can handle more” or the systemic practice that our health is not as much of a priority as others.
As I scrolled Twitter last evening, I stumbled on a tweet by @iamlydiaelle that read:
“What Police Do to Black Men, Doctors do to Black Women.”
Emphatic? Absolutely. Will it make some uncomfortable? More than likely. But now, is not the time for an “All Lives Matter or All Doctors are Fair” rhetoric. Some of the same people who put on a badge to protect and serve, bang a gavel to sentence and stand in a classroom to educate - do not do such in the same fashion for all people. Stop reading now if your naiveté leads you to believe otherwise.
Black women: how many times have you visited the doctor and had him/her tell you what you “don’t” have simply by looking at you? How many times have you tried to take yourself off of a medication after reading the side effects and the doctor treated you like a test dummy, encouraging you to keep taking it?
Never in my life have I had high blood pressure. Not once. But one day in the classroom was really bad for me a couple of years ago. My blood pressure shot through the roof and the nurse told me to get to the doctor immediately. By the time I arrived at the doctor’s office, my blood pressure was getting back to its normal 120/80. The doctor prescribed blood pressure pills, insisting that I needed them after one day of elevated blood pressure. I took those pills for about one month and haven’t taken them again. My blood pressure is typically perfect unless I’m frustrated about something.
Where pregnancy, labor and delivery are concerned - many black women simply do not survive. While some medical professionals will blame it on this asinine presumptive “black diet” that they think will all follow resulting in high blood pressure and diabetes, many black women will tell you that their complaints and discomforts are too often just ignored. “You’re fine,” “it’s normal,” or “all women experience this” simply doesn’t soothe the soul or mind of a women growing a human being inside of her.
If Serena Williams and all of her wealth and notoriety can have her complaints ignored, what chance does the working black mother have when doctors have already determined that she can survive excruciating pain?
During the quarantine, I’ve rediscovered my love for basketball - playing late nights like I did as a young girl. In posting many of my videos, I’ve received two responses: “I didn’t know you could play” and “I forgot you had such a nice outside shot.” My truth about walking away from basketball is a very painful one. During the summer between my 8th grade year and entering high school, precocious puberty must have taken over my body with a vengeance. I went from a youthful girl’s figure to carrying around breasts that were 44DDD. It literally happened in a summer. Not only did it destroy me emotionally, but it was physically painful. I cried every day that first semester of high school. I would attempt to tape them up and wear two sports bras, but there was just no hiding breasts that were 44DDD.
My mom arranged for me to have a breast reduction during that Christmas break. I was excited and still had my mind wrapped around playing high school basketball. Just a couple of weeks before the scheduled surgery, doctors and the insurance company told my mom that despite my complaints of shoulder and back pain and the emotional trauma - “surgery was not medically necessary.”
Perhaps that day, that moment is when my approach in this world became a bit more colorful. At 14 years old, I asked them if they would do the surgery if I were daddy’s little white girl, unhappy with her body?
Back then (1999), a breast reduction was in excess of $10,000. The assistance of our insurance was needed and they simply refused to help. My mom saved and was able to pay cash for me to have the surgery in the summer of 2002. I was a senior in high school after that summer and it was too late for me to play basketball, as the doctor told me I needed a year without contact sports. I’m grateful that I finally had the surgery and that all went well physically. It was indeed life-changing.
When I reached college, I discovered in many casual conversations young women like myself who’d had breast reductions. Three black women and a Hispanic classmate had lost complete feeling in their nipples and more than a few had scarring that made them regret the surgery all together. The white women I shared breast reduction surgery stories with told me they couldn’t even see their scars.
As a teenager, you couldn’t tell me that I wasn’t the only girl in the world going through such disappointment as having uncomfortably large breasts. When I became a teacher in 2008, three of the black girls I taught shared with me similar disappointments. Their chests were larger than mine, their parents far more passive than my assertive mother and they were left to just “deal.”
At one point I really wanted to be a mother. I actually think I could be a great “boy mom,” but then I had a c-section in 2018. I wasn’t pregnant, but I had a tumor sitting on my left ovary that was the size of a baby’s head. That surgery went well and while I do believe the doctor handled me with care, I was left with a bit of a pooch in my lower region that was never there before. I didn’t have a baby; I spent six weeks recovering like I did and I had a pooch that took intense workouts and unhealthy diets for me to slightly flatten.
I have women in my family who tried to comfort me with similar stories of their post surgery pooches. I can’t help but wonder if the stitching and stapling of a black woman’s body is not done with the same finesse as that of a white woman’s post-op care.
Since that first and life-changing surgery when I was just 17, I’ve gone on to have my gallbladder removed, a knee surgery and that c-section. Although it makes for an unpleasant exchange as I lay in scrubs before being wheeled to the operating room - I always make it a point to tell the doctor “please treat my body with the care you would a white woman’s body.”
How many young black girls put their sports talents to the side because doctors tell them they are strong enough to carry more weight? How many black girls have to suffer emotionally and physically because medical professionals have determined that they don’t deserve to try to perfect their bodies like white girls who will buy body parts for sport? How many black women will continue to die while trying to bring life into this world? How many black women will suffer from postpartum depression in silence because our concerns and complaints aren’t priorities?
More often than not a black woman being vocal is viewed as a black woman being combative. Some black women whisper. Some black women write. Some black women yell. Some black women fight. All black women feel pain and our pain is just as valid as the rest.
