Black Women and the U.S. Healthcare Experience

Content Warning: Racism, Medical Malpractice, and Medical Trauma.

Being a Black woman in America isn’t easy. Every day somebody is policing my hair, my body, my voice, my life. You would think, being that it is mine, possessive singular, it would be my singular Black business to deal with any affairs regarding myself. Unfortunately, there are many instances when somebody else thinks they know what’s mine better than I do. That includes in the medical field.

Growing up, I have heard all the medical horror stories of my ancestors before me. Too low-income to receive proper care, and too Black to be taken seriously. How could we possibly know what we are talking about when we say we are in pain, when, after all, it was never our bodies to begin with? When I was five, my grandmother collapsed and never woke up again. She was forty-eight. There was no real indication that that day would be her last. My mom turned forty-eight last year and suffers from anemia. Every time she passes out, I fear it will be her last breath. What do you think the medical system from “the greatest country in the world” has done? 

Nothing. 

Some people love to say that historically, the medical system in the United States has been racist. Yes, the medical system is rooted in racism, but this is not only historical but also current and systemic. It is a well-known fact in the Black community that Black women in the U.S. are nearly three times more likely to die during pregnancy or childbirth than any other race. When Black women get pregnant, they are often met with prayers for their survival instead of the typical congratulations. The overwhelming anxiety of facing the medical system creeps quickly like an everlasting shadow following us our entire lives. And it’s not just pregnancy. 

In an interview with NBC Philidelphia, Angelica Lyons, public health instructor, shares, “‘Race plays a huge part, especially in the South, in terms of how you’re treated,” Angelica said, and the effects are catastrophic. “People are dying.’” During the height of the COVID-19 pandemic, “Black, Hispanic, AIAN, and NHOPI people…experienced higher rates of COVID-19 cases and deaths than White people when data are adjusted to account for differences in age by race and ethnicity.” It is the worst-kept secret that being Black in America results in worse healthcare than other races, and ultimately, we experience “higher rates of chronic ailments like asthma, diabetes, high blood pressure, Alzheimer's…Black Americans have less access to adequate medical care; their life expectancy is shorter.” Racial disparities in healthcare exist that can cost us our lives, and it's fucking scary. 

Black women and Black people’s claims are not taken seriously when brought to doctors. When Lyons was feeling extreme stomach pain during her first pregnancy, she recalls her doctor’s response: “She made me feel like my concern wasn’t important, and because this was my first pregnancy, I decided not to go because I wasn’t sure and thought maybe I was overreacting.” You can read her full story here, but after doctors continued ignoring her complaints, Lyons’ condition worsened, and she almost passed away. Luckily, both she and her son survived, but imagine how much less traumatic the situation could’ve been if Lyon’s complaints of pain were taken seriously. It is her body, she knows when something is wrong. Why, when it comes to Black women’s bodies (and women’s bodies in general) do people think they know better than the person actually inhibiting the body? You can’t feel somebody else’s pain or somebody else’s despair. Take complaints seriously and stop telling women they’re overreacting!

The issue that currently exists in healthcare is not new, especially as it concerns gynecology. In the mid-19th century, Anarcha, Betsy, and Lucy— three enslaved women—were subjected to experimental surgeries by Dr. J. Marion Sims. Due to his experiments, he is often referred to as the "father of modern gynecology." These women endured countless painful procedures without anesthesia as Sims sought to develop treatments for vesicovaginal fistula, a condition affecting many women after childbirth. Their suffering and unconsenting contributions eventually gained recognition, with many referring to them as the true "mothers of gynecology." These women, forgotten by the world, now have monuments in Mongomery, Alabama, to honor their contributions and acknowledge their deplorable experiences. Their legacy highlights the exploitation of Black women in the history of medical advancements and serves as a reminder of the need for ethical considerations in medicine. Honoring Anarcha, Betsy, and Lucy is crucial in understanding the often-overlooked contributions of marginalized groups in the development of modern healthcare practices and the lack of adequate care for Black women. 

A significant part of the problem is the overlooked Black women in medicine. Diversity and inclusion in any field are important because a range of perspectives and talents can help lend to better and more accurate work and research. Jasmine Brown, medical student and author of “Twice as Hard: The Stories of Black Women Who Fought to Become Physicians, from the Civil War to the 21st Century” has spent a lot of her academic career studying and shining a light on the untold stories of Black women in medicine. She also shares how difficult it was studying in a space that made her feel unwelcome. ​​Brown faced microaggressions that were uncomfortable in medical and scientific spaces. Her “personal experiences and observations of other Black students led her to want to study racism in the scientific and medical fields to better understand why this still happens.”

The type of environment created in these spaces that excludes Black women and Black people, in general, makes it that much more difficult to stay in spaces where they feel unwanted and progress to practicing medicine. It is admirable for any Black physician who toughs it out, and it is deplorable to then have their stories go untold. Brown mentions: 

During her research, she found a large book on Black Physicians that had over 100 profiles. Fewer than five of the profiles were Black women. She was inspired by the stories of Black women who had overcome so many obstacles and were able to have a great impact in medicine. A few of the women who inspired Brown were Edith Irby Jones, the first Black student of any gender to integrate a southern medical school, and Joycelyn Elders, who was the first Black woman to serve as the U.S. Surgeon General.

Knowing these stories is important to encourage more marginalized peoples to diversify these communities and hopefully support research and initiatives that bridge the gap of racial disparities in the medical system. Additionally, there are many people who feel more comfortable seeking aid from medical professionals if those professionals look like them, because then they may be more understanding of their concerns. 

The women in my family and I have always had medical anxiety, and this will likely continue for generations after my time. Many of us postpone medical visits until we can’t anymore and refuse to go alone, no matter how old we are. We always feel better when we have another person there to support us emotionally and who can advocate for us when we cannot advocate for ourselves, or when our advocation for ourselves falls on deaf ears. Do not be the deaf ears. Instead, learn the stories of Black women advocate for them and support them. When we go to the doctor, we aren’t just fearful of needles, or medicine, we are scared of losing our lives.