When the System Fails You – A Black Mother’s Hospital Experience

Going into surgery as a new mom is terrifying. But going into surgery as a Black woman—and feeling like you’re being dismissed, overlooked, or neglected by the very people tasked with your care? That’s a fear that runs deeper. Honestly, that fear, along with financial stress, was part of the reason I delayed going to the hospital in the first place.

Since becoming a mother, being sick has taken on a whole new meaning. You don’t get to clock out. I’ve powered through colds and even COVID while breastfeeding—masked up, disinfecting everything, trying to limit contact with my baby while still being attached to her every need. It was brutal, but manageable.

This time was different.

I woke up in the middle of the night with stabbing pain across my stomach. I thought maybe it was just dairy (I’m lactose intolerant but sometimes gamble with Lactaid pills). But this didn’t feel like that. I couldn’t breathe. I was sweating, nauseous, and the pain was so intense it felt like something was crushing my organs. Eventually, it passed, and I managed to get back to sleep without waking my daughter or her father.

Over the next two days, the same thing happened: pain, vomiting, and not being able to keep anything down—except water. But I kept going, because I’m a mom. I still had to work. I wanted to be there for my daughter, and for my fiancé, because we’re a team. That’s just what we do.

By Wednesday morning, I knew I couldn’t ignore it anymore. I took myself to urgent care. They told me to go to the ER immediately for what they suspected was a gallbladder issue. The Uber ride cost me $15, and the ER visit would be another $200 out of pocket. I didn’t have it, but I went anyway.

At the ER, I stood on a long line to check in—barely holding myself upright—just thinking, If I can just handled check in, maybe I’ll feel like I’m one step closer to getting help.

Once checked in, I got my vitals taken, had blood drawn, and was told I needed a sonogram. What followed was an exhausting and disorganized blur. Miscommunications. Long waits. Being wheeled into hallways and left alone. Moved from triage to the waiting room and back again without explanation.

I had to repeat my story at least four different times to different people—nurses, doctors, techs. Patients who arrived after me were given rooms while I sat in a hallway, in pain, like I didn’t matter.

Eventually, someone told me my gallbladder was inflamed. It could heal on its own, they said—but since I was already there, they’d look into surgery. My labs were borderline; they weren’t sure if my liver or pancreas had already been affected. I had to remind them I was 31—not in my 40s, as the attending kept implying. Regardless, I hadn’t eaten in nearly 30 hours and still had no clear answers.

Surgery was mentioned, then delayed, then mentioned again. I was told it might be that night… then 11 AM the next morning… then 3 PM. I only got clarity because I kept asking. I had to be my own advocate while in pain and exhausted. I was given jello and a sip of water—only after pressing them for an update on when I’d be allowed to eat.

After surgery, no surgeon spoke with me, even though the discharge team insisted I had been debriefed. My fiancé and mother were both there—none of us were spoken to. I wasn’t that drugged. I remember everything. The only medical person to speak with me came around 6 AM the next morning.

But the real trauma came after the surgery.

I wasn’t given fluids. I was still vomiting. I was bleeding and left in a soaked gown, lying on bloody sheets. My pain meds were delayed. I rang the call button over and over. Techs would come in, turn it off, and never return. I was too weak to keep pushing, and too scared to not.

At one point, I was on the toilet, throwing up into a barf bag at the same time, with no help. I begged for nausea meds. Nothing came. The night staff was cold, indifferent. I couldn’t even get IV fluids when I asked. My bloodwork showed signs of serious imbalance, and I was bruised from failed attempts at blood draws.

All of this—while wondering if I would even make it home in time for my daughter’s first birthday.

That night broke something in me.

I’m still recovering physically. But emotionally, I’m wrecked. I was vulnerable. Scared. In need of care. And I was treated like an afterthought. As a Black woman, this isn’t surprising. But it should still be unacceptable.

This wasn’t just poor hospital service. This was a life-or-death failure. If I hadn’t spoken up—if I didn’t have my mother check in—if I didn’t push—I don’t know how this story would’ve ended.