Girl Seeks Doctor
I have to find a new OB/GYN.
On the heels of reading story after story of how women of colour die in childbirth more than white women, and how bad the US maternity rate is overall, and how the number of maternal deaths per year is as low as it is because we don’t count the number of women who ALMOST die, all in situations that would be completely preventable or non-existent in every other developed nation… I’m looking for a black woman gynocologist.
Which is to say, my husband is looking for one for me, because every time I start trying to look for one, I get overwhelmed.
I walked into my old OB/GYN’s office four days after my d&c for a check up. I was heading to an event, and I had a big heavy coat with me, too. I dropped everything on the floor, and waited. The receptionist came in after a few minutes and kicked me out of the room. “You can leave your stuff” she said, shooing me towards the door.
I stood awkwardly in the hall. She had forgotten to weigh someone using the scale that was in the exam room, and wanted her to have privacy while her weight was recorded. This is understandable, but it made me feel awkward and un-special, especially since I wasn’t told why. An invitation to go sit back in the waiting room, or just a mention that it would only be a moment would have been effortless ways to make me feel valued. As it was, I only figured out what was going on because she also neglected to close the door and I heard everything, including the other woman’s weight being read out.
After being allowed to return, she glared at me. “Hang up your coat!” she snapped. “This looks terrible!” She gestured to the things I’d brought with me, and placed on the floor in what I thought was my own private exam room. She continued to stare at me until I dutifully picked up my coat and hung it.
The woman who had gotten weighed was a gorgeous, clearly wealthy woman, and white; I’d rolled up with no makeup, hair askew, and a face puffy from crying for four days, and clearly not white enough to receive the same level of treatment, or the warm greeting that everyone else had gotten.
On top of this, it came out later that the doctor was almost certain something was wrong when he looked at his ultrasound, but wanted to send me elsewhere to be sure. (I was so enthralled with what I was seeing on the screen – I had no idea that at 13 weeks you could see so many features so clearly – that I didn’t notice anything amiss.)
Instead of telling me to go get my husband, I went to the appointment alone, and I’m still wrestling with regret for that whole situation, and ultimately putting the blame right back on the dismissive doctor who knew he was sending me to hear bad news.
This has all been simmering for months in me. I’m sad and angry, and finally ready to use that sadness and anger to fuel finding a doctor that makes me feel valued.