Having A Black Doctor Instead Of A White Doctor Has Changed My Life

And so this is the good service that white people have had all their lives?

If you’ve been reading my articles, you’ll know that as a Black woman, I often struggle to get white doctors to believe me. They question my symptoms, don’t listen to what I have to say, or even worse, talk to my white husband about my ailment instead of to me. It has always been an anxiety-ridden and humiliating experience for me to go to a white doctor and more often than not, I try to avoid it.

When our mixed-children have been sick, like every mother, I’ve accompanied them to the pediatrician’s office. Here again, I’ve been subjected to condescending and humiliating remarks and a large amount of gaslighting. One white doctor insisted on conversing with my 3-year-old son instead of with me. He came to the conclusion that my son wasn’t really that sick, rudely told me that like a typical African mother I was too overprotective and that I had exaggerated my son’s illness. He sent us home with paracetamol, and that evening, we ended up in the emergency room. My son was running a high fever, it turned out he had bronchitis. From that moment on, my husband started joining every single pediatrician appointment. It has sometimes put a strain on us logistically, but we knew it was the only way we could see to it that white doctors took us seriously. Using my husband’s white privilege again — check.

About a few years ago, I decided to go to Black or brown doctors only. I live in Switzerland where it is difficult to find a Black or brown doctor. They are few and far between. Switzerland also doesn’t track ethnicity so I couldn’t go to a register to find them. I used the easiest method in the book to identify them, I just went through the phone book and studied the etymology of surnames to guess which part of the world they were from. In my search, I identified a couple of Senegalese, Congolese, Azerbaijani, and Iranian names, and set out to meet with these doctors. The minute I walked through the door, I found myself in a different world where I was listened to, respected, and given a proper diagnosis. The condescending remarks or doubts about what I had reported did not exist. I felt like I was on equal footing with another human being, I felt “seen” at last. I was 44 years old.

Just recently, my daughter was ill and I took her to our Senegalese pediatrician. Due to Covid 19, there were a lot of emergency drop-ins at her office that day and the waiting room was full. We’d secured an appointment for 2:30 pm and upon seeing the number of people waiting, I feared we would at least have a one-hour wait. I settled into my chair, a little anxious because kids were coughing and sniffing and I was afraid that we would catch something just by sitting there.

I observed a white woman waiting with her daughter. She seemed impatient and kept pacing the room, trying to look important. When the doctor opened the door to receive the next patient, the white lady rushed in with her daughter. She seemed to be cutting the line. I asked the doctor if it was her turn and the doctor said, “No, it’s not her turn, it's yours”. With that, she politely asked the lady to return to her seat in the waiting room. The white lady seemed stunned because I don’t think she’d ever been told that she didn’t have priority over a Black woman. She returned to her seat fuming and would have probably left, but realized she didn’t have much choice given that all pediatricians in the city were overbooked or on vacation. I thanked the doctor profusely and she smiled. “It happens all the time, some of my patients feel so entitled, I’m used to it”.

The consultation went well and she was able to identify what was wrong. My daughter often complains of sore throats and in the past, we’ve been packed away with lozenges and told it would pass. This doctor did a more in-depth test to figure out what the problem was. We weren’t just dismissed. When we left the doctor’s office, I didn’t have that habitual feeling that we had received a sub-optimal diagnosis. I felt that my daughter had been thoroughly examined and even though she needed to be on meds for a few days, I felt relieved.

It may come as a surprise to my white readers that this is what a Black person goes through in the healthcare system. I think that this goes to show the pervasiveness of racism. It can rear its ugly head in all areas of our lives. I can encounter it anywhere, from walking the dog to going to the gym, to riding the bus, to going to the doctor, at work, at the beauty salon, or when I am doing my grocery shopping — there are few places where one can escape it.

Some people say that I should just ignore it, but how can I? How can I ignore something that can lead to a wrong diagnosis for something I or God forbid, my children, are going through? There are some areas where a random bit of racism doesn’t matter, but others where it can actually mean the difference between life and death.

For me, the solution is clear, racism has to be dismantled point-blank. It is a toxic, reprehensible construct that creates inequalities, that leads its proponents to imagine that there are people that are superior and people that are inferior. It is an oozing, festering, and a purulent open wound on the beauty of humanity. Until it is cured, human beings will be divided and won’t be able to come together to fix some of the dire global challenges that lie ahead such a climate warming, world hunger, and water scarcity. We need to put aside our differences to save this beautiful and diverse plot of land we call earth.

Thank you for reading my perspective.