President Trump proposed a “baby bonus” suggesting that birthing parents receive $1,000 to incentivize higher birth rates. Sounds great, but that’s like putting a bandaid on a wound that needs surgery.
When I became pregnant, I became obsessed with learning everything about a healthy pregnancy, labor and delivery. As a Black multiracial woman, I was aware of the harrowing birth stories of Black women who had negative birthing experiences. Serena Williams famously discussed how she fought for her own life as medical professionals dismissed her concerns after birthing her daughter. In California, infant mortality rates of Black women are three times higher than white infants, and though Black women account for 5% of the state’s pregnancy, they make up for 21% of pregnancy related deaths.
My concerns led me to an experienced midwife as my primary care opting for a homebirth. Yet, my labor did not go as planned. My water broke and after 16 hours of labor, I failed to progress. Exhausted and defeated, I ended up at the hospital. Despite knowing that Black women and other women of color are treated poorly by healthcare professionals, I was not prepared for how my own story would unfold.
Upon arrival, I was sent to triage. I explained to the white female nurse that my water broke about 24 hours ago and I had been laboring all night, but my contractions slowed. “How do you know your water broke? Are you sure you aren’t just dehydrated?” She questioned me. I informed her that my midwife had just had an IV in me. Offering me water, she informed me that the birthing rooms were “crowded” and they might not have “room for me.” From the ultrasound she said it looked like the baby was fine. She then proceeded to do two cervical checks. Given that my water ruptured, the multiple checks only increased my chance of infection.
She then asked what my ethnicity was. I weakly answered, “I’m Black and Chinese.” At that moment, my (Black) husband walked in. Glancing at us, she stated, “Well don’t be surprised if your baby comes out looking white. My friend just had a baby with a Black man and the baby looks Native American.” My husband and I locked eyes, both of us taken aback by her comments.
Finally, they tested for my waters and it came back positive. Relieved, they transferred me to a birthing room where my midwife and doula joined me and my husband. While I was getting situated the nurse continued to double down that my water had not broken. “It’s not certain your water broke, and this is kind of a mercy admit.” I was exhausted and visibly contracting. A single hot angry tear rolled down my cheek. I could not answer her or even look at her. “Do you want to switch your nurse? I feel like you are upset with me,” she said directly to me. It was unbelievable how she managed to center herself in this moment.
After receiving the epidural I was in and out of sleep for hours. Finally, it was time to push. Our baby arrived and we enjoyed our “golden hour” before we were transferred to a postpartum room.Unfortunately, our joyous moment was short lived.
To our surprise, our daughter was sent to the neonatal intensive care unit (NICU). The doctor explained that our baby was having trouble breathing, likely due to fluid in her lungs. Upon looking at my chart and discovering my water ruptured before arriving at the hospital and that I broke out into a fever right before the delivery, it was likely the baby was fighting an infection. He also said she was at risk of jaundice. They put her on antibiotics for the course of seven days.
Three days after delivery, a new doctor took the place of the doctor who admitted our daughter. He was a white doctor of German descent that I will refer to as Dr. B. He changed the plan of the last doctor. He directed our daughter to be under phototherapy to prevent jaundice, despite our other doctor saying she was under the threshold for that treatment. He drew her blood daily and ran multiple tests. He repeatedly asked me to use formula and expressed disapproval when I said I was breastfeeding.
One morning, Dr. B walked over to me and hurriedly gave me a report. I attempted to ask him follow up questions but he walked away while I was speaking to him. Eventually he returned, not to speak to me, but to direct the nurse to put the baby back in the phototherapy light. I let the nurse know I’d like to speak to the doctor before continuing treatment. Dr. B returned and sternly said to me, “What is up with you not putting the baby back in the light?” He became agitated and walked away shouting for everyone to hear, “CALL SOCIAL SERVICES!” In that moment, I shattered, sobbing loudly as I fumbled for my phone to call my husband, shocked and terrified at this interaction. A sympathetic nurse placed her hand on my shoulder.
Before this exchange, I had been poised and articulate to not be dismissed as a nonsensical, emotional, hormonal new mother. Despite my distress, I don’t remember crying until this point. Even given the postpartum bleeding, cramping, and sleep deprivation, something in me, maybe a motherly instinct, kicked in. When I spoke to doctors and nurses I was calm. My husband also spoke in a measured tone in the NICU. We did not want to look too “angry or irrational.” And certainly, we did not want to give them any reason to take our daughter away from us. I don’t mean to sound hyperbolic, but our time in the NICU felt very carceral.
My husband returned and immediately contacted the charge nurse to find out who Dr. B reported to. This resulted in the “Patient Experience Coordinator,” Ana, to come speak to us. While we reported to her what I just experienced, Dr. B returned. Ana invited him to sit down with us for a conversation. Dr. B replied that he did not have time for a conversation but could answer questions. My husband then asked him about our daughter’s test scores. Dr. B quickly replied that he did not have the scores and told us to “forget about the numbers.” Then he added, “You are professors, right? I am a professor too. You wouldn’t want your students asking you questions.” We replied that we do want our students to ask questions as inquiry promotes learning. Dr. B responded with another example, stating that when he goes to the mechanic he trusts the mechanic’s expertise. We found these analogies offensive and inappropriate.
Dr. B directed the nurses not to update us. Every morning, we had to request our daughter’s results from the medical records office because Dr. B withheld information. Dr. B severed any trust between us and created a hostile environment for me, as I no longer felt safe interacting with him. Though it was an internal hospital social worker who later came to meet me, his decision to threaten me with social services without context resulted in one of the single worst moments of my life.
After the series of negative interactions that took place that morning, I left back to the room, crying and upset, releasing the angst I have felt since going into labor. I wanted to be alone but my mom insisted on seeing me. Once I saw her face I broke down in tears immediately. She pulled me close to her and I sobbed into her shoulder. “You’re still my baby,” she said, rubbing my back. I felt so much comfort in that moment. My mother’s love was transcendent.
One might say that my experience was an anomaly, that most people in the healthcare industry care about their patients. Though this might be true, this “bad apple” argument dismisses the pervasive systemic racism and sexism that affects all facets of our society. As a former teacher and now education researcher, I know that Black girls are treated disproportionately to their peers, and unfairly characterized as aggressive or defiant, which many experts, including Monique Morris and Kimberle Crenshaw have discussed at length. Yet presently we face the demonization of “diversity, equity and inclusion,” which is set to ameliorate some of these disparities. Sadly, this “baby bonus” does not ensure proper healthcare and systems set up to grow healthy families.
I am blessed that today I have a healthy toddler. I’m grateful for my mother’s love, my husband, my support team and friends who held me up during this challenging time. It is their source of love and strength that inspires me to continue to hold up others and advocate for better systems toward equity to help us thrive as a collective.
