Receiving two cancer diagnoses was endurable. Being treated callously by health-care professionals was horrifying.
My first diagnosis was in May 2023, following surgery to remove a mass. In a way, the news was bittersweet music to my ears. After a decade of living with inexplicable pain and doctors repeatedly dismissing it, I felt that maybe the dots had finally connected. For all I knew, I was likely on a path of discovery that would, at last, make me feel better.
The most despondent part was anxiety about how my daughters and my parents would be affected. Knowing that Momma was in poor health increased my worries. This would be the start of me not being fully present for her. Under God’s shield of protection, the four most important people in my life reminded me that our DNA is infused with love, loyalty and the power to persevere, no matter what comes our way.
My daughters were with me when the doctor explained my diagnosis and the next steps for treatment, Natalie physically at my side and Jasmine virtually consoling me from Detroit via FaceTime. They asked questions, took notes and gave me the peace of knowing that they would be walking with me.
Days later, Jasmine caught a flight into Flowood, Miss., from Detroit. Momma’s and Dad’s embraces and encouragement were tranquilizing. With support from the two people I birthed and the two who birthed me, I gained greater faith.
After my second surgery in June 2023, I experienced an arduous recovery process.
Deep breaths and frequent moments of minute-by-minute thinking became mechanisms for enduring immense pain from the slightest attempt at any form of movement like repositioning myself while sitting, lying down or taking a few steps from my bedroom to my bathroom; surviving longer treads to the living room, dining room, kitchen or patio; even reaching for a glass on the top shelf. These were all agonizing, despite my medication, which only provided slight relief. Some tasks became easier in a matter of days, others within weeks and certain ones over a span of months. Still, I remained hopeful.
During my post-op visit several weeks later, my oncologist spoke the golden word: remission. She recommended radiation therapy, however, as a precautionary measure. No problem. I was open to any possibility of treatment that would keep me healthy. My body needed time to heal before I could begin radiation. While she green-lighted me for a return to certain activities, she stressed moderation.
Above all, I felt grateful. Victorious. Because I knew my circumstances were nowhere near as ravaging as they could have been. As time progressed, the pain subsided, and I developed even more enthusiasm from the restoration of my physical strength. Behind a series of oncology follow-ups, lab visits and a meeting with my radiology team, I was ready to start radiation therapy.
Or so I thought.
A sequence of inconceivable issues unfolded during my second round of treatment. When I arrived, the lead nurse mispronounced my name and continued to do so despite my corrections. She asked me if I was feeling any pain or discomfort from the previous treatment. I reported discomfort and itching, yet she did nothing to address it.
Once treatment started, I let her know that I was beginning to feel worse. She ignored me. Meanwhile, she and the lead doctor laughed and joked with one another, showing no concern and leaving the room as I laid flat on my back on a cold, hard table. Ahead was a process that would last more than an hour. The situation escalated into excruciating pain: throbbing in my head, neck and shoulders; a stabbing sensation in my lower back; twinges in my legs. Tears flowed. I couldn’t move. I was told that doing so would compromise the treatment’s effectiveness.
Natalie went to the nurses’ station and asked if something could be done differently, explaining that I was hurting. When she came back, she stood next to me and held my hand.
Shortly afterward, the nurse entered, smirking, looking downward at me while blurting, “So you don’t want your treatment?”
Before I could answer, Natalie cut in, “She never said she didn’t want treatment. I just asked if something can be done to make her more comfortable.”
By the nurse’s account, I only had two options: finish the session or start all over again on another day. Eventually, she left and came back with the doctor.
Approaching me, he asked, “What’s the problem?”
I couldn’t even finish explaining myself before he cut me off.
“No one was diminishing you or being condescending,” he declared.
I managed to withstand the pain and complete radiation therapy that day, saying as little as possible for the duration, reserving my thoughts for the report that I knew I would be writing to the hospital’s patient’s advocacy office.
At my request, the doctor and nurse were removed from my treatment team and replaced with compassionate, efficient professionals. My remaining experience with radiation therapy was positive and pain-free. The nurse placed warm sheets and pillows underneath my head, legs, and lower back to eliminate distress. Both she and the doctor checked in routinely to ensure that I was comfortable.
Once radiation ended, I became accustomed to penciling the oncologist, lab and radiologist into my schedule for routine follow-ups. With each visit, the results were positive. Sadly, my winning streak was interrupted one evening when I discovered a knot in my stomach, prompting an unplanned trip to the oncologist’s and ultimately, a third surgery.
Cancer’s encore appearance was less onerous than its debut. In my pre-op visit, the oncologist explained that the surgery would not be as invasive, no overnight hospital stay and a shorter recovery period, barring any complications. My daughters, parents and broader support team stood on their marks, showering me with well wishes.
On the morning of surgery in April 2024, I entered the hospital with Natalie at my side, Jasmine on the phone, my parents’ prayers and a heightened sense of faith.
During pre-op, a member of the anesthesiology team spoke to me in her version of Ebonics. All I could do was sigh.
After surgery, I awakened in the Post Anesthesia Care Unit, cold, trembling and hurting. I told the nurse standing next to my bed that I was in pain.
She responded, “OK.”
I asked her if I should be feeling such intense pain so soon after anesthesia.
Her reply was, “Well you did just have surgery.”
I then said to her, “I want to see your supervisor because I need you to understand how you’re making me feel.”
Her response was, “I need you to understand how you’re making me feel.”
Her supervisor came and immediately told me that I was “having a bad day.” Her reasoning being that “surgery automatically means you’re having a bad day.” I told her that I entered the hospital with a mindset of positivity.
“Positivity, huh?” she laughed.
I redirected the conversation, steering her back to the real issue, the nurse’s egregiousness. I don’t even know why I bothered to keep engaging her at that point, but I let her know that I would be filing a complaint.
“You have to do what you have to do, sweetie,” she snarked.
Once I was taken to my room in post-op, I reconnected with Natalie. Noticeably shaken, she told me about a staff person who approached her after I was placed under anesthesia, requesting consent to donate some of my tissue from the surgery for a research study that the hospital was conducting.
Natalie advised her that she should have talked to me about that. The employee claimed that she didn’t get a chance to ask me before they put me under anesthesia. She then attempted to get my young daughter to sign a form. Natalie refused. Chills raced through my body as I listened.
I reported the latest series of monstrosities to the patient’s advocate’s office and received a letter from the hospital indicating that leadership spoke with staff directly involved with my care and that I “received the expected standard of care”.
Too much evidence exists surrounding racist, systemic medical practices against Black bodies for me to be surprised. Headlines tell countless, horrific stories:
- “We’re Not Taken Seriously”: Describing the Experiences of Perceived Discrimination in Medical Settings for Black Women
- “No More Waiting To Exhale: Black Mississippi Women Are Digging Out Causes Of Harmful Inequities”
- “Black Maternal and Infant Health: Historical Legacies of Slavery”
- “Medical Exploitation of Black People In America”
- “‘Not Getting Pregnant Possibly Saved My Life’: Reflecting On Black Maternal Health Week”
- “Sick And Tired: No Time to Rest for the Resilient Black Woman in Mississippi”
- “Racism, Sexism, and the Crisis of Black Women’s Health”
- Scourge of Racism Haunts Black Women and Girls Seeking Healthcare
The research pool is extensive yet simultaneously underlooked as Black women’s testimonies of medical injustices rise. Racist ideologies are culturally entrenched. Governments, medical schools and hospitals simply do not care. Still, we must continue to shine the necessary lights by telling our stories every time we are violated by healthcare professionals who perpetuate racial disparities.
During my most recent post-op appointment, my oncologist spoke that golden word, “remission,” again. Every visit since then has been favorable. I’m still hopeful that I will never have to face cancer again. The stress of being resigned to the authority of professionals with such vicious inclinations in institutions that uphold them is too much to bear.
This MFP Voices essay does not necessarily represent the views of the Mississippi Free Press, its staff or board members. To submit an opinion for the MFP Voices section, send up to 1,200 words and sources fact-checking the included information to voices@mississippifreepress.org. We welcome a wide variety of viewpoints.
