It’s Black Maternal Health Week. Here’s everything you should know to protect yourself and those you love.
“I don’t have 10 more weeks of this in me,” I wailed to my husband last summer, sobbing on the couch, hands curled around my stomach, lying in a fetal position.
I was 30 weeks pregnant, and just two days earlier, we rushed to the emergency room after I was jolted awake by excruciating stomach pain. I knew something was wrong, but the doctors in the emergency room told me I was simply dehydrated. “But—” I protested, “I drink a gallon of water a day. How is it possible for me to be dehydrated?” My words seemed to fall on deaf ears. I was discharged after being told, “Pregnancy can be painful. You just need to deal with it.”
After that first emergency room visit, I had almost convinced myself that I should be able to handle the pain I was experiencing. After all, millions of pregnant women have gone before me, shouldering this burden.
The only thing that carried me through that week was my Harry Potter/Star Wars mashup baby shower planned for that Saturday. For months, I had been looking forward to seeing all my family and friends who were flying into Houston to celebrate baby Rayford. Their arrival would turn out to be my saving grace.
On Friday night, I started uncontrollably vomiting, and I once again roused my husband from sleep. I screamed the entire drive to the emergency room. As this was my first child, I had never experienced contractions before, but I felt like I was having them. Panic, fear and utter terror were consuming me at once. I couldn’t stop wondering if we might lose our baby. All I could think was that this was not supposed to be happening. We had endured two devastating first-trimester miscarriages the year before. The third time’s the charm. With this pregnancy, I had been praying each day for my body to do what it needed to do to carry my baby to term. I feared for the worst.
It was déjà vu as we arrived back at the hospital one week later, going through the intake procedure while enduring intense waves of pain. I was grateful that I was prepared this time around and that they would not be separating me from my husband when I went back to the room. While this policy is meant to protect you from abuse, as a Black woman, I was all too aware that I needed an advocate by my side who could fight for me and our unborn child, especially if I became unable to do so myself.
While I was being triaged, my husband called my family, who were in town for the shower, and the cavalry descended. To this day, I am still so grateful for the serendipitous timing of my family of medical doctors who just happened to be in Houston that weekend.
The hospital planned to send me home. It was surreal. The doctors were still upholding their dehydration diagnosis. My family had to convince the doctors to run my blood for testing, which had been sitting on the cart next to my hospital bed for hours. When I tried to get up to use the restroom, I discovered I could no longer walk on my own. I just kept thinking, “How is this normal?” Yet, they were still trying to discharge me.
It took five doctors, my dad, my mother, my sister, my brother-in-law, and my godmother, all earnestly advocating on my behalf, to convince the medical team to even put me on the list for an MRI.
After hours of waiting, I was finally wheeled into the white box. Later that night, we finally received a diagnosis: acute necrotizing appendicitis. At first, I felt relieved that there was a cause for everything that had been occurring, which, in retrospect, was good because it meant I didn’t have time to be scared before I was rushed into surgery.
Fortunately, this story has a happy ending. My baby and I survived. But if we had been sent home again, I would have likely suffered from a ruptured appendix and died. I almost became another number, a statistic in the Black women’s maternal health crisis.
Since the birth of my daughter a little over seven months ago, I have been unable to put appendixgate, as I call it, out of my mind. After I got home from the hospital, I couldn’t stop reliving what-if scenarios. What if my family of doctors had not been in Houston that weekend? Would the outcome have been different?
As a pregnant Black woman, I experienced firsthand the power of advocacy coming from medical clinicians. But not every Black woman has that same access to support. This inspired my idea—an app dedicated to supporting and empowering Black women throughout their pregnancy journey, which is currently under development.
I am excited to make this announcement during this year’s Black Maternal Health Week, as Pregnant And Black (PAB) will provide a vital service and virtually connect Black women with healthcare advocates who will ensure that they receive the care and respect they deserve throughout their pregnancy. Black women deserve to have their voices heard and needs met by the medical system. No woman should face discrimination or neglect when it comes to her health and the health of her baby, especially given that more than 80 percent of pregnancy-related deaths in the U.S. are preventable, per the CDC.
PAB will be more than an app—we are building a community and starting a movement to ensure every Black mother has access to the healthcare, advocacy, and support she deserves. Updates on the mobile app development will be shared at www.pregnantandblack.com and on Instagram @pregnantandblack, where we are amplifying stories from other Black women and providing resources for mothers. No one should go through pregnancy feeling unheard, unsupported, or with their life — and their baby’s — at risk. Being pregnant and Black is a dangerous combination, but it doesn’t have to be.
