My First Black Doctor
Original Post Date: April 13, 2024
“I’d never visited a physician and had my feelings validated and my insecurities soothed.
Doctors are meant to care for our health. Unfortunately, the test results relating to our physical health supersede the emotions guided by our mental health. ”
Black women have the extra stress of being at risk for complications in medical situations. We worry about not being heard when sharing what’s happening to our bodies. My distrust of doctors is deep-rooted in my childhood experiences. I didn’t know if I’d ever feel at ease in a doctor’s office. My choice of a black female doctor changed my perspective of medical caretakers.
Budum, Budum, Budum
I knew no one else could hear the beats inside my chest, but they banged so loud I could hear it in my ears.
Anxious thoughts accompanied every doctor’s visit. By my early teenage years, I began to expect not-so-great news. Even if the news was ok, I expected the shame, the disappointment, and the disgust.
Shame from all around. Shame, that, once again, I hadn’t dropped the specified pounds I’d been advised to lose. Shame, from my parents, that they’d failed to help me achieve the goal. Shame, from my doctors that this conversation played out every time.
Disappointment was primarily internal. It grew stronger as I watched the numbers on the scale remain stagnant or spike.
Disgust came straight from the frowns and faces of my doctors and nutritionists. It was painted over a scene that’s burned in my head.
The scene where a childhood nutritionist that I’d never see again said, “You’re fat, you just are and it’s ok for me to say this to you because I’m fat too”.
After years of contemplation and observation, I know the word fat doesn’t deserve the nuance it’s given
At 10 years old, it felt like a Scarlett letter.
I know this nutritionist was trying to use her own childhood experience to connect to issues, but it didn’t break through as she planned.
Her childhood may have looked similar, but that didn’t mean she understood me. I don’t know that she saw herself.
If she had, she would’ve recognized the fragility of a child enduring what doctors refer to as childhood obesity, what my family called baby fat, and what my peers designated as chubby.
This comprehension would’ve led her to an approach that exhibited empathy and kindness.
Over the next decade, much didn’t change. The weight eventually started to slip off, but it didn’t cause the ruckus that its antithesis had.
I’d tread my skinner frame into doctors’ offices with the same pulsing nerves; taking a big gulp before stepping on the scale. I’d close my eyes and hope the downward trend was still progressing.
It didn’t matter who the doctor was, every year the same acts played out.
That was until…Dr. Bell.
I’d started seeing her when the inevitable hallmarks of womanhood occurred.
She was a Black woman. From her slim shape and knowledgeable demeanor, It was clear that she lived what she preached.
At first, I was alarmed and concerned about the cycle repeating.
Would she judge me like the rest of them? Would she simplify the journey of being healthy cause she spent decades learning and practicing it? Would she share the cold delivery?
Our initial appointments were as basic as annual doctor’s visits get. The normal blinding light examined my ears, nose, and throat. The same cold stethoscope rested on my heart and lungs.
Surprisingly, I was in and out quickly with few anxious thoughts.
My most recent visit, though, was like a mirror to the moments of my younger days.
Knee bouncing, heart racing, mouth drying, blood pressure rising. My mind was absent and my eyes were fixed against the wall. Anxiety had its random moments, but that didn’t make the fight easier.
Dr. Bell approached my panic differently than past physicians.
Her typical straightforward nature was absent when she replaced the nurse, in the room.
She was talkative and inquisitive; asking me about school and my current read that sat beside me. It had been acting as a distraction for my nerves, but I was naturally beginning to calm down.
As we wrapped up, she reminded me of what I could do to be healthier, but her last comment made my heart warm.
She reminded me that I was beautiful.
I’d never visited a physician and had my feelings validated and my insecurities soothed.
Doctors are meant to care for our health. Unfortunately, the test results relating to our physical health supersede the emotions guided by our mental health.
My first black doctor wasn’t like the rest. She was unique and exquisite in the way that she cared for every part of me. She supported my physical health, recognized my interests, and protected my racing thoughts.
With Love,
Allie
