B*tch, I can ask what meds you're giving me!
or, what I really wanted to say to the nurse
This past Sunday I found myself in the emergency room. Unfortunately, as someone who is living with Stage 4 endometriosis, I often find myself in emergency rooms because my pain becomes unbearable from some random complications—that’s a story for another day.
Anyway, I had been feeling extremely ill for a few days but I refused to do anything about it because I just thought it was just another thing I could sleep off. And, it was our anniversary and we were going to an amazing steakhouse and I fucking refused to ruin that because I had my eye on their duck done two ways. (Priorities, I know!) That fucking duck done two ways was worth it and I’m not ashamed to say that. Mainly because endometriosis has stolen enough from me over the years so I wasn’t going to be robbed of our anniversary dinner.
So, finally Sunday morning—after about four days—I call my friend, who is a nurse, and tell her all of my symptoms to see if I am tripping or should I go to the ER. After fifteen minutes of her asking me the same type of triage questions I’d get at the hospital she agrees I should go because I can barely stand up straight from the pain.
You may be thinking: Girl, you was in so much pain you couldn’t stand up straight and you weren’t sure if you should go to the ER? What’s wrong with you?
I don’t know! Okay!
But in true Black woman fashion, before I headed to the ER I had a few things I needed to do—all things that could have waited or my husband would have willingly done later. Things I did: washed a load of clothes; ordered some dog food; sent some emails; took a shower AND shaved; and I’m sure I did something else I just can’t remember. Shit, going to the ER was such an inconvenience and disruption to my Sunday flow.
Being that it was Sunday, my husband had left for church two and half hours prior because he is a volunteer on the media team and he was on the schedule. I’ve gone to the ER multiple times alone; however, I knew this time I couldn’t drive myself but I wasn’t bad enough to call an ambulance. So, the next logical thing was to call an Uber. (Many people in the US take Ubers to the hospital because we don’t want to go into fucking debt because we road in an ambulance. It’s sad that we have to think about these things when we could be fighting for our lives. Thankfully I was not fighting for my life but my pain was getting worse by the hour.)
As I climb into the Uber, I text my husband:
Before you try and come for my husband, he called me and text me trying to make sure I was sure and I positive about going by myself. Furthermore, we’ve been to the ER so many times he knows the drill: we sit in the waiting room frustrated, hungry, and helpless. And honestly, having him—or anyone with me—during that long waiting period stresses me the fuck out. So, we have an understanding. But please know he was texting me every 15 mins asking for updates. And even though I didn’t have to wait long in the waiting room because I chose a standalone ER, it was still a while before I began any blood work and imaging. So by the time he got there, about 2 hours later I had JUST gotten my CT scan done.
Anyway, when I arrived, as stated above, I got to a room/bed relatively quickly because private standalone ERs are not as crowded and that is where the endless questioning began. But, I’m an old pro at this point so I come with a notebook full of answers to any potential questions they may ask.
When did these symptoms start? Do you remember what you ate before the started? What medications are you on? Any previous surgeries? Any chance your pregnant? When was your last period? Pain level? Any family history with *insert disease*? Why did you wait so long to come in to the ER? Who is your PCP? Have you had *insert diagnostic testing* done? When? and on and on.
My handy-dandy notebook has the answers to all of these and more. I’ve learned over the years that this actually throws practitioners off. Some cannot wrap their head around how prepared I am in an emergency situation; however, I am very aware of the research that talks about patients bringing in and taking their own notes helps with receiving better care and adherence to any instructions.
an aside: When I go to the ER, I never tell people what my background is in. Not because I’m trying to be sneaky or do some type of experiment; however, I’ve had too many interactions when doctors assume I am trying to do their job or something of that sort because I come in with certain knowledge. My doctorate is in Health Communication and I am quite literally an expert in understanding patient-doctor/practitioner interactions. I am an expert in health information seeking and health literacy.
Many doctors hate it when their patients seemingly went to WebMD or something to look up their symptoms and whenever I say certain things I don’t want them to think I did that. Although, I believe—and research backs it up—that these types of online forums and websites serve a purpose in understanding diagnosis and helping put language to the symptoms you may have.
I also do this because, as a Black woman, I am always navigating the delicate balance of being knowledgable and adamant and aggressive or a know-it-all. This is something that scholar Tina Sacks addresses in her research and her book Invisible Visits.
With the above in mind, you will understand what I mean when I say that in this visit I slipped up! I let on too early that I knew things.
The doctor made a comment about my blood pressure being high and asked me was that normal and did it run in my family. I said that I’m unsure if it runs in my family and that I say “I’m sure it’s just white coat syndrome.” Now the doctor’s ears perk up and shocked he asks me: are you in healthcare? are you a nurse or something? I answer my doctorate is in health communication and I study things like this. His tone changes a little but not much. The nurse isn’t present for this exchange—I promise this matters.
I promise all of this backstory matters!
After I navigate my way out of that slip up, lol, the doctor says he’s going to give me a dosage of toradol for my pain. My pain level is at a 9/10 and I know for a fact that toradol won’t make a dent in it because, remember, I’m a pro at this—I’ve been living in this body for quite a few years now and have been my own best advocate for a while. Yet, I cannot tell the doctor this. I am too aware of how that will present: a Black woman in mismatch sweats, messy hair, and “in pain”—another one who is drug-seeking. I shouldn’t have to think about all of these things while I’m just trying to receive care but I have to play this game.
The nurse administers the medication through the IV and tells me I should be feeling better soon. About an hour goes by and she comes in and asks me where my pain level is at and I tell her it is damn near the same—maybe a small dent has been put in it but its really high. She sighs in response and says she is going to go talk to the doctor about what else she can give me.
While I am waiting for stronger meds, I am taken to get a CT scan of my abdomen and I literally am hobbling behind the tech because my stomach pain is so bad.
After the scan, I am brought back to the room. I attempt to get as comfortable as one can get in a small hospital bed and text my husband and my friend updates. Finally, the nurse comes back and this is the interaction that almost sent me through the roof!
*nurse enters room*
Nurse: alright, hon, I have your pain meds.
Me: Great. What are they?
Her: pain meds.
Me: *insert slightly annoyed laugh, because I don’t know what type of joke this is but I damn sure don’t like it*
Me: I know that, but what are they?
Nurse: May I ask why you’re asking that question? Why do you want to know the name?
There is a war going on in my head because I want to say: What the fuck do you mean WHY I’m asking this question! I also was very glad my husband wasn’t there, yet, because y’all think I got a slick mouth..tuh!
After my 3 second inner dialogue, I finally respond:
Me: What do you mean, why do I want to know? I like to know what medication is going into my body. It is my literal right to know.
Before she tells me she says she needs to double check the name.
See, some may think this is a seemingly harmless interaction; however, when it comes to pain medication being administered in emergency rooms there is a great fear of drug seeking behavior—that patients may only be there because they need to re-up their pills. And although there are people who do come into emergency rooms to do just that, every patient should not be treated like some potential addict.
But more importantly it is my RIGHT as a patient to know what medication I am being given. And the nurse about to administer this medication without telling me the name would literally in violation of my patient rights.
Reasons a patient should be told what meds they are about to get are, but not limited to: allergies; adverse reactions; deadly interactions with meds a patient is already on; make sure they are getting the right medication; and more. So for me to be met with hesitation in being told what I am about to be given is a fucking problem.
Furthermore, Black emergency room patients are more likely to be assumed to be drug seeking compared to their white counterparts and this is just another example of medical racism.
I cannot count the amount of times a doctor has actually refused to give me anything stronger than 800mg of Ibuprofen because “I didn’t look like I was in pain” or “that isn’t that painful". I know it has everything to do with the fact that I am a Black woman who comes into emergency rooms ready to advocate for myself.
I’ve had a doctor tell me that what I was experiencing was medically impossible. And when I tell you my husband set up in his chair and asked “what did you just say?”
And this isn’t the first time I’ve had a practitioner deny or hesitate in telling me what they are about to give me or send me home with. Both for different assumptions. One: assuming I wanted more opioids. Another: I was too stupid to know what the medication was and did.
But don’t they say “an assumption makes an ass out of you and me?” And if it makes me an ass it is because I’m about to become a fucking problem getting in your ass about how you ain’t doing your job right!
I’m sure there is going to be someone that reads this and going to say that I am blaming everything on race and they would be wrong because I’m blaming it on racism—two different things. And I have data that backs this up (keep an eye out for my *endnotes for this post).
I am aware that I have more health literacy than the average patient and because of this I know that many patients don’t receive the best or proper care because they don’t know what they can and cannot ask—especially my Black folks.
Health practitioners are not an end all be all. Yes, they no more about medicine and the body in general; however, I’m here to tell you: YOU’RE AN EXPERT IN YOUR BODY! You’ve been living in your body your whole life.
I wish I could say I left the hospital that day with definitive answers but I can’t. Emergency rooms are there to treat symptoms not causes and I also understand that.
I also regret to inform you that the doctor’s final words to me were:
“You sure are a complicated case!”
complicate these nuts, dickhead!
(sorry, my husband’s philly has rubbed off on me, lol)