Why I am focused on Black Maternal Health

I was one of those children who marched to the beat of my own drum—and my music didn’t include visions of marriage or children. 🙃 I’ve always been an intuitive person, and I know I have ancestral connections that allow me to see things beyond this realm. 😵‍💫 Things that will happen. Things I should avoid in real time. I rarely have dreams that I remember but when I do have dreams, they manifest in some way. Let me be clear that I am not a psychic and I have no control over these visions. They happen when they happen. I have had intuitions that turned out to be wrong, just like we all do, but that is extremely rare for me. For example, I used to innocently say I would never get married. I didn’t say that out of fear or judgment about bad marriages—it was just something I said in the same way kids say someone has cooties.

Well, apparently, I only get to control so much of my own life. What a fucking revelation. You can't wait to be an adult so that you can control your life, and then you quickly learn that you can only control your reaction to life. My childhood intuition was pretty wrong. I never expected the kindest man with the biggest heart would cross my path and change my mind. But he did. And I said “I do.” 🤵🏿👰🏿💒 When we were dating, I used to tell people that we were getting married. I knew what I knew. 😁 Even then, children weren’t something we focused on. But soon, I was pregnant—and I had all the emotions. 😍

Sidebar: No one ever told me about the nightmare of being pregnant. What I’ve learned from this tragedy is that no one should be required to revisit their pain just to inform me. I don’t begrudge anyone for guarding that pain. 🥹 But if you can muster the interest, the need, or the care to share—do so gently. The gentleness should be reserved for yourself, too. Don’t re-traumatize yourself or traumatize other people. If you can’t find a balance between conveying the seriousness of pregnancy and allowing a birthing person to enjoy their experience, you are not the right person to help them. Get somebody else to do it. 🫷🏿

From the start, my pregnancy shocked my body. I had severe nausea, excruciating hip pain that felt like Thanos was tearing me apart, and a mood that—let’s just say—was dangerous to others. 🤬 And I wasn’t even out of my first trimester. I told my team of doctors about my symptoms repeatedly, especially the pain, and they brushed it off with, “You’re just not used to being pregnant.” Well, no shit, Sherlock—or should I say Easy Rawlins. 😉

At that OB/GYN office, obstetric patients rotate through different doctors. For gynecological care, you can stay with one or rotate. The practice had one Black woman and five White men. I’d like to mention that one doctor there had previously been my gynecologist—so incompetent I had her listed in my file as Do Not Visit. 🚫 Eventually, after enough complaints—while just 8 weeks pregnant—one doctor decided to take action. His solution? Physical therapy. Because of course, I had to stretch and exercise my way into a “normal” pregnancy. I reported the pain at every damn appointment. Not one of them did more, even though they were undoubtedly trained experts. Despite their oaths, they were not inspired to fully address complicated cases. Hopefully, it was a matter of lacking initiative—not a lack of interest in my Black-ass case.

Dear doctors: that level of dismissiveness should never occur, even if the patient ends up being wrong. Doctors are smart people—no one denies that. But not all of them have common sense, or the heart and bravery to expand care beyond the routine.
If you’ve ever lost a baby, you’ve probably heard dismissive comments like, “You can always have another.”
To that, I say: Shut. The. Fuck. Up.
To everyone else—never say that shit to someone again. 🤐
Don’t even say it if you were able to have another child after a loss. Just… don’t.

Back to physical therapy—I went to every session, committed, hopeful, and trusting that I was being given the best care and information. One evening, at 18 weeks, I was in pain unlike anything I’d ever felt, despite a lifetime of debilitating menstrual cramps. Something was deeply wrong. When I went to the bathroom, I noticed light bleeding. I called the doctor’s on-call line—and of course, the doctor on duty was the one I had blocked. She told me to lie down. 👀Instead, I told my husband to drive me to the hospital. 🏥 Not just any hospital—my hospital, GBMC. We passed two others to get there. I say that to emphasize how strong my intuition was: I knew I wasn’t coming back home that night.

That same doctor—yes, the one who told me to lie down—was on rotation at the hospital. Thankfully, she wasn’t the first to see me. The doctor I did see was calm and compassionate. She mentioned that my regular OB would be coming in—and something in me snapped. I said if that woman stepped into my room, she wouldn’t walk back out. 🥊 Something was happening to my son, and I wasn’t letting her near me. I was informed of the policy required to officially dismiss her—and I fired her immediately. That night, the emergency room doctor was a gift. She understood and respected my desperation and fought for my son’s life alongside me. She never made me feel wrong for demanding everything be done for my child—not for me. She told me I was 3 cm dilated and that it was too late for a cerclage.

Now, what the fuck is a cerclage 🙋🏿‍♀️❔❓—and why didn’t any of my previous doctors mention it? I was over 35. I was a clear high-risk pregnancy. I’d been in pain throughout the first trimester. And on top of that, no one told me about magnesium, which I’ll get to later. Despite everything, that night I finally found a doctor who took my complications seriously—but it took dilating to 3 centimeters at 18 weeks and going the fuck off to make it happen.

I was admitted to the hospital and from late November until January 8, 2013, I lived there in T-bird position (Trendelenburg). It’s a position used for prolonged labor; in my case, it helped prevent gravity from pulling my baby down. I was hooked up to contraction monitors and given magnesium infusions to stop labor. That shit was horrendous—but it was worth it. I told myself: if Wolverine could handle pain, so could I. It was my job to protect my son. 🎁

Every time the monitor showed I was going into labor, I was rushed for another magnesium drip. Each time, I cried from the pain—but I refused to let them stop because it was working. I kept praying: just keep him safe. Just a little longer. Then, at 28 weeks, before dawn, I was jolted awake by pain. I was already in the hospital, so I didn’t panic. I knew someone would come soon. About 30 minutes later, my water broke. I woke my husband up to get a nurse. 🆘

My doctor examined me and, with panic in her voice, said my son’s feet were dangling out of my uterus. Bruh. He wasn’t a still baby—he was active, clearly with places to go and people to meet. 🏃🏿‍♂️ I was rushed into emergency surgery. I remember the hallway lights rushing by overhead. I remember them stopping my husband at the OR doors. And I remember hearing Phil Collins playing—seriously, why was Phil Collins singing me into an emergency C-section?

Because it was a major, life-threatening surgery, I didn’t get to see my son for three days. I had to prove I was physically stable. My husband brought me pictures and videos to help me prepare for what I would see. That helped. That was a gift. I know I was in the midst of a tragedy, but I also felt blessed. 🙏🏿 Many mothers don’t survive C-sections. Many babies don’t either. But this time—we both did.

I want to pause to thank my husband again for those photos. They softened the shock of seeing our son in the NICU.

Now I had to trust others to save him. He was so tiny. Too tiny for me to feel safe. My husband read The Positive Dog to him every day. From January 8 to February 3, 2013, we had hope. But our baby boy didn’t make it. 👼🏿This is not a pain you ever want to know. Even in the moment of his death, as I sat in the immediate grip of grief, a nurse chose cruelty. She shushed me as I cried when the doctor declared my son deceased. Use your imagination about my response. Thankfully, the head nurse—an incredible Black woman—removed her immediately.

From November to February, I went home twice—and both times resulted in trauma. 1️⃣ The first time, my son was switched from fluid nutrition to bovine milk—without my consent. 🐮 The doctor later brought me a journal article outlining how dangerous it was, especially for male preemies. That milk gave him GERD. A specialist was called in to attempt surgery to save his life. 2️⃣ The second time, I came back to find he had been moved due to NICU construction. He was not with his usual nurse (a kind white woman whom I hope is now leading a department). When I arrived, he was in a different room, undergoing emergency treatment.

In the months that followed, I had nonstop thoughts of suicide. The only thing keeping me alive was the promise I made to my son—to take care of his father and to celebrate him always. It took everything I had—and the strength of my ancestors—to survive. I don’t believe I saved myself. People in that state cannot save themselves. There should be better mental health protocols for post-miscarriage, stillbirth, and the loss of a child. People are not okay. They shouldn’t be expected to just know to call a suicide hotline.

So here’s one you can share:
Black Mental Health – 988 Lifeline 📱☎️🗨️🗣️

For the rest of my life, I’ll never fully trust doctors. I go to appointments because I have to—but I remain hyperaware and skeptical. And for the rest of my life, I’ll never have a kind conversation with God—especially after a decade of miscarriages, including one at 47. I’ll say it again: For the rest of my life, I could never have a kind conversation with God.
Some people will judge that. I need you not to care. If you believe in a higher power, remember only that power can judge you. If you don’t believe, remember no one else can judge you either. Some losses are too deep to explain. You don’t owe anyone your story. You don’t have to trauma-bond. You don’t have to pretend you’re okay.

Whatever the fuck you need to get through this—do it. If you’re not sure you need help, reach out anyway. This shit isn’t a joke. But you can survive one of the worst things a human can experience.

It’s been well over a decade since we lost our sweet son with beautiful brown skin, soft curls, and a dimpled chin like mine. Every year on his birthday, I add a giraffe to his collection—it was the theme of his room. One of my rules is to never cry on his birthday and to never have a sad thought that day. I still ache for him, but I don’t mourn. I remember him with love and stubborn joy. We changed his diapers. We held his fingers as they moved. We brushed his hair. We took his temperature. We held him. We read to him. We got to experience so much with him—more than many get—and I honor that. I don’t act like my pain outweighs anyone else’s. But I protect it. I protect my grief.

I don’t let others define or influence my relationship with my trauma. People have tried. Someone once tried to guilt me for not helping them through their miscarriage.
Someone once told me I was sad when I wasn’t. Someone once told me I should try again. All of them were dismissed. I plan to spend the rest of my life doing something to improve the outcomes for pregnant Black women. This group will always be first and foremost for me. I also believe that my work will help all women, and I intend to help others develop the skills needed to help improve maternal health outcomes.

What happened...A story that I will not be telling over and over again.

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