I remember the words as if they were spoken yesterday. Those moments are burned into my memory, not just because they happened to me, but because I know they happen to others far too often.
When my second child was just four days old, we were home, surrounded by family. It had been a hectic few weeks. I had chosen not to give birth in the city where I lived and worked, opting instead for prenatal care in a city eight hours away. My decision was shaped by past experiences, which taught me that I would receive subpar care in my hometown, particularly during pregnancy and delivery.
Finally, after more than a week away, we were back home. I fed my baby, burped her, and placed her on my lap. Everything seemed fine until I noticed she wasn’t breathing. Her skin tone had changed, and her body was stiff. Panic set in, and I screamed for my husband as I began performing CPR on our four-day-old daughter. Thankfully, she came back to us, but we knew we had to take her to the hospital we had tried so hard to avoid.
My baby was admitted to the pediatric ward, a quiet place with few patients in the days following Christmas. She was placed in a crib and hooked up to monitors. It didn’t take long for the alarms to go off—her oxygen levels kept dropping dangerously low, sometimes as low as 51 percent. This happened eight times during her stay. I remember trying to nurse her, only to have her body go limp and her eyes roll back. Each time I frantically called for help, the triage staff assured me she was fine. They even replaced the oxygen monitor, insisting the first one was faulty, but the new monitor showed the same critical readings.
I questioned the nurse, convinced this wasn’t the reflux they suggested. The nurse told me, “Your daughter is fine; her lips are not blue.”
To this day, those words haunt me.
I can’t help but wonder how many other brown-skinned babies have been overlooked because critical signs in them don’t always present like they do in white babies.
Some might say I overstepped, but at that point, I didn’t care. I was used to taking criticism for doing what I believed was right for the patient. I reached out to a colleague, a Black pediatrician, who was shocked to learn that the attending pediatrician hadn’t been called during this ordeal. She took action, and soon after, my baby had a seizure in front of one of the nurses. It became clear that something was seriously wrong. Moments later, they decided my now five-day-old baby needed ICU care and intubation.
This experience highlights the urgent need to improve how we treat all patients, regardless of skin color. As a society, our strength is measured by how we care for the most vulnerable among us.
I find inspiration in the work of Chidiebere Ibe, a Nigerian medical student and illustrator, who is opening necessary conversations in our diverse world. His famous illustration of a Black pregnant woman with a Black fetus is a powerful statement about the importance of representation in medicine. His work adds much-needed diversity to medical textbooks and public health materials. Ibe’s advocacy for equal representation in healthcare is crucial in challenging and changing the status quo.
The truth is, a patient can appear “normal” and still be seriously ill. Lab results and vitals may be “within normal limits,” but that doesn’t always mean a patient is well. We must treat the whole person and listen to those who know the patient best—in my case, it was me, the mother. My baby wasn’t fine, and her lips were not blue.
Today, my “baby” is starting kindergarten, and I am forever grateful. But our work isn’t done. Health advocacy begins with us, and sharing our stories is vital. Only by telling our experiences can we hope to improve the system and ensure that every patient receives the care they deserve.
