Growing up as a young black girl, I quickly learned the harsh realities of being treated as lesser than others. In my middle-class family, discussions about racism were commonplace, and I learned how to defend myself with words like: “I am just like you. When I bleed, my blood is red too.” Now, as the mother of three children who are half Sri Lankan and half African American, I feel the responsibility to equip them with similar words to combat the racism they will inevitably encounter.
When I visited the emergency room in mid-March, I hoped not to face any discrimination. I was familiar with the signs of racism — the body language, the words, the actions that revealed bias — but I had never experienced it in a medical setting, especially during a time of vulnerability. My symptoms were clear: a fever of 102, coughing, body aches, congestion. It was essential for me to be tested, not just for my family’s safety, but for the community at large.
As the pandemic escalated on the East Coast, I felt a mix of anxiety and hope as I entered the examination room. The sound of crinkling paper from the bed heightened my nerves as I awaited the doctor’s arrival. When she finally came in, she was fully clad in personal protective equipment alongside a medical student, who remained at a distance. Their caution startled me. Hadn’t I even been tested yet? Their fear seemed to suggest that I might have COVID-19.
While I awaited the results of my flu, RSV, and strep tests, I scrolled through my Facebook feed. Posts from my white friends highlighted their own experiences with sickness and testing, sharing their positive and negative results. I felt a mix of hope and frustration, believing that if they could access tests, surely I could too.
However, my results came back negative for flu, RSV, and strep. The doctor’s words were sobering: “We’ll assume you have COVID-19.” She provided me with quarantine paperwork and strict guidelines to keep my family safe. I thought about my children, my Sri Lankan American wife, and the potential risk to her patients as a hospital chaplain. I chose this hospital, the same one where I had given birth, because I felt a sense of trust, but now I found myself wondering if that trust was misplaced.
I advocated for myself, referencing my role as the director of programs at a heart health nonprofit in New York City, where I frequently interacted with hospitals. I detailed my event schedule from the weeks leading up to my symptoms, hoping this information would matter. Contrary to what I had heard on the news — that anyone in contact with a positive case would receive a test — my experience felt vastly different. Friends in wealthier areas reported needing to travel to get tested, raising the question: was my skin color an obstacle?
Despite my pleas, the doctor informed me that testing was limited, and offered a chest X-ray instead, which might not provide the clarity I needed. I pushed for the importance of knowing my status, especially for my wife’s safety. The response was vague; they suggested we wait to see if she developed symptoms, leaving me feeling powerless.
Over the following days, I tried to navigate quarantine while managing the chaos of family life. My wife transitioned to remote work, and we carefully distanced ourselves from our children, explaining why I couldn’t give them the affection they craved. After three days, I called the state hotline, only to be told to contact my primary care physician, who also mentioned the scarcity of tests.
As I waited, my fever subsided, yet I still felt exhausted. By Day 8, I longed to embrace my kids again. Eventually, the 14-day quarantine ended, and while I was symptom-free, the uncertainty lingered. I feared I might have unknowingly spread the virus. I had chosen a hospital in my community, located in a city with stark economic disparities, and I couldn’t help but notice the statistics indicating that black residents in Connecticut faced disproportionately high rates of infection and death.
After two months, I finally secured an antibody test, only to learn that it returned negative. I grappled with the knowledge that these tests are not always reliable. Perhaps I never had COVID-19, or maybe I did but could not secure a test due to systemic barriers. The reality is that not everyone has equal access to testing, and this inequity likely influenced my own experience.
In reflecting on my journey, I realize that privilege plays a significant role in accessing healthcare, and my experience may have been shaped by the color of my skin. While I may never know the full truth about my condition, it is clear that disparities in healthcare access must be addressed. To read more about related issues, check out our blog post here.
Ultimately, I hope that we can work towards a system where everyone has equal access to testing and care, regardless of their background.