Growing up as a young Black girl, I was acutely aware of the disparities in treatment based on race. In my middle-class household, discussions about racism were common. I learned to articulate my worth, armed with phrases like, “I am just like you. My blood runs red, too.” Now, as a mother to three children who are half Sri Lankan and half African American, I feel a responsibility to equip them to confront the racism they will inevitably encounter.
When I visited the emergency room in mid-March, I didn’t anticipate facing discrimination. I understood the signs of racism—body language, choice of words, and actions that reveal bias. Yet, I had never encountered it in a medical setting at a time when I desperately needed care.
My symptoms—a fever of 102, persistent cough, body aches, and congestion—were clear indicators that a COVID-19 test was necessary, not just for my family’s safety but for the community as well. As the pandemic surged on the East Coast, I felt a mix of anxiety and hope as I entered the examination room. The sound of the crinkling paper covering the bed mirrored my nervousness while I awaited the doctor.
When she arrived, donned in full personal protective equipment, she was accompanied by a medical student. Their protective gear struck me as excessive, especially since I hadn’t yet been tested for the virus. Their anxiety about my potential COVID-19 status was palpable.
While waiting for the results of my flu, RSV, and strep tests, I scrolled through Facebook. My feed was flooded with posts from white friends discussing their health struggles and sharing their test results. This only amplified my hope that I, too, would soon be able to share my own results. Surely, if they could get tested, I could as well.
Unfortunately, all my tests for flu, RSV, and strep came back negative. The physician told me, “We are going to assume you have COVID-19.” She provided me with paperwork to excuse me from work and advised me to quarantine away from my family, avoiding any shared items or spaces. I felt helpless as I was recommended to return only if my condition worsened.
In an effort to sway the doctor, I mentioned my children, hoping she would understand the risk of them contracting the virus. I reminded her that my wife, who works as a hospital chaplain, could unknowingly expose her patients if I were positive. Yet, despite my advocacy, the doctor explained that testing was limited and there was nothing more she could do for me.
I was left feeling defeated. I had heard on the news that anyone in contact with a confirmed case could receive a test, but that wasn’t my reality. Perhaps my race, demeanor, or the urgency of my situation played a role in the lack of testing. I had heard stories from friends of color in Connecticut who had to travel to wealthier areas to find testing sites.
My requests were met with indifference. The doctor offered a chest x-ray but warned it wouldn’t provide definitive results. I pointed out that knowing my status was crucial for my wife’s work, but her response was simply to wait and see if my symptoms developed further.
My wife transitioned to working from home before any official mandate, and we waited to see if my condition would deteriorate. I moved into my son’s room to isolate, ensuring my daughters stayed away. I felt the stress of the situation as I monitored our family’s health while managing their education and my work from home.
After three days, I called the state hotline seeking a test and was directed to my primary care physician, who also informed me that tests were scarce. By Day 5, I felt slightly better, yet by Day 8, I longed for the comfort of my children’s hugs. Eventually, Day 14 of my quarantine arrived, and I still had no clear answer regarding my COVID-19 status.
Choosing to go to a local hospital, which happens to be in the poorest city in our county, I felt a sense of familiarity. Yet, statistics reveal that Black residents in Connecticut tested positive at rates 120% higher than white residents.
Eventually, I was able to receive an antibody test, and two months after my initial symptoms, it came back negative. However, I learned that these tests aren’t foolproof, and I grapple with uncertainty about whether I was ever infected.
In summary, my experience highlights the complex interplay of privilege and access to healthcare during a pandemic. While I could not secure a test during my illness, the reasons remain ambiguous. My symptoms might not have been severe enough, or perhaps systemic barriers influenced my access to testing. Ultimately, the reality is that not everyone has equal access to COVID-19 testing, and for some, the implications of race cannot be overlooked.
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