After a long day in hematology clinic, I skimmed the inpatient list to see if any of my patients had been admitted. Seeing Ms. Short’s name (changed for privacy), a delightful African American woman I met during my early days of fellowship, had me making the trek to the hospital. She was living with multiple myeloma complicated by extramedullary manifestations that had significantly impacted her quality of life.
Dr. Daphanie D. Taylor
During our first encounter, she showed me a growing left subscapular mass the size of an orange that was erythematous, hot, painful, and irritated. As an enthusiastic first-year fellow, I wanted to be aggressive in addressing her concerns in response to her obvious distress about this mass. Ultimately, she left clinic with antibiotics and an appointment with radiation oncology to see if they could use radiation to shrink the subscapular mass.
When I went back in to discuss the plan with her, she grabbed my hand, looked me in my eyes and said: “Thank you, I’ve been mentioning this for a while and you’re the first person to get something done about it.” In that moment I knew that she felt seen.
By the time I made it over to the hospital, she was getting settled in her room to start another cycle of cytoreductive chemotherapy.
“I told them I had a Black doctor!” she exclaimed as I walked into her hospital room. “I was looking for you today in clinic ... I kept telling them I had a Black doctor, but the nurses kept telling me no, that there were only Black nurse practitioners.” She had repeatedly told the staff that I, her “Black doctor,” did indeed exist, and she went on to describe me as “you know, the [heavy-chested] and short Black doctor I saw early this fall.” To this day, her description still makes me chuckle.
Though I laughed at her description, it hurt that I had worked in a clinic for 6 months yet was invisible. Initially disappointed, I left Ms. Short’s room with a smile on my face, energized and encouraged.
My time with Ms. Short prompted me to ruminate on my experience as a Black physician. To put it in perspective, 5% of all physicians are Black, 2% are Black women, and 2.3% are oncologists, even though African Americans make up 13% of the general U.S. population. I reside in a space where I am simultaneously scrutinized because I am one of the few (or the only) Black physicians in the building, and yet I am invisible because my colleagues and coworkers routinely ignore my presence.
Black physicians, let alone hematologists, are so rare that nurses often cannot fathom that a Black woman could be more than a nurse practitioner. Sadly, this is the tip of the iceberg of some of the negative experiences I, and other Black doctors, have had.
How I present myself must be carefully curated to make progress in my career. My peers and superiors seem to hear me better when my hair is straight and not in its naturally curly state. My introversion has been interpreted as being standoffish or disinterested. Any tone other than happy is interpreted as “aggressive” or “angry”. Talking “too much” to Black support staff was reported to my program, as it was viewed as suspicious, disruptive, and “appearances matter”.
I am also expected to be nurturing in ways that White physicians are not required to be. In my presence, White physicians have denigrated an entire patient population that is disproportionately Black by calling them “sicklers.” If there is an interpersonal conflict, I must think about the long-term consequences of voicing my perspective. My non-Black colleagues do not have to think about these things.
Imagine dealing with this at work, then on your commute home being worried about the reality that you may be pulled over and become the next name on the ever-growing list of Black women and men murdered at the hands of police. The cognitive and emotional impact of being invisible is immense and cumulative over the years.
My Blackness creates a bias of inferiority that cannot be overcome by respectability, compliance, professionalism, training, and expertise. This is glaringly apparent on both sides of the physician-patient relationship. Black patients’ concerns are routinely overlooked and dismissed, as seen with Ms. Short, and are reflected in the Black maternal death rate, pain control in Black versus White patients, and personal experience as a patient and an advocate for my family members.
Patients have looked me in the face and said, “all lives matter,” displaying their refusal to recognize that systematic racism and inequality exist. These facts and experiences are the antithesis of “primum non nocere.”
Sadly, my and Ms. Short’s experiences are not singular ones, and racial bias in medicine is a diagnosed, but untreated cancer. Like the malignancies I treat, ignoring the problem has not made it go away; therefore, it continues to fester and spread, causing more destruction. It is of great importance and concern that all physicians recognize, reflect, and correct their implicit biases not only toward their patients, but also colleagues and trainees.
It seems that health care professionals can talk the talk, as many statements have been made against racism and implicit bias in medicine, but can we take true and meaningful action to begin the journey to equity and justice?
I would like to thank Adrienne Glover, MD, MaKenzie Hodge, MD, Maranatha McLean, MD, and Darion Showell, MD, for our stimulating conversations that helped me put pen to paper. I’d also like to thank my family for being my editors.
Daphanie D. Taylor, MD, is a hematology/oncology fellow PGY-6 at Levine Cancer Institute, Charlotte, N.C.
References and further reading
Roy L. “‘It’s My Calling To Change The Statistics’: Why We Need More Black Female Physicians.” Forbes Magazine, 27 Feb. 2020.
“Diversity in Medicine: Facts and Figures 2019.” Association of American Medical Colleges, 2019.
“Facts & Figures: Diversity in Oncology.” American Society of Clinical Oncology. 2020 Jan 16.