“Resilience is a gift, but it shouldn’t be a requirement for receiving care.”
C.G. Thomas
The Myth of the Superwoman
There is a heavy, unspoken burden that comes with being a Black woman in the American healthcare system. We are often labeled “magical creatures,” as if our resilience is a suit of armor that pain cannot penetrate. But we are not immune to agony, and we are certainly not immune to the statistics that haunt our community.
We walk into emergency rooms prepared to fight for our lives—not just against our symptoms, but against a system that has a documented history of looking right through us. Research consistently shows that Black patients are 22% less likely to receive any pain medication compared to white patients for the same symptoms. Even more disturbing, a landmark study revealed that nearly half of first- and second-year medical students held false biological beliefs about Black people, such as the idea that we have “thicker skin” or “less sensitive nerve endings.”+1
We know the stories. We’ve heard that 80% of pregnancy-related deaths for Black women are preventable. And while I am not pregnant (that would truly take a miracle!), that statistic is a chilling barometer for how our pain is often minimized, unheard, or dismissed.
A Tuesday in Cypress
This past Tuesday, my lower right quadrant decided it had enough. I have lived with a dull, persistent ache for a long time, but the escalation was undeniable. I went to the ER at Houston Methodist Cypress prepared for the “standard” struggle—expecting to have to “prove” my pain was real.
Instead, I was met with something revolutionary: Respect.
My ER doctor didn’t just look at a chart; he looked at me. He shared stories of his family and his wife. My nurse wasn’t just a clinician; he was a fellow creative who sang in high school. These small, humanizing moments weren’t just “bedside manner”—they were the building blocks of trust. They saw me as a person before they saw me as a patient.
The Gap Between “Fine” and “Functional”
When the initial news suggested a small bowel blockage due to scar tissue, I was transferred to the main Cypress campus. The efficiency was startling. Before the transport team even unstrapped me from the gurney, my surgeons were standing there, waiting to explain the next steps.
But then, the scans came back. X-rays with contrast and CT scans suggested the blockage wasn’t there. In many hospitals, that would have been the end of my story. Across the country, women and minorities are 20% to 30% more likely to be misdiagnosed in the ER. I was prepared to be handed discharge papers and told to “follow up with a specialist.” I was ready to accept that “okay” was enough.
The Power of the Medical “Gut Feeling”
The Hospitalist and Surgeon at Methodist were not convinced. They saw a woman still in pain, and they refused to let “inconclusive” be the final word. They followed their gut. They opted for exploratory surgery to ensure nothing “huge” was being missed.
They were spot on.
What they found was a massive invasion of scar tissue that had literally shackled my internal organs together, causing my intestines to stick. It was a ticking time bomb. I didn’t know until this week that a bowel obstruction is a life-threatening emergency. They knew. And they cared enough to keep digging until they found the truth.
Beyond the Surgery: The Aftermath of Care I have been here for five days now. In a world where hospital beds are treated like high-turnover real estate, no one has rushed me. There is no pressure to clear the room for the next person; there is only the question: “How are you feeling today?”
This shouldn’t be a “lucky” experience. It should be the baseline. I’ve received this same unwavering standard of care from my Primary Care and my OBGYN—both part of the Methodist family—for years.
I am writing this because I want my sisters to know that “standard” doesn’t have to mean “subpar.” To the team at Houston Methodist Cypress: thank you for listening when it would have been easier to look at the scans and send me home. You didn’t just clear an obstruction; you restored my faith in what medicine can—and should—be for everyone.
I mattered. My well-being mattered. And that is the most healing realization of all. I hope you’ve enjoyed your view inside the mind of Sugar Clark!
Be blessed!
