In mid-March, Karla Monterroso flew home to Alameda, Calif., after a hiking trip in Utah’s Zion National Park. Four days later, she began to develop a bad, dry cough. Her lungs felt sticky.
The fevers that persisted for the next nine weeks grew so high — 100.4, 101.2, 101.7, 102.3 — that, on the worst night, she was in the shower on all fours, ice-cold water running down her back, willing her temperature to go down.
“That night I had written down in a journal, letters to everyone I’m close to, the things I wanted them to know in case I died,” she remembered.
Then, in the second month, came a new batch of symptoms: headaches and shooting pains in her legs and abdomen that made her worry she could be at risk for the blood clots and strokes that other COVID-19 patients in their 30s had reported.
Still, she wasn’t sure whether she should go to the hospital.
“As women of color, you get questioned a lot about your emotions and the truth of your physical state. You get called an exaggerator a lot throughout the course of your life,” said Monterroso, who is Latina. “So there was this weird, ‘I don’t want to go and use resources for nothing’ feeling.”
It took four friends to convince her that she needed to call 911.
But what happened in the emergency room at Alameda Hospital only confirmed her worst fears.
At nearly every turn during her emergency room visit, Monterroso said, providers dismissed her symptoms and concerns. Her low blood pressure? That’s a false reading. Her cycling oxygen levels? The machine is wrong. The shooting pains in her leg? Probably just a cyst.
“The doctor came in and said, ‘I don’t think that much is happening here. I think we can send you home,’” Monterroso recalled.
Her experiences, she reasons, are part of why people of color are disproportionately affected by the coronavirus. It is not merely because they are more likely to have front-line jobs that expose them to it and the underlying conditions that make COVID-19 worse.
“That is certainly part of it, but the other part is the lack of value people see in our lives,” Monterroso wrote in a Twitter thread detailing her experience.
In the hospital that day in May, Monterroso was feeling woozy and having trouble communicating, so she had a friend and her friend’s cousin, a cardiac nurse, on the phone to help. They started asking questions: What about Karla’s accelerated heart rate? Her low oxygen levels? Why are her lips blue?
The doctor walked out of the room. He refused to care for Monterroso while her friends were on the phone, she said, and when he came back, the only thing he wanted to talk about was Monterroso’s tone and her friends' tone.
“The implication was that we were insubordinate,” Monterroso said.
Monterroso asked for a different doctor, for a hospital advocate. No and no, she was told. She began to worry about her safety. She wanted to get out of there. Her friends, all calling every medical professional they knew to confirm that this treatment was not right, came to pick her up and drove her to the University of California-San Francisco. The team there gave her an EKG, a chest X-ray and a CT scan.
“One of the nurses came in and she was like, ‘I heard about your ordeal. I just want you to know that I believe you. And we are not going to let you go until we know that you are safe to go,’” Monterroso said. “And I started bawling. Because that’s all you want is to be believed. You spend so much of the process not believing yourself, and then to not be believed when you go in? It’s really hard to be questioned in that way.”
Alameda Health System, which operates Alameda Hospital, declined to comment on the specifics of Monterroso’s case, but said in a statement that it is “deeply committed to equity in access to health care” and “providing culturally sensitive care for all we serve.”
She believes her experience is an example of why people of color are faring so badly in the pandemic.
“Because when we go and seek care, if we are advocating for ourselves, we can be treated as insubordinate,” she said. “And if we are not advocating for ourselves, we can be treated as invisible.”
Experts say this happens routinely, and regardless of a doctor’s intentions or race. Monterroso’s doctor was not white, for example.
Research shows that every doctor, every human being, has biases and is unaware of them, said René Salazar, assistant dean for diversity at the University of Texas-Austin medical school.
“Do I question a white man in a suit who’s coming in looking like he’s a professional when he asks for pain meds vs. a Black man?” Salazar said, noting one of his own possible biases.
Unconscious bias most often surfaces in high-stress environments, such as emergency rooms — where doctors are under tremendous pressure and have to make quick, high-stakes decisions. Add in a deadly pandemic, in which the science is changing by the day, and things can spiral.
“There’s just so much uncertainty,” he said. “When there is this uncertainty, there always is a level of opportunity for bias to make its way in and have an impact.”
Salazar used to teach at UCSF, where he helped develop unconscious-bias training for medical and pharmacy students. Although dozens of medical schools are picking up the training, he said, it’s not as commonly performed in hospitals. Even when a negative patient encounter such as Monterroso’s is addressed, the intervention is usually weak.
“How do I tell my clinician, ‘Well, the patient thinks you’re racist?’” Salazar said. “It’s a hard conversation.”
Ronald Copeland said he remembers doctors also resisting these conversations in the early days of his medical training. Suggestions for workshops in cultural sensitivity or unconscious bias were met with a backlash.
“It was viewed almost from a punishment standpoint. ‘Doc, your patients of this persuasion don’t like you and you’ve got to do something about it.’ It’s like, 'You’re a bad doctor, and so your punishment is you have to go get training,” said Copeland, who is chief of equity, inclusion and diversity at the Kaiser Permanente health system. (Kaiser Health News is an editorially independent program of the Kaiser Family Foundation, which is not affiliated with Kaiser Permanente.)
Now, Kaiser Permanente’s approach is rooted in data from patient surveys that ask whether a person felt respected, whether the communication was good, and whether they were satisfied with the experience.
When doctors are presented with the data from their patients and the science on unconscious bias, they’re less likely to resist it or deny it, Copeland said. His health system has reframed the goal of training around delivering better quality care and getting better patient outcomes, so doctors want to do it.
“Folks don’t flinch about it,” he said. “They’re eager to learn more about it, particularly about how you mitigate it.”
It’s been nearly six months since Monterroso first got sick, and she’s still not feeling well.
Her heart rate continues to spike and doctors told her she may need gallbladder surgery to address the gallstones she developed as a result of COVID-related dehydration. She decided recently to leave the Bay Area and move to Los Angeles so she could be closer to her family for the long recovery.
She declined Alameda Hospital’s invitation to speak to their staff about her experience, concluding that it wasn’t her responsibility to fix the system. But she wants the broader health-care system to take responsibility for the bias perpetuated in hospitals and clinics.
Monterroso is the CEO of Code2040, a racial equity nonprofit in the tech sector, and even for her, she said, it took an army of support for her to be heard.
“Ninety percent of the people that are going to come through that hospital are not going to have what I have to fight that,” she said. “And if I don’t say what’s happening, then people with much less resources are going to come into this experience, and they’re going to die.”
This article is part of a partnership that includes KQED, NPR and Kaiser Health News. Kaiser Health News, a nonprofit news service covering health issues, is not affiliated with Kaiser Permanente.
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