The recent horrific pregnancy experiences of two African American women made me pause and reflect on my own last pregnancy. The date was February 1, 1985 — my due date for my son, Brandon Martin. I was in excruciating pain, and my husband rushed me to the hospital. Instead of concern, I was met with dismissal. According to the staff, the only reason I had come was because it was my due date. I was frustrated, hurting, and deeply upset.

I reached out to my OB-GYN, Dr. Kumar, and shared what happened. Without hesitation, she asked me to come to her office immediately. After examining me, she confirmed what I already knew in my body — I was in the early stages of labor. She explained that she was on call that weekend and told me to return to the hospital when she was there.

I went back on February 2nd, and this time, I was admitted. On February 3rd, my beautiful 8-pound, 7-ounce son entered the world.

To this day, I remain forever grateful for a doctor who showed compassion, believed me, and made sure I received the care I needed. In a world where Black women’s pain is too often ignored, her care made all the difference.