See me for who I am. I am not a label. I am not my health condition. I am me.
Stories are based on actual people and events. However, to protect privacy, some details have been changed or stories compiled.
Natalie
Click each image below to see and hear stories from people impacted by stigma.
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Laura
Early one morning I heard a knock on my door. I opened it to find a nurse from the state health department. She said she’d been trying to reach me by phone for days. Because I didn’t recognize the number on my cell phone, I never answered her calls. “Natalie, you had an appointment to see Dr. Morrow last week, but you didn’t show up,” she said. I told her I wasn’t comfortable going back to see Dr. Morrow. “How come, sweetie,” she asked. I went in to have this sore checked out and I asked Dr. Morrow if it could be syphilis. I read the news. I know our town has a syphilis problem. One of my best friends ended up getting it. But when I asked Dr. Morrow if it could be syphilis, he said “Oh, no, honey, only hookers get syphilis.” When he said that, I felt so embarrassed and ashamed. I just couldn’t bear to go back to see him.
I was infected with Zika when I was in Puerto Rico visiting my family. When the doctor told me I was pregnant and that I had the Zika virus, my husband said, “I can’t believe you let this happen.” I know that other women in Puerto Rico have had babies with microcephaly caused by the virus. But here in California, I feel like I’m the only one. My baby is three years old now. People stare at us when we go out. Some even ask me what’s wrong with my boy. When I say he has microcephaly from Zika, they just shake their heads. One woman said to me, “What a shame.” Shame. That’s exactly what I feel, like I should have done more to protect my baby.
When my second son Benjamin was born, I could tell something was wrong…with me. He was a beautiful baby and I was thrilled that my family was now complete. But I just didn’t feel like myself. I had felt a little overwhelmed when my first son was born, but my mom helped me through it and eventually I settled into parenting. But having a toddler and a baby who cries all night started to bring me down. Everybody expected it to be easier for me because it was the second time around. I did too. My friend even asked me, “Why aren’t you happy? You have everything you want now, right?” But I had nights where my anxiety was so bad I couldn’t sleep at all. After my husband left for work in the morning, I’d sometimes cry for hours. It took a long time for me to accept that maybe I was depressed. I just couldn’t handle the label. Finally, I told my doctor and she prescribed medication for me that helped. I wish I hadn’t waited so long. I dreaded admitting that something was wrong with me. And looking back, I feel like I could have been a better mom to Benjamin if I had gotten help earlier.
My husband and I moved to Arkansas about a year ago from the Marshall Islands to live closer to my family and find better jobs. Shortly after we arrived, I became pregnant with our first son. I was excited but also a little nervous. Being new to this area, I wasn’t sure what to expect from my first doctor visit, so I had my aunt come with me. When we saw the doctor, he asked me where my husband was. I told him that my husband wouldn’t be coming to any appointments. He said “I’m sorry he doesn’t want to be involved. That must be really hard for you to have a husband who doesn’t support you during pregnancy.” I think he was just trying to be nice, but a part of me felt like I needed to defend my husband. Where I’m from, men aren’t involved in pregnancy. Instead, we rely on our elder female relatives and matriarchs to support us. The doctor didn’t say anything more about it, but when I went back for appointments, I could feel the judgment. This should be such a happy time, but I dreaded going to those appointments so much that eventually I just stopped going.
Lazy. Noncompliant. Irresponsible. Uneducated. Poor white trash. When I hear my residents or staff use this kind of language about our patients, I stop them immediately. If a patient isn’t following a treatment plan, I tell them it’s just as much our fault because we haven’t taken the time to understand her. What about her life and experience do we not understand? Is she facing poverty or domestic violence? Does she even share the same treatment goals that we have for her? We’re professionals and we need to meet our patients where they are. I teach my residents to leave their assumptions outside the clinic. We aren’t doing our job and we’re missing opportunities if we use a label instead of treating each patient interaction as unique.
Recently, my family and I were out of town visiting friends when my baby started having trouble breathing. She was wheezing heavily and only taking shallow breaths. I could tell it was an asthma attack. She’s had them before, but this one was bad. In a panic, I rushed her to the closest ER. When we got there, the nurse taking her vital signs started angrily telling me that “you people shouldn’t smoke around your babies” and complaining about how often she’s seen people like me who refuse to give up our nasty habits for the health of our babies. Her comments made me so upset, even though I don’t even smoke. In fact, no one in my family smokes. But she wouldn’t know that because she didn’t ask. I wish I had said something to her, but I was so crushed by her snap judgments about me and so worried about my baby that I couldn’t even think straight.
It was 11:00 o’clock and I came in for the night shift at the hospital where I work as a labor and delivery nurse. As we always do, I went through a nurse-to-nurse report with Angela, who was going off duty. Angela began telling me about a patient in labor and how she was “white trash” and “irresponsible.” She even used the word “nasty.” She told me that the woman’s previous child had been taken away by Child Protective Services. She told me she was leaving and wasn’t going to say goodbye to the patient. She turned and walked out. I took a deep breath, regrouped, and tried to shake off all the negative words I had just heard so that I could greet the patient without any negative assumptions. I entered the room, introduced myself, and smiled. The woman in the room introduced herself as Lisa. She looked scared. I told her I was going to take good care of her and that’s just what I did.
I was driving in the car with my friend who’s a health educator like me. I told her how excited I was to be working on a new initiative with indigenous communities in our state. She responded, “Really? There’s so much drug use in those communities. Do you think you’ll even be able to make a difference?” I was shocked and unable to respond in the moment. Anger bubbled up in me and my heart broke a little bit when I realized that these beliefs are so common in society that even my friend, who works in the field of health equity like I do, feels that way. I wish I had the presence of mind to make a difference in moments like that by standing up for people who have faced genocide and oppression over generations and then they’re slapped with a label.
Stigma played a part in my friend’s death. She was a health professional and mother of four kids. We were friends in graduate school. She was at the top of her class and was outgoing, funny, loud, and always had a huge smile on her face. We ended up living in the same neighborhood. But behind the veil of suburban life she struggled with addiction to prescription pain medication. She never once told me. I found out later she’d become dependent on them after being hospitalized for a medical procedure. First, her marriage fell apart. Then she lost her job and car. After she was arrested for heroin, her kids went to live with their father. She only told me about the arrest because she needed a ride to meet with her parole officer. “I was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” she told me. “It wasn't mine. I was holding it for a friend.” Her story was so good it was almost believable. Maybe it was her addiction that made her lie, but I know stigma played a role too. She didn’t want me or anyone to know. She wanted me to keep seeing her as competent and capable. I wish I’d figured it out sooner. Maybe I could have helped get her into treatment. Instead, I found her dead in her bedroom from an overdose.
