At the end of my freshman year of college, blurry vision in my left eye took me from the student health center to an eye doctor, then to an emergency room.
Each provider who saw me that day was just as confused as the one before.
The student health physician attributed my vision problems to needing prescription glasses. The eye doctor assumed I had “reparable nerve damage.” The ER physicians were so stumped that they decided to admit me for further tests by a neurologist.
I ended up spending the next 3 days in the hospital, going through countless tests and receiving few answers. But, after MRIs revealed inflammation on my brain and spine, I heard the words “multiple sclerosis” for the first time.
I had never heard of the disease, and the neurologist’s technical explanations and apathetic demeanor certainly didn’t help. I stared at him, dumbfounded, as he explained the disease’s symptoms of fatigue, joint pain, blurred vision, and the possibility of immobility.
For someone who’s rarely at a loss for words, it was one of the few times in my life when I’ve been speechless. Recognizing how overwhelmed I was, my mom, who had caught the first available flight to be by my side, asked the very obvious question: “So, does she have multiple sclerosis or not?”
The neurologist shrugged and responded, “Probably not.” He instead attributed my symptoms to the stress of attending an elite university, prescribed some steroids, and sent me on my way.
It wasn’t until 3 years later when I finally received my diagnosis of multiple sclerosis (MS), an autoimmune disease known to disproportionately affect Black women.
Since then, I’ve recognized my experiences with chronic illness to be tied to my Blackness. As a recent law school graduate, I spent 3 years studying the ways in which systemic racism can be veiled in complex legalese but have direct effects on Black and low-income communities’ access to high-quality healthcare.