In the 1940s, my grandmother nearly died giving birth to my uncle. Everyone in my family knows the harrowing story about the near-fatal experience while in labor of our beloved madear, Agusta. She had no access to prenatal care in the small Texas town she called home. Ultimately, when the time came for her to deliver, she had to be hospitalized in critical condition at a place where months before she was refused care because she was Black.
All these years later, I worry that my daughters, now in their late teens and early twenties, might also have a dangerous birthing experience.
Why?
Quite simply, because they are Black.
The days when hospitals refused to treat Black and Indigenous moms and families may be over, but the disparities in the care we receive live on.
In fact, there’s a maternal health crisis in our country that’s taking an especially heavy toll on Black moms. The United States has the highest maternal mortality rate among developed countries – and it’s been getting worse in recent years.
Black moms are dying at three to four times the rate of their white counterparts. Native Americans are more than twice as likely to die from pregnancy-related causes than white women. Black babies are more than twice as likely to die as white babies. It’s a national scandal.
Even beyond maternal mortality, Black moms are much more likely to suffer from postpartum mental illness, including mood and anxiety disorders, and less likely to receive treatment for it than other new moms. Meanwhile, the coronavirus pandemic’s health and economic devastation has fallen disproportionately on Black women and those in other communities of color, exacerbating the problem.
The reasons are complex, but systemic racism, which pervades our health care system, is a big part of it
These disparities in maternal mortality and morbidity persist independent of other factors usually associated with health disparities. Black women I know – from diverse backgrounds and education and income levels – have been forced to have medically unnecessary C-sections, have had to fight to be heard when problems arose during their labor and delivery, and have been pressured to make choices and have interventions they did not need.
Serena Williams may be the most well-known example of when a Black woman nearly died after giving birth, but she is hardly the only one. In New York City, where I live and my daughters live, Black women are eight to 12 times more likely to die in childbirth than white women, far exceeding the shockingly awful national disparity.
This is a problem that can be solved, and we have seen some progress
The American Rescue Plan allowed states to expand postpartum health coverage for new mothers for a full year. And in late November, President Biden signed the Protecting Moms Who Served Act into law — it will help provide veterans with the world-class maternal health care they, and all mothers, deserve.
But it’s not nearly enough.
We are asking Congress to pass the Black Maternal Health Momnibus Act, which includes 12 bills that would address our country’s maternal health crisis by growing and diversifying the perinatal workforce, funding community-based maternal health organizations, addressing social determinants of health, improving data collection and maternal mental health care, and investing in digital tools to improve maternal health.
We need it all, and we need it now
For me and so many in the Black community, learning that a loved one is pregnant brings trepidation as well as joy. We’re thrilled for the mom-to-be and her family. But our happiness is tinged with an ever-present fear about whether she and her baby will survive and thrive after the birth.
Let’s all tell Congress that meaningful progress to protect Black women and babies is long overdue.
Monifa Bandele is Chief Strategy Officer at MomsRising.
