Heart-Warming Memory... of Shameless Privilege
- Details
- Category: Science & Technology
- Created on Tuesday, 26 January 2010 17:40
- Written by Mike Ely
I opened the New York Times Science section and found short anecdotes excerpted from Times' bloggers.
As I read one of them, I realized that it was a casual, very personal story of how people of the upper classes make their claims for special privilege. It is told with a completely unapologetic sense of entitlement.
The author describes how her husband was injured. In the hospital she was carrying out a strategy of connecting with the nurses -- seeking special attention for her husband by pointing out that she too was a medical professional.
And (the humorous twist in the story) she discovers that she didn't need her own strategies, because her husband's job (as a physicist) already qualified him to be treated "like a rock star."
Here is the key passage:
"His job as a physics professor ended up mattering in a way I never expected: the doctors all treated him like a rock star. They respectfully called him Professor, shyly admitted to struggling in physics, and guardedly said they would treat him as long as he didn’t ask them any physics questions. Who knew? I thought our ace in the hole would be that I’m a nurse in the same hospital system, but my husband’s profession trumped any cred I could have brought to bear. And the truth is, that was kind of a relief. Because that night, I realized, I didn’t want to be there in the emergency department as a nurse, I just wanted to be a wife."
We are supposed to read this story as a heart-warming memory. Everything worked out for the best. The special treatment came to her husband automatically, without her having to push her own position. She could relax. She had just been planning to connect with the nurses (her peers), while her husband had tapped into the doctors (his peers).
This story operates by creating a void, where everyone else is anonymous and invisible. But let me ask the unaddressed questions:
- What happens to people who are not medical professionals, or rock stars or physicists?
- What kind of treatment do they get?
- How much of their treatment decided by unspoken measurements of social status and social worth?
- If a white physicist or a rock star get that wonderful special treatment, what does a homeless Black woman get? Or a rural waitress?
Think about this passage: "The doctors all treated him like a rock star."
Ok, how exactly did they know he was a physicist? Because he told them, because that is how it works. People with class privilege tell those with power "who they are" -- and then they get special privilege. And everyone around the professor gets the message. And his wife can relax.
And what happens if you have to tell the doctors in Spanish "I have no money or insurance. I work day labor when I work at all"? And what happens, in that case, if you are the spouse of that patient? Can you relax? Can you be confident you are in kind and loving hands?
Thought experiment:
There is a brief discussion where the patient and doctors joke about the required questions about abuse. Ha ha. "My husband got the joke." Of course there couldn't be abuse (after all, he is a man and a physicist).
But what happens if you are undocumented and answering questions in that emergency room... are the doctors' tones so reassuring? Can't the whole experience suddenly become a nightmare: can't this nurse suddenly "dropping a dime" on your life. Ha, ha.
Aren't official questions in the emergency room funny -- just part of a privileged man quickly finding his rightful place within the American medical system.
Final thought experiment:
How might such things change if America actually got socialist medicine?
* * * * * * * *
Complete, as it originally appeared.
In a Family Emergency, Nurse or Wife?
By THERESA BROWN, R.N.
January 20, 2010
My husband, Arthur, fell the Sunday before Christmas. He was walking the dog and slipped on a patch of black ice about a block from our house. Luckily, someone with a cellphone walked by and called our home.
Our 13-year-old son took the call and then told me, in an oddly emotionless voice, “Dad fell and we need to go get him.”
And so it began. I jumped in our van and started driving. It was dark, but Arthur’s orange Gore-Tex parka stood out where he lay on the sidewalk.
“Oh, oh, oh,” I said. Man down.
The first thing he said was “I think I broke my shinbone,” and my immediate reaction was “No, you did not.” I didn’t want to think about him being hurt, and I really didn’t want to think that a fall on ice could so easily break a healthy bone. We want the people we love to be invulnerable, and we want to be invulnerable ourselves.
Turns out he broke two bones — the tibia in two places, the fibula in one — and tore loose the membrane that holds the tibia and fibula together at the ankle. It would take more than three hours of surgery to fix him, but we knew none of that at the time, only that he was in pain and cold and couldn’t stand up.
The stranger with the cellphone called an ambulance, and our son took the dog back home. All three children went to a neighbor’s house where we were expected for dinner anyway, and I followed the ambulance to the hospital.
The emergency medical technicians had placed him on a board and fitted him with a cervical collar just in case he had a spinal cord injury. They unlaced the boot on his left leg (which hurt) and then stabilized the leg with an inflatable splint. All I wanted to do as I drove to the emergency room was cry, but I told myself, “Don’t cry — it won’t help right now,” so I put my game face on instead.
“Who was I now?,” I wondered. Nurse or wife? “I’m a nurse,” I told the nurse in the emergency room, “but I’ll try not to be annoying.” She laughed, and then the medical resident said, “I’ll try not to be annoying, too.”
Then they got to work and cut the boot off his left foot, took his vital signs and gave him some intravenous narcotics. They also cut off his jeans, which were dirty and wet, and carefully got him into a hospital gown.
During all this we got treated to the gallows humor of the place, and it actually made me feel at home. The admission nurse asked if Arthur had any alcohol before he fell. “Well, no more than his usual fifth of scotch,” I answered. She laughed and then said, “You’d be surprised.”
Then she asked him if he felt safe at home, if I’d ever threatened him or hurt him. These are standard questions intended to screen for spousal abuse. “No, nothing like that,” Arthur started to say before she interrupted him, “Well, come on, we know she did this to you.” My husband got the joke. “Oh, except for this,” he said, playing along.
Meanwhile, he was worrying about when he would finish final grades for the premed physics class at the nearby university he had just finished teaching. He is a conscientious guy, or maybe that was his own denial, his wanting to imagine that his injury wouldn’t really slow him down.
His job as a physics professor ended up mattering in a way I never expected: the doctors all treated him like a rock star. They respectfully called him Professor, shyly admitted to struggling in physics, and guardedly said they would treat him as long as he didn’t ask them any physics questions.
Who knew? I thought our ace in the hole would be that I’m a nurse in the same hospital system, but my husband’s profession trumped any cred I could have brought to bear. And the truth is, that was kind of a relief. Because that night, I realized, I didn’t want to be there in the emergency department as a nurse, I just wanted to be a wife.
We always say that if you go to the hospital you should take someone with you who understands how modern health care and modern hospitals work. In general it’s good advice. But the staff in that emergency department knew their jobs — they didn’t need me or any other nurse scrutinizing everything they did.
When the X-rays came back, the doctors decided to “reduce” Arthur’s fracture, meaning that the orthopedist would realign his leg while he was sedated. The resident, the same one who had said he would try not to be annoying, gave me the oxygen to put on Arthur. “People feel better when they can help,” he said. I agreed with him, but then had a devil of a time getting the tubing to fit the right way.
I was too distracted and scared to be good for much in the way of nursing. But maybe because I am a nurse, I could see how competent they all were and could relax just a little.
Waiting for the surgery, I stood at the head of Arthur’s bed and absentmindedly ran my fingers through his hair. “That’s the best thing you can do right now, stroke his head,” the resident said. Then he added, “And you’re the only one who can do it.”
Comments (5)
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Guest (Gregory A. Butler)
PermalinkThe unapologetic privilege of the article is all kinds of disgusting.
Basically, it justifies the idea that certain people - in this case, White professionals with ties to the medical establishment - deserve special medical treatment. This is presented in a matter-of-fact way, and the whole premise of the article assumes that the reader herself is a member of the same privileged elite.
More tellingly, the article totally ignores the flip side - what about those who <b>do not</b> have those special privileges?
Speaking as one of those folks, I can tell you, it's very different.
I'm an African American union carpenter, and when I broke my ankle while building the US District Courthouse in Lower Manhattan in September 1995, I <b>absolutely did not</b> get treated anywhere as solicitously as this rich guy did.
Hell, I didn't even get the same basic medical care he did!
Despite having essentially the same injury the man did in the article, I didn't get a cervical collar or a backboard - the FDNY paramedics unceremoniously placed me on a gurney, with no special precautions about any possible back injuries, and off I went to Beekman Downtown Hospital.
I spent 3 hours in the hallway just waiting for X rays - and when I finally got them, the technician was very rude and basically treated me like a side of beef (except he would have been more polite to the beef).
Then, I spent another 2 hours waiting for a doctor (the surgeon on duty was busy dealing with a homeless African American man who'd been beaten by the cops and who's broken bones were being treated <b>while he was handcuffed and under armed guard</b>
I could hear his anguished screams from the treatment room - and the cops telling him <i>"shut the fuck up, skell!"</i> [<b>"Skell"</b> is a racial slur New York City cops use to refer to Black or Latino suspects].
The only person in the hospital who was solicitous at all was an elderly Chinese American woman who was a hospital volunteer (she was the only person who bothered to ask if I needed any family members called and she called my mom and my girlfriend for me).
When the beaten Black prisoner had finally received the bare minimum of care mandated by NYC Department of Corrections guidelines and could be handed off to the cops to be hauled off to the bullpen, it was finally my turn to see the doctor.
She hastily splinted my leg, gave me a prescription for percaset and, about 10 minutes after I got in the treatment room, told me <i>"You'd better find an orthopedic surgeon to set the bones for you"</i>
After that, I got issued a set of crutches by a technician (but nobody bothered to show me how to use them, I had to figure that out for myself) and I was discharged and sent off into the night.
Fortunately, my girlfriend came to get me from the hospital, and I had enough money on me to pay for a cab ride from Chinatown (where the hospital was) to my home in West Harlem [at 1995 prices, that was a $ 25 taxi ride].
The next day, I had to hit the yellow pages to find a doctor who would set the bones for me - eventually, I found a surgeon at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital (every other surgeon I called refused to take the case, because New York State Workers Compensation doesn't pay them a high enough fee to set a broken ankle).
4 days later, I took a cab to Columbia Presybeterian, my leg was set by two medical students (the doctor was too busy to bother with a low fee case like mine, so he had a couple of his students do the surgery and he signed the reports later) and, as soon as the anesthetic wore off, I was again, unceremoniously discharged and had to make my way home with only my girlfriend to assist me.
That's the flipside of privilege.
Incidentally, pretty much every contact I've had with the medical establishment in my life has been like this - unlike Ms Brown and her husband, me and people like me are seen as less than, and not worthy of the special care that people like her and her husband receive.0 Like -
Guest (Timo)
PermalinkThis reminds me of the privileges of having a family menber or family friend that is a cop.
You know they actually have cards that each cop gets to hand out for this very purpose. My father was actually a patrol officer who died on the job and its disgusting when I have seen family members being treated differently by cops because they make it very visible within their cars that my father was a cop who was killed on the job. Its even more bizarre and sickening to me when people try to rationalize these sorts of privileges, "so and so was nice enough to give you a card you should carry it in your wallet", "its a police courtesy a sign of respect", bull shit!
It's a form of social inequality and needs to be called out for what it is!0 Like -
Guest (Bill)
PermalinkPoor people will not get equal healthcare until we're deep into socialism. The mechanism that allows for some to pay (in whatever way) more than others has to be removed. And of course you have the whole issue of the fact that rich people hate poor people to begin with.
0 Like -
Guest (TOR)
PermalinkThe one thing that really showed how privileged he is that it didn't even bother him that they cut away his jeans. I'd be pissed off to have to go out and buy a new pair of $20 work jeans.
Also, who on earth gets to have surgery in a hospital. I live in Canada where we have 'socialized' healthcare and didn't get access to these kinds of services when I could have used them to repair tendons in my ankle.0 Like -
Guest (G)
PermalinkWhile unequal of treatment in general, based on structural legacies, and just seconds of judgment based on class, or perceived social class, i.e. the way you speak, look, level of perceived education, and importantly race, all with their corresponding detrimental prejudices perpetuated in the culture, are ubiquitous features of our strikingly unjust society, the wide disparities in the health care system are well documented. See: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Health_disparities http://www.laprogressive.com/rankism/study-links-poorer-hospital-care-to-racial-segregation/
Some social arenas this is more open than others. For instance, with the police, this is completely evident, in fact just what geographical location you happen to be in puts you into a favored or disfavored category, with extreme differences of treatment (including if you get shot or not!) Historically cops have even been used to enforce keeping certain "types" of people based on race, from crossing over into the privileged "white" part of town.
In the medical profession, I know its a common practice for doctors to ask you what kind of work you do, what is your profession, etc. I believe this is part of their training, though, as they make certain inferences from what kind of job you do to your level of stress and other factors which could be relevant to your health evaluation. But, there is no denying that the level of connection you make (consciously or not) with that professional class results in better or sub-standard care. While the blatant racism is not legally codified anymore,it still the reality, with shadow of "Tuskegee" remaining large.
However, lets not forget that the most blatant discrimination is built into the profit centered system: you have to have enough money or a good job that provides you with good insurance to even get the basic treatment that you may need. An estimated 45,000 die due to this disparity resting directly on class status. "Nearly 45,000 people die in the United States each year -- one every 12 minutes -- in large part because they lack health insurance and can not get good care, Harvard Medical School researchers found..." http://www.reuters.com/article/idUSTRE58G6W520090917 What we have is a society that basically institutionalizes mass murder for the sake of super profit for the few.
But, if you do have access to health care, one thing that they say makes a difference is if you become your own advocate, and demand the care that you know you should get. However, I've read studies where despite this, the culture accepting a diminished view of the humanity of a poor person of color, still trumps. I read a news article about the story of a black man who was a laborer getting dismissed with only pain meds for the exact same condition that a white professional received knee surgery for, from the same doctor. He complained and still was not treated, and had to go to find another doctor to get the appropriate treatment, to take his health needs seriously. I read it in the SF Chron little over a year ago, but can't find the story online now (although this is just one out of many such stories pointing to the very divided and unequal nature of our basic institutions, along lines of traditional patterns of oppression and exploitation.
Does anyone seriously think that anything short of a social, political, and economic, revolution will uproot and get rid of these injustices?0 Like




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