ER nurse denied me care for being Muslim, not knowing I was their life-saving surgeon.
The Incident in the Emergency Room
I was the chief surgeon who separated conjoined twins at this hospital. But when I came to the ER with appendicitis, nurse Brenda ripped off my hijab and made me walk laps to prove I wasn’t faking.
After my appendix ruptured and they found out who I was, I discovered Brenda had friends in deleting security footage and HR destroying complaints.
Now someone’s been breaking into my apartment and slashing my tires with notes, warning me to stop investigating. After developing severe abdominal pain, I ended up in the ER of the exact hospital where I’d performed my infamous conjoined twin separation.
I walked in doubled over, my hijab damp with sweat with vomit stains on my sleeves from the taxi ride. Nurse Brenda looked up from her computer and her fingers stopped typing midword. Her eyes traveled from my hijab to my face to the way I clutched my right side.
She pointed to the far corner of the waiting room without saying anything. Each step sent lightning bolts through my abdomen. 10 minutes later, an elderly white couple walked in and sat in the middle section. The nurse immediately called them forward for triage.
I watched three more patients arrive after me and get seen first. Each time, the nurse’s eyes would sweep past me like I was part of the furniture. The pain was getting sharper now, like someone was twisting a knife in my gut. When she finally looked in my direction, she didn’t even glance at my paperwork.
“The religious woman with the headscarf in the back,” she called out dismissively.
The entire waiting room turned to watch me struggle to stand. My legs shook and I had to grip the armrest to pull myself up. She announced loudly enough for everyone to hear that they had special protocols for patients like me.
During the assessment, she made me stand even though I could barely stay upright. The room started spinning and I had to lock my knees to keep from collapsing. The pain had me seeing spots, but she acted like I was being dramatic.
Your culture always exaggerates women’s normal monthly pain, she said while barely glancing at my vitals. My temperature was 102, but she wrote down 95. I could feel my appendix throbbing with each heartbeat.
I tried explaining that I was having severe right lower quadrant pain with rebound tenderness. Classic appendicitis symptoms.
She cut me off and said I probably didn’t even understand what appendicitis was. Then she announced to her colleague that my type had different pain tolerance anyway, so it was hard to assess accurately.
When I asked to use the bathroom because I felt like I was going to vomit again. She said facilities were for processed patients only. I’d been there two hours already. My mouth tasted like metal and my stomach churned violently.
She sent me back to the corner to wait. The walk back felt like miles, and I had to stop twice to breathe through the stabbing sensation.
Another hour passed before she called me up again. This time, she demanded to see identification, and when I reached for my wallet, she suddenly grabbed my hijab and yanked it off my head.
“Proper ID verification requires full facial visibility,” she declared while holding my hijab like it was contaminated.
My hair tumbled down my shoulders, and I felt naked, more exposed than I’d ever been in public. She made me turn in a full circle while other patients watched. Some looked uncomfortable, but nobody said anything.
The pain was getting worse. When I tried to explain this, she pressed brutally on my abdomen right where it hurt most. I screamed and doubled over. My knees hit the floor hard, but I barely felt it compared to the explosion in my gut.
She wrote something on her chart and said I needed to walk laps around the waiting room to prove I wasn’t faking for pain medication. I managed three steps before the room tilted sideways.
My stomach convulsed and I vomited bile onto the floor. The movement sent such intense pain through my side that tears streamed down my face. She stepped back disgusted and called for janitorial. Then she said if I couldn’t control myself, I’d have to wait outside.
I begged for the bathroom just to clean myself up.
She said no.
I asked for anti-nausea medication.
She said no.
I told her I was a doctor and I knew my appendix was about to rupture. Each word took enormous effort to get out.
That’s when she screamed that I was making terrorist threats by claiming to be a doctor. Security grabbed both my arms and started dragging me toward the exit.
Go back where you came from for treatment.
She spat as they hauled me outside. They threw me onto the pavement just as my legs gave out completely. The impact sent such brutal pain through my abdomen that everything went black for a second.
As I collapsed from pain, my old hospital ID tumbled from my bag. Chief of pediatric surgery, 2015 to 2020. The intake nurse picked it up and was about to toss it aside when she saw the name.
Dr. Amamira Hassan. The pen dropped from her hand.
Oh my gosh, you’re you’re her.
The security guard stepped back.
The conjoined twin surgeon?
Another nurse gasped.
The one who did the 18-hour separation?
I was writhing on the floor, appendix about to burst.
Get her to surgery now.
Someone yelled. 6 hours later, I woke up in recovery.
The same nurse who tormented me stood in the doorway with the administrator. Her face had lost all color. The administrator asked if I wanted her terminated immediately.
I looked at her for a long moment.
“No,” I said finally.
Not because I wasn’t upset. I was not because I wasn’t humiliated. I absolutely was, but because at that moment, I realized something crucial. Nurse Brenda had no idea what was coming.
