Exposing a Broken Healthcare System

This is the story how the US Healthcare System Failed me

When I think about March 17, 2025, tears come to my eyes. I am so grateful to be alive right now—with all of my organs. That day, and the ones that followed, were among the most challenging experiences of my life. I was terrified, but I kept singing:"All of my help comes from You, my Savior," by Geoffrey Golden.Even in fear, I had faith things would work out—and they did. That’s why I’m able to sit here and write this testimony.

From the very start, this journey hasn’t been easy—from finding the right doctor, feeling invalidated by a broken healthcare system, to battling with insurance. Every step of the way brought a new challenge. And yes, I doubted the process at times. But deep down, I knew something had to be done.

The Beginning

In 2021, while going through a series of MRIs, CAT scans, and other tests for my newly diagnosed epilepsy, I noticed a new issue. I felt lumps in my lower abdomen, my periods were heavy, and I was cramping three weeks out of the month.

At first, I cramped 9 to 10 days before my period and then every day until it began. I’d cramp again as it ended. Eventually, I began cramping while ovulating too. But the strangest symptom was my misshapen stomach. It was lumpy and hard—so much so that I looked pregnant. Being from South Florida and loving to wear crop tops, I was self-conscious and deeply concerned.

Eventually, after struggling to find an OB/GYN who accepted my limited insurance, I found one. She was young, Black, and worked in my former OB/GYN’s office. I was excited. But during our follow-up, the first thing she said was:“Congratulations!”My mom and I looked at each other, confused.“For having fibroids?” I asked. She had read the wrong chart.

She apologized, then told me I had six fibroids, the largest being about 6 cm. Since they were on the outside of my uterus, she said there was no cause for concern and that removing them would be more trouble than it was worth. She assured me they wouldn’t affect my fertility. At the time, pregnancy wasn’t on my mind—I was planning my wedding and wanted to enjoy my first year of marriage before trying.

By 2023, though, I began having seizures every 4–6 weeks. I was frustrated, depressed, and angry. No one was giving me the answers I needed. I turned to faith. I read the Bible, listened to worship music, and started attending church. After my 33rd birthday, I gave my life to Christ. It was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. I felt peace. Even though seizures continued, I no longer feared death—I knew where I would go.

The Struggle for Care

After being turned off by that first OB/GYN’s mistake, I returned to the gynecologist I had seen on and off for 10 years. When she walked into the room, she greeted me with, “Nice to meet you, Cortney.” My heart sank. She didn’t remember me at all.

I shared my concerns about fibroids and fertility. She ordered an ultrasound, and I mentioned a holistic doctor who said my AMH levels were high—possibly indicating PCOS. She brushed it off, saying, “That just means you're fertile. Go have babies with your husband.”

Two years had passed since my initial ultrasound, and my symptoms had worsened, so I expected changes. But instead of scheduling a follow-up, she casually called to say the fibroids had grown—but since they were on the outside, no action was needed.

I was left thinking: Do I keep advocating for myself, or just wait it out?But I’ve never been the "wait and see" type. I need answers. Now.

Finding the Right Doctor

I found a nurse practitioner within my healthcare system who immediately expressed concern after examining my stomach. She said the fibroids needed to be removed and referred me for another ultrasound. Her compassion gave me hope.

But since surgery wasn’t her specialty, I saw a gynecologist in that office for the follow-up. That gynecologist stressed the urgency of surgery and warned that pregnancy would be dangerous—possibly even impossible.And then, strangely, she said, “I’ll refer you to a fertility specialist because of your age.”

How does that even make sense? She had just finished telling me a pregnancy would be high risk and painful.

I kept searching. Eventually, I found Dr. Pierre Gordon—an OB/GYN and a Black plastic surgeon. I knew he was the one. I gathered all my labs, tests, and results, and brought them to my appointment.

He was kind, well-informed, and validating. After his own assessments, he scheduled surgery for the next month. For the first time in years, I felt seen. I believed the fibroids might be triggering my seizures, and this surgery was the beginning of my healing.

The Insurance Nightmare

In order to go through with surgery, I needed to be seizure-free and cleared by all my doctors. As someone who has seizures every 4–6 weeks, that was a huge challenge—but I did it. I managed my stress, ate well, slept right, and prepared for surgery.

Then, the Friday before my Monday surgery, I got the call.

My insurance denied the claims. All three.

I was floored. They said they didn’t see the medical necessity of removing six noncancerous tumors from my uterus.

We decided to move forward anyway. With the support of my mom and husband, we paid out of pocket. I arrived at the hospital, ready. After two hours of pre-op waiting, the doctor came in—there had been another delay because the hospital didn't realize we'd paid in full.

A Life-Threatening Turn

Surgery went well—until it didn’t.

Post-op bloodwork revealed internal bleeding. I was rushed back to the OR. I didn’t get out of surgery the second time until 1:30 a.m. I had undergone two major surgeries in less than 24 hours and was now in the ICU.

The next day, my blood levels still weren’t improving. Doctors told me I needed a hysterectomy—not a suggestion, a plan. They even prepped the OR twice.

I’m 34. I’m married. I have no children.

Thankfully, my OB/GYN intervened. He said, “You’re not actively bleeding. A hysterectomy is the absolute last resort.” He treated me with transfusions, platelets, and cryo to help my blood clot—and it worked. I didn’t need a hysterectomy.

But the stress didn’t stop. My doctor tried to transfer me to a better hospital, but my insurance denied the request. They said it would take 48–72 hours to approve—even though I was actively bleeding.

After relentless efforts from my mom, husband, and a nursing manager, I was finally moved. I was in ICU for three out of four hospital days.

What I Learned

At my follow-up, my doctor told me that hospital staff brought up a hysterectomy five times. They even prepped the OR twice—without conclusive evidence that it was necessary. He was furious. And I was devastated.

I had to see four OB/GYNs before I found someone who would perform the myomectomy. This wasn’t just about medicine—it was about being seen, about how Black women are too often dismissed or rushed into life-altering procedures without proper care.

Final Thoughts

To anyone reading this:You know your body better than anyone else. Speak up. Ask questions. Advocate for yourself. Your voice could save your life—just like mine did.

Today, I’m one month post-op. I feel lighter. And I’m grateful—grateful to have survived, grateful to have kept my uterus, grateful for my doctor. What I thought were six fibroids turned out to be 23—six large and 17 smaller ones.

Now, I can begin the journey of having a child with my husband—who stood by my side through every seizure, surgery, and scare. He held my hand, told me I was beautiful, and reminded me everything would be okay.

I survived.

And now, I will continue to speak for others—especially Black women—who feel unheard in medical spaces. Because the only person who knows you better than yourself… is God. And He will always have your best interest in mind.