Lost in the system: navigating hospital care as a Woman of Colour

This article is written by a member of the AMBER community, as part of our Sister Story series. This sister shares their real and painful experience of being failed by a system meant to heal. It’s a story of resilience, vulnerability, and the quiet strength needed to demand dignity, especially as a woman of colour navigating healthcare. At AMBER, we believe these stories must be told—and heard.

My pain was unbearable. For weeks, it had been steadily growing worse, and I had lost track of how long I had been bedridden due to my chronic back problem, it felt like a lifetime. One day, the pain became too much to handle. I had no choice but to take matters into my own hands. I called 999 and asked for an ambulance. To my relief, it arrived within half an hour. After checking my symptoms, the paramedics took me to my local hospital. 

The first few hours passed in a blur as I was seen by several doctors, and finally a consultant who admitted me, as my condition continued to worsen. Thankfully I was given an injection to manage the pain whilst I waited to go to the theatre for my operation. I could barely follow the conversation around me as the pain and side effects of the medication made it impossible to focus. 

The surgery and its aftermath 

On the third day, I was scheduled for surgery. I remember thinking, “It would be a miracle if I woke up without this pain.” I had lived with it for so long, I struggled to remember life before it. When I woke up after the operation, I felt disoriented but soon realised something extraordinary—when I moved my toes and my ankle, there were no sharp stabbing pains. Though I was still struggling to move, I seemed to be pain-free. The relief was overwhelming.  Over the next 24 hours, my health steadily improved. But as I regained focus, I noticed something unsettling: I was in a small room with no windows. Aside from receiving food and drink, there was little interaction with anyone. Days passed, and i was growing anxious and upset. I tried to speak with the nurses but they dismissed my concerns, stating that there were no beds available on the wards. 

The isolation 

On the fifth day, my sister came to visit. She was horrified when she saw my condition and asked for a wheelchair to take me upstairs to the PALS (Patient Advice and Liaison Service) office. There my sister supported me to lodge a complaint about my treatment. They promised to look into it. Later that day, a PALS officer came to visit me, accompanied by a ward sister. I felt uncomfortable, but I voiced my concerns: “Why am I being kept in this depressing environment when other patients are only here for a short period?”

I was told the room I was in was a “recovery room” for patients who had just undergone surgery, but there were no available beds on the wards. This was difficult to accept as just hours earlier, another patient had been moved from the same room to a ward. That night, I lay awake in the dimly lit room, and just before midnight, the matron arrived. She informed me that a bed had been found, and I would be moved soon. The transfer happened in the early hours of the morning, and I was too disoriented to fully understand where I was, but the next morning, I woke up in a large ward with bright windows and the sound of life all around me. The fresh air and the chatter of fellow patients felt like a lifeline. 

The struggle to be heard 

Though the patients around me were kind, I felt something was still wrong. Despite asking the nurses daily to inform my consultant that I wanted to see him, I was repeatedly told he was “busy” or that he had already received reports on my progress. By day eight, I was walking with a cane instead of crutches, and I had begun hiding the medication the nurses kept insisting on giving me. I was afraid to discharge myself, unsure of whether I’d be refused necessary aftercare like physiotherapy.  That afternoon, an Asian chaplain visited me. I expressed how low I was feeling, not understanding why I was still in hospital when I was physically improving. The chaplain was empathetic and listened attentively, and promised to look into the concerns I had raised with him. 

The consultant's apology 

The following morning I was surprised and relieved to see my consultant. He took my hands in his and said he was so sorry that I had been detained in hospital, and that he had no idea I was still there. I was taken aback. I told him I had asked for him repeatedly. How could he not know? I explained everything to him, and he assured me that I could leave as soon as I received my medication.  I packed my belongings and waited for the medication, and checked repeatedly with the nurses. At 4:30 pm, a nurse came to me and said the hospital pharmacy had closed for the day. Therefore I would not receive my medication until the following day, and I would have to stay another night, as I could not be discharged with it.  It was surreal. How could this be happening? It felt as though I was caught in some sort of conspiracy to keep me in the hospital. 

The Escape 

The next day, I finally received my medication and left as quickly as I could. My son arrived to pick me up, and I was so afraid of being detained that I practically fled. A stay that should have lasted no more than 48 hours had turned into a 10-day nightmare. My physical recovery was compromised by the toll it took on my mental health. I was left feeling powerless, stripped of my dignity and vulnerable. I felt as though I was seen only as a small, middle-aged Asian woman—someone who wouldn’t question her treatment, who didn’t understand her rights, and whose voice didn’t matter. 

The struggle for dignity 

I have seen so many people, especially the elderly and vulnerable, place their trust in a system that is broken. An institution meant to help can, at times, fail those who need it most. I’ve experienced first hand how beliefs—based on age, ethnicity, or gender—can influence the care people receive. If I hadn’t fought for myself, what would have happened to me? What if I hadn’t spoken English or had no one to advocate for me? What if I had been mentally impaired and unable to communicate my needs? It’s terrifying to think about how many patients are discriminated against because of their perceived disadvantages. That’s why it’s so important to educate ourselves, to know our rights, and to never be afraid to question the system. We must fight not just for ourselves, but for the others who are lost or at risk of being lost in the chaos of institutions. We all have the right to be heard. 

Feedback and complaints about NHS services

Thank you to the AMBER community member for bravely sharing her sister’s story. Her experience is a powerful reminder of the importance of advocacy, awareness, and compassion within healthcare. If this story resonated with you and you’d like to explore the wider conversation around health inequalities, we invite you to read our related article: Unheard: The Reality of Health Inequalities for Ethnic Minorities.