Like many young Black women in the U.S., I won’t soon forget the story of Amber Nicole Thurman, a 28-year-old mother and aspiring nursing student who, in 2022, died as a result of Georgia’s strict abortion policy. Amid rare complications from her medication abortion, she sought care at Piedmont Henry Hospital in Stockbridge, Georgia. Amber needed a standard procedure often used to treat miscarriages called a dilation and curettage (D&C) to remove the fetal tissue that had not been fully expelled from her uterus. However, Georgia’s (then-newly enacted) abortion law criminalized the procedure, with very limited exceptions, leaving doctors hesitant to act, fearing prosecution and a potential 10-year prison sentence. As Amber waited in worsening pain, infection spread through her body, her blood pressure plummeted, and her organs began to fail. It was 20 hours before doctors finally felt sure that her life was in enough danger for them to perform the procedure, but by that time, it was too late to save her.
ProPublica’s thorough analysis of Amber’s case — and the publication’s revelation that her death wasn’t the only one in the state that could have been prevented with timely medical care — brought this story to a national stage. And I’m glad people are aware of it, because Amber Thurman’s death isn’t just a personal tragedy; it is a stark reminder of the Black maternal health crisis in America.
In fact, Amber’s death illustrates just how detrimental abortion bans are to the already-devastating Black maternal health crisis. According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), Black women in the U.S. are three times more likely to die from pregnancy-related complications than white women. Black women also have the highest abortion rates in the U.S. and are 243% more likely to die during childbirth than white women. Notably, the Black maternal mortality rate is especially high in states with restrictive abortion laws. As Black women, our health and our lives seem to be expendable in the eyes of a system that continually dismisses our pain — and our humanity.
I look at Amber’s story and can’t help but wonder: How much longer will Black women be treated as afterthoughts in the health care system? How many more names will be added to the list of those whose deaths were avoidable? This is not just Amber’s story — it is the story of generations of Black women being neglected, their pain ignored, and their bodies treated as somehow less deserving of care. The only way to stop this epidemic is to address the deep-rooted disparities, and not to let voices like ours be silenced.
As a Black woman and member of Gen Z, I don’t want to accept a future in a world where I have to fear the health care system — a world where I, or any other Black woman, could die because we’re not believed when we say something is wrong, or because harmful laws make it harder for us to get the care we need. I don’t want to be afraid of getting pregnant, not having access to reproductive resources, giving birth, or wondering if I’ll survive to raise my children. Amber’s death reminds me of the harsh reality we live in, but it also fuels my determination to demand better.
The first step to avoiding more tragedies like Amber’s is acknowledging the problem. The Black maternal health crisis is real, and we can no longer sweep it under the rug or look the other way. Hospitals and medical institutions must address racial biases in health care head-on, with mandatory training on implicit bias and cultural sensitivity. Health care providers must be trained to listen to Black women when we express our pain or concerns and to act with the same urgency they would for any other patient. There must also be systemic reform that tackles the root causes of inequality — we need more midwives and doulas of color and more community-based birthing centers that understand the unique challenges Black women face.
But as many Black women already know, we need to be our own advocates. It’s unjust that we have to lead this fight, but our voices may be the difference between life and death. We must push for transparency and accountability in health care, demanding answers when we, our loved ones, and our neighbors are treated as less than human. We cannot let Amber’s death be in vain. Her story is a rallying cry for all of us to demand better from the health care system and for ourselves as a society.
So, what should we do? For starters, vote. Vote for the people who will help expand access and strengthen the health care system — not make it more dangerous and deadly with more abortion bans and other laws that restrict our reproductive rights. We need to vote for policies that make reproductive health care accessible to all, regardless of their financial status or geographical location. And most importantly, we need to vote for a future where bodily autonomy and equitable health care attention isn’t a gamble, but a given.
