How Carle Health Destroyed My Career: A Black Surgeon's Story

In January 2023, I thought I had finally made it. After years of sacrifice, I had the perfect life: a female in the hospital partner, a stable position that allowed me to stop the grueling locum work, and precious time with my 7-year-old son. I was a board-certified pediatric surgeon with over two decades of experience, one of the few Black women in my field, working at what I believed was a respected institution.

That illusion shattered three weeks before my birthday.

The Ambush

Dr. Piccone, the Assistant Program Director for Pediatrics, called me into a meeting. As we walked up the stairs after I had just assisted Dr. Dominguez in surgery, she casually said, "This would not be good." Those words should have prepared me, but nothing could have.

In that conference room with Dr. Piccone and Ms. Banks, Carle's Vice president, I learned I was under formal review. They told me the process could take 30 days and suggested—with barely concealed encouragement—that some physicians choose to resign rather than face investigation to avoid being reported to the National Physician Data Bank (NPDB).

I was blindsided. Completely blindsided.

When I asked what this was about, Dr. Piccone said it involved "behavioral issues in communication." This was the first time I had heard of any serious concerns. Then came the list—a collection of complaints so petty and absurd that I initially thought it was some mistake:

1. The NICU claimed they couldn't reach me. No specifics. No documentation.

2. A G-tube placement controversy. They claimed I told a family, "We don't do procedures at night." I hadn't performed a G-tube in months and was genuinely confused by this accusation.

3. Circumcision pain management. A baby cried during a Plastibell circumcision. As per the nurse, it was because I had not given enough pain medication. She had directed me to stop mid-procedure, and I had ignored her concerns.

4. I wore socks to the lab. Yes. Socks.

5. I wasn't eating enough. This became a formal complaint.

6. While doing rectal exams, I joked with NICU babies, calling myself "Dr. Dominguez." Nurses claimed this might confuse families.

Let me be clear about that last point: I am a 5'9" Black woman. Dr. Dominguez is significantly shorter and not Black. The idea that anyone would confuse us is not just absurd—it's telling.

The Witch Hunt Escalates

I left that meeting shaken and confused. When I called my partner, she was as stunned as I was. HR's Matt Young assured me I wouldn't sit at home for 30 days, but that promise proved hollow.

Days later, I met with Dr. Piccone again. This time, Ms. Dodge had replaced Ms. Banks. The investigation had expanded, and I was horrified to hear a fabricated quote attributed to me: "If a girl were interested in me, it would not be because of my penis."

I had never said those words. When I asked who had made this claim, they refused to tell me. Faceless witnesses were accusing me, I couldn't confront—a violation of fundamental fairness that should trouble anyone who believes in due process.

By January 26th, I received a document with even more complaints, each more ridiculous than the last: "falling asleep at my desk," "being concerningly hungry." As a vegan with no history of fatigue during shifts, I couldn't understand how they reached these conclusions.

The most damaging fabrication concerned advice I had given to a worried father about his son's anatomy. I had reassured him that his son would grow and that someday, a girl would love him for who he was, not for his physical appearance. This act of compassion was twisted into something inappropriate and weaponized against me.

Fighting Back

I knew what this was. As a trailblazing Black female pediatric surgeon, I've spent my entire career navigating spaces where I wasn't wanted or expected. I've learned to recognize racism when I see it, and this investigation reeked of it.

I demanded written complaints. They refused to provide them.

Despite being a board-certified pediatric surgeon with over twenty years of experience and no malpractice or patient or provider complaints, I was subjected to a Focused Physician Examination (FPPE) of my clinical skills. I requested peer review through proper channels, but Carle refused. I had to arrange independent case reviews at my own expense.

The results? No clinical errors were found. None.

Yet I remained suspended from clinical privileges.

The Cover-Up

In March, Carle informed me that my FPPE report was negative and that I was officially suspended. I demanded a hearing and lined up prominent pediatric surgeons to testify.

Instead of allowing due process, Carle expanded the investigation again. They produced a list of supposed errors for every case I had performed since June of the previous year. My hearing was repeatedly delayed, and the investigation remained shrouded in secrecy.

Then came the settlement offer in April, contingent on signing a non-disclosure agreement and promising not to report them to the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission.

I refused.

That's when I learned about Carle's pattern. There was already a support group—the Black Organization of Physician Champions (BOPC)—explicitly formed to protect physicians of color from Carle's systematic bullying. I was not the first Black physician they had targeted, and I wouldn't be the last.

The Final Blow

When I refused to go quietly, Carle stopped paying my salary. The National Medical Association connected me with legal counsel, who delivered devastating advice: even if I won the hearing, my career would never be safe at Carle. As a single parent, the only viable option was to take the settlement and start over.

That was July 2023—the last time I worked as a pediatric surgeon until 2025.

Carle reported my departure to the National Practitioner Data Bank, noting that I left "while under investigation." This black mark follows me everywhere, making it nearly impossible to find another position.

I have since obtained written confirmation that all investigations ceased when I resigned, officially confirming no clinical wrongdoing. But the damage was done.

The Cruel Irony

Here's what haunts me most: leaving "under investigation" was my only fundamental mistake—and it was made on the advice of legal counsel who told me it was my best option as a single parent.

I know surgeons who have killed patients on the operating table through negligence. They're still practicing.

I know physicians who have sexually harassed residents, creating hostile environments for the next generation of doctors. They kept their jobs.

I know colleagues who have fostered toxic work environments, bullied staff, and created unsafe conditions for patient care. They remain employed in the field they trained for and love.

But I, with over twenty years of experience, independent reviews confirming no clinical errors, and a record of compassionate patient care, am unemployable. That single decision to resign under a sham investigation has made me a leper in the medical community.

The irony is suffocating: the very advice meant to protect my future destroyed it completely. While doctors with actual patient harm on their records continue practicing, I can't even get an interview. The system protects those who cause real damage while crucifying those who don't fit the mold.

The Real Cost

This isn't just my story. It's the story of how institutional racism operates in modern healthcare—not through burning crosses or explicit slurs, but through death by a thousand cuts. Fabricated complaints. Impossible standards. Faceless accusers. Procedural warfare is designed to exhaust and demoralize.

They destroyed my career not because I was incompetent—the independent reviews proved I wasn't—but because I was different. I didn't fit their image of what a surgeon should look like. I wouldn't be silent when they tried to push me out.

The children who needed surgery, the families who deserved compassionate care, the young Black medical students who might have seen themselves in me—they all lost something when Carle forced me out.

But perhaps most tragically, this will happen again—to another doctor, in another hospital—until we recognize these patterns for what they are and demand better.

But I refuse to lie down and die because Carle says I am dead.

If a speeding car on Florida streets could not make that call, then bureaucrats in a midwestern town don't get that honor.

Rising from the Ashes

They may have destroyed my surgical career, but they couldn't ruin my voice or purpose. I wrote a chapter in a book, Triumph in the Trenches, to document my story and the broader war being waged against physicians of color in medicine. I launched WhiteCoatGreenRoom—a website, newsletter, and podcast dedicated to exposing the inequities that plague our profession and creating space for healing conversations.

But I'm not stopping there. I'm developing technology that could revolutionize how we address bias in healthcare. My thinking is simple: if humans can't show each other compassion, we can teach it to AI. If we can't trust institutions to treat physicians fairly, we can build systems that will.

I am no one's victim, and I refuse to let others become victims either.

My silence doesn't buy redemption—the system has made that clear. So, at least I can be a beacon out of the darkness, warning others of the dangers ahead and showing them they're not alone when the machinery of institutional bias comes for them.

Every story I share, every pattern I expose, every physician I connect with support—this is my surgery now. I may not be saving lives in the OR anymore. Still, I'm fighting to save careers, preserve the diversity our profession desperately needs, and ensure that the next generation of Black physicians knows what they're walking into.

They silenced my scalpel, but they amplified my voice. And that voice will keep speaking until this system changes or until I draw my last breath.

But make no mistake—I have not given up on returning to the OR. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, and I am titanium now. This forced exile has only sharpened my skills, deepened my purpose, and strengthened my resolve. I will return to surgery because patients deserve surgeons who understand what it means to fight against impossible odds. I will return because the next generation of Black physicians needs to see that you can be knocked down and still get back up.

They tried to break me. Instead, they forged me into something unbreakable.