Waking up is white privilege for me. I am alive because I fought like a lion to live-- fought not only my disease but also fought through the dysfunctional medical system. I fought to be seen, fought to be listened to, fought to be believed, fought using friend's computers, the library's books, my parent's money and negotiating skill, every single ounce of resources and stature I could call upon, and I just barely survived. My gut was almost sealed shut when they cut a hand's length of it out of me. If it had taken a few weeks longer to jump through all the hoops to finally get to the right specialist, I would not have made it. I have no black sisters in this experience, I have no sisters among the first people, I have found no women of color who have been through what I have been through and survived. Instead I have found only stories of how they died fighting to find a doctor who would listen. I am brutally conscious, from my own life, from my own direct experiences, of the reality that tens of thousands of people of color are being killed every year by doctors and by social workers who refuse to believe in their pain. My top white privilege is getting to wake up every morning, and the absolute least I can do with that privilege is to see, to listen, and to believe.