Olaf Growald
In October 2020, a Fort Worth family traveled to San Angelo to celebrate their daughter’s quinceañera. The entire family — cousins, uncles, aunts, grandparents — arrived to see the 15-year-old in her elegant dress and jewel crown. It was a large family affair where social distancing and masks gave way to hugging, kissing, and dancing.
Less than two months later, every one of the dozens of family members who attended fell ill with COVID-19. And six people — including the birthday girl’s grandmother — died.
This is an all-too-common story among the Hispanic or Latino communities, who have been disproportionately affected by COVID-19. And it’s an occurrence that Dr. Bianka Soria-Olmos, a pediatrician at Cook Children’s Pediatrics in Haslet, is fighting to stop.
“I think it was right after the Fourth of July [2020] when I really saw the Texas numbers, and I saw my community numbers really skyrocket,” Soria-Olmos says. “When I found out about that particular ZIP code and how disproportionate the numbers were, that’s when I became alarmed and all I could [do] was [ask], ‘What can I do to help?’ With the misinformation circulating in all languages and the minimal amount of accurate up-to-date information in Spanish, I knew this is how I would help.” The particular ZIP code Soria-Olmos is talking about, which is where she grew up and once lived — and where her parents still reside — is made up predominately of Hispanics or Latinos.
When you look at a map of Tarrant County that identifies areas in the city most at risk — via a spatial risk assessment report from Esite Analytics — the north and far south sides of Fort Worth are a deep red, almost burgundy, signifying a high-risk area. These are also the areas of the city where the Hispanic or Latino populations are most dense.
According to CDC data from March 10, Hispanics or Latinos make up 46.3% of confirmed COVID-19 deaths in Texas. This, despite Hispanics or Latinos making up 36.6% of the state’s population.
The trend is even worse for Hispanic or Latino children. According to national CDC data, Hispanic or Latinos between the ages of 5 and 17 make up 26.8% of COVID-19 cases in that age bracket nationally yet make up only 18.5% of that bracket’s population. Hispanics or Latinos between 0 to 4 years of age, meanwhile, make up 29.8% of the cases in that age bracket.
Locally, the story is equally grim. According to data compiled by Cook Children’s Medical Center in October 2020 — nine months after the first case of COVID-19 in Tarrant County, 53% of the children hospitalized were Hispanic or Latino. Fort Worth’s Hispanic or Latino population sits at 35.5%.
Similarly, JPS released a report in July 2020, which claimed 47% of those hospitalized due to COVID-19 identified as Hispanic or Latino; data on all JPS patients says that 36% identify as Hispanic or Latino.
These high rates of infection among the Hispanic or Latino community has also had a negative impact on the community’s care.
“Not only are there more positives in those communities, as in the positivity rate is higher than in other areas of the city, but you’re also getting reports from hospitals concerning the availability of ICU beds,” Soria-Olmos says. “It’s the county system that predominantly provides some of this care to the underserved, and those hospitals were getting overwhelmed.”
Soria-Olmos’ passion for helping the Fort Worth Hispanic or Latino community during this time infuses every word she utters. When she talks about the need to communicate and get urgent messages out to the community, she speaks with a fervor and intensity that could fool one into thinking she’s talking about her own family.
Having grown up in Fort Worth, Soria-Olmos has a deep connection with those in specific ZIP codes, where many do not speak English, have the means to purchase personal transportation, or have medical insurance. These are the people she talks to in their native tongue via live streams and Zoom calls set up via nonprofits and Cook Children’s Medical Center. People who would otherwise remain in the dark — unwittingly avoiding vaccines, unaware of COVID-19 symptoms, or unaware of how mask wearing is protective — are finally receiving up-to-date advice from a medical doctor.
Being the first member of her family born in the U.S. meant that Soria-Olmos became a perpetual first-generation achiever at nearly everything. She was the first in her family to attend college, go to medical school, become a doctor, etc.
Her mother came to the U.S. with her family while she was a school-aged child, and her father came when he was in what would have been his middle school years. Yet, as Soria-Olmos explains, her father went with no siblings and only support from his father — Soria-Olmos’ grandfather — which meant a lot of responsibility fell on him. As is the case with many who come to the U.S., they also helped support family members in Mexico.
Her parents would eventually gain U.S. citizenship and residency — benefiting from work visas, thanks to the political climate of the late 1970s. Her father would become a small-business owner, and her mother initially did clerical work at a medical office and now serves in an administrative role as the executive board liaison for a nonprofit organization.
“I learned so much from seeing how difficult it was when my parents did [come to the U.S.] and seeing how much they achieved on their own,” Soria-Olmos says. “I’m very comfortable using the word humble because, really, that’s where we came from. And I tend to use that as one of the biggest things in driving what I try to remain true to. It’s helped guide the path that I’ve navigated.”
Unlike most children, who are fickle and indecisive, Soria-Olmos was one of those kids who knew what she wanted to do at a young age and managed never to change her mind. Her mother claims she wanted to be a doctor since she was in kindergarten. This might seem like a lofty goal for someone who speaks English as a second language — she started school only knowing Spanish — yet thanks to her academic achievements, she received a scholarship to attend TCU for her undergraduate degree. Refusing to veer too far from home, she went on to attend medical school at the University of North Texas Health Science Center, again remaining in Fort Worth.
“I always knew family was going to be important to me in this new endeavor, that I was always going to be able to rely on them,” Soria-Olmos says. “Even if it was something they knew nothing about, like medical school, I knew they were going to support me regardless.”
Immensely close to her family, Soria-Olmos will occasionally sprinkle in anecdotes about her relatives when the conversation strays in other directions. This love for her family is one of the reasons she takes the war she’s waging against COVID-19 so personally.
Toward the beginning of the pandemic, Donald G. McNeil, a science and health reporter for The New York Times who specializes in plagues and pestilences, predicted that, before COVID-19 was all said and done, every person will have lost someone close to them. With the vaccines rolling out and things looking up, his prediction abruptly came true for Soria-Olmos.
Only a few weeks before Soria-Olmos’ grandmother would have received her vaccination, she became ill.
“She didn’t go many places,” Soria-Olmos says. “She and the family understood the risks of becoming infected and always listened to my recommendations. The shopping trips and going out, all that stopped. We were doing a lot of technology-driven interaction; we would not see her in-person.”
Despite the caution, Soria-Olmos pinpoints an instance around late December 2020 when her grandmother likely contracted the virus.
“Regardless of how hard this loss has been for me and family, I think we have to look for the positives,” Soria-Olmos says. “And I think the experience my family had was nothing like some of the stories I’ve heard from friends that are very disheartening. So, for that, we’re thankful because we weren’t in a situation where there was an ICU and having to talk or say goodbye through a Zoom call or a FaceTime/electronic device.
“My grandmother was able to have someone hold her hand at the end.”
Like many medical professionals, Soria-Olmos was at the front of the line to receive her vaccine. She got her first dose on Dec. 18, just before her grandmother was exposed. Though there was never a legitimate possibility for her to trade spots and give her at-risk grandmother her vaccine, Soria-Olmos explains her mind’s natural tendency to wonder, “What if?”
“Unfortunately, it just doesn’t work that way,” Soria Olmos says. “I was offered the vaccine through Cook’s as soon as it was available, and I took it without reservation or hesitation. I don’t know if having given up my vaccine to her would have made a difference, but it’s just part of what the human brain does, you know? When a sequence of events happens in that fashion, you think, ‘With this having occurred, would it have changed anything?’ I don’t know.”
The stakes were always high for Soria-Olmos. She felt that if she could keep just one person from contracting COVID-19, then the hours of Zoom sessions would have been well worth it. Now, battling the virus that took her grandmother’s life, her already unbending purpose has become even more energized.
Olaf Growald
It became evident from the outset of the pandemic that the Hispanic or Latino community would be particularly at risk. These risk factors range from health and genetics to lifestyle and economics.
“The Hispanic community has a high prevalence of some of the chronic medical conditions that puts you at high risk for severe COVID-19 disease,” Soria-Olmos says. “Some of them being diabetes, elevated BMI, cardiac issues, and lung and kidney issues … While we know the virus affects people over 65 more gravely, many people in the Hispanic community have these underlying conditions and are not over the age of 65. This puts them at a much higher risk.”
Data from the CDC shows that more than three-quarters of those who die from COVID-19 had at least one preexisting condition, and diabetes was noted as an underlying condition in 40% of patients. Of those who died from COVID-19 and were under 65, half had diabetes.
According to the CDC, Hispanics or Latinos, at 17%, are twice as likely to have Type 2 diabetes as non-Hispanic whites. While genetics is one mitigating factor, authentic foods/cuisine tend to be high in fat and calories has led to higher rates of obesity, which increases the risk of diabetes and being intubated for COVID-19.
“I think another thing you need to keep in mind is the types of jobs that people hold,” Soria-Olmos says. “A lot of jobs within the Hispanic community do not afford them the opportunity to relocate their job to their house and to work from home, which typically allows for reduction in risk of exposure to COVID-19.”
According to the United States Bureau of Labor Statistics, the service industry; production, transportation, and material moving industry; and the natural resources and construction industry account for 57% of jobs occupied by Hispanics or Latinos. Only 37% of non-Hispanic whites occupy these same vocations. These specific jobs are not easily done via work from home or social distancing, and Hispanics and Latinos occupy more of these jobs than any other race or ethnicity.
“Ultimately, it might be easy to tell people within the Hispanic community, ‘Why don’t you do this or this to protect yourself,’” Soria-Olmos says. “But they can’t. They don’t have that choice or that opportunity. They have to continue doing their jobs to support their families.”
Finally, having access to accurate, up-to-date information is also a barrier for the Latino or Hispanic community. Many do not speak English, or do not speak it well, and others simply don’t have the means due to economic circumstances to receive information.
“People are of the notion that, ‘well, you should learn English,’” Soria-Olmos says. “They’re right. We’re in the U.S., and our official language is English. But we are a country made up of a wide variety of different groups who don’t speak English. If you do not understand the reason why we’re saying to wear a mask, then you’re obviously going to be at a disadvantage and at a higher risk.”
To put it in perspective, imagine it’s the onset of the pandemic and there’s no possible way for you to receive updates or accurate information because you either don’t speak the language or don’t have the means to gather the information. Today, we rely so heavily on consistent, up-to-the-minute notifications to keep us well informed.
And this is precisely where Soria-Olmos comes in. Partnering with nonprofits (Hispanic Women’s Network; MANA, a national Latina organization; and The Concilio) and Cook Children’s, she’s trying to eliminate the communication barrier as one of the mitigating factors contributing to the Hispanic or Latino community being at high risk.
Using Facebook Live, Zoom, Periscope, Ustream, or any other livestreaming service you can imagine, Soria-Olmos, who once described herself as shy, is using the bullhorn to get her message across.
“As soon as my desire to help began, I sprang into action and eventually found myself as the primary speaker at several different monthly COVID-19 chats,” Soria-Olmos says. “I was there to answer questions and keep everyone aware of what was going on. What is quarantine? What is isolation? Why should I wear a mask? What we talked about evolved as new information came out.”
Soon after, Cook Children’s launched the Spanish version of Checkup Newsroom, which featured Soria-Olmos as its primary writer/contributor. The Checkup Newsroom covers general pediatric medical topics, and pediatric physicians create all of its content. While the pandemic still played a big part in the information discussed in the last year, Soria-Olmos explains that there remained many other health topics that needed to be addressed — kids were still getting everyday ailments, after all. Around that same time, Soria-Olmos also became the hospital’s go-to Spanish-speaking personality for radio and television interviews. This allowed the hospital to communicate to an even wider Hispanic or Latino audience.
“I know I used to see a variety of different doctors on news outlets speaking English, but I hadn’t seen too many in Spanish,” Soria-Olmos says. “So, I was happy to fill that role.”
Many of those listening to her monthly livestreams or news segments might not have the opportunity to speak to a doctor; they don’t have a physician they can readily reach out to with questions or concerns. Soria-Olmos was filling that role; she became a pediatrician to thousands.
Soria-Olmos is also part of an organization called the Hispanic Women’s Network, an education program that helps Latino girls navigate the college application process. Through this organization, Soria-Olmos attended Zoom meetings/presentations that began in August. While the program’s purpose does not include educating students on COVID-19, Soria-Olmos noticed she was fielding a lot of questions from students about the pandemic.
“I learned many of them had family members that had been affected,” Soria-Olmos says. “So, I became a resource for them and their family members. Without reservation, I offered my guidance and expertise and said, ‘If any of your families need help, I’m here.’”
Soria-Olmos says that she was able to talk to students about having conversations with their parents about the pandemic. If a mother, father, or caregiver showed symptoms and refused to get tested, she was guiding students on how to tell their parents they needed to get tested.
“I’m not entirely sure how many of those students wound up taking my advice,” Soria-Olmos says. “But if I made a difference in just a few of those girls’ family’s lives, I call it a victory.”
Olaf Growald
Despite being labeled as shy by some, Soria-Olmos has become comfortable in her role as a communicator
Despite vaccine rollouts and, as of press time, cases of COVID-19 declining, Soria-Olmos’ war is far from over. Her next battle: ensuring the community gets vaccinated.
“As a pediatrician, I talk about vaccines all the time, so it’s right in my wheelhouse,” Soria-Olmos says. “I answer questions every day from families who have heard misinformation and have become hesitant to vaccinate their children.
“The most common question regarding the COVID-19 vaccine is, ‘why was it so fast? It was developed so quickly; does this mean it’s safe?’”
According to Tarrant County data, only 9% of Hispanic or Latinos comprise the total number of Tarrant County residents who have received a vaccination. Again, 29.5% of the Tarrant County population identifies as Hispanic or Latino. (Note: This number may be skewed, as 42% of vaccine recipients did not report their race or ethnicity.)
Like COVID-19 itself, there are many mitigating factors to explain why the Hispanic or Latino community has not been vaccinated at the same rate as non-Hispanic whites.
A lack of resources, such as transportation to and from vaccination sites, a fear of deportation for those who are undocumented, and a lack of information and too much misinformation, all contribute.
“I think it comes down to things we already know exist, and it’s health disparities,” Soria-Olmos says. “There’s some information and data I’ve heard that suggests lack of access as a key contributor to the low vaccination rate in these communities. And I think I can vouch. I mean, people were waiting on the order of six to eight weeks to get a response after they’ve put their name on the list when vaccine distribution initially started.
“I think there needs to be an effort to get more sites that are serving those ZIP codes that are considered vulnerable — where more people are suffering from diabetes and obesity. A more targeted approach would be good and important.”
Soria-Olmos refuses to say that those in the Hispanic or Latino community are wary about vaccinations. “I see the same hesitancy in other racial and ethnic groups,” Soria Olmos says. “It’s not that [Hispanics or Latinos] don’t want to get vaccinated, it just may be a little bit harder for them to go through the steps of doing it.”
While the vaccine might signal an end in sight to some, Soria-Olmos remains as vocal as ever, and she’s become comfortable in her role as a communicator.
“I think this past year made a lot of doctors aware of how much it wasn’t just about the science or the medicine, but how much it was about the ability to communicate with people,” Soria-Olmos says. “If you were good at that, I think you were probably more successful at helping build trust with patients and move forward.”
Until every Fort Worthian is vaccinated, and Soria-Olmos witnesses a day when the tally of new COVID-19 cases stands at zero, she will continue to talk. She will use all of the platforms at her disposal to discuss the pandemic with her beloved community, and she will continue to shine a light on a painful disparity that many refuse to see. And she will do so in her native language.
