Chapter 7
chapter
seven
The waiting room on the fourth floor was a study in institutional beige — uncomfortable chairs arranged in precise rows, fluorescent lights that hummed with a frequency designed to make you want to leave, and motivational posters that felt like insults when you were sitting there in the pre-dawn darkness watching someone you love disappear by degrees.
Margaret had gone home around midnight to get some sleep and feed the cat. "You should go too, mija," she'd said, using the endearment that always made my chest tight. "Get some rest."
But I couldn't leave. Not when Cap was upstairs in a bed that looked too small for him, hooked up to monitors that beeped and flashed like some kind of medical Christmas tree. Not when I could still see the awful yellow of his skin under the harsh hospital lights.
The doctor had come by an hour ago — Dr. Patel, I think, though the names were starting to blur together.
He'd rattled off a string of words that might as well have been a foreign language: "The CT confirms our suspicions.
Elevated bilirubin and alkaline phosphatase suggest cholestasis, likely due to a biliary obstruction.
We need to rule out cholangitis and determine if this is related to tumor progression or a separate issue entirely. "
I'd nodded like I understood, the way I always did. Lieutenant Isabel Delgado was supposed to have answers, was supposed to be in control. But sitting there in that waiting room, I felt like I was drowning in medical terminology and acronyms that everyone else seemed to speak fluently.
At the station, I knew everything. I could tell you the flow rate on any piece of equipment, the best approach for any type of structure, the exact protocol for any emergency.
I could make life-and-death decisions without hesitation because I understood the variables, the risks, the tools at my disposal.
Here, I was just another family member, sitting in a plastic chair, waiting for someone else to tell me whether the person I loved most in the world was going to live or die.
The exhaustion was starting to hit me now that the adrenaline had worn off. My eyes burned from the fluorescent lights and too many hours without sleep. My hands, which never shook on a fire scene, were trembling slightly as I held my phone.
I pulled the patient label from my pocket for the third time in an hour. *Jimmy Dalton* was written in neat handwriting, followed by his number. *Us first responders have to look out for one another.*
The internal argument started immediately.
Don't be a burden. He was just being nice. He's probably busy with other patients.
But then I thought about the way he'd spoken to Cap — gentle but authoritative, treating him like a person instead of just another case.
The way he'd convinced Cap to take the pain medication when I'd have been trying for hours.
The way he'd looked at me when he handed me that paper, like he actually meant it.
I don't understand what's happening. I need to know.
He said to call.
First responders look out for each other.
That was the permission I needed. This wasn't about being weak or needy. This was professional courtesy. One first responder helping another navigate unfamiliar territory.
I crafted the text carefully, reading it over three times before hitting send:
Hey, this is Izzy Delgado, from the ER earlier. Sorry to bother you, but the doctor mentioned 'biliary obstruction.' Can you explain what that means in plain English? Don't feel obligated to answer, I know you're busy.
I hit send before I could change my mind, then immediately regretted it. It was almost 4 a.m. He was probably with other patients, or finally getting a break, or —
My phone buzzed.
Jimmy
No bother at all. It basically means there's a blockage in one of the tubes that drains fluid from his liver. It's what's causing the jaundice and the pain. The CT scan should tell us where and what it is. It's a common complication, and we can usually treat it.
I read the message twice, feeling some of the tension in my shoulders ease. That made sense. A blockage was something concrete, something that could be fixed. I was formulating a reply when another message came through.
Jimmy
The more important question is, how are YOU holding up? That was a tough night.
I stared at the screen. When was the last time someone had asked me that question? When was the last time someone had looked past Lieutenant Delgado to see the person underneath?
My fingers hovered over the keyboard. The professional response would be to say I was fine, thank him for the information, and end the conversation. That's what I always did. That's what was expected.
Instead, I found myself typing:
I'm okay. Just tired. Thanks for explaining.
The response came quickly:
Jimmy
Tired is an understatement. Get some coffee if you can. And try to breathe. He's in the best place he can be right now. Let us do the worrying for a bit.
Let us do the worrying for a bit.
I read that line over and over. When was the last time someone had offered to carry part of the load? When was the last time someone had told me it was okay to not be strong for a minute?
I looked around the empty waiting room, with its bad coffee and worse lighting, and for the first time since Margaret called me, the crushing weight on my chest felt a little lighter. Not gone — it would never be gone while Cap was fighting for his life — but manageable.
I typed back:
Thank you. Really.
Jimmy
Anytime. I mean that.
I tucked the phone back into my pocket, but not before saving his number properly in my contacts.
Jimmy Dalton. The night shift nurse who'd treated Cap like he mattered, who'd taken the time to explain things in words I could understand, who'd asked how I was holding up like the answer actually mattered to him.
For the first time all night, I allowed myself a small, weary smile.
The professional connection had shifted into something else, something I wasn't quite ready to name.
But sitting there in that sterile waiting room, watching the sunrise creep through the windows, I felt something I hadn't felt in a long time.
I felt seen. Not as Lieutenant Delgado, not as the woman who had to have all the answers, but as Izzy. Just Izzy, who was scared and tired and grateful for a kind voice in the dark.
And maybe that was enough to get me through whatever came next.