Chapter 14 #2
After filling out the forms, I present my insurance card only to be told she’s having trouble verifying my coverage.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“It means we’ll treat him, but you will be responsible for any co-pays and any services your insurance provider doesn’t cover. Sign here.”
I sign. I’d sign away my soul right now if it would get my son seen faster.
We wait.
Three hours in that waiting room, watching injured people and sick people cycle through while my son’s skin seems to turn more yellow by the minute.
Finally, finally, they call Leon’s name.
A nurse leads us back to a bed in a curtained-off area.
Not a room, just a bed surrounded by thin fabric that does nothing to muffle the sounds of the ER.
Someone is wailing nearby. An alarm is beeping.
The nurse takes Leon’s vitals with brisk efficiency and starts an IV for fluids.
Leon flinches as he feels the needle, but he’s too weak to scream now.
He just cries silently, tears streaming down his face, looking at me like I’m supposed to make it stop.
“The doctor will be with you soon.”
Soon turns out to be another hour, and by then Leon has cried himself to sleep.
It’s nearly midnight when a young resident in rumpled scrubs appears. She looks almost as tired as I feel.
“I’m Dr. Hardy. I’ve looked at the blood work from the urgent care clinic.” She’s gentle, at least, when she examines Leon. “We’re going to need to run more tests. I want to admit him overnight so we can monitor his liver function.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“We’re not sure yet. His liver is inflamed, and that’s what’s causing the jaundice. It could be a virus, it could be autoimmune, it could be a few other things. We’ll know more after the tests.”
“Is he going to be okay?”
She hesitates. Just for a second. But I see it.
“Let’s see what the tests tell us.”
They admit Leon to the pediatric ward at two in the morning.
But when we get upstairs, there are no rooms available.
We’re ushered into a bay with four beds, separated by thin curtains that do nothing to block out sound.
The other beds are occupied—a toddler with something attached to his head, a girl around Leon’s age with her leg in a cast, and a boy who looks about seven hooked up to an IV.
The toddler cries. Constantly. A piercing wail that cuts through the darkness every time I start to drift off in the chair next to Leon’s bed.
The girl with the cast moans in her sleep.
The seven-year-old’s parents are both here, the mother on one side of the bed, the father on the other, and they murmur to each other in low voices, occasionally laughing softly at some shared joke.
A couple supporting each other.
I have no one.
I curl up in the hard plastic chair beside Leon’s bed, holding his small hand, and I watch the minutes tick by on the clock above the door.
Tuesday is a blur of blood draws and tests and waiting.
Every few hours, someone comes to take more of Leon’s blood through the IV port.
Between the tests, I try to sleep, but the ward is never quiet.
The toddler wails. Parents come and go. A two-year-old in the hallway throws a tantrum at six in the morning.
The nurses change shifts and talk loudly outside the curtain like they’ve forgotten there are sick children trying to rest.
At some point, Rosa appears. She brings me a change of clothes and my toothbrush, and she holds me while I cry.
“Have they told you anything?”
“They’re still running tests. They keep saying they’ll know more soon.”
“He’s going to be okay, Mina. He’s a strong kid.”
I nod, but I can’t stop staring at Leon’s face. His skin is properly yellow now. Not just a tinge. Actually yellow, like he’s been dipped in dye. And his beautiful amber eyes, Cristiano’s eyes, are surrounded by a sickly gold that makes them look like something out of a nightmare.
Rosa stays for an hour, then has to leave to pick up her kids from school.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” she promises. “Call me or Mom if anything changes. I mean it, Mina. Anything.”
And then I’m alone again.
Late Tuesday afternoon, a doctor I haven’t seen before appears at Leon’s bedside. She’s older than the residents, with a brisk manner and a clipboard clutched against her chest. She pulls the curtain closed without asking if I want privacy.
“Ms. Santoro? I’m Dr. Raynor. Pediatric hepatology.” She doesn’t wait for me to respond. “I’ve reviewed your son’s labs. His ALT and AST are through the roof, bilirubin is climbing. He has autoimmune hepatitis with acute liver failure.”
I stare at her blankly. The words wash over me without meaning.
She doesn’t explain. Just looks at me expectantly, like I should understand what she’s said.
“I don’t understand,” I manage. “What does that mean?”
A flicker of impatience crosses her face. “It means his immune system is attacking his liver.” She says it slowly, like she’s explaining to a child. “We’re starting him on high-dose corticosteroids. If he responds, we may be able to manage this long-term with medication.”
“So he’ll be okay?”
“Many children respond well to steroids.” It’s not an answer. She’s already scribbling something on her clipboard. “We’ll monitor his liver function closely over the next forty-eight hours.”
“And if he doesn’t respond? What happens then?”
She looks up, and there’s no empathy in her eyes. Only professional detachment. “Let’s cross that bridge if we come to it.”
Her pager buzzes. She glances at it, frowns, and is already moving toward the curtain.
“Wait—” I start, but she’s already gone, the curtain swishing closed behind her.
I’m left alone with my son and a diagnosis I don’t understand and a terror that’s eating me alive.
They start the steroids Tuesday evening. I watch the IV drip into my son’s tiny arm and make silent bargains with anyone or anything that might be listening.
Please let this work. Please. I’ll do anything. I’ll be a better mother. I’ll never make a stupid, selfish choice like Saturday night again. Just please, please let my son be okay.
My phone buzzes. I glance at it, expecting Rosa checking in.
It’s Gloria.
I listen to the voicemail in the hallway, one hand pressed against the wall for support.
“Mina, this is Gloria. I approved your absence for yesterday, but you were supposed to be here today, and you simply…didn’t show up.
No call, no message, nothing. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I have to say, this is extremely unprofessional.
Some of us don’t have the luxury of special arrangements with management.
Some of us have to actually show up and do our jobs. Call me back as soon as you get this.”
I close my eyes.
I forgot. In the chaos of the ER and the admission and the endless tests, I completely forgot that I was supposed to work today.
I didn’t call. I didn’t text. Gloria knows about my entanglement with Cristiano, and she thinks I’m using it.
Trading on my connection to the owner to get away with things no one else could.
The humiliation burns through me, hot and sharp, even though I’m too exhausted to really feel it. I should call her back and explain, but I have nothing left in me tonight to spare for anyone but my son.
I put the phone away and go back to Leon’s bedside.
On Wednesday, he starts to get better.
It happens so gradually that I don’t trust it at first, but by midmorning, Leon is awake and alert, asking for juice, and complaining that he’s bored. His skin still looks yellow, but slightly less so. His eyes are brighter.
“Mama, when can we go home?”
I’m smiling so hard as I stroke his hair, gratitude pouring through me. “Soon, baby. The doctors need to make sure you’re all better first.”
“I want my dinosaur. Can you bring him?”
“I’ll try and bring him tomorrow, okay?”
He nods, satisfied, and asks if he can watch the truck show on my phone. I let him, and I cry silent tears into my sleeve where he can’t see.
The blood tests come back midafternoon. The nurse smiles when she tells me his liver enzymes are dropping.
“That’s a good sign. It means the steroids are working.”
I text Rosa and Mom: I think he’s going to be okay.
She sends back a string of heart emojis. Mom replies with prayer hands.
Mom: I can come to the hospital tonight so you can go home and rest. You must be exhausted.
Mina: I’m okay. We’ll probably be going home soon.
Mom: If you’re sure?
I’m terrified that if Mom comes to the hospital, Cristiano will find out where I am, and the next thing I know he’ll be at Leon’s bedside. The last thing I want to do is force brown contact lenses into Leon’s eyes while he’s sick. Besides, with any luck, we’ll be discharged tomorrow.
For the first time since Monday, I let myself breathe.
Meanwhile, the other parents in the ward are driving me insane.
The couple with the seven-year-old have been joined by grandparents, aunts, and cousins, a rotating cast of family members who talk too loud and laugh too much and fill their corner of the room with balloons and stuffed animals.
They take turns sitting with their son. They go home to shower and sleep in real beds.
They bring each other food from actual restaurants, not the sad cafeteria sandwiches I’ve been choking down.
The toddler’s parents are a professional couple who seem annoyed to be here, like their child’s illness is an inconvenience in their busy schedules. They snap at the nurses. They complain about the food and the noise. Their nanny comes so they can go back to work.
And then there’s me. Alone. Unwashed. Dark circles under my eyes, hair scraped back in a greasy ponytail, surviving on vending machine coffee and pure terror.
That evening, the father from the big family catches me in the hallway.
“Rough week, huh?” he says sympathetically.
I nod, too tired for small talk.
“Where’s your husband? Working?”
“I don’t have a husband.”