I didn’t expect the ER to break me. It was 2 a.m., and I sat slumped in a plastic chair, pajama pants still from delivery, cradling my feverish three-week-old. Olivia screamed hoarse in my arms, my C-section scar aching, my body hollow from no sleep. Across from me, a man in a sharp suit flashed a gold watch and sneered, “Unbelievable. We’re prioritizing that? A single mom with a screaming kid? I pay for this system.” The nurse, Tracy, stayed calm: “Sir, we treat by urgency.”
The double doors opened. A doctor scanned the room, bypassed Mr. Rolex, and asked me, “Baby with fever?” I nodded. “Excuse me!” the man jumped up. “I’ve had chest pain for an hour. Could be a heart attack!” The doctor studied him. “You’re not pale, sweating, or short of breath. I’ll bet you strained a pec on the golf course.” A chuckle rippled through the waiting room.
