I nod, trying to process this information. “Is it fixable?”
“With medication, yes. We can manage his symptoms and help him live a normal life. I want to do a more detailed test to get a complete picture, but the good news is that he’s going to be fine.”
“What kind of test?”
“An echocardiogram where we pass a small tube down his throat to get a closer look at his heart.”
My stomach flips. The thought of them putting anything down Austin’s throat makes me nauseous, but I push it aside. “Is it safe?”
“Yes. Very.”
I nod and sign the paperwork.
When they wheel Austin away, I’m left in the waiting room that smells like disinfectant and fear. I can’t sit still, so I pull out my phone.Congenital heart defect. Treatable, but expensive. Maybe surgery one day.My anxiety ratchets higher with every line I read.
The more I scroll, the more questions I have. What does “treatable” actually mean? Will he be able to play sports? Live a normal life? And how much will all this cost us?
By the time Keshia arrives, I’ve read everything I can find about Austin’s condition. I know what questions to ask the doctor, what to expect from his treatment, what warning signs to watch for. The practical side of my brain has also started wondering how we’re going to afford all of this, but I push that worry aside for now.
“Nina, what the hell happened?” Keshia drops into the chair beside me, still in her yoga clothes. She’s wearing leggings and a bright pink tank top that contrasts with her warm brown skin, her box braids pulled into a ponytail. She must have come straight from teaching a class.
I give her the quick version while we wait. When I finish, her face is full of worry and sympathy. She reaches over and squeezes my hand tightly.
“He’s going to be okay,” she says firmly.
“I hope so.” I lean back in my chair. “But Kesh, this is going to be lifelong. Medications, regular check-ups, monitoring...and you know how our insurance is.”
Keshia’s face falls as she realizes what I’m getting at.
“But I can’t think about that right now,” I shake my head. “I just need him to be okay first.”
When Dr. Murphy comes to get us an hour later, Austin is awake and asking for me. The relief nearly knocks me over, but it’s tempered by everything she tells us about his treatment plan. Multiple medications. Monthly check-ups. Possible surgery down the road if the medication stops being effective.
I listen and ask about side effects and long-term prognosis, but part of my mind is running numbers. How much this will cost. How many extra shifts I’ll need to pick up. How I’m going to afford this without sacrificing every moment I have with my son.
Two weeks pass in a blur of double shifts and medication schedules. I’ve been picking up every extra hour I can at the diner, working from opening to close most days. The tips are decent, but Austin’s medications are going to cost four hundred dollars a month, and that’s just the beginning.
Tonight I don’t get home until after eleven. The diner closes at ten, but there’s always cleaning and prep work for tomorrow. I’m so exhausted I can barely think straight, but I force myself to be quiet as I unlock the door to the house we share with Keshia. Austin’s been asleep for hours.
I drop my purse and kick off my shoes, then pad down the hallway to his room. The door is slightly open, and I can hear his soft breathing from the doorway. He’s sprawled across his twin bed, one arm hanging off the edge, dark hair mussed from sleep.
My heart clenches as I realize I didn’t see him awake at all today.
I left before he got up for breakfast, and he was already in bed when I got home. I missed everything. I don’t know if he had a good day or a bad one, if he asked Keshia to read himThe Cat in the Hator if he built something with his Legos. I don’t know if he took his medicine without complaining or if he asked where Mommy was.
I step into his room and gently brush the hair back from his forehead. His face is completely relaxed in sleep, peaceful and innocent. He’s been so good about everything; the doctor visits, the daily medications, the way our life has suddenly become all about his heart condition.
“I’m sorry, baby,” I whisper, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. “I’m trying to fix this.”
But I’m failing him, aren’t I? I’m working myself to death trying to pay for his care, and in the process, I’m missing out on actually being his mother.
I pull his blanket up to his chin and reluctantly leave his room.
Later on, in the kitchen, Keshia finds me with my laptop and a calculator, surrounded by bills and bank statements.
“What are you up to?”
“Trying to figure out how fucked we are.” I turn the screen toward her to show her my spreadsheet. “Austin’s medications are four hundred a month. And that’swithinsurance. The hospital bills are starting to roll in. And I’m exhausted from working doubles just to keep up.”
