And then he’s gone.
The blood draw is awful.
Leon screams when he sees the needle, thrashing in my arms, and I have to hold him down while the nurse tries to find a vein. His little arm is so small, his veins so tiny, and it takes three attempts before she gets it.
“Mama, stop! Mama, it hurts!”
“I know, baby, I know. It’ll be over soon. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”
By the time it’s done, we’re both crying.
I carry him back to the car, his face buried in my neck, his body shaking with residual sobs. I strap him into his car seat and drive home, and I wait for the phone to ring.
It doesn’t.
By three o’clock, I’ve heard nothing. I call the clinic and get put on hold for twenty minutes before someone tells me the doctor will call me back.
By five o’clock, still nothing. I call again. Hold for another fifteen minutes. “The results should be in the system. Let me check… Yes, they’re here. The doctor will review them and call you.”
“Can you just tell me what they say?”
“I’m not authorized to discuss results. The doctor will call you.”
Leon is worse. He’s barely conscious now, drifting in and out of a restless sleep. His skin has taken on a yellowish tinge that I can’t pretend isn’t there. When I carry him to the bathroom, his urine is the color of dark tea.
I call the clinic again at seven. This time no one answers.
I’m about to drive back there and pound on the door when my phone finally rings.
“Ms. Santoro? This is Dr. Chen from North Malus Urgent Care. I’m covering the evening shift, and I’ve just reviewed your son’s blood work.”
“Yes? What does it say?”
A pause.
“You need to take your son to the emergency room. His liver enzymes are extremely elevated. This isn’t something that can wait until morning.”
“What does that mean? What’s wrong with him?”
“They’ll run more tests at the hospital. But you need to gonow, Ms. Santoro. Do you understand?”
I don’t understand anything at all.
The emergency room is worse than the urgent care clinic. A drunk man is arguing with a security guard. Someone is moaning behind a curtain. A baby’s screaming. The smell of antiseptic and vomit hang in the air.
I carry Leon to the reception desk and try to explain that I was told to come here, that his liver enzymes are elevated, and I’m terrified.
The woman behind the desk barely looks up. “Fill out these forms. Take a seat. Someone will call you.”
“How long?”
“Depends on how busy we are.”
I find a seat between a man with a bloody towel wrapped around his hand and a woman who’s coughing so hard I’m worried she’ll pass out. Leon lies limply in my arms, too exhausted to even cry anymore.
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.
