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.
“This infant has a fever of 101.7,” he added firmly. “At three weeks, that’s an emergency. She goes first. Speak to my staff like that again, and you’re out.” Applause broke out. Tracy mouthed, Go. In the exam room, Dr. Robert reassured me: “It’s a mild virus.
You did the right thing.” Tracy later brought donated supplies—a blanket, formula, wipes—with a note: You’ve got this, Mama. By the time Olivia’s fever eased, I walked out steadier, holding her close. Outside, the night air felt clean.
