She was a single mom who owned a car repair shop in a small town just outside Boston. And actually fixed the cars as well.
A thin oxygen line rested under her nose. The IV pump was right beside her bed, clicking softly as it delivered fluids and pain medication. Near the foot of the bed, a catheter bag hung low.
Her skin looked pale and washed out, but the freckles across her nose and cheeks still stood out. Dark circles pooled beneath closed eyes, matching her black hair pulled back for surgery, with a few loose strands slipping free.
A whiteboard hung at the foot of the bed, listing goals for the day and diet restrictions in blue marker. I had checked her vitals on the computer about an hour ago. Everything looked amazing.
Dr. Rothchild had been able to remove the entire tumor. He was an asshole but also one of the best surgeons in the nation. And, luckily, her ovarian cancer had been found just in time.
I was turning to leave, to let her rest, when her brown eyes opened and settled on me.
“There you are,” she said in a weak but warm voice. A small smile tugged at her mouth.
I pulled the chair closer and sat beside her bed.
“Everything still looks great,” I said. “Your vitals are fantastic, and Dr. Rothchild got all the cancerous cells out.”
Her hand lifted slightly, and she pointed toward the nightstand.
I rose and walked over to the nightstand. Tucked between a water glass and a stack of get-well cards was a drawing in bright colors. I picked it up and looked at it.
It showed a woman in a bed and a man beside her, dressed all in blue. Both of them were smiling, and they were holding hands. Beneath them, written in crooked letters, were two words.
Thank you.
“My daughter drew this for you,” Mrs. Gonzales said, smiling. “You saved my life.”
“God.” My head shook on its own. “I didn’t save you. Dr. Rothchild did the surgery. And you’re the one who fought through all this.”
She reached for me. Her hand settled around my arm in a weak grip. The touch was cool. A little rough. Callused from years of working on engines and tools in her shop. Her eyes held mine. Brown. Tired. But still carrying that familiar, stubborn strength I knew from my mom and my grandma.
“I know it was you who fought for my surgery with Dr. Rothchild,” she said softly. “The nurses told me. The doctors wanted to put me on a months-long waiting list.”
That part was true.
What they didn’t tell her was that the fight had mostly been about reimbursement issues with her insurance, not about skipping the line ahead of other cancer patients. After a few arguments with the billing department, I got her approved for the hospital fund. It covered what the insurance didn’t. Which was most of it.
“I…” Her eyes grew teary. “I don't know how to thank you. I always thought my biggest fear was ending up all alone. Then I became a mom and realized my biggest fear is my child ending up all alone in a world like this.”
I didn't know what to say for a moment.
“Well,” I finally said, “it's my job.”
Her smile widened.
"What a beautiful job," she said. "Saving single moms from the pits of hell so they can be with their kids. Like a white knight in shining armor."
A laugh escaped my lips as heat crept up my cheeks. A faint blush I hoped she wouldn't notice. Something about Mrs. Gonzales stirred strong emotions in me.
A woman who'd fought. A woman who'd carried weight. A single mom working with her hands in a male-dominated field. She carried the weight of an unfair world all on her own like a superhero. Strong. Stubborn. Kinda like my mom and grandma.
“There you are,” Dr. Rothchild said as he walked in.
He was short and thin. His glasses sat low on his nose, and his white coat hung stiff on his shoulders.
“Your shift is done. You can go home,” he said. “We’re slammed all week, so I need you back tonight at eleven for the night shift.” He glanced at his watch. “If you want to shower or sleep, you should leave right now. I don’t want to hear whining later, understood?”
Mrs. Gonzales and I exchanged a look. The kind that said asshole.
