I had more important things to take care of at the moment anyway rather than contemplating the potential drug ties of a company I would never work for. I picked up my cell phone and searched through the contact list until I found the number to my mother’s doctor.
“Hello, you’ve reached the medical offices of Dr. Singh, how may I be of service today?” a young, chipper woman asked after the third ring.
“Good afternoon, my name is Roberto Torres,” I replied. “I’m calling on behalf of my mother, Jasmine Torres. She’s a patient of Dr. Singh.”
“Mr. Torres,” the woman repeated, and I heard the familiar tap of keys as she looked up my mother’s names in her system. “Ah, yes. Mrs. Torres is your mother, you said?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I responded and started to drum my fingers on my desk to release some of the nervous energy that always came with a call to the doctor’s office. “I should be listed as her emergency contact and as someone who can have access to her medical files.”
“Oh, yes,” the chipper woman said, and I could hear the change in her voice as she read my mother’s diagnosis. “How can I help you today, Mr. Torres?”
“I need a referral to an oncologist,” I told her, though as the words left my mouth, my voice hitched, and I had to fight back the overwhelming sadness that rushed to the surface.
“The doctor has already sent a referral over to an oncologist,” the woman on the other end of the line said with a few more taps on her keyboard. “I can give you their information. They should be waiting for your call.”
“I appreciate that,” I said as I began to root through my desk drawer in search of a pen and a pad of paper. “I’m ready.”
I clicked the ballpoint pen from the University of Miami Hospital and Clinics and then waited for the receptionist to give me the name and the number of the oncologist that would hopefully save my mother’s life.
“His name is Dr. Allen Brown,” the woman said. “And his number is--” She paused as she checked the number, and then rattled it off for me. “Is there anything else that I can help you with today, Mr. Torres?”
“No,” I answered. “Thank you for your help.”
“Of course,” she said, and her voice held a hint of sadness instead of the cheery tone she had greeted with me. “I am truly sorry. I hope that Dr. Brown is able to help your mother.”
“Me, too,” I replied while I blinked away the tears that threatened to spill over. “Thanks for your help.”
I ended the call, and then closed my eyes as I took a deep, steadying breath. When I felt like I wouldn’t burst into tears, I dialed the number to the oncologist and held my breath as I listened to the phone ring for what seemed like forever.
“Good afternoon, you’ve reached the office of Dr. Allen Brown, Oncologist,” the tired voice of a woman said when she finally picked up. “How may I help you today?”
“Hello,” I said. “My name is Roberto Torres. I believe my mother’s doctor sent a referral to your office. Her name is Jasmine Torres.”
“Let me check,” the woman said.
She sounded like she hadn’t slept for days, and I wondered if that was her natural disposition or if working in an oncologist’s office just sucked the life out of her. I could hear her tap away at the keyboard, just as the other woman had, and then there was a long pause when all I could hear was someone talking in the background.
“Here it is,” she said. “Oh, yes. Mrs. Jasmine Torres. We have her set up for her first appointment next Tuesday. The doctor will need to run some tests to determine how far the cancer has progressed.”
“Right,” I responded while I pulled my wallet out of my back pocket. “What time is the test?”
“It’s at 10:00 a.m.,” the receptionist answered. “Will you be with her, or will she be driving herself?”
“She’ll either be with me or her friend,” I said.
“Perfect,” the tired woman replied, and I heard her yawn. “The tests can be a little exhausting emotionally and physically so you’ll want someone to be with her after she leaves here or to check in on her that day.”
“Right,” I said, and made a mental note to clear my schedule for next Tuesday.
I might be able to convince her to let me cook, though I was sure that my mama would fight me tooth and nail to be in her kitchen until she couldn’t stand it any longer. If I could convince her it was for my own emotional health, though, then she might concede.
“Does your mother have insurance?” the receptionist asked while she tapped on some keys.
The sound reminded me of when Rina would type, and I guessed that the tired woman on the other end of the line had acrylic nails as well.
“She does,” I said. “Are you ready for the information?”
“Yes,” the woman managed to say before she yawned again. “We’ll have to run her insurance through our system. Whatever isn’t covered will need to be paid before any tests can be run.”
“Of course,” I responded.
I’d gotten a copy of my mother’s insurance card from her that morning, and she’d fought me a bit, but in the end I’d convinced her to let me take care of her by dealing with the bills so she could focus on getting better. She’d known, of course, that the costs of the tests and treatment would be more than she could handle, so she had begrudgingly given me the card. She’d muttered to herself in Spanish that she’d pay me back as soon as she was better, and she ignored me when
