The Priority He Gave to the Wrong Woman

The day my mother was diagnosed, I called my husband seventeen times from the hospital corridor.

He was the Deputy Director of Cardiothoracic Surgery at the provincial hospital.

He finally picked up on the eighteenth call.

"Ethan, Mom's scan came back with a pulmonary nodule. Can you arrange a specialist consultation?"

He answered with barely concealed impatience:

"Three centimeters isn't necessarily malignant. Have her get a regular outpatient appointment and wait in line."

My mother was sitting on the metal bench outside the CT room, trying to comfort me.