The ER was packed. Noise. Fluorescent lights. Phones ringing. Somebody crying behind a curtain.
A triage nurse looked up. Claire, according to her badge.
Before I could speak, Jessica stepped in. “She’s fine. Anxiety. She always does this when attention shifts.”
Claire looked past her at me. “What are you feeling?”
“Abdomen,” I said. “Pain. Can’t breathe.”
Claire’s face changed instantly. “Get her a bed.”
Jessica cut in. “No. Let her sit. She’s dramatic.”
Claire turned on her. “She does not look stable.”
Jessica grabbed my arm, shoved me into a plastic chair, and said, “Don’t make a scene.”
Then she left.
Just walked out.
I sat there bleeding in a waiting room while my sister went back to her wedding week.
Claire came over fast. She checked my pulse, then my eyes, then my breathing. “Any recent trauma?”
I should have kept quiet. Instead I told the truth. “Yes.”
That was enough.
She called trauma.
They rolled me back on a gurney. Monitors. Needles. Bright light. People moving fast.
Then my parents arrived.
Not worried. Angry.
My father asked one question. “How much is this going to cost?”
Claire said I needed a CT and possible surgery. My mother shut it down immediately.
“No. My other daughter’s wedding is in two days.”
Claire stared at them. “She could be bleeding internally.”
My father held out his hand. “Give me the refusal form.”
He signed.
My mother looked at me like I was the inconvenience.
Then they left.
They left me there to save money for table flowers and champagne.
Part III: The Button
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