Chapter 6 - A Desperate Alliance
The next morning, Mariana’s demeanor had completely changed. The tearful, passive woman of the previous week was gone, replaced by a quiet, fierce focus. When Dr. Aris came in for his morning rounds, she didn't look at the floor; she looked him dead in the eye.
"Doctor," she said, her voice stronger than it had been in a month. "My husband is killing himself trying to protect me from the bills. I know how the American system works now. If I am an inpatient, the costs accumulate by the hour. What do we need to achieve to get me discharged on outpatient management?"
Dr. Aris looked surprised, then glanced at Diego, who looked equally caught off guard.
"Mariana," Dr. Aris said carefully, "to leave this hospital before delivery, your blood pressure must remain under 130/80 without IV medication for forty-eight hours. The swelling in your leg must decrease by at least three centimeters in circumference, proving the collateral veins are handling the load. And most importantly, you must have a guaranteed, paid-in-full supply of low-molecular-weight heparin for the remainder of your pregnancy and six weeks postpartum. I cannot let you walk out that door to repeat the same mistake."
"How much is the supply?" she asked.
"With your specific dosage requirements? Approximately twelve hundred dollars a month," the doctor replied.
That afternoon, while Diego was forced to go back to the shop for a five-hour shift to keep his job, Mariana called the one person she had avoided since leaving Florida: her aunt, Tía Sofia, the only member of her family who had successfully established a business in the United States—a commercial cleaning company in Miami.
The conversation was painful. Sofia had been furious when Mariana left Florida with Diego three years ago, believing Diego was too poor to provide a stable life. But as Mariana detailed her condition, the loss of her first baby, and the terrifying state of her legs, Sofia’s hard exterior melted.
"I don't care about the past, Mariana," Sofia said over the crackling phone line. "You are my sister’s daughter. I will wire five thousand dollars to the hospital pharmacy by tonight. But you promise me one thing: you tell that husband of yours that pride does not feed a baby. If you need help, you ask."
When Diego returned that evening, smelling of motor oil and cheap burgers, Mariana presented him with a receipt from the Mount Sinai pharmacy. It showed a three-month pre-paid balance for her injections, alongside an approved charity care application that Elena Vance had helped process after Sofia’s payment proved the family was actively participating in the care plan.
Diego stared at the paper, then at his wife. "You called Sofia?"
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"I did," Mariana said, reaching out to pull him down to sit beside her. "I broke my pride so you could stop breaking your back. We are even now, Diego Hernandez. No more hiding, and no more playing the hero alone."
Diego let out a long, ragged laugh that turned into a sob of pure relief. He leaned down and kissed her, feeling for the first time in weeks that they were actually winning the fight.
