Fern Hanson handed me a sheet of paper with hands that shook slightly. "Can you help me?"

It was a bill for an MRI totaling $436. "I don't mind paying $10 here and there, but I can't afford this," she said.

She looked at me from still lively green eyes, the best feature of a face that was partially frozen. Fern was a stroke victim, but among the most cheerful I've met. She is already a member of our company's Medicare health plan and came to our open house last week not to complain about our company and her unpaid bill. She came seeking help.

Normally, I think I would have said 'no.' I would have told her to call Customer Service, that this was not my bailiwick. All of which would have been true. But almost no one had ever approached me with such a request. And Fern was looking to me with confidence and trust.

Hair permed and white, shoulders slightly stooped, wearing loose gray slacks, beige walking shoes and a button-up-the-front blue blouse, Fern told me about her stroke with no trace of pity. It had happened, she said, one night while she was sleeping. She hadn't even known about it, she said, until two or three days later, 'when someone said, 'Your mouth is crooked'," Fern told me. "I looked in the mirror and my mouth, my eye, my eye socket, it was all wrong."

Fern did not say this with surprise or horror, as I would have -- no matter how many times I'd told the story. She said it matter of factly.

I admired that but also was stunned by something else she'd said. She hadn't looked in the mirror for two or three days! How did any woman do that? In two or three days, all sorts of nasty things might be growing out of a plethora of inappropriate places: a small gang of stray eyebrows, a shiny glaze of white chin hairs, a pair of black, porcupine-stiff mole hairs. The thought gave me the willies.

Fern had since had plastic surgery on her eye. "It looks good, I think," she said.

The skin under her eye was pulled tight and slightly shiny. Nothing moved. If this was good, I didn't want to see bad.

Even if I couldn't completely understand her calm about her altered appearance, Fern had earned my respect. My sympathy, too. I felt oddly protective.

"Let me see what I can do," I said, taking the paperwork and my phone into a room removed from the group of chatting seniors.

I called Customer Service and gave all Fern's pertinent information to the woman on the other end of the line. But this wasn't enough. The woman asked to speak to Fern, standard procedure to verify the caller wasn't someone attempting identity theft.

The problem was, Fern is hard of hearing. After several moments of the woman asking Fern how to spell her last name, the elderly lady pulled the phone away from her ear. "What's she saying?" she asked me. I took the phone and held it up to my ear in time to hear the woman scream, "WHAT IS YOUR NAME?" I relayed this to Fern, who shouted back to me, "Fern Hanson!" We carried on this way, handing the phone back and forth, Fern attempting to listen, me repeating the woman's words, Fern screaming, through several questions: Medicare number, address, date of birth, before the woman conceded it was her and that she had given me permission to speak for her.

"I never make fun of the old folks," the woman laughed. "I know I'll be there myself someday.

"OK, we already paid that company. They cashed the check on March 10 for the agreed-upon, contracted amount. They sent that bill when? April 3?! She owes $10, and nothing more. You call and you tell them that." Her tone was no-nonsense but cheerful, sending waves of pride and competency over the satellite signal.

The woman gave me a reference number. But she wasn't through. "If they give you a hard time, you tell them you will be calling Medicare and you will file a complaint against them for harassing a senior citizen."

Suddenly, I wanted to meet this woman. I wanted to have a beer with her. I wanted to introduce her to Fern.

"I'm not saying they're going to object?" she said. "But I always assume the worst. So if they go there, you go there. You know what I'm saying?"

I did. Completely. I was riled up now, not just ready to go to bat for Fern but to threaten someone for her. I felt an adrenaline rush, and realized I wanted the confrontation. I wanted to say the words she'd offered to me. I wanted to be Fern's heroine, slaying medical system dragons to ensure her financial well-being and deep, dreamless sleep.

I called the company that had given Fern the MRI and mentally unsheathed my sword.

Within 30 seconds, I reluctantly tucked it away.

Because this woman, too, was the sole of kindness and concern. "They did send the check? Let me see here," she said. She was silent a moment. "OK, we've got that corrected. Is there anything else we can do?"

Be difficult, I wanted to say. Instead, I thanked her.

I found Fern in the other room, worry still creasing her brow. It might have creased the skin under her eyes, too, but, well, at least one side wasn't having it.

"You're set," I said. "You might have to pay $10 but Medicaid probably will pick that up for you."

Fern beamed. "Oh, thank you! I've been worried sick about this for two weeks!

"Can I have your card" she asked.

The elderly gentleman next to her leaned forward. "Can I have your card, too?" he asked. "I seen what you just did for her."

Fern handed me a Readers Digest she'd had sitting in her lap. "Do you read this? Would you like it?"

I wasn't sure if Fern had finished reading it herself. I hesitated before realizing she wanted me to have it. It was her way of saying thank you.

I wanted to tell Fern and her companion that it had been nothing, just a couple of phone calls and conversations with the right people. But I didn't. So I hadn't slayed dragons for her. I was still, to Fern, her heroine and to both of them, some kind of small miracle worker. It felt good. And for just a moment, I let myself bask in that.