ADVERTISEMENT

“You’ll suffer naturally because you’re toxic,” my doctor husband sneered, blocking the nurses from performing a C-section for my giant 10-pound baby as revenge for his intern. I writhed in pain, clutching the bed rails until my knuckles turned white. When the grueling delivery finally ended, the heavy delivery room doors banged open. My husband staggered in, his face drained of color as he looked at the newborn chart, fell to the floor, and shrieked, “No… that’s impossible! Whose child is-“

ADVERTISEMENT

carved from marble. I had flatlined on that table. I had been hollowed out, eviscerated, and robbed of my fertility, yet my husband was currently swirling a vintage Cabernet with his paramour while my blood still stained his surgical clogs. I did not shed a tear. I did not scream into the sterile void of the room. In the realm of emergency trauma, continue reading …

ADVERTISEMENT

Leave a Comment

ADVERTISEMENT