In the third year of my marriage to Jason Annable, I was diagnosed with stomach cancer. As I walked out of the doctor’s office holding the report, my tears fell like pearls from a broken string.
Advanced stomach cancer.
If I underwent surgery now, I might have three to five years to live; otherwise, I’d have only three to five months.
I looked up at the sky, struggling to keep my tears at bay.
I pulled out my phone and dialed Jason’s number, hoping he could come and take me home. But when I turned around, I was frozen in place.
Melissa Rhodes was scrolling through Jason’s phone, with Jason standing beside her.
Melissa Rhodes, Jason’s childhood friend.
I immediately hung up the call.
After watching Jason and Melissa walk away, I found myself inexplicably drawn to the examination room Melissa had just entered.
The sign on the door felt like a knife stabbing through my heart: Obstetrics and Gynecology.
My vision went black, and I swayed, barely managing to steady myself against the wall.
At that moment, a nurse emerged from the examination room. Seeing my pale face, she asked with concern:
“Are you alright? Would you like to sit on that bench over there?”
I didn’t answer her but instead asked, “The lady who just left—what kind of examination was she here for?”
The nurse seemed taken aback by my reaction and, after a moment, replied, “This is the obstetrics and gynecology department, so she came for prenatal care.”
“You should have seen it; that gentleman was overjoyed when he found out she was pregnant.”
I choked back my sobs and asked, “Her husband?”
The nurse looked at me with disdain. “Who else could he be? Are you suggesting that his wife went alone to see the doctor while he accompanied his pregnant mistress for a check-up?”
Hearing this, everything went black again, and I nearly collapsed.