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“This woman has been without food or water for half a day, and she’s suffering from severe hypothermia. I‘ we don’t treat her now, she’s going to die!” my rescuer pleaded. The young nurse who had been talking to
me, trying to keep me conscious, was openly weeping.
But my husband just gave me a fleeting, indifferent look. “She’ll be fine. She’s my wife. If anything happens, I Il take responsibility,” he told them. “Dr. Ross’s injury needs to be treated first. She volunteered to come intc
a disaster zone with us; the least we can do is make sure she’s safe.”
After he spoke, every eye in the hallway turned to me.
But Alex’s gaze never left Isabelle, who was on a gurney, having her tiny wound stitched up as if she were the one knocking on death’s door.
No matter what anyone else said, Alex acted as if he couldn’t hear them.
It wasn’t until a nurse, trying to start an IV, noticed my pupils beginning to dilate that a doctor was finally
called.
After a quick examination, the doctor’s voice was grim. “Her core body temperature is below eighty–six deg rees. Prolonged, severe hypothermia is fatal. We need to get her into surgery, now!”
But the disaster had overwhelmed the system. Every operating room in every hospital was booked solid There had been one free OR when I first arrived, but Isabelle had been rushed into it for her minor procedure
I had lost my one precious chance.
When Alex heard the news, a look of relief washed over his face. He quickly approached the medical staff.” If it’s too difficult, I can sign a waiver to cease rescue efforts,” he said, his voice ringing with false nobility. “I
m her husband. Let’s give the living a better chance.”
He sounded so righteous.
The others looked at each other, uncertain.
Then, Isabelle spoke up. “There’s often little point in reviving a patient who has suffered from hypothermia for so long. The process itself would be torturous for her. Letting go is a mercy.”
Coming from a family of renowned doctors, her words carried weight. The staff began to waver. A few mo ments later, someone returned with the consent form.
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Alex took it without a moment’s hesitation, ready to sign.
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At that moment, the injustice of two lifetimes ignited into one last surge of strength. My hand shot out from under the blanket and clamped onto his wrist.
I held on with a death grip.
He was stunned that he couldn’t break free. As he tried to pry my fingers off one by one, the surgery in the OR next door finished. The young nurse who had been watching over me cried out, “Doctor, we can use this
room! She still has a chance!”
As they wheeled me away, Alex still hadn’t given up. “If you can’t save her,” he called after them, “you have my permission to let her go!”
It was the most monstrous thing you could hear outside an operating room. Every other family member was praying for a miracle. He was praying for my death.
I survived two hours of grueling surgery fueled by nothing but pure, unadulterated rage.
When I was wheeled out, Alex’s face fell the moment he saw I was alive. He leaned in close, his voice a ven- omous whisper no one else could hear.
“Why didn’t you just die? If you were dead, you wouldn’t be a threat to Isabelle.”
Then, his hand slid to my throat, a feathery, terrifying touch, as if he were contemplating finishing the job
himself.
