"How did this happen?" If only she knew the answer to that question. If only she understood that every moment of pain she was experiencing was a direct result of choices she'd made, lies she'd told, and trust she'd broken. But that level of self-awareness was probably beyond her capabilities right now.
We pulled up to the emergency-room entrance, the same one she'd been wheeled out of less than 12 hours earlier, still attached to her lover like some kind of pornographic Siamese twin. The irony wasn't lost on me, and I had to suppress a smile as I helped her out of the car. The triage nurse took one look at Marissa's condition and immediately escalated her to a private room. Being a repeat customer definitely had its advantages, especially when your previous visit involved being surgically separated from someone who wasn't your spouse.
Dr. Martinez, the same physician who'd overseen the separation procedure, walked in with an expression that suggested he was either having the strangest week of his medical career or he'd entered some kind of alternate universe where people's sex lives had declared war on basic anatomy. "Mrs. Thompson," he said, consulting his chart. "Back so soon. What seems to be the problem?"
Marissa tried to explain about the ointment, the burning, the reaction she was having. Dr. Martinez listened with the kind of professional patience that comes from years of dealing with medical mysteries, but I could see the concern growing in his eyes as he examined her. "This level of inflammation is severe," he said finally. "The tissue damage from yesterday's procedure, combined with what appears to be a chemical burn, has created a potentially serious situation."
Chemical burn. Those words hung in the air like a death sentence. "Are you certain about the ointment you used?" he asked. "Because this reaction is consistent with exposure to capsaicin or a similar irritant."
Marissa looked confused, which was understandable since she had no idea that her loving husband had been conducting chemistry experiments with her recovery supplies. "I used the same tube I always use," she said weakly. "But something was wrong with it." Dr. Martinez nodded thoughtfully.
"Given the extent of the damage and the risk of infection, I'm going to recommend surgical intervention. We need to remove the affected tissue before necrosis sets in." Necrosis. That was a word that commanded attention.
It meant tissue death, permanent damage, the kind of consequences that don't just heal with time and good intentions. "Surgery?" Marissa's voice was barely a whisper. "I'm afraid so."
"The combination of yesterday's trauma and today's chemical exposure has created a situation where conservative treatment isn't going to be sufficient. We need to excise the damaged tissue and give you the best chance for proper healing." I squeezed her hand supportively. "Whatever you think is best, Doctor. We just want her to be okay."
The consent forms were brought in, and I watched Marissa sign away pieces of herself with trembling hands. She was crying now, not just from the physical pain, but from the dawning realization that her body was going to be permanently changed by the events of the last 24 hours. "How long will the recovery take?" I asked, playing the concerned husband to perfection. "Several weeks at minimum," Dr. Martinez replied.