"And there will be permanent changes. Some sensation may never return to normal." Permanent changes. Some sensation may never return to normal.
I filed those phrases away for future reference, feeling a deep satisfaction that had nothing to do with the sterile hospital environment and everything to do with justice finally being served. As they wheeled Marissa toward the operating room, she grabbed my hand one last time. "I love you," she said, her voice thick with sedation and fear. "I love you, too," I replied.
And for the first time in months, I actually meant it. I loved this version of her: vulnerable, facing consequences, finally paying the price for her betrayals. The surgery took three hours, and when Dr. Martinez came out to speak with me, his expression was grave. "We were able to remove all the damaged tissue," he said.
"But the extent of the excision was more significant than we initially anticipated. She's going to need extensive follow-up care, and there will be permanent functional changes." I nodded solemnly, like a devoted husband receiving devastating news about his beloved wife. Inside, I was already planning Phase Four.
There's something deeply poetic about serving divorce papers to your cheating wife while she's lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to an IV drip and recovering from surgery that removed pieces of her body as a direct result of her own infidelity. It's like the universe finally decided to get involved in writing the perfect ending to a really messed-up love story. I'd spent the morning at my lawyer's office finalizing documents that had been prepared with the kind of meticulous attention to detail that would make a Swiss watchmaker weep with envy. Every clause, every stipulation, every legal maneuver designed to ensure that Marissa walked away from our marriage with exactly what she deserved.
Nothing. Well, almost nothing. She'd get to keep the medical bills. The papers were tucked neatly into a manila folder as I walked through the hospital corridors, past the rooms full of people dealing with actual accidents and legitimate medical emergencies.
Unlike my wife, who was currently experiencing the long-term consequences of poor decision-making and industrial-grade adhesive, Room 347 was private, which I'd specifically requested and paid for out of pocket. Call it a gesture of kindness. I wanted Marissa to have privacy for what was about to be the worst conversation of her life. The kind of privacy you need when your entire world collapses and you want to scream without disturbing the other patients.
She was awake when I walked in, propped up on pillows and looking like she'd aged about 15 years in the past two days. The surgery had gone well, according to Dr. Martinez. But recovery was going to be a long and uncomfortable process. Permanently uncomfortable in some ways.
"Hey," she said weakly, attempting a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I was wondering when you'd get here. The nurses said visiting hours started at 10:00." "Traffic was a nightmare," I lied smoothly, settling into the chair beside her bed.
"How are you feeling?" "Like I got hit by a truck. Then the truck backed up and hit me again." She shifted slightly and winced.