Chapter 1
A year after menopause, I started bleeding again.
My bestie said it wasn't normal and told me to go to the hospital right away.
The test results were covered in numbers and medical terms I couldn't understand.
The doctor stared at the report for a long time before suddenly looking up at me. "Is your husband here?"
"He's waiting outside," I said.
"Let him in. I need to talk to him face-to-face."
I panicked. "Is it something serious? You can tell me straight."
The doctor shook her head. "He needs to know."
My husband went in, and the door closed behind him.
I pressed my ear to the door and heard the doctor say, "Your wife's condition is highly unusual."
*****
I was forty‑five years old and had always been in good health.
A year after menopause, I started bleeding again.
It was not heavy, but the blood was bright red.
My heart skipped a beat.
My bestie, Emily Lane, told me this was postmenopausal bleeding, and that it was nothing good. She urged me to get to the hospital right away.
I didn't dare wait. The next day, I had my husband, Michael Zimmerman, accompany me to Petrico Hospital. And we booked a specialist appointment.
After a series of tests, it was already afternoon.
I sat in the office of the chief gynecologist, clutching a stack of test reports, my nerves all over the place.
The smell of disinfectant in the room was strong and overwhelming.
Michael sat next to me, holding my hand.
His palm was hot and sweaty.
I knew he was even more nervous than I was.
Grace Warren, the chief gynecologist, looked to be in her fifties.
She held my test reports, reading each sheet slowly and carefully.
From the very start, her brows had been drawn tight.
My heart sank bit by bit as I watched her expression.
Was it something bad? Cancer?
I didn't dare think too much about it.
My son, Kevin, had just started college. I hadn't seen him get married or start a career yet.
What would become of this family if I died?
Michael felt my trembling and squeezed my hand tightly.
"Don't be afraid. It's okay," he said softly.
His words didn't comfort me at all.
My fear was like a vine, climbing up from the bottom of my heart, choking my throat.
Finally, Grace put down the report.
She pushed up her glasses and looked past me, fixing her gaze on Michael.
"Are you her husband?" she asked.
Michael nodded quickly. "Yeah."
Grace looked at him, her gaze a mix of sympathy and seriousness.
"Come with me," she said, pointing toward the inner office.
I froze, and so did Michael.
"Dr. Warren," I cut in, my voice trembling, "is my illness serious? Tell me straight. I can handle it."
Grace shook her head, keeping her eyes fixed on Michael.
"There are some things I need to discuss with your husband first," she said.
"Why?" I asked, getting anxious. "It's my body. Why can't I know?"
Michael echoed, "Dr. Warren, please say whatever you need to. We're a couple. There's nothing we can't hear together."
Grace's expression didn't soften a little.
She stood up, her tone brooked no argument. "Come inside."
She walked into the inner office, leaving the door slightly ajar.
Michael looked at me, his eyes full of reassurance. "Don't worry. I'll go in and ask. Maybe it's simply something men need to know about treatment."
With that, he got up and followed Grace inside.
The door clicked shut in front of me.
At that soft sound, my heart felt sealed inside an airtight box.
Fear and anxiety grew rampant in the darkness.
What kind of illness was so serious that it couldn't be told to my face and needed to tell my husband first?
I couldn't sit still anymore.
I walked to the door and pressed my ear against it.
The door was thick and well-insulated.
I could only hear Grace's muffled voice, like it was underwater.
I was so anxious that I started sweating bullets.
I pressed my ear even closer, straining to make out the words.
Suddenly, Grace's tone rose a little.
A fragmented sentence stabbed through the door like a needle, straight into my ear.
"Your wife's situation is very special," she said.
What did she mean by special?
My mind went blank, all kinds of terrible guesses flooding in.
Did I have some rare, incurable disease?
Before I could process what Grace said, the door suddenly opened from the inside.
I stumbled, almost falling.
Michael stood in the doorway, his face pale, his eyes empty.
He looked at me as if I were a stranger.
I'd never seen that look before.
It was not sorrow or concern, but a tangled mix of shock, absurdity, and a faint, unnameable resentment.