Feeling dizzy again. Going to lie down.
His reply:
You don’t drink enough water.
Another.
Me:
Almost fell getting out of the shower.
Him:
Stop skipping breakfast.
Another.
Me:
I think I need to call the doctor.
Him:
If you create another bill over nothing, don’t expect me to cover it.
My hands began shaking.
The nurse saw what I was doing.
“Keep those.”
“I will.”
The doctor ordered additional testing.
Not just another blood panel.
A toxicology screen.
The nurse asked if I wanted a hospital social worker.
This time, I said yes immediately.
While we waited, I finally played my husband’s voice message.
His voice came through low and angry.
“Stop making this worse. You know how hospitals are. They test everything, then they start asking questions they don’t understand. Tell them you took something for sleep. I don’t care what. Tell them you took one of those pills your sister gave you last year. Just get out before somebody turns this into something it isn’t.”
I stopped the recording.
The nurse had heard it.
So had the social worker, who had entered halfway through.
Nobody spoke for several seconds.
Then the social worker asked, “Did your sister give you sleeping medication?”
“No.”
“Do you take anything for sleep?”
“No.”
“Has your husband ever given you medication when you didn’t know what it was?”
“I don’t know.”
That was the worst answer.
I don’t know.
Because suddenly there were too many things I didn’t know.
The tea he made when I said I couldn’t sleep.
The capsules already waiting beside my breakfast.
The nights I fell asleep on the couch and woke up confused hours later.
The mornings when he told me I had forgotten conversations.
“You agreed to this.”
“We already talked about that.”
“I told you yesterday.”
“You never remember anything anymore.”
How many times had I apologized?
How many times had I assumed the problem was me?
The social worker asked whether I felt safe returning home with him.
“No.”
The answer came so fast it surprised me.
She nodded.
“Do you have somewhere else you can stay?”
My sister lived two hours away.
We had not been close lately.
Mostly because my husband hated her.
He said she interfered.
She said he controlled me.
I had spent years keeping peace by speaking to her less.
“I might.”
“Would you like to call her?”
I stared at my phone.
Then I called.
She answered on the second ring.
The moment she heard my voice, she said, “What happened?”
I started crying.
Not quietly.
Not gracefully.
I told her about the crash.
The hospital.
My husband.
