My gynecologist took one look at my exam and asked, “Who’s been treating you?” — that was the night my husband’s double life began to unravel.
.
.
I had always thought I was lucky in love. At 42, I was married to Sterling, a man who was not just my husband but also a respected gynecologist. For years, I felt like I had hit the jackpot. Whenever I had a health concern, he had an answer. If I was scared, he provided calm explanations. If I doubted myself, he had a medical term ready to silence my worries.
But for the past six months, my body had been sending distress signals that I couldn’t ignore. My lower abdomen felt like it was on fire, with cramping so severe it often left me doubled over the kitchen counter. The bleeding was erratic—sometimes heavy, sometimes light—and it seemed to have a mind of its own, disregarding the calendar completely. Each time I brought it up, Sterling would kiss my forehead and reassure me, “Babe, this is what happens in your forties. Hormones. Perimenopause. I see it every day. Trust me.”
And I did. I trusted him more than I trusted my own body. That is, until the night he flew to Atlanta to check on his “sick mom.” The pain intensified, sharp enough that I had to lean against the fridge just to stay upright. I glanced at the magnet on the fridge holding our wedding photo, then at the clock, then at my phone. I didn’t call Sterling. Instead, I turned to Google and found a new doctor.
That’s how I found myself in a brand-new medical center on the edge of town, lying on a paper-covered table while a stranger named Dr. Marcus Oakley moved an ultrasound wand across my abdomen. He was quiet—too quiet. I tried to fill the silence with small talk, but he merely frowned at the screen, adjusting the angle and going over the same spot repeatedly.
Finally, he cleared his throat and asked, “Who’s been treating you up to now?”
“My husband,” I replied. “He’s a gynecologist. He handles all my care.”
The moment I said it, I noticed a subtle shift in Dr. Oakley’s demeanor. His expression tightened around the eyes as he set the wand down and rolled his stool closer. “Elaine,” he said slowly, as if he were afraid I might bolt, “I’m seeing something inside your uterus that should not be there. We’ll need bloodwork and more tests today. I don’t want to scare you, but I can’t ignore this.”
My palms went cold. “Something what?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. “Like a tumor?”
He turned the screen toward me and pointed to a dark, hard-edged shape. “Do you see this shadow? It looks like a foreign object. Possibly an older model IUD. It’s embedded deep in the tissue.”
I laughed—actually laughed. The sound came out high and shaky. “I’ve never had an IUD,” I told him. “Never. I’m terrified of them. I would remember that.”
Dr. Oakley flipped through my chart. “No record of insertion,” he confirmed, mostly to himself. “And a device like this doesn’t just appear. Someone has to put it there. And it’s been there for years.”
My mind raced through my medical history like a Rolodex. I remembered all my routine visits, my pap smears, and the one surgery I’d had—an appendectomy eight years ago. Sterling had insisted on doing it at his private practice. “Why would you need outside doctors?” he’d said back then. “I’ll supervise everything myself. I’ll be right there.”
My stomach rolled at the thought.
Just then, a nurse stepped in with a tray and a tight expression. She drew my blood, then slipped back out, returning a few minutes later with a printout for Dr. Oakley. “Doctor,” she murmured, glancing at me, “her inflammatory markers are extremely elevated.”
Dr. Oakley skimmed the numbers, then looked straight at me. “Elaine, I’m referring you to County General for urgent removal of this device. We need to get it out and see what damage it’s done. Waiting is not in your best interest.”
The room started to tilt. “This… this could just be a mistake, right?” I whispered. “A mix-up?”
He hesitated, choosing his words with care. “There’s one more thing. You’re telling me you never agreed to an IUD, and there’s no documentation in any of your records. Under U.S. law, if a medical device was placed in your body without your informed consent, that’s not just unethical. It may be a crime. I would strongly encourage you to speak with law enforcement once you’re stable.”
A crime. Against who? Against me.
I walked out of that clinic into the cold evening air, feeling as if I had stepped out of my own life. Car lights streaked past, and somewhere down the highway was the airport, possibly my husband in a rental car headed to his “sick” mother. My phone lit up with his name, but I let it ring until it died.
On the passenger seat lay the referral for surgery and a business card with a detective’s number written on the back in Dr. Oakley’s neat handwriting. All the puzzle pieces began to lock together in my mind: an “appendectomy” done in my husband’s private OR, a mystery device buried where only he had access, and eight years of pain he had brushed off with a smile.
The next morning, I found myself sitting in a hospital gown under fluorescent lights when a woman in a dark blazer pulled up a chair beside my bed. She flipped open a notebook and clicked on a recorder. “Mrs. Tames,” she said, her voice calm but firm, “I’m Detective Nia Blount with the county. I need you to walk me through every procedure you’ve had in the last ten years, and I need you to be very honest with me about one thing…”
She paused, looking me straight in the eyes. “Is there anyone besides your husband who could have put that device inside your body?”
My heart answered before my mouth did. The answer was clear, but I struggled to find the words. I had trusted Sterling with my health, my body, my life. How could I have been so blind? As the reality of the situation sank in, I felt a wave of nausea wash over me. This was not just about a medical mistake; it was about betrayal, deception, and a truth I had never wanted to confront.
The room felt suffocating as I prepared to recount the last decade of my life, knowing that every detail could lead to a revelation that would shatter my world. I took a deep breath, ready to face the truth, whatever it might bring.
