Off The Record
My Husband Was Given Weeks To Live Due To Cancer. I Was Sitting Outside The Hospital When A Stranger Approached Me
In the hospital, Diana was agonizingly getting ready to say farewell to her dying husband. She was having a hard time believing that he was dying when a stranger came up to her and said in a startling whisper, “Set up a hidden camera in his room. You deserve to know the truth.”
I never imagined that I would die in a hospital hallway. Like a death knell, the doctor’s words rang in my head: “Stage four cancer… metastasized… he’s got a few weeks to live.”
The future I had envisioned with Eric was wrecked by the diagnosis. A few days compared to fifteen years of marriage. Suddenly, the golden band on my finger felt heavy, burdened by recollections of better days, like our first dance, our cozy coffee dates, and the way he used to touch my hair when I was feeling down.
As I saw other families go by, my stomach turned. Some were in that strange limbo between optimism and despair, while others were laughing and sobbing. I knew I had to leave before I broke entirely.
The late September air slapped my face as I staggered through the automated doors. My legs carried me to a bench beside the door, where I sat and more or less fell. The pain in my heart was reflected in the long, warped shadows that the evening sun cast across the hospital grounds.
It was then that she showed up.
She didn’t look very noteworthy. A typical nurse in her late forties, dressed in navy scrubs, with weary eyes that seemed to contain something.
Her shoes were the sensible type worn by someone who spent a lot of time on their feet, and her silver-streaked hair was tucked up in a bun. Her presence was both obtrusive and somehow soothing as she sat next to me without asking.
“Set up a hidden camera in his ward,” she said in a deep voice. “He’s not dying.”
I felt the words like a blast of cold water. “Pardon me? My spouse is dying. The physicians attested to it. How dare you—”
“Seeing is believing.” She looked directly at me. “I work here at night. I see stuff. that don’t make sense. You deserve to know the truth, I assure you.”
Before I could respond, she rose and left, disappearing through the hospital doors like a ghost, leaving me with nothing but questions.
My thoughts were racing as I lay awake in bed that night. Memories of Eric’s diagnosis day were battling with the stranger’s repeated statements. How his face had crumpled in desperation, and how he had held my hand when the doctor broke the news.
Is ‘He’s not dying’ what she meant? The idea seems improbable, yet the skepticism would not go away. I had placed an internet purchase for a tiny camera with overnight delivery by morning, trembling as I typed in my credit card details.
The following day, while Eric was having his usual scan, I sneaked into his room.
I placed the small camera amid the lilies and roses in the vase on the ledge, my hands shaking. Every step seemed like a betrayal, yet I was propelled ahead by something deeper.
I said, “I’m sorry,” but I wasn’t sure if I was saying it to Eric or myself.
Eric was back in bed an hour later, looking wan and pale. In some way, his medical gown made him appear more frail and smaller. Weakly, he inquired, “Where were you?”
I lied and said, “Just getting some coffee.” “How was the scan?”
The blankets rustled quietly as he shifted in bed and winced. “I’m worn out. It’s becoming more painful. All I have to do is sleep.”
I squeezed his hand and nodded. “Obviously. I’ll give you a nap.”
I went home that evening and sat on my bed after making sure Eric was asleep. I could feel my heart thumping in my throat as I accessed the camera stream, the blue glow of the laptop lighting up my face.
Nothing happened for hours. The nurses came and went, Eric took a nap, and I began to feel foolish for listening to a stranger.
Then everything changed at 9 p.m.
A woman walked in as the ward door opened. She wore a slick leather coat, was tall, and exuded confidence. As she got closer to Eric’s bed, her immaculately combed dark hair caught the light, and what transpired next chilled me to the bone.
My so-called “DYING” husband, Eric, sat up straight. No effort. No discomfort. He appeared content. The sort of joy that didn’t seem appropriate for a dying man’s face.
He pulled her into an embrace that appeared anything but feeble as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and arose. My wedding band burned like a searing sting against my finger as they kissed.
Despite the camera not recording the speech, their body language was personal and recognizable, and watching them speak broke my heart.
He gently put the papers she gave him under his mattress. They appeared to be organizing something significant, and I had to find out what it was.
As I returned to Eric’s room the following morning, the secret I was not permitted to know weighed heavily on my mind. He was back to his normal self, weak, pallid, and having trouble sitting.
He rasped, “Morning, sweetheart,” and reached with shaking hands for the glass of water. “It was a bad night. The agony is becoming worse.”
I felt like yelling and demanding answers from him. Rather, I grinned, my face feeling like it was made of broken glass. “I regret to inform you of that. Is there anything I can do?”
I saw him play his part flawlessly as he shook his head. How many times did I fall for this charade, shedding tears until I fell asleep? He was definitely arranging something with his secret girlfriend, and I was praying for a miracle on how many nights?
That night, I did not return home. I waited in hiding in the parking lot, my phone ready to capture the truth. I anticipated a visit from his mistress.
The woman with the leather coat did indeed show up, walking through the hospital with the assurance of someone who should have been there.
I followed her stealthily this time, staying near enough to hear.
Their sounds floated through the half-open entrance of the ward. “Everything’s arranged,” she stated in a professional manner. “The insurance funds will be moved overseas as soon as you are pronounced deceased. We are able to begin our new lives.”
Eric’s answer was enthusiastic and eager. That is fantastic, Victoria. Dr. Matthews performed flawlessly. Getting him to fabricate the diagnosis cost me a fortune, but it was worthwhile. We’ll be free after a few more days of this behavior. Diana won’t have any suspicions. My funeral is already being planned by her.
“The mourning widow whose husband is very much alive!” Victoria gave a little laugh.
“When she came to meet me today, you ought to have seen her face. So loving and so caring. Poor thing, it’s almost depressing!” Eric chuckled.
Victoria said, “She was always dumb,” and I could hear the smile in her voice. But she was ideal for this because of that. “When you’re ‘dead,’ she will receive the insurance benefit, and we will transfer the entire amount before she realizes what has happened. Then, my love, it’s just you and me.”
The casual harshness of their remarks had a profound impact. A 15-year marriage turned into a scam. My eyes were filled with agony, but now was not the moment to cry.
The payback moment has arrived.
I already had a plan in mind when I recorded everything on my phone. Did they want to engage in some gaming? Alright. I could also play games.
I made phone calls the following day. Many calls. To everyone who has ever cared for Eric, including friends, family, and coworkers.
As I relayed the news, my voice cracked at the appropriate times: “His condition has drastically deteriorated. It’s time to say farewell, according to the doctors. Come today, please. He would want everyone present.”
Eric’s room was full by dusk. His mother sobbed softly into a handkerchief while his parents stood by his bed. Coworkers whispered their condolences. College friends reminisced about better times.
Eric did his bit, appearing suitably frail and appreciative of the help, but as more people showed up there, I could see fear starting to seep into his eyes.
I didn’t move ahead until the room was packed. My hands had stopped shaking. “There’s something you all need to see before we say our final goodbyes,” I said, staring into Eric’s eyes. My beloved spouse, may his “dying” soul rest in peace, has been holding a very important secret from us all.
Eric’s gaze expanded. “Diana, what are you doing?”
I plugged my laptop into the TV in the room. The video started playing, showing Eric, still very much alive, holding his mistress, Victoria. Then came the phone tape of them discussing how to bribe Dr. Matthews, steal the insurance money, and stage his death.
Chaos ensued in the room.
His mother’s tears became angry cries. “How could you harm us like this? To your spouse?”
Two of Eric’s brothers had to restrain his father. When Victoria understood their plan had fallen apart, she decided to arrive at that very moment and stopped short in the doorway.
The police arrived after security. I saw Eric’s protests go unanswered as they handcuffed him and dragged him away. In addition, Dr. Matthews was taken into custody and had his medical license revoked while the matter was being investigated. Despite her best efforts, Victoria was unable to escape past the elevator.
The very following day, I filed for divorce and went back to that bench outside the hospital in the hopes of meeting the considerate stranger who had spared me from having to cope with the greatest betrayal of my life.
With a slight smile, the same woman who had forewarned me was seated next to me.
I replied, “Thank you,” as I watched the sunset light up the sky with hues of beginnings and endings. “You saved me from a different kind of grief.”
“One night when I was doing rounds, I heard them. You couldn’t allow them to ruin your life. Sometimes the illnesses that kill you aren’t the worst. They are the ones that quietly proliferate in the hearts of those we care about, consuming our confidence until it is completely depleted.”
My husband passed away, but not from cancer. Because of his deceit and avarice, I lost him. But in losing him, I gained strength, honesty, and the understanding that sometimes the goodwill of strangers may protect us from the harshness of those closest to us.
My wedding ring weighed heavily in my pocket as I drove home that night, serving as a tiny reminder of all I had won and lost.
For the first time in weeks, I felt as though I could breathe again as the sun sank, painting the sky in dazzling oranges and reds. Occasionally, a story’s conclusion marks the start of another.
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