I realize that I’ve been going in circle for an hour, hoping that I’ll bump into something that unlocks a solution to Anne’s suffering. Maybe there’s something in the refrigerator. Maybe there’s something on the patio. Maybe it’s between the cushions in the couch. Maybe if I walk into our bedroom and sit next to her on the bed. Maybe if I hold her hand. Maybe if I don’t hold her hand. Maybe there’s something in the refrigerator.
She can’t keep down any food, and barely any liquids. I give her some pain meds and she throws them up almost immediately. Maybe if I hold her hand.
“I’m going to try to just go to sleep,” she says. “You don’t need to stay here.”
I stay there anyway, until she appears to be sleeping. Maybe if I don’t hold her hand.
I gently get off our bed and step over both of our dogs, who haven’t moved from Anne’s side of the bed since she got into it. They both look at me, and maybe I’m projecting, but I feel like there is concern in their eyes. “I’m worried, too,” I whisper. I walk through the living room. Maybe it’s between the cushions in the couch.
I try to watch TV, but I can’t pay attention. I try to look at the Internet, but I can’t pay attention. I try to read a book but I can’t pay attention. I look into our bedroom. Anne is on her side, and I stand in the doorway, making sure that I can see her breathe. Because that’s a thing I worry about when I’m not worrying about everything else. I walk out to the game room and drive my car around Los Santos, because I don’t have to pay much attention, and it’s a way to pass the time.
It’s just after midnight when Anne texts me: Water.
“Oh, good,” I think, “she can keep water down.” I set the controller down and walk back into the house.
I can hear her wailing, nearly to the point of screaming, as soon as I open the door. My stomach drops out of my body.
She’s leaning against the bed, head in one hand, the other hand holding her side.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, stupidly. I know what’s wrong.
“It hurts so much,” she gasps. “I … can’t …”
She doesn’t finish telling me what she can’t do, because what she can’t do is everything.
For the next hour, I try to console her. I try to convince her to take the pills she is convinced she will throw up. Through it all, she is crying out in pain so loudly and intensely, I half expect the police to show up at our house.
“I think I need to take you back to the emergency room,” I say.
“I can’t get up,” she says. “Will you call an ambulance?”
She’s in the most pain I have ever seen another human experience in my life, but I know that there are a finite number of ambulances, and there are people for whom one of them could be the difference between life and death.
“I need to get you eighty feet to the car,” I tell her. “Let me carry you, and we’ll get there faster.”
She tries to argue a little bit, but I pick her up and help her out of bed through it. The dogs are alert and looking at her, at me, at each other. “I’m okay,” she gasps to them.
“We’ll be right back,” I say, as we limp past them and across the house. Time does the thing it’s been doing, stretching out and compressing and it feels longer than it should take for us to get into the car. I notice that there’s fog rolling in, glowing orange from the streetlights. I drive us to the hospital through it, faster than I probably should. Anne kicks her legs and cries silently.
When we get to the ER, I park at the door. I run in and get a wheelchair. There are four people in the waiting room, and when I get Anne out of the car and into the waiting room, two of them are gone. I tell the receptionist that Anne has a terrible kidney stone, can’t keep anything down, and I didn’t know what else to do. She pulls up the information we gave a different person in this exact place twenty-four hours earlier and we wait. I feel useless while Anne cries and moans in pain, and I just watch the clock. It’s thirty minutes before we are taken inside. It’s another thirty minutes before a nurse gives Anne morphine. Another thirty minutes before she comes back in and gives Anne more. I realize that time is moving in thirty minute increments. Maybe if I sit on the edge of the gurney next to her.’
A doctor comes in. She looks concerned and I do my best to disappear while she talks to Anne. She listens while Anne recounts the last 48 hours, then she does some simple tests, including this thing where she pushes on Anne’s abdomen and pulls away quickly. Anne screams in pain.
“That isn’t normal for a kidney stone or constipation,” the doctor says. “I’m going to get you an ultrasound, and some more pain medication.” Then, she does something I realize that the two other doctors we’ve seen since this all started didn’t do: she takes a moment and says, “I’m so sorry that you’re in so much pain, and I’m sorry that hurt so much. We’re going to figure out what’s going on with you, and I won’t send you home until we do.”
I realize how unhelpful the two male doctors we saw were, and I allow myself the luxury of being angry at them, if only briefly.
The doctor excuses herself and a nurse comes back in, gives Anne some more pain meds, and makes some notes on her chart. It is around 3:30am. Anne sleeps a little bit, and I sit in the chair next to her gurney. Maybe if I rest my hand on her leg. I wait.
An orderly comes in and helps Anne into a wheelchair. He takes Anne to the ultrasound. I climb into the gurney and try to sleep.
It feels like no time has passed when they’re back and I feel like I haven’t slept at all, even though I must have because I can’t account for the time. Anne tells me that it hurt a lot, and another nurse comes back in, gives her more pain medications. I make a joke about how she’s used more drugs than the Rolling Stones. Did I make that joke before? The last time we were here? I can’t remember. I’m so afraid and so worried and I feel so helpless and I’m so tired. I want to cry but I can’t because it won’t be helpful to anyone.
I wait.
The doctor comes back and tells Anne that the ultrasound shows something called an ovarian torsion. She thinks that a cyst burst, and it was so big when it happened, it literally spun Anne’s ovary around. She tells us that there’s a dark shadow on the CT scan we had the last time we were there, and it’s in stark contrast to her other ovary that’s healthy. She doesn’t say it, but she seems incredulous that neither of the other doctors we saw seemed to notice it. I allow myself another moment of anger, but I keep it to myself.
“I have called the OB/GYN and she’s driving in. We’re going to admit you, and have that ovary removed,” she says. Anne has some questions. I have some questions. I don’t remember what we asked or what her answers were.
We wait, and it doesn’t feel as long as all the previous waits have been. The surgeon arrives and she asks Anne lots of questions. She examines her. She looks at Anne’s CT scan and her ultrasound. I realize just how utterly, totally, profoundly unhelpful the other doctors we saw before this night were. I remember a woman, speaking at a ceremony when Anne was given an award for National Women’s Health Week. She said, “women need to work in medical research, and in applied medicine, because too many men treat women’s bodies like they are just men’s bodies with female parts, but our bodies are fundamentally different and need to be treated that way.”
I know that an ER doctor’s primary responsibility is to keep people alive, and it’s logical that the ones who aren’t in life-threatening danger will get a different level of attention. But when we went to Anne’s primary care doctor he didn’t even ask about anything else, didn’t check her at all, and just gave her six different types of pills. I don’t know why the ER doctor didn’t even ask why one of Anne’s ovaries was a big dark mass, even after all the tests for kidney stones came back negative, but I understand why he tried to manage her pain and turned us over to another doctor to look at her more closely. While I sit in that chair and listen to this new doctor talk with Anne, I can’t excuse or understand the other doctor we saw not even trying to look into whether or not there was a misdiagnosis in the ER. I get angry when I realize that my wife, the most important person in my world, has suffered longer than she should have, because two men didn’t ask themselves if pain originating in part of a woman’s body that is fundamentally different from a man’s body may have something to do with that difference.
But the OB/GYN is kind, and she tells Anne that she’s sorry to meet her under these circumstances. She tells Anne that she can get this ovary out with a quick surgery, and that Anne will be able to go home later this afternoon. I glance at my watch. It’s 7am. I’ve been awake for 24 hours.
The OB tells us that she’s going to do laparoscopy (a word I’ve written so many times in the last ten hours, I should know how to spell but still don’t), which will require general anaesthesia (another word I can’t see to spell, though I’ve written it almost as much). My stomach clenches because I grew up in a medical family, and I know that there are risks associated with anaesthesia. I know that they are small, but they are greater than zero, and I’ve been awake for 24 hours, on about five or six hours of restless sleep, and my rational brain is easily knocked into submission by my emotional brain. I keep my concerns to myself, because expressing them around Anne won’t be helpful. I realize that I’ve been keeping a lot to myself, because to express any of it wouldn’t be helpful. I’ve been holding myself together, delivering what will be, at least to this point in my life, the most convincing performance I’ve ever given.
The orderly comes into the room and we begin the journey to surgery. All the hallways look alike, and the same grey light of early morning that I first saw when all of this started two days ago is filling the windows. I notice that we haven’t seen any other people since we came in. I guess it was a quiet night in the ER, and it’s a quiet morning in the hospital.
We stop outside the operating room. We have forgotten to tell them that Anne is allergic to latex, so they have to clear the OR and wipe everything down, and start over. I apologize, but nobody is bothered (or at least they don’t let on that they’re bothered.) Anne holds my hand and we just look at each other while we wait. I don’t want to think about how something could go wrong — however unlikely that is — and I may have to face life without her, but I’m so tired and so emotionally raw, I can’t not think about it. I don’t mention it to Anne, because it wouldn’t be helpful.
They finish up in the OR, and the surgeon comes over to tell us that she’s ready. The anaesthesiologist (nope, can’t spell that one, either) is a gentle man. He tells us what he’s going to do, asks if there are any questions, and leaves me with a feeling of confidence that everything will be okay. I know there’s no reason not to be confident, that there’s no rational reason not to worry, but I can’t help it.
I kiss Anne. We tell each other that we love each other. I don’t want to hope that it isn’t the last time, but I can’t help it.
“I’ll see you before you know it,” I tell her. When they wheel her toward the OR, I lamely say to the surgeon, “please take good care of my wife.” She tells me that she will. She doesn’t tell me that OF COURSE SHE WILL BECAUSE THAT IS HER JOB. I’m sure it’s not the first time a worried husband has said this to her.
A nurse takes me to the waiting room and tells me that it will be about two hours. I decide that I’m going to go home, feed our dogs, and take a shower. Maybe I’ll try to eat. I’ve been awake for 25 hours.
I almost crash twice on the way home. Maybe it’s not as close as I think it is, but it’s too close. The dogs interrogate me when I come into the house and they look for Anne. I tell them what’s going on because I have to talk to someone and everyone else we know is asleep. I make some food. I take a shower. I make and drink two cups of coffee, and go back to the hospital. I make my way to the waiting room and sit down. I try to watch TV but it’s a blur. I try to close my eyes but when I do, my brain relentlessly plays out the rest of my life without Anne in it. And I don’t just mean the images. I mean the emotion and the loss and the loneliness and the reality that I will be adrift and lost for the rest of my life if anything happens to her. I sit up, open my eyes, and I just walk around the empty room, grateful that there isn’t anyone else there.
Her surgeon comes in and tells me that everything went well. Anne is in recovery and I can see her in about thirty minutes. She shows me pictures from the laparoscope, because Anne asked for them. Anne has more pictures of the inside of her body than a human should have, because she always asks for them. It’s one of the things I love about her. So her surgeon points out how her one ovary is healthy and the one they took out was enlarged my several factors, and almost completely black because it was filling up with blood. She shows me the twist. It’s almost microscopic. “It’s the same kind of pain that a man would experience if he had a testicular torsion,” she tells me. “It’s one of the worst pains a woman can experience.” I thank her several times. I know that I’m repeating myself. I know that I’m delirious. I know that I’m exhausted. I know that I’m not making any sense. I know that I am relieved beyond measure. She shakes my hand, tells me that she wants to see Anne next week for a follow up, and leaves.
I walk up to the room where Anne will be recovering. I pull out a reclining chair to try and rest while I wait for her, but my brain is now overtired and caffeinated, so I just look out the window and watch the sun burn off the little bit of lingering fog and haze. I hear movement behind me and turn around to find an orderly pushing Anne into the room. A wave of relief washes over me and I again feel like I’m going to cry. “Good morning,” I say to them both.
“How are you?” He asks.
“Entering my 27th hour since I last got any real rest, but okay, I guess.”
“Hi, puss,” Anne says. She smiles a little bit and I reach out to hold her hand.
“How are you feeling?” I say.
“I’m thirsty.”
I get her some water. A nurse comes in and does nurse stuff. I sit in the chair, and I drift off to sleep for about three hours, forty or so minutes at a time.
The texts begin to arrive, from our friends who are waking up. They’ve read my blog, they’ve seen our posts on Twitter. Everyone offers whatever help they can give us. I’m grateful to all of them, and grateful that Anne, who they all love so much, has chosen me to be the guy she married. I go to the cafeteria and eat hospital food. I come back and sit with Anne while she rests and recovers. She doesn’t hurt, and there’s very little residual gas in her abdomen. She is able to get up and use the bathroom. She is able to walk around. She can eat. She is going to be okay. Around 5pm, they discharge her. We’ve been in the hospital for eighteen hours. I’ve slept for three hours in the last two days.
We get home. Anne’s friends have flowers delivered, and then they have dinner delivered for us both. I’m so tired and so emotionally exhausted, I feel like I’m going to cry from so many different kinds of relief, but I just eat, instead. Anne eats. She walks around the house and farts. I fart back her her when I can. We laugh. She’s going to be okay.
I’m overtired and don’t get into bed until about eleven. Anne is already asleep. Our dogs are on the floor at the foot of the bed. Seamus is snoring. Marlowe is chasing something in her sleep. Watson is on the back of the chair. I turn off the light and slide the covers up. The sheets are cool and soft and the bed is as comfortable as it’s ever been in my life. I hold Anne’s hand while I drift off.
I sleep for almost fourteen hours. I wake up with a headache, but Anne is doing great. She’s in the living room with our pets, watching TV. She tells me that she slept well, and isn’t in any major pain. She’s been able to eat.
I try to have a normal day. I keep checking on her. She’s doing fine, and naps in our bedroom. She lets me hold her hand and sit on the edge of the bed and give her food and stroke her hair.
There are hundreds of comments on my blog that I haven’t had time to read. There are thousands more on social media that I will never be able to reply to. People who don’t know Anne love her, and I know how lucky I am to have her in my life. I’m too tired to go anywhere or do anything, but I have too much boiling around inside of me to do nothing, so I sit down to type it all out, because that’s how I process things.
The weight of the last few days crashes down on me while I write this. I listen to Hamilton. It’s Quiet Uptown, and I cry as hard as I have in recent memory. I was so scared and felt so helpless and I’m so grateful that the most important person in my world is just a few steps away in another room, recovering, trying not to laugh too hard at the Sarah Silverman comedy special she’s watching, because it hurts her stomach when she does.
We have more time.
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This made me cry ❤️ IMO, this might be the most beautiful, heartbreaking sentence you have ever written: “I’ve been holding myself together, delivering what will be, at least to this point in my life, the most convincing performance I’ve ever given.”
Thank you for being you. Thank you both for sharing yourselves with the world. You are loved and appreciated.
A true power couple. Your relationship with each other has a powerful goodness that shines your love for each other on everyone you connect with. Thank you so much for sharing. Many blessings.
This story was overwhelming to read. Not just because of the pain both of you went through, but because it was insight into the other side of things. I get admitted to the hospital about twice a year for about the last decade because of Crohn’s Disease. I know what it’s like to have doctors overlook significant things because of gender and what it is like to have your pain discredited by male doctors who assume you are just oversensitive.
Thank you for sharing this story. I hate to be “that person” but if you ever want a book that talks about what its like you might enjoy Young Sick and Invisible.
I hope both of you are able to feel like yourselves again soon.
I’m a complete stranger to you, but I’ve followed these two posts and I’m so relieved for you both. Please feel the good wishes sent to you from the other side of the world.
I’m happy that Anne is recovering, but I’m so, so sorry that y’all had to go through this. I know you’ll take good care of Anne, but please remember to take care of yourself, too.
You do not need to apologize for them having to re-prep the OR over the latex allergy. That should be on her chart. That’s just ANOTHER thing someone missed that they should not have.
I’m very glad she’s doing better, and that you are too. This was important writing you did here, and I cried a lot.
Wow, Wil. I’m so glad your wife is doing well. My wife had gallstones a little over a year ago and the first time we went to the ER I was thinking it could be that in the back of my head, but the ER doc managed the pain and said “Ok, go home, follow up with your normal doctor.” We were back at the hospital the next night and got a doctor who actually cared – they ordered the ultrasound and the tech just goes “Woah, I’m not supposed to give a diagnosis, but you’ve got huge gallstones! I can actually see them move around.” He then told my wife that it looks like if she lays a particular way the pain would get better, she gets situated and it’s instant relief. She had the gall bladder removed a month later and had no residual problems.
My wife recently took a class in Women’s Studies and it’s appalling how poor medical care for women can be sometimes in developed nations. There are so many doctors (even gynecologists) that don’t get it. I’m glad you got one of the good ones – it’s so hard to see your partner in that kind of pain and knowing there’s nothing you can do to fix it.
I had this same thing happen to me at 19 years-old. It was the worst pain of my life, and I’ve since had 4 children, 2 of which I labored with (2 c-sections) and that was NOTHING compared to the pain of the torsion. Mine happened over Christmas holidays, so I had to go to a doc in a box, who never even took an x-ray. He said I had gastroenteritis and sent me home with a pain shot. He told me if it didn’t get better to come back. Well, it was a shot for pain, and it worked, so I thought I was getting better. I ended up in the ER around 1 am being examined by a doctor named Albert Gore (no lie) and told I was going to lose my right ovary and fallopian tube. My ovary swelled to the size of a grapefruit before it was removed. I was told that if the ovary had burst, I could have died. So much for gastroenteritis. When my mom went back to the doc in a box to tell them what happened, they had the nerve to say it was an ectopic pregnancy. They had no proof, and surprise! I was a virgin. No miracle ectopic pregnancies. I was so disheartened and enraged.
It’s horrible to have to live through this kinda of ordeal and I’m glad it worked out. But I haven’t seen any posts defending the doctors. My brother’s a doctor and I’m sure they do the best they can with the information they have.
Here is the thing. The human body is complex and so many things can go wrong. They need to constantly find what’s wrong with patients. It’s easy to be mad but it’s also very difficult to put your finger on the problem.
So many commenters just lash out at male doctors, as though female doctors can do no wrong.
It was right there on the CT.
Hindsight is always 20/20
I am so very glad your wife is okay. As someone whose life you have touched several times with your humor, I am so relieved that your wonderful partnership is going to be around for a long time!
Also, if she’s going to be doing a lot of passing gas post surgery, there’s an herbal supplement from France that I saw online recently that she could take to have the gas smell like roses or violets… 😉
Hi Wil. I’ve just been reading your recent blogs. Awesome to see you seemingly happy as a proverbial pig in shit! LOL
Glad we are like.minded in some things. Especially politically. You, Sirtis, Takei. My star trek allies.
I am so glad to see Anne in recovery. I can sort of relate. Sepsis and gallbladder infection. I wasn’t supposed to make it through the night. That was 13 years ago.
Keep up the great work. Prayers to you both.
Jim
Once you guys are ready to take some action, please raise hell about this. Your story is literally the third I have read this year regarding this scenario, and a quick review of medical literature (I am a nurse) indicates it is a real problem being misdiagnosed.
https://www.thestar.com/news/gta/2016/08/29/ignoring-doctor-may-have-saved-whitby-girl-from-abdominal-catastrophe.html
https://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2015/10/emergency-room-wait-times-sexism/410515/
I’m so, so glad that Anne is going to be okay. 🙂
I’m..I’m SO glad Anne is getting better. I hope lots of hugs find you both (if you both like hugs, that is), and that things keep getting better. <3
Dear Wil,
As much as I’d rather you’d never had the need to share this story, in the first place, thank you for doing so, after the ordeal.
I know that it’s not just male docs; my wife has been blown off and mistreated by her own female OB/GYNs to the point where we really have lost faith in finding anyone who will treat her properly. It’s something systemic, and I think, in proportion to the number of male vs. female doctors, but damn if it isn’t the most frustrating thing to be there by your loved one and wanting to strangle someone for not paying attention.
Either way, I am glad that you found someone to actually pay attention, and I hope for her continued and healthy recovery.
I’m so glad Anne is on the mend and hope she makes a full recovery soon. Thank goodness someone recognised what was actually wrong.
https://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2015/10/emergency-room-wait-times-sexism/410515/
Thank you, Wil. Thank you for posting this. I had almost a copy-and-paste thing happen a month ago… except the pain my husband was feeling ended up being testicular cancer. He’s doing well, and the cancer looks like it didn’t spread, but damn. The way you expressed what was going on in your head. Amazingly accurate. I swear I had some of the exact same thoughts going through my head.
This post helped me process a lot of the fear. That feeling when you look at your significant other and just think how close you might have gotten to losing them. Getting flashes of the images of what their faces look like when they’re experiencing the most pain they’ve ever felt. Being unable to cry, somehow. Until you get home. And the lack of sleep. Ooooh the lack of sleep. I feel so much better after reading your post, and seeing that someone else experienced the same deep, deep fear and crippling inability to make them feel any better. Seriously, is it in the couch cushions?
I’m so sorry you had to experience this. I’m so glad that Anne was finally allowed some relief. I’m glad that this had a good ending. but, through all that pain, thank you for sharing. It sounds cheesy as hell, but you’ve gifted us with this. Thank you, thank you.
This is the most beautifully eloquent of “show, don’t tell” when it comes to loving and caring for another person that I’ve ever read. So glad that Anne is recovering, so glad that she has you and you have her, and so very glad that you let us read this.
Thank you for telling this story and for taking the time during a heart-wrenching experience to share your love, fear, and uncertainty. And through all of that, call attention to the need for and benefit of more women doctors and researchers. I am humbled by your love and devotion. I am so sorry that this happened to Anne–and to you. My family has been there before. I am happy you went to the ER the second time and met with the doctor who thought to check her abdomen. My mom had the same thing happen to her years ago, but no one ever bothered to look for the reason. They accused her of seeking pills. The pain slowly subsided to bearable levels that she lived with for years, until her ovary became gangrenous and she had to have a complete hysterectomy. I know I am late, but I am still sending healing thoughts to Anne and your family.
Wow. . .just wow. So glad she’s doing better. I’m sure she was glad to have you at her side through it all.
I’m a complete stranger who’s watched you act through the years. But, I’ve never liked you more than I have right now, after reading this. You can feel the love you have for your wife lifting off the screen before you as I read. You are one lucky man, to have such an amazing life and love. Many blessings to you both for many years to come! I’m glad they found the problem and you have her back home with you heathy and getting better.
God.
What a horror show.
Your wife is so strong.
I love that you included this in your post:
“She said, ‘women need to work in medical research, and in applied medicine, because too many men treat women’s bodies like they are just men’s bodies with female parts, but our bodies are fundamentally different and need to be treated that way.'”
It’s something we should all be aware of.
I’ve come late to this and I’m so glad it’s worked out well. Wil, I was struck by just how exceptional a writer you are, this piece was raw, real and had me riding every wave of emotion with you. The concluding sentence was poignant and beautiful for what is more important than to have time with our loved ones. I hope you and Anne get a lot more time. Oh, an Australian visit at some point would be truly awesome 🙂
Beautifully written, sir, and it really stirred up some powerful memories for me. My wife became ill when we were traveling in Greece last year, ended up in a small hospital needing surgery and several days of IV antibiotics. Fortunately the doctors there made the correct diagnosis immediately and did all the right things – it was a fearsome and very painful experience for her but she made it through OK.
Having to maintain an aura of calm support, reassurance, love, and “I’ll do whatever’s necessary – you’re going to get through this OK” while your guts and brain are churning with fear and uncertainty… yeah, it’s a tough challenge. Not being able to help directly with her pain… being dependent on other, who you don’t know and can’t yet trust… maybe that’s even worse.
Kudos to you for getting the both of you through it, and I’m really glad she’s doing well!
This same thing happened to me almost two years ago while I was in my first trimester. It took a month and a half of doctors and ER visits in excrutiating pain until they finally saw the twisted ovary on ultrasound. And it’s not like I was going to a small community hospital or rural docs who’d never seen anything like this before.
It was so awful. I have never experienced such pain and even worse was some nurses’ unwillingness to give me pain medication because I was pregnant (even though the doctor had written the order for me to have it as needed!). On the plus side, it made the rest of my pregnancy as well as my medication-free labor and delivery seem like a breeze! Though all is well that ends well, I do hope that we can get the word out and keep this from happening to other people.
Way back in 2000, I had a very similar experience. When the doctors finally removed my ovary, it was a little bigger than a large grapefruit (so big that they had to stop the laproscopic surgery and proceed with a full open abdominal incision). The experience was terrifying for me and an eye opener for my spouse. Particulary because the er had initially told him that it was likely cancer and that I might not make it. I am very sorry that you both had to get through a similar emergency. But do know that you will (both) heal and get past it all. I suspect that you’ll find you are even closer as a couple after the whole experience. Make sure you cherish every millimeter of those scars, Wil!
I am furious on behalf of your wife, and you, and every woman given initially crappy care by male centric medicine. It happens again and again, and one would imagine medicine and nursing making such systematic avoidable malpractice almost impossible. But that takes Physicians and all we get are “doctors”. Shame on them all.
Best wishes to all.
I’ve had ovarian torsion too. It was absolutely horrible. The pain would come in waves and it was so intense I wished I would die. I’m sorry your wife had to go through that.
Your love for your wife really shines through here, and it’s beautiful. I’m so glad for you both that things turned out okay, and sorry that you had to go through that.