“You’ve suffered a miscarriage. The baby can’t be saved, and we need to perform an emergency procedure to stop the bleeding and save your life.”
Tears streamed down my face as I thought about the baby I had been looking forward to holding in my arms. Just days ago, during my prenatal checkup, I had imagined a happy life as a mother with Oscar by my side. Now, that dream was gone.
The doctor urged me to call a family member to sign the consent form for the operation. Trembling, I dialed Oscar’s number over and over.
He finally answered, but his tone was annoyed as he said, “Evelyn, what is it? I’m busy.”
I tried to explain through sobs as I told him, “Oscar, I’m in the hospital … I-”
Before I could finish, he cut off, “Where’s the lubricant in the bedroom? I can’t find it!”
I froze at what he just said, “What do you need that for right now?”
His answer was as casual as it was cruel as he said, “For Madeline’s dog, of course. Why do you ask so many questions?”
The doctor beside me stared, stunned by what he’d just overheard. My heart shattered into a million pieces. I realized then that Oscar didn’t care about me or our unborn child.