An hour later, three people entered my room: Attorney Whitman, a woman in a gray suit named Dr. Harper, and a man named Daniel Price from the district attorney’s office. They moved fast. Dr. Harper examined my IV line, requested my records, collected samples from the wet sheet, and ordered every unregistered substance removed from my room. Daniel spoke to hospital administration in a tone that made it clear this was no longer a private family issue.
Derek returned as a nurse was clearing the table.
“What is going on?” he demanded.
“Independent medical and legal review,” Whitman said.
“I’m her husband.”
“Exactly,” Daniel replied.
Derek looked at me—not like a wife now, but like a problem.
“Elena, what did you do?”
I was still weak. Still shaking. But I was no longer helpless.
“The same thing you did,” I said. “I stopped trusting.”
Dr. Harper lifted the sealed bag with the stained sheet.
“This will be analyzed,” she said. “So will her treatment history, outside substances, and anything administered by family members beyond hospital protocol.”
Derek laughed nervously.
“My wife is dying.”
Dr. Harper didn’t blink.