My husband said he and our daughter were spending Christmas with his ex-wife. “She needs a real mother figure. If you don’t like it, divorce me.” I didn’t argue. But 3 days later, he came home and… called me in a panic. True story.
You know what’s funny about almost dying? It doesn’t care that you still have deadlines or an unfinished presentation. Monday, 9:47 a.m. I remember it exactly because the digital clock in the conference room was the last thing I saw before my body mutinied right in the middle of our quarterly strategy meeting. One second, I was talking about the budget plan, still clicking through slide 17. The next, my stomach twisted like someone was ringing every inch of my intestines with their bare hands.
I got so dizzy it felt like everyone was standing on a spinning ride and I was the one about to be thrown off. “Addison, you okay?” Mark from legal called out, sounding more like a guy worried about a late lunch than someone worried I was about to die. I tried to open my mouth, tried to act calm, like I was just allergic to the work-harder slogans hanging around the office.
But what came out was a weak hiss, like a balloon leaking air. Then that ugly beige floor we had all complained about for 3 years came rushing up to my face with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever. Blackout. When I woke up, I saw the cold sting of fluorescent lights. The kind that makes everyone look like an extra in a zombie movie. My stomach felt like someone had dropped a suitcase on it and wires were wrapped around me.
“Glad you’re awake,” a nurse said gently. “You scared us, Addison. You’re lucky to still be here.” “Lucky? Yeah, that word sounded ridiculous when I was lying there like a medical-themed Christmas tree.” Then the doctor walked in with that stern, “I’m about to say something your insurance will scream about” look on his face. He studied the chart like it was a classified code and said, “You had a miscarriage, about five weeks along.”
