MY HUSBAND, ERIC, WAS GIVEN WEEKS TO LIVE DUE TO CANCER. I was sitting outside the hospital, devastated, when a stranger approached me.
She sat down and said, “Set up a hidden camera in his room. HE’S NOT DYING.”
Confused, I asked, “What are you talking about? The doctors said he’s dying.”
She just replied, “Trust me. Set up the camera. You deserve to know the truth.” Then she left.
Her words haunted me. Desperate, I secretly set up the camera while Eric was undergoing a scan.
That evening, I watched the footage. At first, it was normal—Eric lying in bed. Then, at 9 PM, a woman wearing a sleek leather coat with her hair perfectly styled walked in. She looked stunning. My “dying” bedridden husband effortlessly JUMPED OUT of his bed.
And then the worst part began. ⬇️And then the worst part began.
They weren’t kissing, or even holding hands. Instead, the woman opened a briefcase she’d brought with her. Inside were vials and syringes. My blood ran cold. Was he dealing drugs? Was this some kind of twisted scheme?
She spoke in hushed tones, and Eric, looking surprisingly alert, responded. I strained to hear, adjusting the volume on my phone. It was muffled, but I could make out snippets. Words like “dosage,” “side effects,” and “undetectable.” Then, chillingly, I heard her say, “Remember, the symptoms need to worsen. Convincing pallor, labored breathing… we need them to believe it.”
Them? Believe what? My head spun. My “dying” husband was participating in some bizarre charade. But why? And who were “they”?
The woman administered an injection from one of the vials into Eric’s IV drip. He winced slightly, but didn’t protest. She then meticulously recorded something in a small notebook before packing everything back into the briefcase. She checked her watch, smiled coolly at Eric, and said, “See you tomorrow, same time.” Then, with another effortless swish of her coat, she was gone. Just like that.
Eric settled back into bed, his movements now slow and weak again, the transformation utterly disturbing. He looked exactly as he had when I’d left him that afternoon – pale, frail, and seemingly fading.
I watched the rest of the footage, but nothing more happened. He just lay there, appearing to sleep. But I knew the truth. It was all an act.
The next morning, I went to the hospital as usual, my mind a whirlwind of confusion and hurt. I walked into Eric’s room, forcing a smile. He looked at me with those tired, loving eyes that were tearing me apart for weeks.
“Hey, honey,” he whispered, his voice weak. “How are you?”
I sat down, my heart pounding. I couldn’t pretend anymore. “Eric,” I started, my voice trembling, “I know.”
His eyes widened slightly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. He tried to sit up, wincing. “Know what?” he asked, feigning confusion.
I pulled out my phone, the video ready to play. “I know about the camera,” I said, my voice now firm. “And I know about the woman in the leather coat.”
He stared at me, his face paling further, if that was even possible. He didn’t deny it. He just looked defeated.
“Please,” I begged, tears welling up, “Tell me the truth. What is going on?”
He took a shaky breath and finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s… it’s complicated. And it’s not what you think.”
“Then tell me what it is!” I pleaded.
He looked around nervously, then leaned closer, his voice even softer. “It started months ago… before the cancer diagnosis. I was having these… episodes. Blackouts, dizziness… they couldn’t figure out what was wrong. Then, they said it was a rare form of cancer, aggressive and untreatable. They gave me weeks. But… it wasn’t exactly true.”
He paused, looking at me with a mix of fear and desperation. “It’s not cancer, not in the way they said. It’s… a neurological condition. Very rare, very serious, but… not necessarily terminal. There’s an experimental treatment. The woman… she’s Dr. Anya Sharma. She’s part of the trial. It’s highly confidential, underground even. They needed a plausible reason for me to be… ‘deteriorating’ rapidly. The cancer diagnosis was a cover.”
My jaw dropped. “A cover? For what? Why?”
“Because the treatment… it’s risky. It has severe side effects. They need to monitor me closely, but they can’t do it openly. There are ethical concerns, legal hurdles… If it went public, the trial would be shut down. And… and it’s my only chance.”
Tears streamed down my face now, a mix of relief and anger. “So, you lied to me? You let me believe you were dying? Why, Eric, why put me through that?”
He reached for my hand, his grip weak but earnest. “I didn’t want to. But Dr. Sharma said it was crucial for the cover to be believable. She said… if you knew the truth, it might show. That someone might notice. They were afraid of leaks, of sabotage. They said it was the only way to protect the trial, and to protect me.”
“Protect you?” I repeated, incredulous. “By breaking my heart? By letting me grieve you while you were… what? Getting secret injections?”
He squeezed my hand tighter. “I know, I know it was wrong. Terrible. But I was desperate. And they promised… they promised it could work. That I could get better. They said… if I played the role, if we both did, I might have a future.”
He looked at me, pleadingly. “Please, try to understand. I was so scared. And they made it sound like… like it was the only way.”
I sat there in silence for a long moment, the weight of his confession settling on me. Betrayal warred with relief. Anger fought with a flicker of hope. He wasn’t dying of cancer. He was sick, yes, but there was a chance. A secret, risky chance, built on a foundation of lies.
“And the stranger?” I asked, remembering the woman outside the hospital. “The one who told me to set up the camera?”
Eric looked surprised. “Stranger? What stranger?”
I described her, the way she looked, what she said. He shook his head, bewildered. “I don’t know anyone like that. Maybe… maybe she was part of the trial too? Someone watching over you, making sure you discovered the truth?”
It was a bizarre explanation, but in this surreal situation, nothing seemed impossible. Perhaps the stranger, whoever she was, had seen my despair and taken pity, offering a cryptic nudge towards the truth. Maybe she was a rogue element within the trial, someone with a conscience.
The truth was messy, complicated, and deeply hurtful. But Eric wasn’t dying in the way I feared. He was fighting, in a clandestine, deceitful way, for his life.
“Okay,” I said finally, my voice hoarse. “Okay, Eric. I understand… a little. But we have a lot to talk about. And you have a lot of explaining to do. But… if this treatment… if it gives you a chance… then maybe… maybe we can figure this out.”
A weak smile touched his lips, relief flooding his eyes. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you for listening. Thank you for being here.”
The road ahead was uncertain, filled with questions and hurt. But for the first time in weeks, a sliver of hope pierced through the darkness. Eric wasn’t dying. And maybe, just maybe, we could find our way back to each other, even through the web of lies and secrets that had been spun around us. The normal ending wasn’t the one I expected, but it was a chance at a new normal, a normal where truth, however painful, could begin to heal the wounds of deception.