“The source of the story is Reddit, but it has been edited by me to enhance the content.”
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I (42F) and my husband (46) have been married for 16 years and have two kids, ages 13 and 10. Since the age of 20, he has been under the care of a cardiologist due to being born with a heart defect.
Last year, we faced a harrowing experience. My husband suffered a heart attack while we were at the park with our children. His heart stopped, and I had to administer CPR until the ambulance arrived. Miraculously, he regained consciousness, but he remained in a coma for three days. His survival is owed to a remarkable medical device called the LVAD (Left Ventricular Assist Device), which essentially functions as a blood-pumping machine, attached to his heart and powered by batteries.
The LVAD has become an integral part of our lives, albeit with its challenges. A cable protrudes from his torso, connected to a controller, which, in turn, is powered by batteries carried in a bag. These batteries need to be changed every 12-15 hours. At night, the controller is plugged into a wall outlet via a long cable. While I consider the LVAD a marvel of modern medicine, my husband finds it inconvenient, particularly because the bag is bulky, and it restricts activities like swimming due to the risk of the cable getting wet.
Three days ago, I received an unexpected call from the hospital, requesting an appointment to meet with a social worker. The purpose? To discuss everything I needed to know as the caretaker of a potential heart transplant recipient. This came as a shock to me, as I hadn’t been informed of any recent developments regarding my husband’s medical treatment.
After some clarification, I discovered that my husband had already undergone all the necessary tests for a heart transplant. Depending on the outcome of my upcoming appointment, he could be added to the transplant list within days. Given his blood type, the wait for a new heart could be as short as two months. I was taken aback and felt a mix of confusion and anger; my husband had initiated this process without consulting me.
Despite my emotions, I asked pertinent questions about the risks involved in delaying the transplant. The social worker assured me that as long as my husband maintained his health, there was no immediate risk of heart failure. Furthermore, she explained that individuals with an LVAD typically live with the device for an average of seven years before receiving a transplant.
Grateful for the information, I thanked the social worker and promised to follow up. However, I was left grappling with a whirlwind of emotions and uncertainties about the next steps in my husband’s medical journey.
The hospital where my husband would undergo the transplant is a five-hour drive from our home. As mentioned earlier, the recovery period for the surgery is around three months, requiring a caretaker around the clock, and necessitating that he remains within an hour of the hospital in case of emergencies.
After dinner that evening, I confronted him about why he hadn’t informed me of his plans for the transplant. His response caught me off guard: “Do I need your permission? It’s my surgery. Don’t I get to decide when it happens?” When I inquired about his caretaker, he seemed surprised and responded, “Are you saying you won’t do it? You’re MY WIFE.” He then suggested bringing our children with us.
I reminded him of several practical challenges he might not have considered: arranging a leave of absence from my job, especially during our busiest season; lacking a support system since our families reside in another state; the children’s school commitments; and the impracticality of caring for him while also tending to our kids. Additionally, we would need to cover rent for an apartment near the hospital alongside our mortgage payments. Moreover, our 13-year-old son is undergoing therapy for acute depression and suicidal thoughts, triggered by the heart attack. Missing therapy for three months could severely impact his mental health.
I stressed that such a significant decision requires careful planning. If he could wait until next summer, my sister, a teacher, could come and care for our children. This would allow us to save money and provide my workplace with advance notice to avoid leaving any pending tasks. I reminded him that there’s no urgency, as the LVAD is currently functioning well. However, he grew angry, expressing frustration at the inconvenience of dealing with the device’s batteries. Despite his frustration, I remained composed and acknowledged his perspective, stating, “You’re right. I don’t understand what you have to go through. And I get that you have to take care of yourself. But I have to take care of all 4 of us. So I’m asking you to deal with the annoyance for 6 more months so I can come up with a plan that will be best for everyone.”
He became extremely angry, shouting accusations at me, claiming I was selfish and only considering my own convenience. He questioned, “Why are you trying to prevent me from undergoing a surgery that could save my life? Do you want me to die?”
In that moment, I felt a pang of loss – as if my love and respect for him diminished. I reached a breaking point. Without shedding a tear or raising my voice, I met his gaze and calmly responded, “You’re the one being selfish here. I can handle you prioritizing your needs over mine, but not at the expense of our children’s well-being. You’re not facing imminent death, so stop with the dramatics. You expect me to drop everything to care for you because I’m your wife, yet you didn’t even consider including me in the decision-making process. By denying me a voice, you denied me the respect owed to me as your wife.”
He stood there, seething with rage. His fists clenched, face flushed, refusing to meet my eyes. I continued, “You have two options: either wait six months for me to devise a plan, or find another caretaker and proceed with your surgery whenever you wish. Post-transplant, you can choose to treat me with the respect I deserve, or we part ways.” With that, I walked away, adding, “And if I wished for your demise, I wouldn’t have saved your life at the park last year.”
Later, I retreated to our bedroom, only to hear him leave the house moments afterward. He didn’t return that night and ignored my attempts at contact. When I texted him the following day to ensure his safety, his response was terse: “I’m alive.” Still, he hasn’t returned home. I noticed his LVAD equipment and some belongings missing after he visited while I was at work. I’m grappling with a profound sense of confusion about who he has become. Meanwhile, my children are devastated by his absence, as he hasn’t even bothered to call them. I fear my marriage is irreparably damaged. I question whether my reaction was justified, but deep down, I believe it was. So, am I the one at fault here?
UPDATE:
I turned to Reddit seeking perspective in the dead of night, and the responses have reshaped my world. From the supportive to the critical, each comment has left its mark. Being labeled as selfish was a new experience for me, one that’s left me feeling utterly drained and defeated. I’ve yet to find sleep, my mind consumed by the events unfolding.
Around 5 am, a message on Reddit changed everything. It was from Shelly, Tom’s wife – Tom being my husband’s friend from work, the one he’s always out golfing with. Despite it being winter break and my kids fast asleep, Shelly insisted on meeting for breakfast. Reluctantly, I agreed, and she soon arrived at my doorstep, visibly jittery.
We conversed in the backyard, where I lit candles and stoked the fire in the outdoor fireplace my husband built. Without preamble, Shelly dropped a bombshell: my husband is cheating on me with a woman he met at the gym. Fatigue and emotional turmoil left me numb; I could barely react. Shelly disclosed that she and Tom attend the same gym, and it was Tom who persuaded my husband to join shortly after the heart attack – coinciding with the time he began withdrawing from family life. My husband’s weight loss in the hospital had caused his wedding ring to loosen, so he stopped wearing it under the guise of not wanting to lose it. Meanwhile, he charmed and deceived this woman, withholding the fact that he was married. She was captivated by his story of the heart attack and LVAD, oblivious to the fact that I was the one who administered CPR.
At this point, I’m utterly bewildered and decide to confront Shelly about her motives. I barely know her. Could she harbor resentment because my husband confided in her about our situation? Her response only adds to my confusion. She offers to call “Jen” and have her provide proof. Despite my reservations, I reluctantly agree. Within ten minutes, a young blonde woman in her twenties arrives at my doorstep, visibly distraught and tearful. She apologizes profusely, claiming ignorance. She then shows me her phone, revealing a series of damning photographs: my husband and her, in intimate poses, some with disheveled hair and both partially undressed. My stomach churns as she proceeds to display a string of flirtatious, sexually explicit messages exchanged between them.
Here, it’s important to interject with some context. During our discussions about the aftermath of LVAD or transplant surgery, the topic of sexual intimacy arose. We were informed that it’s normal for a person’s libido to diminish post-surgery, and erectile dysfunction could potentially be an issue, albeit likely temporary. However, everyone’s experience varies. My husband and I had always enjoyed a healthy, fulfilling sex life throughout our 15-year marriage. Even after all those years, we maintained intimacy several times a week, sometimes daily. Approximately a month after his return home, I attempted to initiate intimacy, only to be met with apologies and excuses from him. Sensing his discomfort, I refrained from pushing further, opting instead to give him space and time to adjust. This pattern persisted for 13 months until I discovered he had been engaging in a sexual relationship with his 26-year-old personal trainer. The sheer cliché of it all is nauseating.
As I scrolled through each incriminating picture and text, it felt like a dagger twisting in my stomach. But the ultimate blow to my heart came with a message dated about two months ago. It was the moment he confided in her about being ready for the transplant – a decision he failed to share with his wife. Some of you speculated that perhaps he was gripped by fear, terrified of relying on a machine for his survival, or that his PTSD was so crippling that he dreaded the thought of complications with the LVAD leading to his demise.
Her subsequent text only added insult to injury: “OMG baby, that’s awesome. You were so against it before, what made you change ur mind?” (Yes, I’m petty enough to highlight her grammatical errors). His response was chilling: “I’m sick and tired of this fucking bag weighing me down. It makes me look old and sick.” Her reassurance fell flat: “No it doesn’t! I don’t care about a stupid bag, ur super hot.” His callous retort cut deep: “It gets in the way when I fuck you.”
That’s when the floodgates opened, and I found myself sobbing uncontrollably. Not because of the message itself, but because of the date it was sent. It was the same day my son made his second suicide attempt. While I sat in the hospital ICU, praying fervently for my son’s life, my “husband” was at home, supposedly tending to our daughter and cleaning up the aftermath of my son’s tragic act. In reality, he was likely lounging in our bed or seated on the couch where we had shared tender moments just a week prior, while simultaneously exchanging sexually explicit messages with his girlfriend. The following day, when my son finally regained consciousness and asked for his dad, I reached out to him, conveying the news of our son’s awakening and his desire to see his father. His response was rushed, breathless, claiming he was heading into an early meeting and running late, promising to stop by after work.
Meanwhile, their text exchange continued unabated. She sent him a suggestive picture of herself, her uncovered breasts displaying a hickey the size of a grape. “I like it when the bag slaps my leg, so kinky,” she wrote. He eagerly responded, “I wish I was there right now. I’ll stop by tomorrow on my way to work. Maybe I’ll call in sick.” Her reply, adorned with peach and eggplant emojis, spoke volumes.
Wow, that’s a lot to take in. I felt physically sick when I heard all of this. I needed more information about my husband’s transplant, but what I got instead was a bombshell about his plans for after the surgery. It’s like he’s been living a whole separate life behind my back.
When I turned to Shelly for answers, I discovered she had known about this for some time. It was through a post that she made a comment on, triggering Tom to spill the beans about my husband’s deceit. It’s heartbreaking to realize that even when my husband was supposed to be spending time with his friend, he was actually with Jen, leading this secret life.
Shelly’s reaction really hit me hard. She trusted my husband as her friend, only to realize that he’s been lying to her too. Despite her shock and hurt, she had the courage to reach out to Jen and tell her the truth. It’s comforting to know that even in this mess, there are people like Shelly who are willing to stand by me and help me uncover the truth.
Facing my husband’s betrayal head-on, I turned to Jen for support and answers. In a bold move, she confronted him right in front of me, sending a scathing text message and blocking him immediately. Then, she agreed to accompany me to meet with a divorce lawyer, promising to provide evidence and support if necessary. Despite her own shock and hurt, Jen apologized repeatedly before she and Shelly departed, both pledging to offer their statements.
As I tried to regain my composure, my phone rang. It was my husband, pouring out apologies and admitting I was right. He pleaded to come home, promising to wait six months for the surgery. Despite his pleas, I remained resolute. I instructed him to visit after work, giving me time to pack his belongings and leave them outside with evidence of his betrayal. With his options narrowed, he’d have to accept his parents’ help.
Despite feeling utterly drained, I strangely found peace amidst the chaos. Things finally started to make sense, and I resolved to focus on my children, taking them to a movie as a small act of normalcy in an otherwise tumultuous time.
SECOND UPDATE
As I waited for the Cheating Dick (CD) to arrive home, I busied myself with packing up his belongings. In the midst of clearing out his closet, I stumbled upon a shoebox containing some disturbing discoveries: a pink thong stained with what appeared to be dried semen, photos of Jen in compromising positions while she slept (uncertain whether consensual or not), and a collection of notes she had written to him over the past eight months, each signed and dated.
Around 1 pm, I received a text from CD informing me of his imminent return and requesting the kids to be sent to the neighbors’ for privacy. Luckily, they were already there. When CD entered the house, he made a beeline for me with outstretched arms, but I instinctively dodged his embrace, maintaining distance by circling the kitchen island. Despite the hurt in his eyes, I confronted him about his unexpected early return from work. He expressed remorse for his previous outburst and professed his love and fear of losing our family. He admitted to initiating the transplant process behind my back, claiming it was to rid himself of the nuisance of LVAD batteries. I countered, reminding him of our numerous discussions over the past year, during which he had decided against a transplant and opted to keep the LVAD for a couple more years. I questioned why he hadn’t approached me to formulate a plan together. His feeble justification—that he assumed I’d be fine with it—rang hollow, as we’ve always made major decisions collaboratively, or so I believed.
In a moment of clarity and resolve, I confronted CD with the truth. I asserted that our recent experiences had revealed irreconcilable differences in our desires for the future, signaling a significant shift in our relationship. Despite his initial contrition, I proposed discussing a divorce petition together to avoid costly legal battles. His demeanor quickly changed from remorseful to furious, unleashing a torrent of profanity-laden tirades. I calmly reminded him of his recent apology for yelling, but he persisted, citing our marriage vows and accusing me of attempting to rid myself of him. I countered by pointing out his breach of vows through his infidelity. His reaction—a mix of anger and disbelief—unsettled me deeply, as it marked a stark departure from his previous behavior.
As I struggled to compose myself before the kids returned, I received a message from Shelly urging me to speak with Jen. I dialed Jen’s number and found her in tears, recounting CD’s desperate plea for reconciliation at her doorstep. He confessed his love, apologized for deceiving her about his marital status, and claimed our marriage had been over for some time, insisting he stayed only for the sake of the children. Jen, understandably shaken, rejected his advances, unable to trust his sincerity after months of lies. CD’s emotional breakdown and plea for another chance further underscored the depth of his betrayal.
I stayed on the phone with Jen until she felt safe, but the revelation of CD’s behavior left me reeling with disbelief and uncertainty about what lies ahead.
After a pleasant dinner with the kids, However, my peace was disrupted by a text from Jen detailing CD’s disturbing behavior at the gym, from desperate pleas to baseless accusations. Concerned for her safety, Jen contemplated seeking a restraining order and planned to unblock CD’s number to gather evidence of his harassment.
Around 8:45, CD showed up again, only to be greeted by the sight of moving boxes. His incredulous question—”where do you think you’re going?”—elicited a chuckle from me. I made it clear that the boxes were for him, not me, signaling the end of our marriage. His feeble attempt to claim he was staying here was met with disbelief, especially considering his recent whereabouts with his girlfriend. Despite his denial, I stood firm in my decision for a divorce and insisted on discussing the logistics civilly.
CD’s arrogance reached new heights as he questioned why he should make things easy for me. In response, I revealed the damning contents of his shoebox, leaving him visibly shaken. His feeble attempt to bargain by offering to let me keep the house in exchange for assistance during his recovery was met with righteous anger. I made it clear that his transplant was no longer my concern and directed him to seek support from his parents.
His final attempt to manipulate the situation by suggesting I help him through his recovery was met with a stern ultimatum: leave or face the consequences. With a defeated demeanor, he finally departed, leaving me to breathe a sigh of relief at the prospect of reclaiming my independence.
As I sit here, feeling a wave of nausea, anger, and hurt wash over me, I can’t help but wonder how I’ll manage to navigate a lifetime of dealing with him for the sake of our children. I’m torn between questioning whether he truly changed or if this behavior has been lurking beneath the surface all along. And amidst it all, I’m consumed by anger at myself, knowing that despite everything, I’ll likely still shed tears over a pathetic excuse for a human being who doesn’t deserve a single one.
FINAL UPDATE:
These past few days have been an absolute whirlwind. I’ve been referring to my soon-to-be ex as the Cheating Dick, but honestly, just “Dick” seems fitting. The day after he proposed that absurd deal of trading the house for my caretaking services, he reached out to me asking if we could talk. I agreed, on the condition that he refrained from yelling and spent some time with the kids. Despite his initial happiness at seeing them, things quickly turned sour when my son expressed a desire to leave and my daughter refused to stay without him. Dick’s reaction was predictable, cycling through various emotions from apologetic to downright cruel.
I tried to remain calm and suggested that he seek professional help, although I avoided using the term “therapy.” It’s evident to me that the past year has taken a toll on him, and he needs more support than I can provide alone. However, his offer to go to therapy came with a condition: I must agree to continue being his caretaker and only see a marriage therapist. I firmly declined, stating that our marriage is beyond repair, and the only negotiation I’m willing to entertain is the terms of our divorce. Our conversation quickly escalated into a standoff, with him adamant about never agreeing to a divorce and threatening to fight me for full custody of the kids.
Then came his shocking proposition: if I agreed to be his caretaker, he would sign the divorce papers, relinquish the house, and grant me full custody of the children. The audacity of his offer left me seething with anger, but I remained composed and demanded that he put his words in writing if he was serious. Predictably, he left without saying goodbye to the kids.
On Christmas Eve, amidst this turmoil, I did my best to uphold our family traditions. Thankfully, my son seemed to be in better spirits. We spent the day baking cookies and cleaning the kitchen together, and he even opened up about his excitement for starting high school next year. For anyone who hasn’t experienced the fear of having a suicidal teenager, you can’t comprehend how monumental this moment was. It took everything in me not to break down in tears right then and there. Despite everything, we managed to have a wonderful Christmas Eve, enjoying hot chocolate and watching Arthur Christmas.
Dick later texted, asking if he could come over the next day to exchange gifts with the kids. My son agreed, with the condition that I didn’t leave the house. I relayed the message to Dick, and he begrudgingly accepted.
Christmas morning was truly special. My kids surprised me with a beautiful necklace, featuring a see-through locket filled with charms symbolizing our home, our pets, and stick figures representing them with their birthstones. It was a touching and thoughtful gift that I absolutely adore. After attending church and spreading some holiday cheer by dropping off cookies at the police station and fire department, Dick came over in the afternoon. Despite the tension, it was bearable. I had already purchased a gift for him, so I offered it to him upon his arrival.
However, Dick had a surprise in store for me. He disappeared to his den, returning with a present he claimed was a combined Christmas and birthday gift. Reluctantly, I opened it at my kids’ urging, only to discover a trip to Vegas in February and two tickets to the Super Bowl. It was a gesture that left me conflicted, knowing how much I love my football team and how desperately he’ll insist on accompanying me.
We continued our conversation, and I expressed my genuine concern for his well-being. His erratic mood swings have become alarming, even frightening his own children. He acknowledged this, admitting that he’s starting to scare himself. When I suggested he seek help from his mother, he stubbornly insisted that I, as his wife, should be the one caring for him. I pressed him to reconsider accepting his parents’ assistance, but he proposed a compromise instead—waiting the six months I requested, during which time we could see a marriage therapist, and then having my sister care for the kids while I accompany him to appointments.
Despite his attempts to sway me, I reiterated my stance on the divorce, reminding him of our pre-marriage agreement regarding deal-breakers like abuse and infidelity. His silence spoke volumes. As night fell, the kids asked if he could stay over, and although I couldn’t bring myself to refuse, I made it clear he would be sleeping in the guest room. However, he attempted to breach that boundary later in the night, insisting on sharing our bed. Firmly, I demanded he leave and locked myself in for the night.
Yesterday was quite the hectic day. After Dick left for work, he casually mentioned seeing me at dinner, assuming he could stay over again. I quickly reminded him that it was a one-time arrangement and he needed to find alternative accommodations. With a packed schedule ahead, I wasted no time. My first order of business was leaving messages for Dick’s social worker at the hospital and a local divorce attorney, requesting urgent appointments.
While my kids spent time at the neighbors’ house, I accompanied Jen to the courthouse to file for a restraining order. It’s a step I never thought I’d have to take, but necessary for our safety. Later, I reached out to Shelly, only to learn that she’s working things out with Tom and staying with him. I wished her all the best, though I couldn’t help but feel a pang of envy for her seemingly simpler situation.
Returning home, I took my son to his therapy appointment and seized the opportunity to confide in his therapist about everything that’s been happening. I sought advice on how to broach the topic with my kids in a way that’s appropriate for their age. The therapist’s suggestion to be honest but avoid unnecessary details resonated with me.
However, what my son revealed during the session shook me to the core. He recounted instances of overhearing his dad’s inappropriate conversations with another woman, leaving him feeling unsettled and confused. It was a heartbreaking revelation that highlighted the urgency of our situation.
On our way home, I made a stop at the hardware store to install a deadbolt, a necessary precaution given Dick’s unpredictable behavior. Unfortunately, when he attempted to enter later and found himself locked out, he responded with anger, kicking the door in a fit of rage. I had to remind him of the children’s presence and threatened to involve the authorities if he didn’t leave, which he eventually did.
To add to the chaos, I received a call from Jen, informing me that Dick had shown up at her place once again, pleading for another chance. Feeling overwhelmed and unsure of what to do next, I advised her to not engage with him and to call the police if necessary. As a precaution, I also reached out to my home security company to secure copies of any relevant recordings from our doorbell and living room cameras, anticipating potential legal proceedings ahead.
Today was a whirlwind of appointments and decisions. I had a conversation with the social worker, during which I learned that Dick had revoked my Release of Information, preventing them from discussing his medical information with me. Despite this setback, I expressed my concerns about his drastic mood swings and made it clear that I would not be serving as his caretaker. The social worker assured me she would schedule an appointment with him to assess the situation.
In between, I managed to meet with a lawyer, who graciously made time for me during her lunch break. We discussed filing a restraining order, a step I knew was necessary for our safety. Additionally, I made a decision that if Dick were to become violent again, I would not hesitate to call the police and request a psychiatric hold. While there’s no guarantee they would comply, at least it would be documented in a police report.
Later, I accompanied my daughter to her first therapy session and briefed her therapist on the situation. It was comforting to know that her therapist would coordinate with my son’s therapist, as they both work for the same behavioral health center.
Feeling overwhelmed, I reached out to my in-laws and filled them in on everything that had transpired. They admitted they had noticed Dick’s behavior but had attributed it to nerves surrounding his upcoming transplant. Now that they knew the truth, they promised to come to California to offer their support. While I wasn’t entirely sure what they could do, I hoped their presence would alleviate some of the burden of dealing with Dick’s erratic behavior.
