What Caused Lamar Odom'S Health Crisis In 2015?

When Elara Whitmore discovered her husband in bed with the one woman she was never supposed to compete with—his adopted sister—her world shattered in a single night. But betrayal wasn’t the worst part. They wanted her gone. Pregnant and alone, Elara overhears the sister’s plan to eliminate both her and the unborn child standing in the way of their twisted future. Instead of fighting back, she does something far more dangerous. She pretends to lose. With forged medical records claiming her baby is dead and divorce papers served without a word of protest, Elara disappears from their lives forever. Or so they believe. A chance encounter with a dying billionaire changes everything. Months later, Elara rises from the ashes as the sole heiress to a global empire worth billions. While her ex-husband’s world collapses under the manipulations of the very woman he chose over her, a silent observer begins pulling strings from the shadows. A brilliant young boy. A boy with her eyes. A boy with his blood. Years later, when the truth finally surfaces, the man who once discarded his wife will face the cruelest revelation of all— The child who destroyed his empire… is the son he tried to erase. And this time, there will be no forgiveness

Three years after I died, my mother sent me twenty dollars for living expenses. Three years before that—the first time I ever asked my family for money—she said to me, offhand, "Sometimes I think you're just putting on an act. What's so unsanitary about a thirty-cent boxed meal? And why can't you wear a five-dollar down jacket? Face it, you're just more high-maintenance than your little brother." Later, when I needed twenty dollars to buy some cheap medicine for my stomachache, she blocked me immediately and cut off all contact—along with every relative we had. "Don't contact me anymore. I'm clearly not a good mother. I can't afford to give my son a life of luxury." But for my younger brother, who had just started high school, she spared no expense—renting him a three-bedroom apartment. Even the family dog got its own room. In the end, on the day my brother became the top scorer in the state, she finally remembered me. She took me off her block list and transferred twenty dollars. "It's only twenty dollars. Was it really worth giving your family the silent treatment for three whole years?" What she never knew was this— On the night my stomach ruptured, three years ago, I had already died. I couldn't afford to go to the hospital. I froze to death in the snow.

When I suffer a heart attack, I discover that my wife, Amelia Price, has given my private ICU room to her childhood friend, Norman Wallace, because an old injury of his has flared up again. Instead of a world-class medical team, I'm left on a hospital bed in the hallway, without even a curtain to shield me from the cold. Amelia is busy getting Norman a glass of water. When she's told about the mistake, she doesn't even bother turning around to look at me. "They booked it under the wrong name. He's already settled in, so just make do out here for one night," she says. I've been hearing that same excuse for five years. When I'm supposed to have my pre-surgery consultation with the specialists, Amelia books me into the wrong hospital. Instead, she spends the entire day at a private clinic with Norman while he undergoes physical therapy. When my chest pain is at its worst, she orders the wrong takeout, swapping the bland meal I want for Norman's favorite extra-spicy buffalo wings. Amelia even orders my expensive post-op support cushion in the wrong size, and it ends up as Norman's dog's new bed. To make sure she won't get it wrong again, I pay the ten-thousand-dollar deposit for my private hospital suite six months in advance. Then, I tape the confirmation paperwork to the refrigerator where she can't miss it. I even set three daily reminder alerts on her phone in the days leading up to my surgery. But when Amelia checks me into the hospital, she still gets it wrong. Seeing how pale I've gone, she only frowns. "Fine. This one's on me. It's just a routine surgery. Does it really matter where you have it?" She dismisses it as casually as she always does. But I'm done risking my life. I yank the IV from the back of my hand, remove my bloodstained wedding ring, and throw it into the trash. "You're right. It's just a surgery. But whether I live or die from this point on has nothing to do with you anymore."

I broke up with Nicole Hayes, my girlfriend of ten years. It was not her or I who initiated it, but her male nurse at the hospital. Nicole suffered from severe congenital anemia. For ten years, I donated blood to her for nothing in return. During our eleventh year together, just when we were about to get married, I overheard the male nurse in charge of her transfusions say, “Wow, Miss Hayes! Don’t tell me you decided to marry this guy just because he’s been donating blood to you. “You probably don’t know this, but the hospital has a donor compensation policy. Each donation comes with a thousand-dollar stipend. “Over the last ten years, this guy must have made at least $200,000 off you, yet he still has the nerve to guilt-trip you into marrying him? How shameless!” Under Nicole’s shifting expression, he added with a smile, “Maybe I should be the one donating blood to you instead. I also have a rare blood type, but I don’t want money, and I’m not asking to marry you. I’m just kind-hearted and can’t stand people who emotionally manipulate patients.” Seeing the obvious change in her expression, I let out a soft laugh and said, “In that case, let’s do that.” Over the past ten years, I had donated blood to Nicole twice every month. To recover, I forced myself to eat pork liver until I felt like vomiting, and at one point, I became so thin that I was nothing but skin and bones. I thought Nicole understood everything I had done for her. I never expected that a few words from a stranger would make her truly believe I had been profiting from my suffering. Even more unexpectedly, she also came to think that marrying me was nothing more than emotional coercion. If that was how she saw it, fine! I would give her what she wanted. Still, she had better pray that nurse would keep his promise of donating blood to her.

When my ex-wife, Blaire Sutton, rushes her childhood friend, Malcolm Pierce, who has suffered from a papercut, into the emergency room, I'm in the middle of saving a patient, whose heart has stopped beating. Upon noticing that I'm not rushing to treat Malcolm's cut at once, Blaire lashes out at me furiously. After that, she lodges a complaint about me intending to get revenge on her due to our relationship problems, which means I have very poor ethics as a doctor. I don't even bother explaining myself to anyone. Instead, I just take off my white coat and accept the suspension and investigation notice that the hospital has issued to me. Soon, Blaire uploads a photo of Malcolm's finger, which is taped with a plaster. The caption absolutely reeks of her smugness. "Only narrow-minded men tend to get revenge for the pettiest things at work. His white coat should've gotten ripped off him a long time ago. That way, he'll definitely learn his lesson." Five days later, Malcolm suddenly suffers from a ruptured aortic dissection, leaving him in critical condition. The thing is, I'm the only one capable of performing this surgery in the entire state. Blaire keeps sobbing to the point that she's suffering from an emotional breakdown over the phone. She begs me to save Malcolm's life. I merely cut her off coolly, "Sorry, but I'm serving my suspension notice and reflecting on my mistakes at the moment. I don't even have the right to prescribe Malcolm any medication. You should find someone else to save his life."

On the day I had acute heart failure, the hospital issued several critical condition notices in a row. While I was still conscious, my attending physician told me to call my family and say my last words. On instinct, I dialed Julia Mars, but no one picked up for a long time. It wasn't until later that I found a "private arrangement" contract posted on her alt social media account. The terms spelled out her decade-long friends-with-benefits relationship with her childhood friend, Ken Cohen. Her best friend commented under the post with congratulations: [Not bad, Counselor Mars, finally ready to go public with your little childhood buddy. If your husband finds out, you think he'll have a heart attack from the shock?] Julia replied, completely unfazed: [He won't die. And even if he finds out, so what? The doctors didn't dare tell him that his heart is useless. He needs a transplant. That requires a fortune, and he can't get by without me.] I spent a full week in the ICU clawing my way back from death's door. And in those seven short days, every last bit of love I had for her burned away to nothing.