What Tests Should My Husband Take If He Is Sick Almost Always?

I was born with a strange, painful condition. Women are strongly drawn to me, yet after I got married, I became allergic to my own wife, Quinn Rowan. Every attempt at intimacy left me covered in burning red welts, struggling to breathe. More than once, I nearly went into shock. Nevertheless, my desire to have a child was overwhelming. So one night, gambling with my life, I quietly slipped into the bedroom. Strangely, nothing happened to me that night. Soon, Quinn became pregnant. I naively believed everything would finally return to normal. Then, eight months into her pregnancy, a single accidental touch sent me into another violent allergic reaction, and I was rushed to the hospital. When I finally came to, Quinn was nowhere to be found. At the end of the corridor, I heard her whispering with her girlfriends, "Look how ridiculous he looked, all swollen and gasping. Pathetic." Quinn dangled the special tonic she had always claimed was meant to help me, her voice dripping with disdain, "I engineered this formula myself. I made sure he’d break out in hives the moment he touched me. That way, he’d never come near me. "But since he was so desperate for a kid, I decided to let him raise the baby Miles and I conceived together. It’s charity, really." My blood froze. The child I longed for, the baby I treasured, was never mine.

To help my husband, Henry Carter, pay off a million-dollar debt, I clean windows and scrub toilets in an office building on Valentine's Day just for the triple pay. After I'm done with the windows, I am about to transfer the last 50 thousand dollars of the debt when a post suddenly pops up on my phone. The title of the post is, "What is something you see in real life that makes you feel sorry for someone, even if they are your enemy?" One of the top comments says, "The person I hate the most is my boyfriend's wife. My boyfriend pretends to be poor to spend money on me and cheats his wife out of over a million. That woman works day and night at a cleaning company just to make money for me! "This has gone on for eight years. That woman has been scrubbing toilets for eight years! Even if she is my enemy, I feel sorry for her." I freeze, and my fingers tremble uncontrollably. No way. It has to be a coincidence. I stare at those words, stunned and unable to recover from the shock. Then, a new comment appears, "Now, my boyfriend plans to fake an illness by telling his wife that he has cancer. He's going to trick her into giving him money to buy me a car." At that exact moment, Henry sends me a message. The instant I open it, I feel my heart skip a beat. It reads, "I'm sorry, honey. I'm sick—I have cancer. The doctor says we need to prepare 80 thousand dollars for treatment. I hate myself for this. Why am I even alive? I'm just dragging you down with me." The words "late-stage liver cancer" in the attached diagnosis report are painful to look at. I think in dismay, "Henry, you do not need to pretend to be sick. You are indeed in the late stage of cancer."

During the holiday, my husband and I attended a free health screening organized by our local community clinic. The doctors diagnosed me with late-stage lung cancer. But after a follow-up examination, I learned the truth—the hospital had mixed up the test samples. The one who actually had lung cancer was my husband. We had always had a loving marriage, so I rushed home in tears. On the way back, I had already made up my mind to use every cent of my savings to pay for his treatment. But the moment I reached the door, I heard our son's worried voice from inside. "Dad, it's already late-stage cancer. Treatment is just going to be a money pit." I was about to push the door open and tell them not to worry about the money when I heard my husband reply indifferently, "It's fine. Your mom's already terminal. Treatment would be a waste anyway. I'll convince her to give up." I froze on the spot. Without a word, I slipped the bank card containing 300 thousand dollars back into my pocket. Fine. Wonderful. Then give up treatment.

He ran a hand through his hair and exhaled slowly. “Celeste, you know Isabella has been sick for years.” “Yes, I know,” I said bitterly. “I know because you remind me every single day.” He ignored the edge in my voice. “She’s not getting better. The doctors said she probably has a year left.” I swallowed hard. “And how does that concern me?” “She has one last wish,” he said quietly. “She wants to get married before she dies.” He wants to divorce me and remarry me after a year, but that’s nonsense! I’m tired of this marriage. This divorce isn’t a joke to me; I’m taking it seriously.

When my husband threatened me with divorce for the hundredth time, demanding I sacrifice myself for my sister, I did not cry or make a scene. I simply signed my name on the divorce papers and willingly handed over the man I had loved for ten years to my sister. A few days later, my sister spoke recklessly at a banquet and offended a powerful family. Once again, I stepped forward to take responsibility, bearing all the consequences in her place. When they later proposed that I become a test subject for my sister's drug research, I gladly accepted. Mom and Dad said I had finally grown into someone mature and responsible. Even my cold husband stood by my hospital bed and, for the first time in so long, gently stroked my cheek. He said tenderly, "Don't be afraid. The experiment won't be life-threatening. When you get out, I'll cook you a big meal." However, he did not know that regardless of whether the experiment was dangerous or not, he did not have to wait for me because I was already dying from a terminal illness.

To get me to agree to a divorce, my husband lied and told me he had stomach cancer. I glanced at the medical report in my bag and said nothing. Instead, I broke down right then and there, sobbing like my heart was being ripped apart, absolutely refusing to divorce him. Because what he didn't know… was that he actually had cancer. Just not stomach cancer—liver cancer. And with his funeral coming up soon, if we divorced now, who would inherit all his assets? No way. I couldn't let this divorce happen!