Mimi Winterrest
When we hiked deep in the mountains that day, my husband’s first love, Cindy Pepper, and I were both bitten by venomous snakes. Only one of us could be saved.
There was only one dose of the antidote in the first-aid kit. Whoever received it would have a chance of surviving.
At that critical moment, my husband, Gary Sapien, who was the head of the emergency department, injected the antidote into Cindy Pepper without hesitation.
He also gave her the only stretcher and the satellite phone.
“Cindy has a heart condition. She won’t make it down the mountain. You work out all the time, and you’re in good shape. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to wait a little longer.”
A torrential downpour cut off the mountain. No one rescued me until the following afternoon.
By then, the venom had already spread throughout my body. My right leg was necrotic, my kidneys had failed, and I had no choice but to undergo an amputation high above the knee.
Gary signed the surgical consent form on my behalf. His expression was still detached.
“It’s only a leg. You can still live a normal life with a prosthetic.
“You’re already my wife. You don’t need both legs to make a living. Cindy, on the other hand, is a dance teacher. She can’t afford to lose her legs.”
I swallowed the metallic taste of blood in my throat and let out a cold laugh.
So, it looked like my life and my legs were worth less to him than Cindy’s dream of dancing.
That night, I called a number I had not contacted in five years.
“Tommy, I’m sorry. I lost.
“Come take me home and withdraw all of our investments from Sapien Hospital.
“Also, please get the divorce agreement ready for me.”