How quickly.”
“With her consent, ninety days.
Without it — ”
“She’s on a vent*lator.
Find a way.”
A moment later, the ICU doors opened.
A physician stepped into the hallway, visibly exhausted after fighting to stabilize me.
Dr. Lena Farouk, forty-four, who had, I would learn, done chest compressions herself for the last four minutes because she “didn’t trust the count.”
“Mr. Kane,” she said, “your wife is alive, but she’s still critical.
We need a family member to authorize additional treatment.”
Barrett snapped the folder shut.
“I am no longer her husband.”
The doctor stared at him.
He checked his watch.
“As of two minutes ago, exactly.
Update the records.”
The hallway fell silent.
Even the doctor seemed unable to process what she had just heard.
“Mr. Kane, that’s not — a signature isn’t a — ”
“Update the records, Doctor.
My attorney will send the paperwork.”
Then Barrett walked away.
Without asking about me.
Without asking about our babies.
Without looking back once.
On his way to the elevator, his phone vibrated.
A message appeared from another woman.
Is it done?
Barrett smiled and typed a single word.
Yes.
Dr. Farouk stood in the hallway and did the thing that, I would learn later, she does when a family says something she is required to write down.
She wrote it down.
“4:52 p.m. Spouse declined to authorize treatment. Stated: ‘I am no longer her husband. As of two minutes ago.’ Stated: ‘Update the records.’ Left floor without inquiring re: patient or infants.”
As his luxury car disappeared into city traffic, he believed he had just removed the biggest obstacle standing between him and the future he wanted.
A sick wife.
Medical expenses.
Complications.
Responsibilities.
Gone.
At least, that’s what he thought.
Three days later, I finally opened my eyes.
The first thing I learned was that my insurance coverage had vanished.
Barrett’s company carried the plan.
