I gave my husband one of my kidneys because I believed love meant sacrifice. I never imagined that saving his life would be the moment he chose to destroy mine.
Not long ago, I donated a kidney to my husband, Nick.
Two days after the surgery, while I was still weak and groggy, my side stitched and aching every time I shifted in the hospital bed, he turned to me and said faintly, “You finally fulfilled your purpose. Let’s get divorced. Truth is, I can’t stand you. And I never loved you.”
At first, I thought he was joking. I even managed a weak smile.
“Stop,” I whispered. “The nurse will hear you.”
“I’m not joking, Rachel,” he replied calmly, almost detached.
Something inside me went completely still.
We had been married for fifteen years.
When Nick became seriously ill, I didn’t hesitate. I gave him my kidney because I loved him more than anything. When the transplant coordinator asked if I was sure, I answered without pause: “Test me first. I don’t care what it takes.”
