For eight years, my husband, a gynecologist, treated my “chronic pain.” He said it was just a matter of time. “Trust me, honey,” he’d smile. “I know your body better than anyone.” But when he went on a business trip, I went to see another specialist. The doctor stared at the ultrasound, his face turning pale. “Who saw you before me?” he asked. “My husband.” His clipboard slipped from his hands. “You need surgery immediately. There’s something inside you… that should never have been there.” What they removed shattered my marriage and ended with my husband in handcuffs.
For eight years I lived convinced that pain was a part of me. My name is Laura Martínez, I was thirty-four when it all started, and my husband, Javier Ruiz, was a gynecologist at a private hospital in Madrid. At first, I trusted him blindly. Every twinge, every strange bleeding, every sleepless night had a reassuring explanation. “It’s inflammation,” he’d say. “Stress.” “Your body is sensitive.” I nodded because I loved him and because he would repeat, with a smile that I find unbearable today, that he knew my body better than anyone.
