Reborn: Wounding His Heart Hurts Far More Than Killing Him

1 Recently engaged, my sisterinlaw, Jacqueline, got her fingers slammed in a heavy steel security door. She needed immediate surgery to reattach them.

But my motherinlaw, Beatrice, refused to allow it.

Even though it was the middle of the night, she stubbornly insisted on transferring Jacqueline to the prestigious metropolitan medical center downtown.

The emergency room doctor patiently explained that time was of the essence. Any delay would cause the severed tissue to die, making reattachment impossible.

He assured her that even at the metropolitan hospital, only an oncall emergency physician would be available at this hour.

They were fully capable of performing the procedure right here. Beatrice would not listen, digging her heels in.

Watching Jacqueline writhe in agony as blood soaked through her makeshift bandages, I had pleaded with Beatrice to prioritize her daughter’s hand over her pride.

Thanks to my relentless persuasion, Beatrice had finally relented and signed the paperwork.

The surgery was completed just within the golden window, and the fingers were successfully reattached.

But during her subsequent physical therapy, we realized that although the fingers looked perfect on the outside, they remained stiff and completely paralyzed, unable to bend.

Jacqueline blamed me entirely for the outcome.

She insisted I had forced her to stay at a secondrate clinic to ruin her life, claiming that if she had transferred to the city center, she would have recovered completely.

One afternoon, when I was completely off guard, she cornered me and pushed me down the grand staircase of our home, breaking my neck.

When I opened my eyes again, my face was burning from a sharp, stinging pain. "Slap! Slap!

Slap!" Beatrice was striking me across the face, screaming at the top of her lungs, her eyes wild with fury. "Fiona, you worthless b! Who do you think you are?

Since when do you make the decisions in this family?" My head spun from the force of her blows.

The harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital hallway burned my eyes, making it hard to focus.

Before I could fully comprehend what was happening, the emergency room doctor stepped between us, urging, "Have you decided yet? Who is signing the consent form? Stop hesitating!

Every minute you waste reduces the chances of saving the tissue. Reattaching the fingers immediately is the only priority." The scene was eerily familiar.

Wasn't I just pushed down the stairs? Am I dead? The anxious doctor, the stubborn motherinlaw, the copper scent of blood hanging heavy in the air...

I was back outside the emergency room. "I refuse!" Beatrice's screeching voice rang in my ears. "You can forget about it!

I am not giving permission for you hacks to operate on my daughter. We are transferring her!" Hearing her demand a transfer, the truth washed over me. I had been reborn.

I was back on the exact day Jacqueline severed her fingers.

In my past life, when I heard Jacqueline had slammed her fingers in a heavy metal door, I had rushed to the clinic with Beatrice.

The doctor had examined her and said she arrived just in time. The severed digits were still viable, and immediate surgery had a very high success rate.

But Beatrice had refused, calling the community clinic a secondrate dump.

She demanded her daughter be sent to the downtown hospital, where the state's most famous orthopedic surgeon was based.

The emergency doctor had pleaded with her, explaining that tissue dies quickly.

In the middle of the night, any hospital would only have oncall staff, and a transfer would only waste precious time.

But Beatrice had sneered, claiming severed digits could easily survive for five or six hours.

Pitying Jacqueline, who was screaming in the trauma bay, I had begged Beatrice to let them operate, wanting to save the young girl's hand right before her wedding.

Because of my desperate pleas, Beatrice had finally signed. The surgery went well, completed in the golden window, but the recovery was poor. The fingers remained stiff.

Jacqueline spent every day cursing me, blaming me for stopping the transfer. She claimed I did it on purpose to ruin her chance at a perfect recovery, calling me a venomous curse.

And then, she pushed me to my death. As I lay dying at the foot of the stairs, gasping for breath, I had begged Beatrice to call an ambulance.

Instead, she and Jacqueline had stood over me, cold and mocking. "You ruined my daughter's hand, and now you want us to save you?" Beatrice had spat. "You deserve this, you miserable b." I had taken my final, agonizing breath in absolute despair.

Now, the heavens had given me a second chance. This time, I would not lift a finger to save her.

I would watch these two wretched women destroy themselves. "A transfer is too risky," the doctor warned again, bringing me back to the present. "The tissue will die.

Even if you go downtown, you'll only find oncall emergency staff at this hour.

You're wasting precious time." I looked at Beatrice, quickly painting a mask of panic on my face. "Mom, I didn't mean to overstep," I said, my voice trembling with faux anxiety. "I'm just so worried about Jacqueline.

I'm completely frantic. I don't know what we should do.

What do you think?" Seeing my apparent weakness, Beatrice scoffed, her voice dripping with arrogance. "Look at you, trembling like a leaf. You don't get a say here anyway.

We are transferring my daughter immediately." I suppressed a cold smile. "Okay, Mom. Whatever you say." The doctor frowned. "The risk is too high.

We strongly advise against a transfer. Please sign the paperwork." Beatrice scoffed. "I'm not letting you touch her, so why would I sign anything?

Don't I have the right to choose her care?" The doctor's frustration grew. "This isn't a joke. Severed fingers need to be reattached as soon as possible.

Can you guarantee she won't deteriorate on the road? Can you guarantee the tissue will survive?

Can you guarantee a specialist will even be awake to operate on her downtown?" "Are you trying to force your services on us?" Beatrice snapped back, crossing her arms. "What is this, a scam?

Do we have to buy what you're selling?" "We are a licensed hospital," the doctor replied, trying to remain professional. "We respect your choices, but we must warn you of the objective risks.

Transferring her now is extremely dangerous." But Beatrice was convinced she knew best. "You're just trying to keep us here to boost your department's numbers!

My daughter deserves the absolute best, not this pathetic clinic." "Our only concern is the patient," the doctor explained patiently. "If we couldn't handle it, we would recommend a transfer ourselves.

But we can do this surgery, and a transfer will only delay her care." Beatrice refused to listen, raising her voice to draw a crowd. "Stop threatening me!

I am moving my daughter, and that is final!" She turned to glare at me. "Fiona! Are you deaf? Go help Jacqueline up!

What good are you anyway?" From the treatment room, Jacqueline's agonizing screams echoed down the hall. "Help me! It hurts so much!

Please, someone help me!" Hearing her cries, I felt nothing but cold satisfaction. The longer Beatrice stalled, the better.

I leaned in and whispered to Beatrice, "Mom, are we really doing this? Should we call Peter? He is her fiancé, after all." The doctor caught this. "Yes! Call her fiancé.

He should have a say in this." Beatrice's eyes widened in fury. She glared at me. "Fiona, why are you always stirring up trouble? What does this have to do with Peter?

He's just her fiancé. She hasn't married him yet. Even if he were here, he wouldn't get to make the decisions." She kicked me hard in the shin. "Go get Jacqueline!

Do you want her to sit there suffering forever?" As I walked toward the treatment room, the doctor grabbed my arm. "Please, try to talk some sense into your motherinlaw.

Her daughter's hand is at stake." Before I could answer, Beatrice shoves the doctor. "What do you think you're doing?

Are you trying to kidnap my daughter?" I had no intention of helping her this time. I wanted Beatrice to throw the biggest tantrum possible.

While they argued, I quietly slipped my phone out and sent a text to Peter, telling him to get to the hospital immediately. Moments later, my phone rang.

Beatrice was too busy screaming at the staff to notice. "Fiona, what's going on?" Peter's anxious voice came through the speaker. "Why is Jacqueline in the hospital?" "Her fingers were severed," I said quickly. "We're at the community clinic.

Mom wants to transfer her, but the doctors say it's too dangerous. Can you come help us?" Before I could finish, Beatrice noticed the call.

She lunged forward, snatched my phone, and ended the call.

Before I could react, she grabbed me by the hair and delivered a stinging slap to my cheek. "You treacherous b!" she screeches. "Who told you to call Peter?

Are you trying to set him against me?" I played the victim, forcing tears to my eyes. "Mom, no! I just thought, since we're transferring her, we need a car.

Peter has a nice car, and he's her fiancé.

It's only right he helps." "It had better be just for that, or I'll beat you senseless." The doctor chimes in. "The fiancé has every right to know.

He should be part of this decision." "He knows now," Beatrice snaps. "But he doesn't make the rules in my family." The doctor tries one last time. "As her mother, how can you watch her suffer in there?

Just sign the papers so we can save her hand." "Save your breath," Beatrice sneers. "I am not letting you touch her." They continued to argue, wasting another hour.

While we wait for Peter, I also secretly texted my husband, Garrett. Garrett is fiercely protective of his sister.

In my past life, he believed Jacqueline's lies that I had ruined her hand out of spite, and he subjected me to years of domestic abuse.

This time, I wanted to see whose side he took when his mother was the one ruining Jacqueline's hand. Peter burst through the hospital doors, breathless and pale.

The doctor quickly caught him up on the situation. Peter doesn't hesitate. "If you can do the surgery, do it now.

Let's not waste any more time." Hearing this, Beatrice screamed, lunging at him. "I don't agree! Who do you think you are to make decisions for my daughter?

We are transferring her!" But Peter was not one to be bullied. He shoved Beatrice back, sending her stumbling to the floor. "I am her fiancé.

Of course I have a say!" Beatrice screeches from the ground, "You're just a fiancé! She hasn't walked down the aisle yet!

You don't own her!" Ignoring her, Peter demanded the consent form and grabbed a pen.

Beatrice scrambled up, trying to snatch the pen from his hand, but Peter was younger and stronger. He shoved her down a second time.

With a swift motion, Peter signed his name on the consent line. I watched in silent panic. No, this isn't how it was supposed to go.

If Peter signed, they would operate, and Jacqueline would be saved. I couldn't let her escape her fate.