It was 11:47 PM on our anniversary.
Tom had gone into the bathroom 20 minutes earlier. I heard the cabinet open. The sharp click of the vial. The silence.
He was injecting himself so we could be intimate.
Tom was a firefighter for 22 years. The guy who ran into burning buildings when everyone else ran out. The guy who never complained. Never showed weakness.
His prostate surgery was 14 months ago. Robotic-assisted. Nerve-sparing. The cancer was gone.
But the man who came home wasn't the same man who went in.
When he finally came out of the bathroom, he didn't look at me. We tried.
Then, halfway through, he went soft. Inside me.
He pulled away. Sat on the edge of the bed. Head in his hands.
"I can't do this anymore," he said. "The injections aren't working."
Three days later, Tom came home from his urologist appointment.
Didn't say anything. Just put papers on the kitchen table.
Penile implant surgery consent forms. Signed.
The man who never gave up on anything had surrendered to a mechanical pump in his scrotum.
We'd already spent $2,458 on treatments that failed:
- Viagra: $238
- Cialis: $312
- Trimix injections: $1,420
- Vacuum pump: $488
Now they wanted $18,000-26,000 for an implant.
But it wasn't the money that broke me.
It was the thought of watching them cut him open again—and destroy what was left of his natural tissue permanently.
That night, something inside me snapped.
I went to war.