My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird as he walked into the kitchen. I watched him from the counter, holding my breath as he picked up the mug and took his first heavy sip.

He didn’t notice a thing. He just complained about the cold weather, finished his cup, and sat down on the living room couch to check the morning news before heading out.

For the first twenty minutes, nothing happened. I started to relax, thinking maybe it wouldn’t work at all. But then, I noticed his breathing change. It became shallow, heavy, and ragged. I looked over, expecting to see a sudden spark of romance or attraction in his eyes. Instead, Garrett was gripping the wooden armrest of the couch so hard his knuckles turned completely white.

The color had entirely drained from his face, replaced by a sickly, gray pallor. He looked over at me, his eyes wide with a sudden, primal panic I had never seen in him in all our years together. He reached a trembling hand toward his chest and gasped, “Something is wrong… my heart is exploding.”

Before I could even process what was happening or scream his name, his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed forward, crashing heavily onto the coffee table.

Panic completely blinded me. I screamed, throwing myself onto the floor beside him, shaking his shoulders, but he was completely unresponsive. I dialed 911 with trembling fingers, sobbing hysterically to the operator as I tried to perform CPR. The guilt was already suffocating me—I had done this to him. My desperate attempt to force intimacy had killed him.

The ambulance arrived in what felt like hours, the paramedics rushing into our living room with a gurney and a defibrillator.

As they loaded Garrett into the back, one of the paramedics asked me if he was on any medications or if he had taken anything unusual that morning. I choked on my words, terrified of the consequences, and lied. I told them no, he just drank his usual coffee.

The drive to the hospital was a blur of tears and silent prayers. I bargained with God, promising that I would live in a sexless, loveless marriage for the rest of my life if He just let Garrett live. When we arrived, they wheeled him straight into the emergency room, leaving me stranded in the sterile, brightly lit waiting room.

Hours passed. Every time the heavy double doors swung open, my stomach dropped. Finally, around 2:00 AM, the attending physician walked out. His expression wasn’t full of the gentle sympathy doctors usually give worried wives; it was cold, sharp, and deeply suspicious.

He didn’t ask me to sit down. He just walked straight up to me and said, “Your husband stabilized, but his blood pressure plummeted to a lethal level. The toxicology report came back, and we found a massive dose of sildenafil in his system.”