On the night of January 17, 2025, we gathered at home to celebrate my husband’s 59th birthday with a few of his closest colleagues. What began as a carefree evening of laughter, stories, and wine slowly wound down at midnight. By one o’clock, the last of the glasses had been cleared away, and we sank into bed, sleepy and content. But at 4 a.m. on January 18, a quiet urgency stirred me awake. My husband stood at the foot of the bed, eyes wide with alarm—he had passed bright, pure blood. My heart pounded as I imagined every horror: a heart attack, lung trouble, internal bleeding. Grateful that he handled the worst of it privately—I never saw the blood—I ushered him into the car and we sped to the emergency room. Blood tests confirmed his hemoglobin had dropped to 11.4 g/dL. Fearing continued bleeding, the doctors admitted him and scheduled an urgent colonoscopy for the following day. I paced the hospital corridors, praying it was nothing more than hemorrhoids or diverticuliti...
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