For five years in a row, Anna woke up with abdominal pain. At first she endured it, thinking it would pass. Then she got used to living with it, the way people live with constant fatigue or the noise outside the window.
Her husband said the same thing every time:
— It’s gastritis. Don’t make things up.
He worked as a doctor, and Anna trusted him. She took the pills he brought her, tried not to complain, not to make scenes.
But over time, the pain changed. It was no longer just pulling or burning — it was strange. Sometimes it felt as if something inside was moving, changing position, pressing from within.
— It feels like something is moving inside me, — she said once.
Her husband smiled irritably:
— You’re imagining things. When you’re in pain, you can imagine anything.
That night, Anna woke up around half past three. The pain came suddenly, without warning. As if a knife had been driven under her ribs and slowly twisted. She doubled over, clutching the sheet, unable to breathe properly.
Her husband woke up, switched on the light, and took out the pills.
— Gastritis again. Take them and sleep.
Anna tried to say it wasn’t her stomach. That the pain was different. But her voice broke, and only a hoarse rasp came from her throat.
— Please… — she whispered. — Inside… it’s moving. Call an ambulance.
Her husband looked at her with irritation.
— Stop it. And don’t call anyone.
In the morning, her husband went to work, and Anna was left alone. By noon, her abdomen had swollen as if she were in the final months of pregnancy. She barely made it to the mirror, lifted her nightgown — and froze.
A slow movement was visible beneath the skin.
There was a knock at the door. A neighbor had brought food, but hearing Anna’s groans, she called an ambulance herself.
The doctor examined Anna’s abdomen, fell silent, then palpated it again. His face turned gray.
— How did you even make it to today? — he said quietly.
When the surgeon opened the abdominal cavity, he stopped. Inside was a huge abscess — an advanced purulent mass that had been growing for years. It compressed the organs and created the sensation of movement.
— This couldn’t have developed in a month or even a year, — the surgeon said later. — It takes at least several years. It’s impossible not to notice something like this.
Anna survived by a miracle. The doctors said it plainly: a little longer — and there would have been a rupture.
A few days later, another doctor came to see her and asked quietly:
— Did your husband know about the diagnosis for a long time?
It turned out he did. There were tests, there were scans. He saw what was happening inside her. But he treated “gastritis.” He didn’t refer her for further examinations, didn’t insist on surgery.
Later, something else came to light. He had another woman for a long time. And his wife’s serious illness was a convenient excuse for him. Everything looked natural: she was “fading away on her own,” and he “could do nothing.”
The abscess kept growing. And he waited.
Anna lay in the ward for a long time and thought not about the pain. She thought about the fact that all those years she hadn’t just been unheard — she had been slowly killed by silence.
After being discharged, she filed a complaint.
