'AITA for ruining my SIL's perfect wedding by having a medical emergency from my terminal illness?'
"AITA for ruining my SIL's perfect wedding by having a medical emergency from my terminal illness?"
My doctor told me I had six months to live on a Tuesday, and by Friday my mother-in-law was begging me to keep my mouth shut so I wouldn't ruin her daughter's wedding.
I got the diagnosis three weeks ago. Stage four. Inoperable. The oncologist used a lot of words but the only ones I heard were "palliative care" and "make arrangements." I'm thirty-two. I have two kids. I sat in that office and stared at a poster about hand washing while my entire future dissolved.
When I told my husband that night, he held me for maybe ten seconds before his phone rang. His sister. Again. She'd been calling nonstop for months about centerpieces and seating charts and whether ivory or cream napkins looked better with sage green bridesmaid dresses.
He actually answered it. I was telling him I was dying and he put his finger up like "one sec" and took the call. That should have been my first clue about what was coming.
His mother found out two days later because my husband told her. I didn't want anyone to know yet. I was still processing. Still figuring out how to tell my kids their mom wouldn't see them graduate or get married or have kids of their own. But he called her crying and suddenly the whole family knew.
She showed up at my house the next morning. Didn't call first. Just let herself in with the key we gave her for emergencies. I was on the couch trying to keep down some crackers because the nausea had already started even before treatment.
She sat down across from me and folded her hands in her lap. "We need to talk about timing."
I thought she meant funeral arrangements. How stupid was I.
"The wedding is in eight weeks. Everything is planned. The venue is booked. Two hundred guests. Do you understand how much money we've spent?"
I just stared at her.
"I know this is hard for you. I really do. But you can't tell anyone else. Not yet. If this gets out, it's all anyone will talk about. It'll overshadow everything. Can you imagine, people at the reception whispering about how the groom's sister-in-law is dying? That's not fair to her. This is her day."
"I have six months," I said. My voice sounded far away.
"Maybe less."
"Exactly. So waiting eight more weeks won't matter. You'll still be here for the wedding. You can tell people after. But right now we need to focus on making this day perfect for her. She's been planning this for two years. You understand, don't you?"
I didn't say yes. But I didn't say no either. I was too shocked. Too tired. Too sick. She took my silence as agreement and patted my hand like we'd made a deal. My husband backed her up that night. "She has a point. Why upset everyone right before the wedding? Let's just get through it. Then we'll figure everything out."
Figure everything out. Like I was a problem to solve after the more important event was handled.
I kept quiet. What else could I do?
My husband wouldn't support me. His family wouldn't either. So I smiled through dress fittings and bridal showers while I secretly started chemotherapy. I wore long sleeves to hide the port. I blamed my weight loss on stress. When my hair started thinning I said I was trying a new diet that must not be agreeing with me.
The bride never asked if I was okay. Not once. She complained about the florist and the photographer and how her future mother-in-law kept trying to add people to the guest list. My health never came up. I don't think she even wondered.
Two weeks before the wedding I collapsed in my kitchen. My neighbor found me and called 911. I spent three days in the hospital. My husband visited once. He spent most of the time on his phone coordinating last-minute wedding details. His sister sent flowers with a card that said "Feel better soon! Can't wait to celebrate with you!"
The doctors adjusted my medication. Told me I was pushing too hard. Needed to rest more. Accept help. But how could I rest when I had a wedding to attend and a secret to keep?
The wedding day was beautiful. I'll give her that. The venue was stunning. Everything looked like it came from a magazine. I wore a dress I bought two sizes smaller than my usual because I'd lost so much weight. I did my makeup carefully to hide how gray my skin had gotten. Put on a wig because my real hair was too thin now to style.
I made it through the ceremony. Stood for the photos even though my legs shook. Smiled until my face hurt. The reception started and I sat at our assigned table trying to eat the salmon that tasted like cardboard in my mouth.
My mother-in-law stopped by our table during cocktail hour. Leaned down and whispered, "You're doing great. Just a few more hours."
Like I was a toddler being good at a restaurant.
The pain started during dinner. Sharp and hot in my abdomen. I'd felt it before but never this intense. I tried to breathe through it. Sipped water. Told myself I could make it. Just get through the speeches. The first dance. The cake cutting. Then I could leave.
But my body had different plans.
I remember standing up. Thinking I needed air. The room tilted sideways and suddenly I was on the floor. People screaming. My husband yelling my name but not moving, just standing there frozen with a drink in his hand.
The bride was crying. Not because I'd collapsed. Because I'd ruined her reception.
Someone called 911. The paramedics arrived during the best man's speech. They had to wheel the gurney through the dance floor. Past the carefully arranged centerpieces and the custom monogrammed napkins. The DJ stopped the music. Two hundred guests watched as they loaded me onto the stretcher and checked my vitals.
I heard my mother-in-law's voice above everything else. "This is unbelievable. Couldn't this have waited one more day?"
The bride was sobbing in her wedding dress. "My whole wedding is ruined. Everyone's going to remember this instead of my day."
My husband finally moved. Followed the ambulance to the hospital. But his phone kept buzzing the whole ride. His family texting him. Asking if I'd done this on purpose. Saying I should have stayed home if I was that sick. Wondering if the videographer caught it on film because they'd want that edited out.
I spent four days in the ICU. My husband visited twice. Both times he seemed more upset about the wedding drama than my health. He told me his sister wasn't speaking to him. His mother was devastated. The family was torn apart because of what I'd done.
What I'd done.
Like I'd chosen to collapse. Like I'd planned it.
When I got out of the hospital I moved in with my parents. Filed for divorce. My kids stay with me and visit their father on weekends when I'm feeling strong enough. My in-laws haven't contacted me once. Not to apologize. Not to ask how I'm doing. Nothing.
The bride posted her wedding photos on social media. Every single album ends right before my collapse. Like those hours didn't exist. Like I didn't exist. The comments are all about how perfect everything looked. How beautiful she was. How magical the day turned out.
My husband, soon-to-be-ex, sent me a bill last week. For my portion of the wedding gift they'd given as a couple. Apparently since I'd ruined the reception, I still owed my share of the kitchen aid mixer they'd bought.
I've got three months left now according to my latest scan. Maybe four if I'm lucky. I'm spending them with my parents and my kids and the few friends who actually stuck around. Not with people who valued a party over a person. So tell me, was I wrong for not dying more quietly?