I Woke Up From a Coma Pregnant But My Husband Had a Vasectomy Years Ago

“I was in a medically-induced coma with a breathing tube. Even if I had moments of partial awareness, I couldn’t speak, couldn’t move meaningfully, couldn’t make informed decisions about what was happening to my body.”

“But you felt warmth and safety,” Ms. Mallerie pressed.

“Those are positive emotions. Doesn’t that suggest you weren’t experiencing assault, but rather welcomed intimate contact?”

I gripped the edge of the witness box.

“I thought it was my husband. Philip looks exactly like David. He used that similarity to violate me while I was unconscious. Any positive feelings I had were based on mistaken identity and manipulation of my sedated state. That’s not consent; that’s exploitation.”

The prosecutor objected and the judge sustained it, but the damage was done. The defense had planted the seed that maybe I’d wanted it, maybe I’d participated, maybe this was all a tragic misunderstanding rather than deliberate assault.

The defense called their own expert, Dr. Gerald Morton, a neurologist who testified that patients in minimal consciousness states can show preference and make basic choices under the right circumstances. He claimed someone in Mrs. Garrett’s condition could have indicated willingness for intimate contact through body language and physiological responses.

The prosecutor tore him apart on cross-examination.

“Dr. Morton, how exactly does someone with a breathing tube, confined to a hospital bed, under heavy sedation, communicate informed consent to sexual activity?”

He stammered something about reflexive responses and instinctual behavior, but it was clear his testimony was bought and paid for by the defense. Philip never took the stand.

His attorneys advised him to invoke his Fifth Amendment right against self-incrimination, which the judge instructed the jury not to interpret as guilt. But everyone knew what it meant: if he had an innocent explanation, he’d give it.

His silence was its own admission. Closing arguments lasted an entire day.

The prosecutor methodically walked through the evidence, connecting every piece into an undeniable picture of assault. The defense tried to muddy the waters, suggesting reasonable doubt based on my fragmented memories and the complexity of consciousness during coma recovery.

The jury deliberated for three days—72 hours of waiting while my future and Philip’s hung in balance. David and I stayed home with the girls, trying to maintain normalcy while my phone stayed glued to my hand waiting for the call.

When it finally came, Detective Vaughn’s voice was carefully neutral.

“They have a verdict. The courthouse is expecting you within the hour.”

We drove in silence, my hands shaking so badly I had to sit on them. The courtroom was packed when we arrived: media, victims’ advocates, Philip’s parents in the back row glaring at us like we’d betrayed them.

The jury foreman stood.

“On the charge of sexual assault of an incapacitated person, we find the defendant guilty.”

Philip’s face went white. His mother screamed.

David’s hand found mine, squeezing hard enough to bruise. Judge Henderson thanked the jury and set sentencing for three weeks out.

Philip was remanded into custody immediately, his bail revoked. As they led him away in handcuffs, he looked at me for the first time since the trial began.

No remorse in his eyes, just cold hatred—that I’d dared to speak up, to press charges, to refuse to protect him the way his parents had. Sentencing day I was 35 weeks pregnant, so close to delivery that my doctor had advised against attending.

But I needed to be there. I needed to give my victim impact statement and watch Philip face consequences for what he’d done.

Judge Henderson listened to both sides present arguments about appropriate punishment. The prosecutor asked for the maximum, 20 years.

The defense asked for leniency, claiming Philip’s military service and clean record warranted a reduced sentence. Philip’s father actually testified, begging the judge to consider the family impact, the shame they’d already endured, the punishment of having their son’s life destroyed.

Then it was my turn. I stood at the podium, one hand on my pregnant belly, the other gripping my prepared statement.

“Your Honor, Philip Garrett violated me in the most fundamental way possible. He used his physical similarity to my husband to gain access to me while I was unconscious and unable to defend myself. He assaulted me multiple times, knowing I couldn’t remember, couldn’t fight back, couldn’t even understand what was happening. The pregnancy I’m carrying is physical evidence of his crime, a daily reminder of violation that I’ll see in my child’s face for the rest of my life. I’m choosing to keep this baby not because I’ve forgiven what Philip did, but because this child is innocent. But make no mistake: Philip Garrett is not. He deserves the maximum sentence allowed by law.”

Judge Henderson took less than five minutes to decide.