AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“I understand this can be a scary diagnosis, but we will come up with a plan to help manage your condition. There are different medications we can—”
“Manage or reverse?” I cut in.
His eyes looked heavier than his frown, and I knew nothing good was coming next. “With the stage you are at, managing the condition and making sure it doesn’t worsen are our best bets.”
Which meant there was no reversing what’d happened to me.
It was all adding up.
The swollen ankles. The exhaustion. The shortness of breath…
How long had my heart been struggling to beat?
The doctor kept speaking, using words I couldn’t understand and also tossing in words I should’ve comprehended. But none of it was sticking because I was stuck on one main fact: my heart, the heart I’d carried inside my chest since the day I was born, the one that moved me through life and made it possible for me to exist, was breaking.
My heart was breaking, and I feared there was no way to put it back together.
One moment.
It only took one moment for my whole world to change. A diagnosis that would live with me for the remainder of my life. How long was that? How much time was left for me? And would I be able to achieve all the things I wanted to achieve now that I had this impending doomsday clock ticking in the back of my chest?
I went home, and I pulled out my laptop and began searching for more information on heart failure. I dived deep, and by the end of my searches, I felt a level of fear I wasn’t certain how to face.
Five years.
Only half of the individuals who’d been diagnosed with congestive heart failure survived past five years. Ten percent made it ten years.
Ten years.
I’d only be thirty-two in ten years’ time.
Time.
It would have been almost comical how time worked if it hadn’t been so tragic.
Six weeks earlier, I had been heartbroken over a man who never truly loved me. One week earlier, a stranger had reminded me how to love myself. Then that afternoon, I’d found out my heart was truly broken.
Funny how a real broken heart hurts more than any pain a boy could cause me.
I grieved that night. I grieved for all the life I’d miss out on. I grieved the loss of my future goals and dreams. I grieved the idea that I might never celebrate my thirtieth birthday. I allowed myself all the time I needed to truly sit with my grief, and I let it swallow me whole for a bit.
I stayed sad and depressed for a good while. Sofia couldn’t stand my mood, she said I was bringing down her energy, so shortly after I found out about my heart, she moved out. Never in my life had I felt more alone. During the silence, my anxiety hit new heights. Still, each day I woke up. If only I could’ve realized what a blessing that had been.
After some terrible nights and harsher days, I pulled myself together the best I could. I took a deep breath and tried to find a way to be grateful for the sunlight that poured onto my skin to wake me up each day. I returned to a place I’d told Captain I wouldn’t visit to avoid us crossing paths, but I needed to go back to Wish Alley to write down another wish upon a Post-it. This time my wish was simple.
I wished for more time.
6
Aaliyah
Two years later
I could countthe number of facts I knew about my mother on one hand. Two fingers, as a matter of fact: I knew she gave birth to me, and I knew she gave me my name. That was the extent of my knowledge about the woman who brought me into the world. Everything else, I made up in my mind, millions of fictional stories I told myself throughout the years. For example, maybe I’d gotten my eyes from her, or perhaps my nose. Maybe she had named me after the gone-too-soon musician Aaliyah, which was why I listened to her soundtracks throughout my teenage years, wondering if song my mother would’ve dedicated a certain song to me.
My fictional mother loved brunch, which was why I found a new brunch spot each week, and she loved to travel, too. I didn’t have much time or money to travel the way I wished I could’ve, but I had a vision board with photographs of Greece, Spain, and Bora Bora hanging over my desk at home. Fake Mom must’ve hated spicy things, she couldn’t stand Brussels sprouts, and the way she loved? She probably loved so much it hurt her. She loved me so much she let me go.
At least those were the lies I told myself.
