I did love her, she was my confidant, my friend. I never should have kissed her, I should not have gone over that line. But I was stupid, hurt and needing affection.
I ruined everything.
Now I have nothing.
I don’t have my mother and I don’t have Alex.
I lost everything and all because of my stupid weakness.
—
ALEX
Five years. What could have changed in five years? After having discovered my illness, which was dormant for years, I went through months of hell. I found myself having to face it all without help. I had just touched his heart with my fingers when it all ended before it could begin and without giving me a way to understand what happened between us that afternoon.
For the first time I felt like everything was changing, but we didn’t have time to discover in what way, and if it was just a weakness, a simple episode sparked by suffering, or if it could mean something more.
For me, it was already like that. Come on, we’re talking about Jason, the nicest guy in the neighborhood. Handsome enough to take your breath away, a great body and those clear far-seeing eyes in which anyone would go diving happily. And his smile, God, how could you resist?
I was one of those quiet girls, solitary and was happy with the company of a few good people, and among those, was him. We weren’t in many of the same classes at college and only had two or three in common. He was repeating the last year for the umpteenth time, but we spent most of our time together, our time.
Our relationship was always exclusive, we never opened our friendship up to others, it was something private and intimate.
Our families saw each other often, making it easy to stay in contact. But despite all of that, I was the timid one and he was the life and soul of the party.
Apart from the guys and Rain, his other friendships never could have compared with mine but what we had was enough for me, it was special and I would not have traded it for anything, not even for something more.
And instead things went differently.
That silence, that heartbreaking silence that played a terrible joke on us and in just a moment, our whole world exploded, spewing our bodies at least five miles from each other. From that moment, for me life has been full of doctors, hospitals, medicine and collateral effects. There is no cure for what’s wrong with me, I’ll be sick for life, at least that is if and when I finally get one.
My maternal grandmother died from a heart attack at forty. Something that happened suddenly, and it wasn’t really investigated fully. It killed her and that was it. No one thought that there might have been some underlying disease that caused it. When my illness was discovered, the doctors ran genetic tests and they were able to determine that what I have is indeed genetic, apparently passed down from my grandmother. She also had that particular gene, but luckily never had any symptoms or medical problems of any type.
My illness is under control, that’s clear, but the doctors think that it’s highly unlikely that it will manifest again, and that there’s no reason why I can’t lead a happy life.
But I cause people in the family to worry.
There are different degrees of severity to my illness. Some people afflicted have a condition that is lighter and more controllable, while others have symptoms and ailments that are more serious and dangerous. I happen to have fallen into the second category.
The medicines that help many people who suffer from my condition, and which seem to work well for them, allowing them to have long and happy lives, do not have a similar effect on me.
There is no explanation for these things, the doctors have explained to me that this illness varies according to its subject. The most odious thing about this condition is that I can have a cardiac anomaly even in the most relaxing situations, such as when I’m sleeping.
My heart could slow down progressively until it stops completely, so I am forced to sleep with someone in the house with me, and have a monitor that is always on to recognize even the smallest changes in my heart’s rhythm so we can take remedial action before it’s too late.
I’m not an independent person and will never be.
I can’t do anything, or to put it more accurately, nothing can makemereally feel like I’m alive. For instance I can’t be put under stress, I have to avoid any kind of anxiety-producing situation. I must avoid physical force and strenuous activity of every kind. But I can survive everything, day after day, hoping each one is not my last.
Everyone treats me like I’m made out of delicate crystal, something precious that could break in any moment, and I hate myself for this. I’d like to just be me, to be able to do what I enjoy without always having everyone’s eyes on me, making me feel guilty about the things I’d like to do.
I’d like everyone to stop worrying about my death and to start thinking about my life.
I don’t feel sick and I don’t want this to be the thing that defines me. I tried as hard as I could to do so, but then Conor came along. He was charming, nice, always ready with a joke. I liked him and I honestly thought it might work out.
In the beginning, things were fine: we started going out after having met at university. He liked me right away. He didn’t seem to be intimidated by me or my baggage. He didn’t constantly ask me if I was fine, if I had taken my medicine or if I did or did not feel like doing something with him. He treated me like Alex. Just Alex. And I was grateful to him for that.
When I was with Conor I almost believed I might be able to forget abouthim. Things were good and we were happy.
