Before My Heart Stops

Arabella’s POV The doctor did not make eye contact with me when he told me that I have only six months left to live. His eyes were on the paperwork lying in front of him. He turned one page after another, as though he could find an answer if he tried hard enough. His glasses were perched low on his nose, while his fingers, clutching my medical file, were so tightly curled that the pages crumpled under the pressure. I watched him from the opposite side of his desk. Through the window, Vespera City gleamed under the sunlight of the afternoon. Cars zoomed through the streets below; pedestrians darted across pavements, and somewhere in the distance, a siren sounded before fading away into the bustle of the city. Everything seemed normal. That was what hurt the most. The world had not stopped to ask for my consent. “Miss Sinclair,” he started. I hated how people said my surname whenever they were about to shatter something. “Yes, Doctor?” He finally looked up. “We’ve analyzed your reports along with your recent scans and the previous examinations. Unfortunately, it seems like you’re deteriorating quicker than expected.” I interlocked my fingers. “What do you mean by that?” He hesitated. The last three weeks saw me spending time at hospitals, consultation rooms, waiting rooms, and examination rooms with the same smell of antiseptics. There had been blood tests, scans, endless questions about symptoms I was repeating over and over again and discussion among the specialists that assumed I wouldn’t understand them. I understood one thing, they were using silence whenever they were afraid of the answer to their own question. Also, if I don’t ask specific questions, they were going to spend twenty minutes getting me prepared for a sentence which will take only five seconds to say it out loud. “So,” I said. “Just say it.” He breathed out slowly. “Based on the course of your disease and the reaction of your organism to the medication, we calculate that you probably have about half a year to live.” For an instant, I heard nothing. Not the clock on the wall. Not the traffic outside. Not even the quiet hum of the air conditioner above my head. Six months. Two little words, easy enough to understand. Or maybe just one, since there was an extra number included. I knew what six months meant. Six months could be two seasons; maybe a holiday; enough time to make plans that would never get accomplished. Six months was a Christmas that could come early. Six months could be the last birthday of my life. At twenty-three, I knew almost nothing about what I wanted out of life, and some man in a pressed shirt was telling me that I may not have enough time to discover. “Is that definite?” “No prognosis can be absolutely certain,” he told me softly. “Some live longer than expected. Others…” “Don’t.” He didn’t continue. And almost, I started laughing. Not because something was humorous, but because I always figured that if this ever happened to me, I’d burst into tears. Instead, I sat up straight in a fancy chair, in a white blouse and tailored pants, peppering her with follow-up questions like we were planning for a missed flight. “Isn’t there something else? Another treatment? A clinical trial? Any other specialists to see?” “We have considered the various treatment possibilities. We can continue with the treatment of your symptoms to help maintain your quality of life. We can also discuss whether we might be able to find any clinical trials for you but I wouldn’t raise your expectations too high regarding the possibility of success.” I nodded slowly. “And if I choose not to spend the next six months in the hospital?” “I’ll make sure you get care according to your own wishes.” My wishes. Life is so good to give me that much leeway. I stared down at my hands. My nails were painted pale pink, the polish immaculate thanks to the manicurist’s visit just four days ago – I’d griped over one nail that had been filed wrong. Four days ago, I was worried about my manicure being wrong. I wondered what I would be griping about in another four days. "Should I inform your family?" the doctor asked. That got me back into the room. "My aunt knows that I'm sick." "Does she know the current prognosis?" "No." "Would you like us to schedule a meeting with her?" I thought about it. Vivienne Sinclair was a woman who did not like to be left out of any important discussion, especially if it had to do with someone she loved. She was forty-six years old, beautiful in an easy way that comes with wealth, discipline, and a wardrobe that most women can only admire from afar. She had raised me since my parents had died, and even though we had never managed to learn how to love each other without occasionally trying to control each other's lives, I knew that she cared about me. But I wasn't ready to see her face change. I wasn't ready to turn into the kind of person that everyone whispers at. "No," I said. "I'll tell her myself." The doctor nodded. He explained the next steps, adjusted my medication, and gave me information I would probably read later when I could remember how to concentrate. I asked two more questions because I needed something to do with my mouth besides tremble. Then I thanked him. I thanked him. When I walked out of his office, the receptionist greeted me with a smile. “Have a lovely afternoon, Miss Sinclair.” I returned her smile. “Thanks. And you too.” But outside, it was just about offensively sunny. My chauffeur was waiting for me beside the car, opening the door the instant I stepped into view. “Back home, Miss?” I stood there a moment, gazing at the black leather interiors. Home. I got into the car. “Yes, please.” Sinclair House stood behind huge iron gates on one of the costliest streets of Vespera City. This estate was the type of house you would slow down to appreciate when driving by; stone walls, huge windows, manicured gardens, sweeping driveway leading up to the door. It had been owned by my family for countless generations, and every nook and cranny of it felt designed to remind visitors of the fact that not everyone could call the Sinclairs part of their family. Portraits of long-dead ancestors adorned its halls, antiques forbidden to be touched, countless bedrooms for guests we rarely ever invited. Beautiful. And terribly silent. The afternoon was slowly fading into evening when I arrived. I thanked the driver, stepped inside the building and offered my handbag to the housekeeper who promptly refused me. “Is Aunt Vivienne here?” I asked. “She is not, miss. She left for some business and promised to come back for dinner.” “Thanks.” I headed upstairs to my room. It all looked the same as I had left it that morning. The curtains were drawn, the bed was neatly made, and there was a vase of white roses on the table near the window. My collection of vinyl records took up two shelves close to the piano and stood in an order only I understood. Years of collecting had gone into that collection. Some were passed down by my mother, others came from various sales, auctions, and small record stores which I visited every time I traveled somewhere. I loved the scratchiness that preceded the beginning of a song, its unique imperfections. Music had always been the one constant in my life that required no explanation. I could be angry and not be difficult. I could be sad without anyone attempting to make everything better. I could sit in front of my piano for hours and leave the rest of the world waiting behind the door. I kicked my shoes away from me and walked toward my instrument. My fingers touched the keys. For a moment or two, I couldn’t recall which song I was supposed to play. This worried me more than anything else that might have happened. It had been playing for as long as I could remember. Not professionally and definitely not impressively by the judgmental criteria of those who felt every hobby should result in accomplishment, but decent enough to satisfy myself. I could remember all the pieces I liked and know which notes were to be played in order to create the music I felt like creating in particular. Except I wasn’t thinking about the music anymore. All my mind could concentrate on was a figure I kept seeing in front of my eyes. Six. I hit a key. A single tone came into life. Followed by another. I started playing a tune I had been familiar with for ages. Something slow and familiar. My fingers found their way across the keys even when my thoughts wandered. The music rose around me, softening the edges of the room. And in those three minutes I just simply became Arabella. Without any label. Without any definition. Not Arabella - patient number nine; not Arabella - heiress to a fortune. Arabella the pianist. And when the last note rang out I just remained sitting. Then I started crying. I did not wail or sob in a dramatic fashion but only a few tears dropped from my eyes one by one and finally I had to wipe them off with the sleeve of my blouse. I cried over everything I hadn’t managed to do yet. Over the cities I could not travel through, the music I didn’t write and the mornings that I was complaining of rising from bed. For silly conflicts I made too serious and for people I knew would have never gone anywhere. I cried being twenty-three and not knowing how to take my leave of life I still lived. But mostly I cried because I was not prepared for it. I didn’t want to be brave. I didn’t want to be inspirational to strangers and a lesson on making the most of each moment. I didn’t want people to say that everything happens for a reason. I just wanted more time. I wanted to be able to find someone to love without worrying about how much heartache I could endure. I wanted to go to some place no one knew who my parents were by last name. I wanted to do something wrong because it would give me plenty of years to feel sorry about it. I wanted to be around long enough to become that old lady who complains about her knees and can’t remember where she left her glasses. Ordinary things, nothing fancy. For the very first time in my life, I realized that ordinary things could be the most important things in the whole world. I dried my tears and stood. Waiting there until it got completely dark made no sense. The doctor gave me an estimate, not a date. Six months is neither a guarantee nor a negotiable deadline. I realized that well enough. I wasn’t going to spend the rest of my days waiting for my heart to give out. At least, not if there was anything I could do to change it. I went to my desk, opened my laptop, and created a new document. In the top corner of the screen, I entered three words: Things I Want. I stared at them for a bit. Then I began typing. See the ocean at sunrise. Visit a place that I could walk around in on the street where no one would recognise my last name. Spending the whole day doing absolutely nothing and feel good about it. Play the piano with all the windows open. Fall in love. I paused when I reached the last one. My fingers hung over the keys of the keyboard. It was ridiculous to be entering those words. It wasn’t something that could be ordered and reserved because there was only a limited time left. Yet, it remained there. I wasn’t going to begin marking things out until I actually gave them a try. Vivienne was back at seven. She walked into my room without knocking. “You’re back earlier than expected.” “I had an appointment.” “I know. The driver informed me.” She put down her purse in the chair and examined my face. “How did it go?” I had mentally prepared myself for this conversation during my ride home. I had intended to speak calmly, to tell her everything the doctor had told me and to assure her that I wouldn’t be panicking. I had even anticipated cracking a joke regarding how she wouldn’t be able to plan my schedule months in advance anymore. However, the moment I looked at her, I found it impossible to form any words. Vivienne’s expression changed. “Arabella?” I looked away. “What did the doctor say?” I swallowed. “He says that I have six months.” The silence that followed was unlike anything I had experienced in the doctor’s office. Vivienne didn’t look at her papers or try to find the right words. She stood absolutely still, her face turning pale with the sentence hanging between us. “Six months?” she echoed. I nodded. “No, there’s got to be something else that they can do.” “They have looked into the possibilities.” “We will find another specialist.” “Aunt Vivienne…” “Someone from overseas if need be. There are really good hospitals in Switzerland and Germany. I will make some calls tonight.” “Please.” She paused. I did not appreciate how hasty people could be with their decision-making when they were afraid. It felt to me as though my life had become some kind of problem that could be fixed if they just tried hard enough. “I know that you want to help,” I said. “I know that you do. But I need you to listen to me first.” She opened her mouth to say something, but closed it. For a moment, she did not look like the intimidating Vivienne Sinclair, but rather like the one who had held my hand so tightly during my parents’ funerals that I could hardly feel my fingers anymore. She walked across the room and sat down next to me. “What do you need from me?” It was such a simple question that it brought tears to my eyes once again. “I am not sure yet.” “We will figure things out.” I rested against her shoulder. She put an arm around me, and we remained like that for a long time, both of us silent. I could smell the same perfume she used for years. It reminded me of childhood when I was afraid of thunderstorms, sneaked into her room, and was scolded before she lifted up the cover and allowed me to get into her bed. As a child, I thought that grown-ups could prevent all possible misfortunes. Those days were gone now. We spent some time like that until Vivienne moved away and wiped a strand of my hair aside. “Will you do whatever you can?” I wanted to assure her that I would. However, I looked outside, at the light slowly vanishing between the tall buildings in the distance. “I’ll do my best.” It was not what she wanted to hear, but it was all I could say. That night I did not sleep well. I lay in bed, with my phone on my chest, scrolling through photos that I had taken in the last year – a dinner with friends, the beach in Portugal, my mother’s old record player, a photo of me laughing so much that my eyes were closed. I looked happy in most of them. I wondered if I had been happy enough. And then I hated myself for thinking that. There was no right amount of happiness you needed to have before leaving the world. I had not wasted my life just because I had lived part of it as carefree and happy. I put my phone on the bedside table and turned to the window. Vespera shone in the dark sky. In some corner of the city, people were dancing, fighting, falling in love, making decisions that they would regret the next day. In some corner of the city, a girl was getting good news. In some other corner, someone was getting the worst news of his life. The city was carrying all of that without stopping. Tomorrow, I would wake up and I would take my pills and eat breakfast and decide how I am going to spend my day. I will most likely fight with Vivienne over some small thing. I will probably play the piano and I will cry once again. Eventually, I would have to tell my story to more people. But tonight, the truth was mine. Six months. I closed my eyes. I did not know how many mornings were still left for me, if at all the doctor was underestimating me. I did not know what my disease was going to take from me next and how much of myself was going to be sacrificed to the disease. All I knew was that I was still alive. My heart was still beating. Somewhere beyond the fear and the grief, beyond the anger and the uncertainty, there was a tiny part of me that was asking me what I am going to do with the time I have left. And I did not have the answer. But I intended to find it out. Six months, I thought. Then let me live them.