ALISON, YOU ARE GOING TO DIE IF YOU DO

Not

my cardiologist said to me while I sat uncomfortably on the crinkly paper in his office. I looked down at my legs and took a breath. I remember thinking there is no way this is actually true. This isn’t what death looks like? Or feels like? I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the art on the wall. Surely, he has to be wrong. I looked over at my husband, Geoff, who was sitting to my right; he looked horrified. We both stared at each other and I wondered what he was thinking. “Are you sure?” I heard myself ask. “How much time do I have?” I zoned out as my beloved cardiologist of almost two decades talked about levels, test results and complete heart failure but I didn’t miss it when he said: “We’re talking six months.”

We did what anyone who gets this sort of diagnosis does next. We followed the appointment by going to an Alanis Morissette concert that night. They were tickets we had for over three years, and finally, after a global pandemic and torrential rain had continued to push the concert back, we would experience it. I sang along with every word and buried all of the news to the back burner. Call it denial. I’ll call it survival.