The Gypsy Curse

Chapter 2

Giant cell myocarditis.

That was what the doctor said. Giant cell myocarditis is a rare cardiovascular disorder that occurs for unknown reasons. 

Awesome.

The doctor said many medical terms, but it came down to this. Giant cell myocarditis is inflammation of the heart muscle. I can be given immunosuppressive drugs and corticosteroids to help slow down the process, or a heart implate. Even with immunosuppressive drugs, the average life span is a year. 

Even more awesome.

When given the news, I turned to my dad. He knew exactly what I was thinking: the curse. Although he doesn't believe in it, it was pretty hard not to believe in it since my mother, grandmother, and great grandmother, and so on, have all had some type of immune disorders and all died while having it.

My father likes to remind me that it wasn't the immune disorders that killed them, but with a pattern like this, it was hard to not believe. 

Dad did not believe in it, but I sure believed in the curse. 

The ride home was silent. Glancing over at my dad I could tell he was trying to hold back tears. I hear Iris in the back sniffle. I bring my hand back like a father asking for some candy and wait for her to take my hand. She took it and I squeeze. I bring it to the middle console and slightly turn and kiss her hand. 

"We're family and we are all in this together," I say reassuring everyone in the vehicle. 

She sniffles and responds, "You are absolutely correct. We're all in this together." She gives my hand another squeeze. "Love you, Vally."

My dad doesn't say anything the whole way home. I know there are so many things going on in his head. Since my mother's death, he has been more protective of me. He worries more about how I am doing and does more checkups on me. I don't blame him though. After my mother passed, we both hit a low, but we knew we had each other no matter what. 

But if this disease kicks my butt and I kick the bucket, who will he have then? This was what terrified me. He has lost so much already, we both have, and I didn't want him to go through what could happen to me, all by himself.  It wasn't fair. 

When we return home, Dad finally speaks.

"Do you girls want to make cookies?" This was a coping skill for us. When we are sad, we bake cookies. 

"Absolutely," Iris and I respond at the same time.

We spent the next hour or so making and baking cookies. The kitchen was silent minus the faint sound of music playing rock music in the background. The atmosphere in the kitchen was heavy. I felt as though I was suffocating, and there was nothing that could be done to lift the heaviness. 

We all sit on the kitchen floor and nibble on one of the 50 or so cookies we made. I glance at my father and Iris, and my heart breaks in two. Iris was there for me after my mother passed. After Iris's mom divorced her dad and took off when she was 10, my mom had taken her under her wing and treated her like her own daughter. Iris had always felt like my mom was hers. 

When we were younger, we would tell people we were sisters. It didn't surprise me no one believed us. Iris now stands barely over 5 foot 1 and has hair as white as a dove and while I tower over her at 5 foot 9 and have hair the colour of dirt. No one believed us then, and no one believes us now. 

I take a breathe in and break the silence. "We need to make a plan. This is going to be hard on all of us, so we need to have a plan on how we are going to handle this." A pause. "We can go back to the therapist we were seeing after Mom died, and if we need to have weekly check-ins, we can do that, too." 

They nod in agreement. 

"I think that would be a great plan," Dad says after a little pause. "I can see if Dr. Key has openings for us to set an appointment up bi-weekly. Then we can go from there." He turns to Iris. "I can set up an appointment for you, too, if you would like me to."

"That would be great. Thank you, David," she responds and sets her cookie on her leg. 

The rest of the day was spent cleaning up the kitchen, eating cookies randomly, and watching Freedom Writers. Iris left to do the overnight at the hospital around 7p. I make my way upstairs to my room and strip my clothes and step into the shower. I let the steaming water wash over me. This was when I let myself cry. I stand there for an unknown amount of time bawling my eyes out. 

I hate how this was my life. When my mother was sick, that was one of the hardest things I've ever had to deal with. Now I was dealing with it. I know how things ended with my mother, and that was not going to happen to me. I would not allow it to happen.

There had got to be a way to break this curse. Whether or not there was one, and my gut said there was, I was going to find out how to break it. 

I exit the shower and put on my pajamas and brush my teeth. I felt like I was on autopilot. As I crawl into bed my mind runs with ideas on how I was going to find out how to break this curse, along with how I was going to mentally get through this season. 

My mother had always told me I was a fighter. 'You're persistent and stubborn as hell' she would always tell me, joking I got it from my father when we all knew it was her traits I had inherited. There was a difference between my mother and me. I wasn't going to stop fighting as she did. There was no way I was going to let this immune disease win. 

These were my last thoughts before I fall asleep, emotionally drained from the day.