My own husband, with whom I had lived for 30 years in perfect harmony, conspired with a doctor to convince me that I was terminally ill and had only a couple of months to live. He looked into my eyes with fake compassion, brought me bitter medicines, and waited for the moment when I, broken and scared, would sign the will and give him everything I owned.
But he made one mistake. He didn’t know I had accidentally found my real medical records. That’s when I decided to play along.
I planned a performance with an ending neither he nor his accomplice would ever forget. Just six months ago, I thought of myself as an absolutely happy woman. At 52, I had everything anyone could dream of a loving spouse, an adult daughter in university, and a cozy three-room apartment in the city center inherited from my parents.
I also had my life’s work, a small bookshop passed down from my father. It wasn’t just a job, it was my haven, my fortress. He worked as an engineer at a design bureau but always said his salary was more like pocket money and that we mostly lived thanks to my little bookstore kingdom.
I never paid much attention to those words, after all, everything in a family is shared. How wrong I was. It all began with mild discomfort.
I started feeling dizzy from time to time, weak, with a constant fog in my head. I blamed it on fatigue and age, but suddenly he became unusually concerned. You need to see a doctor, he’d say, furrowing his brows.
He mentioned a great specialist, someone who had helped his boss recover. I tried to shrug it off, but he insisted. He booked the appointment himself and even accompanied me.
The doctor, an older man with graying hair and seemingly kind eyes, made a very favorable impression. He listened carefully, ordered a ton of tests, ultrasound, MRI, everything possible. A week later, we were back in his office.
The doctor flipped through the papers, sighed heavily, and looked at me over his glasses. The news is bad, he said in a low, sympathetic voice. You have a rare, aggressive condition that is progressing.
Unfortunately, medicine can’t help. The world collapsed. I heard his words as if underwater.
All I could whisper was, how long? He gave a vague answer, but then admitted two, maybe three months, no more. He gasped, clutched his chest, then wrapped his arms around my shoulders. His hands trembled.
But doctor, there must be a way, he exclaimed. We can try supportive therapy, the doctor replied. It won’t cure you, but it might ease the symptoms.
I sat like stone, unable to believe what I was hearing. My stable, predictable life had just been sentenced to death. On the way home, we didn’t speak.
I stared out the window at the passing houses and the busy people outside, unable to process that it would all be over for me soon. At home, he showered me with care. Herbal teas, homemade dinners, not letting me lift a finger.