Heaven for Everyone (Queen/Roger Taylor)

39.

September 1993
part 1

The worst part about nearly dying was realizing that my heart is fickle and unreliable. I was lying wounded and broken on an operating table, at the exact moment when I needed it the most, my heart literally gave up for a few moments. It stopped as if I'd put it through the wringer too many times, and it just needed a minute. What an undependable, fragile organ.

Actually, no, the worst part is the unwritten expectation that one should have a new lease on life following a near-death experience. I mean, I do. But that doesn't mean that it's all rainbows and unicorns. I still get irrationally upset when the radio deejay cuts off the tail end of a really good song. And even though I fully understand why Olivia is positively attached to me and can't sleep alone anymore, I still crave bodily autonomy. And just the other day, a bloke jumped ahead of a 20-minute queue, and I wasn't all, oh wow, this is perfectly okay, because at least I'm not dead.

And even though I'm happy to still be on this Earth, I'm still a bit disappointed that, without me even aware of time passing so quickly, I'm 40 today. Forty. I'm officially old. My assistant told me yesterday that 40 is the new 30, but she's 25, so what does she know? When I was her age, I thought that 40 was a few years away from ancient. Though, funnily enough, I don't feel old. It's like I'm a 27-year-old trapped in a slightly creaky body that has a noticeably slower metabolism.

"Cassie? You up yet, love?"

My mum's voice echoes through the townhouse. Beside me, Olivia stirs.I close my eyes before she lifts her head, unable to face the day quite yet. She looks over to see if I'm awake, and I feel the pause, the moment when she watches my chest rise and fall to see if I'm still breathing. Every time, it breaks my heart that she was so thoroughly traumatized by what happened, and it reaffirms that ending things with Roger was the right thing for her, if not for me. 

After a moment, satisfied that I'm still alive, Olivia slips out of bed. Her feet make a soft pitter-patter as she goes in search of my mum. I roll over, burying my head under the pillow. But the mattress is too soft, and the pillow isn't soft enough, and I just can't get comfortable in my own skin today. With a frustrated groan, I hop out of bed and pad over to the mirror in the ensuite. I look myself up and down critically, eyeing unkempt hair that I'd cut shorter and dyed lighter in a classic I-almost-died-and-lost-my-one-true-love move. Leaning forward, I frown slightly at the faint scar from the surgery and at the fine lines at the corners of my eyes. Have they always been there? Did they form overnight just to taunt me?

"Mummy!" Olivia calls from downstairs, no doubt nervous from even these few minutes of separation. I run a hand over my face as if to smooth it over and, with a final frown at my reflection, turn towards the door.

Downstairs I'm greeted by a homemade Happy Birthday! banner and warm pain au chocolat. Despite having her mouth stuffed to the gills with pastries, Olivia manages a semi-comprehensible rendition of the birthday song as my mum gives me a hug. 

"These are scrummy," I say, biting into the flaky pastry. "Did you get them from the new shop down the way?"

"Oh, look, darling, it's half-seven," my mum replies, ignoring my question completely. "Let's turn on Good Morning Britain."

"You hate morning programmes," I protest. "Everyone does."

"Not Good Morning Britain," she chirps as she walks across the kitchen towards the small television on the counter. "It's the only reputable one."

"Says the woman who, just last week, declared that the female host is, and I quote, 'a pretentious cow.'"

My mum scoffs as she picks up the remote and begins to change channels. "That's just the weekend host," she says, finally finding the right one. "Anyway, this morning, they're going to demonstrate how to make black pudding."