I grabbed my phone. Dozens of notifications, but not one from my wife, Susan. Not one from my son, Scott.
The last family group chat? Three weeks ago—Susan complaining that her favorite yogurt was out of stock. Before that, Scott asking for money to fix his car.
The Signs They Ignored
The smell of disinfectant brought everything back.
The first chest pain hit during the summer of 2020, while I was tying tomato vines in the garden.
Susan sat on the porch, sipping iced tea.
“Buford, you’re pushing yourself again,” she said. “Come inside before you drop dead.”
I laughed it off. I was sixty-six and still believed I was invincible.
By the next year, even climbing stairs left me breathless.
“Face it,” Susan muttered one evening, eyes never leaving the TV. “You’re getting old.”
Scott shrugged.
“Maybe see a doctor, Dad… or just take vitamins. Hospitals cost a fortune.”
They cared more about saving money than saving me.
By March 2023, I collapsed in the kitchen. It took Susan ten minutes to notice.
“Did you fall again, Buford? I’ve got a salon appointment—can you drive yourself to the ER?”
So I did. Alone.
Diagnosis: three blocked arteries. Without surgery, I had six months to live.
Driving home, I wondered if six months was even worth it—if I was living for people who didn’t care whether I lived or died.
The Ride Home
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