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.
