I want to share my terrifying brush with death—not for pity, but in hopes it saves you. At 1am on October 26, my world shattered. I woke gasping, chest exploding with fire that clawed my neck and back, nausea crashing like I was drowning. No mercy. Just 74, low cholesterol, stellar blood pressure, no family history, not a pound overweight—healthy except that hypothyroidism. I was "it won't happen to me." But it did. Staring at the ceiling, I thought: This is it. I'm dying. Lucky doesn't cover it: I live with my daughter and son-in-law; years ago, they tucked a panic button by my bed. Seconds later, she was there, dialing 911. Ambulance in under 20 minutes—my lifeline. Hospital 30 later, straight to the cath lab, angioplasty snatching me from the edge. I survived. But the what-ifs? They claw deeper: What if I'd scrolled my phone? Whispered "indigestion" and rolled over?
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