Life Owes Us Nothing

It began with the triple-A stent. They split me open like livestock at the slaughterhouse — not to butcher, but to buy me time. I remember the cold air, the steel, the lights. When I woke, I realised something fundamental had shifted. Cigarettes, gone. Two packs a day for decades — a ritual, a reward, a slow betrayal I had called pleasure. I told myself I was quitting to live. I didn’t know then that living would soon become the hardest thing to do.

Years blurred. The stent held, but I never truly healed. The blood moved, but life slowed. Then came the breathlessness — COPD GOLD, the doctors said. Irreversible. Incurable. Each inhale a labour, each exhale a negotiation. The world shrank to the radius of my oxygen supply. A few steps became a mountain.

Then the bladder failed. Tubes, bags, tests that never came because I was “too old.” Each intervention bought time, but sold another piece of me. My muscles wasted; my eyes dimmed until the words on a page became shadows. Hunger and thirst coiled inside me like ghosts I could never satisfy. Morphine offered a fog I could not bear — I chose pain, at least it told me I was still here.

Lingzhi came into my life then — a strange mercy in a small cup. Slowly, it steadied the chaos inside. I regained some movement, some clarity. A reprieve, not a cure. But clarity has its own cruelty.

Because in clarity, you see the truth: That people forget you. That family, the ones you built your life for, vanish into their own lives. They promise to visit, but time erases intention. Some came late, faces uncomfortable, eyes darting away. Some never came at all. I missed them all, every one. I still do.

And yet, I forgive them. They are living the lives I once lived — fast, busy, blind to the clock. I cannot hold them for that.

Only one stayed. My daughter. She fed me when I could not lift a spoon. Cleaned me when I could not move. Changed sheets soaked in indignity. Helped me through physiotherapy so I could retain a fragment of myself. She brought warmth where the world had grown cold. Through her, I saw devotion unshaken by decay.

I hated what I had become — the dependence, the frailty, the way my own breath sounded like an apology. A proud man reduced to a trembling shadow. Once, I was the provider. Now I am the burden. Yet she never treated me as such.

In the stillness of this room — ceiling, bed, light — I live in my mind. I remember strength, laughter, the smell of rain, the weight of my children when they were small. I remember the man I was.

And I think of the lesson carved into my flesh and bone: Health is not guaranteed. It does not wait for your attention. Lose it, and you lose almost everything — not at once, but inch by inch, until even time feels heavy.

Still, gratitude survives. For the daughter who stayed. For the breaths that still come, however shallow. For the strange peace that comes when all else is stripped away.

Life owes us nothing. But it gives us moments — to see, to love, to learn before it’s too late. Light, even here, finds its way in.

–––

These stories aren’t rare.
They’re just rarely told early enough.
Most decline begins in silence —
a skipped check-up, a cough you dismiss, a breath you pretend is fine.

He didn’t need saving.
Just a warning sooner.

––– Pause Here –––

If this feels familiar, you’re not alone.
Most illness doesn’t start with a bang.
It starts when silence becomes habit.

Lingzhi isn’t a miracle.
It’s a habit.
A quiet, daily way to care for the body —
before silence becomes suffering.

Advisory
Lingzhi is a traditional food, long used to support balance and general well-being.
It is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure or prevent any disease.
Individuals with existing medical conditions or those taking medication should consult a qualified healthcare professional before use.

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