Death For Breakfast Again

Morning light cuts through the blinds like a blade I didn’t notice until it nicked my eyelids. I wake already behind the day, heart thudding, lungs tight, a thin film of panic clinging to my ribs. Coffee waits, cold, untouched. I stare at it as if it might answer a question I cannot ask.

My inbox hums. I tap a key. Nothing responds. I tap again. The letters blur. For a moment, I cannot remember why I am here, who I am to these demands. My chest lifts, then freezes. I feel the tremor—not in my hand, but deeper, behind the sternum. An urgency I can’t ignore, though I try.

I tell myself it’s fine. I always tell myself it’s fine. Fine is safer than listening. Fine allows the world to run without me noticing the cost.

By mid-morning, the fog is heavier. A pang sharpens in my temples; my vision flickers. I drop the files, and my knuckles scrape the desk. The hum in my ears rises — a relentless siren I have learned to ignore.

I remember my father’s chest, the first heart attack, his eyes wide and empty. I thought it a story, a cautionary tale in a newspaper clipping. I never imagined it could be me.

Lunch passes as a whisper, a bite of bread chewed and swallowed mechanically. My stomach churns. My hands shake. The ride home feels like freefall, though I stand perfectly still.

At the clinic, the doctor is calm, impossibly calm. I am not. Blood pressure reads high; adrenal markers flare quietly in labs. “Early-stage hypertension,” he says. “Adrenal exhaustion creeping beneath your endurance. You shouldn’t be conscious. Yet here you are, holding on. Ignored, this could cascade to cardiac event, renal compromise, or full adrenal crisis.”

The weight of his words settles like lead. I imagine what unlucky looks like — no warning, no pause, only collapse. And then I realise: I have been ignoring every whisper, every ache, every skipped breath. Every “I’ll do it later” was a contract with the wrong party — my own body.

Evening stretches like a warning siren. I walk home, the world distorted: streetlights flicker in slow motion, every footstep reverberates in my sternum. I reach my apartment and drop to the floor, knees pressed into hardwood, hands against my chest. I can feel the thrum of blood, the rebellion of tired vessels. I scream. Not a sound anyone can hear. Not a plea, just release — and the panic that I may be too late.

I crawl to bed. The pulse in my head slows imperceptibly, but I cannot sleep. I think of every missed pause, every ignored symptom, every silent ledger of self-neglect. I am ashamed. I am afraid. I am alive, yes, but the fragility is palpable.

In the mirror, I see the tension etched deep into jaw, shoulders, hands — the body has kept score while I negotiated denial. There is no escape from myself. Only reckoning.

I vow, for the first time, to meet my own warnings. To act on the ledger before collapse. To live inside the skin that has been shouting for attention all these years.

–––

Warnings Whispered

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.

She 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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