“We’re too busy today. Just call an Uber,” wrote Diana, my daughter‑in‑law of fifteen years, the woman whose children I had raised while she climbed the corporate ladder at Meridian Pharmaceuticals.

Then my son, Philip, my only child: “Why don’t you ever plan anything in advance, Mom?”

Something cracked inside me. Not my recently repaired heart, but something far more vital. Twenty‑three days ago, I’d kissed my grandchildren goodbye before flying to Cleveland for experimental surgery, telling everyone it was just a minor procedure to spare them worry. I’d faced the possibility of death alone in a strange city, signed waivers acknowledging the risks, and woken up in blinding pain with no family member’s hand to hold. And now I couldn’t even get a ride home from the airport.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I thought about telling them the truth—about the titanium device now keeping my heart chambers from collapsing, about the nights I’d lain awake listening to the woman in the next hospital bed sob in pain, about the terror of nearly bleeding out on the operating table. Instead, I simply typed, “Okay!”