At 3:47 a.m., I begged both of my children to drive me to the hospital because my chest felt like it was being crushed — they told me to call an Uber and went back to sleep, but six hours later, a doctor took my phone, called them himself, and said one sentence that made my son start yelling before he even knew the worst part.
The pain started at 3:47 in the morning, sharp and deep and wrong in a way I recognized before I wanted to admit it. At first, I lay still in my bed and stared at the dark ceiling, listening to the old furnace click on in the hallway and the wind press softly against the…
