I found my 78-year-old best friend curled on her kitchen floor, refusing to call an ambulance. Beside her was a note: “If I die, call Martha. Don’t bother my kids.”
“Betty, why didn’t you push your medical alert button?” I yelled, my hands shaking as I knelt on the cold linoleum.
She clutched her hip, her face pale and dotted with cold sweat.
“Do you know what a ride in that siren box costs, Martha?” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I won’t let them drain what little I have left to leave my grandkids. I’m fine. I just need a minute.”
She wasn’t fine.
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