Grief by Heart Disease, a Personal Account From a Surviving Family Member
09/28/2026
Author: Lina Collazos
29 years ago, my father brought me from Bogota, Colombia, so that I could live a better life with him and my sister. I saw my father the day before he passed away, and that day we discussed my potential future as a lawyer. Today, I am a healthcare consultant and paralegal with a Chicago-based law firm. I am not sure what career I will focus on in this next chapter, but I do know that I want to help people in a healthcare setting. In my spare time, I read (a lot), write, and craft. I can also be found watching historical fiction shows or YouTube with my fiancé, Justin, and our 3-year-old cat, Izzy Rei.
It was a bright, sunny Tuesday afternoon in mid-May. The sky was clear, the air was warm, and a breeze cut through, making it a perfect South Florida day. At 12:15 p.m., the phone rang. It wasn’t my boss, it wasn’t a telemarketer—it was my sister. “No need to panic, but we got a call about Daddy. He’s on his way to the hospital. You don’t have to come; it’s probably nothing, but I’m going to meet Grandma there.” My fiancée and I were heading out the door before she said “hospital”. It would be hours before we understood what had happened, and days before we could finally see him.
Our Father, a devoted husband, incredible son, world-class salesman, and our lifelong guide, was gone. He passed away alone in a parking lot in West Palm Beach, Florida, on May 20, 2025. Paramedics revived him once, only for his heart to fail again moments later. We weren’t there to hold his hand or offer comfort. His heart gave out before we could say goodbye. His life and our time with him were cut short because he’d neglected his heart health.
I don’t believe his heart simply failed the second time; I believe his will to fight went first. He had always insisted he didn’t want to live on medications or languish in a hospital bed. His neglect left us with an unimaginable depth of shock, pain, and grief.
My father, Eduardo Collazos, lived with heart disease for over five years, yet he saw a doctor only a handful of times. He mistrusted the healthcare system, dismissing it as a scam, and let a stubborn pride convince him that he could manage his health on his own. He took his medications irregularly, refusing to let doctors adjust his dosage or revise his treatment plan, attempting to heal naturally while maintaining habits that worked against him. He knew how to live, how to work hard, and how to love. Like his heart, his love was almost too big for this world; his posthumous X-ray showed an enlarged heart, denying the need for a formal autopsy. He enjoyed good wine, fine whiskey, and smoking Cuban cigars with his wife and best friends. In many ways, he was a simple man, but that simplicity, combined with his stubbornness, dug him into the widow maker’s grave.
For roughly three of those five years, he would often tell me he was tired. I thought I was listening when I told him to get more rest, work less, or take a vacation. I wasn’t truly understanding what he meant. His heart was working double time—by the end, three times harder than it should have been. His mind, body, and heart were exhausted. He was asking for help, but neither of us realized what he really needed in time.
He believed he was taking control of his own destiny, but that medical neglect ultimately robbed us of the years, memories, and milestones we expected to share. The emotional toll of his choice is a weight our family carries every single day. He raised two daughters, built a beautiful home with the love of his life, traveled the world, and shared a love larger than life itself. Yet today, his absence leaves a heavy, agonizing void. We are left wrestling with painful “what-ifs, knowing that his death was largely preventable. Knowing that we could have helped him if we’d only been as unrelenting as he was. If he were here today, I would tell him that taking care of his heart was not a weakness and remind him that we would take care of him in any circumstance because we love him, that he would never be a burden, and that a good treatment plan would give him so many more years of peace and joy.
My father used to say all he had to do was “die and pay taxes,” and that he preferred to go quickly. Long before his diagnosis, he would remind us that anyone could be gone in an instant: “I could die of a heart attack tomorrow. I have to live my life like any day could be my last.” I don’t know if he got his wish, wrote his own fate, or simply fell victim to pride. What I do know is that his suffering didn’t end with his final breath; we carry the weight of his loss every day. He lived and died on his own terms. I neither admire nor admonish him for it; I just miss him deeply. Wherever he is now, I hope he is at peace. And I believe that if given another chance, he would change his fate in a heartbeat.
One day, each and every one of us will go. But if reading this reminds you of a loved one or yourself, please consider reaching out to your loved one and helping them get the care they need, or take care of yourself so you can enjoy life to the fullest. Don’t let heart disease cut your life short; you deserve to live a full, healthy life. And some habits and routines are simply worth it.
