At work, we had a driver who had been sick for some time. Everyone could see he wasn’t at his best, but he still came in, still showed up, as if duty was heavier than his own body. This week, everything reached a breaking point.
In the middle of his shift, he suddenly collapsed—losing consciousness. Then came the terrifying sight: he began vomiting blood. In that moment, he was caught between life and death. Panic filled the air, people rushed, voices trembled.
But what struck me most wasn’t just his condition—it was what he said. Even as he fought to breathe, even as his body betrayed him, he told his family: “Take care of the company phone… if it gets lost, I’ll have to pay for it.”
Imagine that—on the edge of life itself, still thinking about work. Not his own comfort, not his safety, not even the fear of what tomorrow might bring, but a company-issued phone. A small device, yet heavy with responsibility.
It left me shaken. How much pressure must someone carry to think of work when death is already knocking? How deeply must survival and livelihood be tied together, that even in crisis, fear of debt outweighs fear of dying?
It’s a reminder of how often people sacrifice their bodies, their peace, even their final moments, for a job. And it’s not just about him—it’s about so many workers who carry burdens like invisible weights, afraid to drop them even when they themselves are breaking.
Sometimes, the real tragedy isn’t only the illness—it’s the way society forces people to put work above their own lives. Rest in Peace, Kuya Albert.
