On November 9, 2024, my husband’s heart stopped.
He'd never had any signs of heart trouble. If anything, he was the proactive one — staying on top of his health for years because of some hereditary risk factors. That night we were just watching the Georgia game when he started vomiting. He hadn't eaten or drunk anything that would explain it, and he said something felt off.
About 10-15 minutes later we were in the car, in no particular hurry — I assumed it was his stomach. A block from our house, I asked him what he thought was wrong. He said, "My heart." Then he passed out.
I raced to the ER, pulled into the ambulance bay, and screamed that my husband was having a heart attack. They rushed him in and started CPR before I could understand what was happening. He had just passed out — why were they cutting off his clothes? Why were they preparing the defibrillator? I watched, frozen, as a team took turns fighting to restart his heart. A doctor asked questions I barely remember answering — medications, allergies, how long his heart had been stopped. All I remember is the flatline on the monitor. They brought him back three times before he was stable enough to move to the main hospital.
Hours later, the cariologist informed me that he had almost complete blockage in his LAD artery — the "widow maker.” The next 48 hours would decide everything. He was on every machine they had. They weren't even sure about brain activity yet, since he'd gone without oxygen on and off for over thirty minutes. The doctor gave me little hope.
How was I going to tell our son? He was in his first semester at UGA. We’d already experienced a 100-year storm and were still recovering from Hurricane Helene. That was supposed to be the headline from home, not his dad’s health. I delayed the call as long as I could, hoping I wouldn’t have to say those words. But the next day, a nurse gently urged me to notify him, as if there might still be time for goodbye.
Miraculously, seven days later, we were on our way home. Recovery meant months in a defibrillator vest and weekly cardiac rehab. His heart will always carry damage, but he’s here.
On September 26th, he turns 54, and we’ll be walking together in the Heart Walk. We’re supporting the American Heart Association so more families get the chance we did.
Extraordinary things happen when people take action. A small step. A simple skill. A lifesaving moment. Every walker who joins, every dollar donated, means more people trained in CPR, more research and more lifesaving moments for everyone.
Thank you for standing with us.