MY STORY

My mother looked like grape jelly. That was the most distinguishable thing I could remember from that cold night in January. I was eleven at the time, but it did not take much to see that she was not alright, despite her claims of “I’m Fine”. We hurried to the hospital, where nurses rushed to explain her pain. A gallbladder infection was their answer, but no matter what treatments, she still looked like jelly, donned in a purple shirt- her favorite color. When the words met me and my father, a tidal wave of confusion and fear washed over the both of us at a new explanation for my mother’s suffering, a heart attack- at the age of 39. 
If I’m being honest, being told to get in the car, driving to a hospital in Washington D.C., hearing that my mother - the one person that was supposed to be stable in my life, and provide comfort, was going under a knife in a procedure room, was all a blur. When the news came that she had a complete blockage of the left interior descending artery, known as the “Widowmaker heart attack”, another tsunami of uncertainty flooding my mind.  
With each wave of news coming from her surgery, the thought of my mother dying became louder and louder in my mind. But she did not die. 
My mother miraculously never went into cardiac arrest, something the doctors are still unable to explain to this day. She was able to have a stent put in and survived, providing my family a short sigh of relief. But the fear and anxiety felt in the hospital remained with my family.   
When I returned to school, my teachers did not ask how I was. They knew what happened but could not bring themselves to address me. Looking back, I am sure they just did not know how to speak with someone about their mother’s near-death experience, especially not an eleven-year-old. But the same happened with my peers. When asked why I was out of school for some time, I explained that my mother had a heart attack, expecting my friends to be able to relate, and understand how I felt. But I was met with meek apologies for something that was not their fault, and a sense of hollowness.  
It quickly was dawned on me that my peers had not gone through the traumatic experience of seeing their parent dying. I realized that even my twin brother, who I always felt I could confide in, could not relate to me.  
These feelings did not quickly pass as I assumed they would. While I was able to continue in school, maintain my grades, and participate in activities, a looming sense of dread followed me. I didn’t know how to fix myself.  
Once I began researching about heart health, I found the “fix”. By having more knowledge about what happened to my mother, I felt more confident that her time with us was not a fluke and felt less anxiety at her being picked up by the hurricane that is cardiac arrest. For the first time since her heart attack, I didn't feel the need to cry about the idea that she might leave at any moment.  
My personal comfort with what happened was not enough, however. I quickly realized the mass amount of other families being swept under the waves of cardiac events, with no lifeguard there to save them. This pushed me to start my Girl Scout Gold Award project,
“Warming Hearts”.