Written on Oct 20, 2025

On February 1, 2017, I wasn’t feeling good at all. I knew something was wrong. I called my mom and my “dad that stepped up” to come over — Mom to watch my kids, and Dad to take me to the hospital.

When we got to the ER, they checked my vitals, got me into a room, and began monitoring me. I remember it like it was just yesterday. The medical assistant handed me some orange-flavored chewable aspirin and said my EKG looked great. I immediately told her something was wrong — and then it happened.

I can’t tell you exactly what happened for the next 2 minutes and 39 seconds, but I know what I saw when they brought me back.

What do I mean, brought me back?
One would hope I simply passed out from exhaustion or pain. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case.

For those 2 minutes and 39 seconds, I was gone. My heart had stopped. The medical team performed CPR and used every life-saving measure they could to shock my heart back — not just to a normal rhythm, but to any rhythm at all.

That was the first time I died.

By the grace of God, and the hands of the medical professionals who refused to give up, I was given another chance at life.

When I became aware again, the first thing I saw was someone sitting on top of me, finishing another round of chest compressions, trying to wake me up. I was so confused, not yet understanding what had just happened. In true Michelle fashion, I immediately apologized to the medical staff for putting them through such a scary moment.

Yes, even then — the mom and human in me felt bad for them.

But it was here that a father watched his daughter die. My “dad that stepped up” was right there in the bay with me. One moment we were talking, and the next, one of his greatest fears became real. He yelled, screamed, cried — and I’m sure he prayed. Then, he had to do what no parent or spouse ever wants to do: make the call.

At that point, I was alive and talking — somewhat — but he still had to tell everyone.

The hospital called for a medical helicopter to life-flight me to the nearest heart hospital. Within 30 minutes, I was loaded and in the air.

It was there that I met the cardiologists who would fight for me the way I would fight for myself — the ones who refused to doubt or give up. They looked for every option and gave me the best chance at life. I will never forget them. To this day, I still have the personal numbers of a few of them, and we’ve stayed in touch all these years. They were — and still are — my day ones on this transplant journey, outside of my immediate family.

A few hours after arriving, things seemed to stabilize. My labs were improving. Doctors determined that at the first hospital, I’d had a complete depletion of potassium and magnesium, which triggered a condition called Torsades de Pointes — a rare and potentially fatal heart rhythm disturbance.

Torsades happens when the heart’s lower chambers (ventricles) beat rapidly and out of sync with the upper chambers (atria). In my case, it was caused by dangerously low electrolyte levels and underlying heart failure.

But then, it happened again.

While admitted under close supervision and appearing stable, I looked at my dad and told him, “I don’t feel good — something’s wrong.”

That’s the last thing I remember before being brought back for the second time.

Again, when I regained consciousness, I apologized to everyone — because that’s just who I am.

For another two minutes, my dad watched his daughter die in front of him. He later told me I looked at him, said something was wrong, and then was gone. He screamed “Code Blue!” while the hospital intercom echoed it across the building. The nurses and medical staff rushed in and saved me again.

Shortly afterward, a cardiologist came in with an EP — an electrophysiologist — to discuss next steps. The following morning, they implanted a dual pacemaker and defibrillator in my chest. It was an advanced device for my age and lifestyle, serving both as a pacemaker and a defibrillator. It’s also MRI-compatible (with special precautions and a Medtronic representative present to put it in “safe mode”).

Since then, I’ve only had one MRI — and it revealed two serious issues, which I’ll share later.

At the time of all this, my husband was working out of state in Louisiana, making sure our family was taken care of. My dad dreaded making that call. He started with, “Jay, are you sitting down? I need to tell you something.”

Jay wasn’t sitting — he was on the side of a freeway resurfacing roads. My dad continued, “She’s okay now… but Jay, she died. They brought her back.”

My husband’s coworkers said he dropped to his knees in tears, screaming in disbelief. If there was ever any doubt — he definitely loved me. His employer immediately booked him on a flight, and he was by my bedside that same day.

A few days later, I was released from the hospital — and so began a long road to recovery, and an entirely new outlook on life.