Almost nine years ago, my father, then 55 years old, suffered a massive heart attack. It happened in the early morning hours of Saturday, February 20, 2016. My mother was startled awake by the strange noises coming from his CPAP machine, which he had only started using a month prior. When she tried to wake him, he was unresponsive. Suddenly, he exhaled deeply, smiled, and then went completely still. That was when my mother realized his heart had stopped.
Panicked, she called my younger brother, who was a high school sophomore at the time, to help her move my father off the bed and begin CPR. While my brother performed chest compressions, she dialed 911. When the paramedics arrived, they had to use a defibrillator to restore his pulse before rushing him to the hospital. The doctors sedated him and initiated therapeutic hypothermia to minimize brain damage. The attending physician later told my mother that my brother’s quick response had quite literally saved my father’s life.
Later that afternoon, he was airlifted to a specialized cardiac hospital in the city.
On Monday, a neurologist assessed his condition and explained to my mother that there were three stages of awareness:
- Opening the eyes and responding
- Opening the eyes but showing no focus (where my father was)
- A vegetative state
Tuesday marked my father’s 56th birthday. His cardiologist, doubtful of his recovery, admitted that he had never seen a patient in my father’s condition come out of a coma. He began pressuring my mother to consider removing his breathing tube, allowing him to pass away peacefully in his sleep.
That evening, my mother sat my siblings and me down to discuss the doctor’s recommendation. However, she decided to place her faith in God and set Friday as the day she would make her final decision. Meanwhile, an MRI was scheduled to assess any potential brain damage.
The next day, I visited my father in the hospital to say my goodbyes. Accepting the reality of his possible passing was incredibly difficult. Seeing him lying motionless, hooked up to countless wires, staring blankly while gagging on his breathing tube—this image still haunts me.
Then, Friday arrived—a day of miracles. That morning, my father woke up. He was fully conscious, responsive, and aware of his surroundings. The nurses were astonished. Our entire family rushed to the hospital to see him, overwhelmed with relief and joy. However, my father’s cardiologist did not seem pleased—perhaps embarrassed that he had been proven wrong. He even tried to downplay the miraculous recovery in front of us.
From that day forward, my father’s condition steadily improved. He regained his ability to talk, walk independently, and underwent rehabilitation for a few weeks before finally returning home in March.
One of the first things my father asked upon waking up was when his mother would visit him. We were confused—his mother had passed away in 2009. When we told him, he started crying, as though reliving the pain of her passing all over again. He later shared that while in his coma, he had heard her voice.
He also described seeing vast, beautiful pink clouds with tiny angelic babies emerging from them. To him, it felt like he had simply taken a nap and woken up in the hospital.
Today, my father is fully recovered. He enjoys his retirement on his farm and, despite undergoing bypass surgery last fall, has made a complete recovery.
