One Sunday morning on the day after my daughter and I moved into our new home in our new town, I woke up naked and soaking wet on the floor of my bathroom surrounded by paramedics. “Do you remember what happened?” No. “Can you tell me your name?” Veronica. “Do you know where you are?” No. As I was lying on the floor, looking up at the ceiling and the first responders, my daughter’s head suddenly appeared. I realized I was at home but did not recognize it since we had spent only one night there. I could only see boxes and an unfamiliar environment.

While being wheeled into the ambulance on a stretcher, I asked my daughter to grab me something to cover up as that was clearly not a priority for the medical professionals. They hooked me up to several beeping machines and they kept asking if I had any chest pain and if I was short of breath. I didn’t have pain, but my chest did feel as if an elephant was sitting on it. As we neared the local hospital, they decided to fly me to San Antonio. The paramedics were talking numbers and unfamiliar terms and they began medicating me through an IV.

The helicopter ride seemed eternal and all I could think about was my daughter in a town where we barely knew anyone plus she was not old to drive. How will she get to school? Will someone take her to buy groceries? Is she going to be OK without her Mama?

While the helicopter descended, I could see a team of doctors and nurses waiting for me. That’s when I got scared. It might be bad, really bad. A tall, slim doctor explained it was possible I had heart attack and had gone into cardiac arrest. Huh? Following several tests, a few hours later he returned to say they found no blockages, so they were going to check the electrical function of my heart.

The electrophysiologist ordered more tests and informed me I needed a pacemaker and a defibrillator implanted in my chest. Worry immediately set in. I saw my life pass by and began to worry about my daughter. Will this impact my ability to care and provide for her? Will it affect my quality of life? Will it shorten my life?

My daughter came and stayed with me in the ICU. I had the quick procedure and returned home after a few days recovering. I was scared, wondering if I was going to be OK. As time passed, I gradually felt more comfortable and realized I was taken care of by an outstanding cardiologist who knew exactly how to treat me and reassured me that all would be fine.

A few years later, I visited a science museum and saw one of the first pacemakers ever created. It was a huge, primitive-looking machine compared to the ones used today. It was like comparing a desktop computer to a sleek mobile phone. I remember thinking how fortunate I was to have gotten mine and the difference it made for me.

As time passed, I wondered if there were others in need of a pacemaker or a defibrillator who could not afford it. Research revealed there are children and elderly people in need of a device with no access to it. I needed to take action to help!

My daughter and I discussed how we could help, raise money and contribute. We decided preparing salsas and pickling chipotles seemed the right path. We began selling our products at farmer’s markets. We determined the percentage we could donate. While we are growing slowly, we continue to work tirelessly to benefit as many individuals as we can with our contributions.

It takes a village to raise a child. We say “It takes a salsa to help a heart!”.