We're the Glaucomfleckens. Our mission is to promote humor and humanity in healthcare.
Subscribe to get weekly roundups of all things Glaucomflecken, monthly deep dives into the heart of healthcare, and diaphragmatic contraction resulting in forceful expulsion of air, also known as laughter.
SHARE
Hey there!
This past Monday, May 11, marked six years since Will’s sudden cardiac arrest. In the wee hours of that morning, Kristin performed 10 minutes of CPR that kept him alive. Those 10 minutes changed our lives forever.
Obviously, this is a day that brings up a lot of emotions for our family. From the relief and joy of survival; to the reckoning of lasting trauma, it’s been a rollercoaster. In this month’s essay, both of us reflect on our intertwined experiences.
-The Glaucomfleckens
Survival, Intertwined
I don't understand memory. Thanks to medical school, I know the hippocampus has something to do with it. Also the amygdala? The limbic system? I don't really remember anything more than that.
As I reflect back on my cardiac arrest six years ago, I am struck by how little I remember. I remember the day before, Mother's Day. We had a water balloon fight with the kids in the backyard, but mostly I remember the photos that were taken that day, which isn't really a memory at all.
The one true memory I have from that day is a flash of me driving in the wooded hills near our house with our five year old in the back seat. I was trying to get her to take a nap – she was cranky, and I was trying to give my wife a nice, peaceful afternoon. The next thing I remember after that was FaceTiming Kristin from the ICU. (2020 was wild.)
The 30 hours between that drive and the ICU are gone, because I was gone. People often ask if I had a near death experience. Did I “go” anywhere? I always feel like I’m disappointing them when I say, “Nope. I just took a long, very harrowing nap.” There was no white light, no dreams. I did not see my ancestors, or the afterlife, or Jonathan. The story of those 30 hours lives in the minds of my friends and family.
It’s an experience that changed multiple lives forever, with Kristin at the center of it.
When people find out what happened to my husband – that he went into sudden cardiac arrest while we were sleeping, that I performed CPR for ten minutes until the paramedics arrived, that he survived with no permanent physical or cognitive damage – they usually say something like, "Wow, you’re so lucky she was there."
But they don't always know what to say to me.
And when I talk about what that experience did to me, not just that night, but in the days, months, and years that followed, some people get uncomfortable. Sometimes, they even say things like:
"But this happened to him, not you."
"You're making his medical emergency all about yourself."
"Classic woman move."
Seriously, I've heard it all. But the truth is, our trauma is shared, and our experiences are intertwined. What happened to him also happened to me, just in a different way. Both of our lives were turned upside down by the same medical event.
Once I came back online in the ICU, I remember bits and pieces, like that Facetime call and my wonderful nurse, Roger.
One thing I don’t remember was tweeting from my hospital bed – a pretty dangerous thing to do immediately after targeted hypothermia treatment.
But, yeah, I did do it.
Kristin, in all her foresight, brought my phone to the hospital, but deleted my social media and banking apps. She reasoned that if I was able to download an app and remember my password, I was safe to post again.
Honestly, the first month after the cardiac arrest is still a blur. What sticks out is a collection of moments, both significant and insignificant: Answering the front door to receive a care package from my partner, calling my best friend to tell him about the cardiac arrest only to be told I had just called him hours earlier. One incredibly good memory: the hug I got from my 5 year old daughter when I walked through the door, and snuggling up with her in front of our fire pit.
I remember how incredible Kristin was during this time, but I also remember realizing how much she was struggling, too. She saved my life, and hers was changed forever.
We tend to tell trauma stories as if they belong to just one person. But in reality, survival rarely happens in a vacuum. Our story was an example of this.
I heard his agonal breathing. I manually pumped his heart when it stopped. I watched his skin turn from pink to blue to gray while I tried desperately to send oxygen to his vital organs.
I lived through the aftermath of his cardiac arrest in the margins – alert, responsible, but invisible to the healthcare system. I began to feel like a forgotten patient.
I didn’t know how to talk about my experience for a long time. There was no easy way to explain why I couldn’t make conversation, why my eyes were vacant, or why I kept checking to make sure he was still breathing in his sleep. I just knew I had lived through something, but no one else seemed to see it.
This, I learned, is the unspoken trauma of co-survivorship: the aftershock that hits the partner, the parent, the child, the friend, the bystander. The one who couldn’t fall apart because everyone else needed their strength.
I also want to note that when women, in particular, name their pain, people get a little extra uncomfortable. As someone who advocates for co-survivors on a public platform, you can imagine I’ve gotten some fun messages.
Real comments I’ve gotten from real people online
To which I say: first of all, I feel sorry for the women in their lives.
Second of all, I wish I had never become one of the main characters in an adventure I didn’t choose. But I won’t be quiet about my experience, just because it makes some people uncomfortable. I keep speaking up because it helps so many more people understand their own similar experiences.
I wish I remembered more.
I wish I could share Kristin’s memories of my resuscitation. I want to feel how she felt when she was told at the hospital that I was an “end of life case” or when she was ushered into a waiting room with no cell signal or WiFi, cutting her off from the outside world when she badly needed support.
I wanted to share that burden. I want to take it from her and hold it for a while in my hippocampus or wherever the hell memories go, but I can’t. I don’t know much about memories, but I know they’re non-transferrable.
But even if our individual memories are stuck in our own heads, the trauma and the healing are collective.
So, we each share our experiences with each other to allow us to feel seen and understood in our most painful and beautiful moments. And we share them with the world so that others can feel seen and understood, too.
The truth is, Will’s trauma and mine are not in competition. They are companions – two parts of the same story.
Survival is not a solo act; it’s a ripple. It radiates out from the patient and changes everyone it touches. When someone nearly dies, there's more than one wound, more than one survivor, more than one story to tell.
Our stories are inherently braided together, and they should be treated as such.
So, I'll keep telling mine – not to center myself over him, but to honor all of us who are still learning to live with what we witnessed.
This is co-survivorship. And it deserves to be seen.
We've shared a lot about this story over the years in the hopes that it'll help someone else feel seen. Also – to encourage as many people as we can to get CPR/AED certified. Here are a few things to check out:
Back in 2023, paramedic and firefighter Lt. Aaron Gregg – who responded the night of Will's SCA – joined us to talk about how he helped us get through the experience.
Last year, we released this podcast reflecting on the 5th anniversary. We talk about what’s changed, what hasn’t, and how “the trauma anniversary” messes with your brain.
If either of these resonated with you, you hear more conversations about the most human parts of life in healthcare on our podcast.
Friends, family, and loved ones form an essential support system for co-survivors. Trust us, there are few things more meaningful than knowing people care. That they're ready to show up for you when you need it.
But sometimes, well-intentioned offers of support can place extra cognitive work on the co-survivor at a time when their brains are already under duress. Last month, Kristin dove into that experience – and how to offer help in a way that makes people feel *actually* seen and supported, without the overwhelm.
Did A Fantastic Human Share Glauc To Me With You?
Join us in promoting humanity and humor in healthcare by subscribing to our newsletter!
Our weekly edition, Grand Rounds, is a roundup of all things Glaucomflecken. We’ll send you fresh, engaging content that explores various healthcare topics, delivers valuable insights, and offers a dose of laughter along the way. We also share a monthly edition that dives deeper into compelling themes at the heart of healthcare – resilience, compassion, humor, empowerment, and education.
Does your business support humor or humanity in healthcare? Do you want to reach thousands of clinicians to grow your audience or customer base? Feature your brand in our newsletter.
Copyright (C) 2025 Glaucomflecken. All rights reserved. You are receiving this email because you opted in via our website. Want to change how you receive these emails? Update your preferences or Unsubscribe 600 1st Ave, Ste 330 PMB 92768, Seattle, WA 98104-2246
Hey there!
We're the Glaucomfleckens. Our mission is to promote humor and humanity in healthcare.
Subscribe to get weekly roundups of all things Glaucomflecken, monthly deep dives into the heart of healthcare, and diaphragmatic contraction resulting in forceful expulsion of air, also known as laughter.
