The Day I lived Again

On Friday, September 28, 2024, at 2:35 PM, I walked into the Emergency Department of Markham Stouffville Hospital in a state of sheer distress. I wasn’t there for reassurance or routine care. I was there because something felt catastrophically wrong.

The pain was overwhelming — sharp and constricting in my chest and back, shooting down both arms, coupled with nausea that wouldn’t relent. I was hunched over, barely able to stand, visibly struggling. Every instinct in my body screamed that I was in serious danger.

But what happened next was not triage. It was dismissal.

At the triage desk, I tried to articulate my symptoms — the pain, the fear, the sense that something was terribly off. A fellow patient standing in triage as well, seeing the state I was in, even pleaded with the triage nurse to prioritize me. But instead of concern, the nurse met me with detachment.

“You’re just panicking,” she said flatly. “I won’t talk to you until you calm down.”

I was stunned. I tried again — more urgently this time — to describe what I was feeling. But she wouldn't listen. My friend and that day a real estate client, who had just parked the car and rushed in to help, stepped in. She had known me professionally for years as we had together in the corporate world. As fate would have it, we were in search of a house for her family when my symptoms came on. She knew how composed I typically was, even under pressure. “She’s not like this,” she said. “This is completely out of character for Kim.”

Still, the nurse brushed it off. “I’ve been doing this job for 20 years,” she snapped. “It’s just a panic attack.”

Two decades of experience, yet she couldn’t see what was unfolding before her. Or worse, she saw it and chose to ignore it.

I sat — or rather, collapsed — in the waiting area for two excruciating hours. The pain intensified. I remember clutching my chest and thinking: This can’t be how it ends. They took my vitals, ran a quick ECG, hooked me up to monitors — all the motions of routine — but there was no urgency, no action.

It wasn’t until an ER physician finally reviewed my case that everything shifted. Her face changed the moment she saw my chart and the monitor readings. Without hesitation, she ordered....yelled for me to be moved to the trauma area — the “blue room.” Within minutes, I was surrounded by a team, alarms blaring, wires flying.

And then everything went black.

I would later learn I went into cardiac arrest. Not once, but multiple times. I flatlined in the ER. I awoke to the pain of paddles jolting me back. Again while waiting for ambulance transfer to Southlake Regional Health Centre I had another heart attack.

I’m alive because of the ER physician who finally saw me — and because of the paramedics and surgeons who acted fast. Their skill and speed saved my life. But I can’t stop thinking about what could’ve happened — what nearly did happen — because someone decided I was “just panicking.”

Rushed to Southlake via ambulance and sirens blazing I had 2 more heart attacks. Waking to chest compressions was shocking and very painful..but I lived.

I’m still recovering — physically, emotionally, spiritually. And I’m still haunted by one truth: I almost died in a hospital waiting room, not because help wasn’t available — but because someone chose not to believe me.

Chapter 2: I Was Not Supposed to Be the Patient

I’ve always been the reliable one. The professional. The problem-solver. I’ve made a career out of staying calm in high-stress situations — managing crises, making hard decisions, holding space for others. I wasn’t the kind of person who panicked. I was the one people called when they were panicking.

So when the triage nurse told me I was having an anxiety attack, I wanted to laugh — or maybe scream. But I didn’t have the breath for either.

To be dismissed so casually, so confidently — it shook me. Not just because of the physical pain I was in, but because I realized, in that moment, that none of the things I thought protected me — my professionalism, my composure, even my ability to advocate for myself — mattered.

I wasn’t being seen. I wasn’t being heard. I was being labeled.

And that label — “panicking woman” — nearly cost me my life.

I’ve thought a lot about that moment, about what the nurse didn’t see. She didn’t see the years I’ve spent building a career, leading teams, mentoring others. She didn’t see the pressure I’ve managed, or the trauma I’ve endured and overcome. She didn’t see my resilience.

She saw a woman, in pain, in distress — and she made a decision. One that, consciously or not, was rooted in bias.

There’s a strange thing that happens when you are a capable woman. People assume your strength is endless — until the moment you show vulnerability. Then suddenly, you’re “too emotional,” “too dramatic,” “too fragile.” The switch flips without warning.

Before my heart failed, I had no known heart condition. No major warning signs. I didn’t “look like” a typical cardiac patient. But here’s the thing: heart disease in women often presents differently than in men. The symptoms can be subtle, varied — and all too easily dismissed.

Especially if you're a woman. Especially if you dare to express pain.

Chapter 3: This Is Not Just My Story

After I was discharged — weak, shaken, and now living with a stent and a page of instructions and pills — I began to process what had happened. Not just the cardiac arrests. Not just the trauma of being defibrillated and resuscitated. But the truth that stayed with me even more stubbornly than the physical pain:

I was almost killed by a system that decided I didn’t look like an emergency.

At first, I thought it was just me. A single bad interaction. One nurse having a bad day. But the more I read, the more I talked, the more I listened — I realized this wasn’t an isolated incident. This was a pattern.

It turns out, women are far more likely than men to be misdiagnosed in emergency settings — especially when it comes to cardiac events. Our symptoms are often categorized as stress, anxiety, fatigue, or indigestion. Many women — far too many — have died in ER waiting rooms, not from lack of technology or expertise, but from not being believed.

And it’s not just gender. It’s race. It’s disability. It’s body type. It’s age. It’s anyone who doesn’t fit the textbook image of a “typical” patient.

We don’t talk enough about how bias operates in medical spaces. It’s not always cruel or intentional. Sometimes it’s quiet, unconscious, procedural — and that’s what makes it so dangerous. Because when bias is built into triage protocols, into training, into assumptions, people die.

Different details. Same result: they weren’t believed until it was too late.

It made me wonder — what would’ve happened if I hadn’t been triaged by that nurse? What if someone else had looked at me — really looked — and decided to listen instead of label?

The truth is: I got lucky. And that sentence should never apply to someone walking into a hospital in full-blown cardiac distress.

Chapter 4: Surviving Was Just the Beginning

The body heals in measurable ways — heart rhythms stabilize, scars fade, pain softens — but the mind, the spirit… they follow no such timeline.

After I was discharged, people kept telling me how “lucky” I was. Lucky to be alive. Lucky the ER doctor saw me when she did. Lucky that the paramedics were fast. Lucky that the surgery worked.

And yes — I’m grateful. Deeply. But I wasn’t lucky. I was failed. I was harmed — by a delay that should never have happened. And even now, as I take medication, go to follow-up appointments, and track my heartbeat like it’s the stock market, I still carry a more dangerous wound: mistrust.

I used to believe that hospitals were safe. That symptoms were taken seriously. That if you showed up in medical distress, someone would help you.

Now? I hesitate. I question. I doubt.

When I walk into a clinic, I rehearse my words before I speak. I fight the urge to cry, because I know that crying makes people stop listening. I avoid saying the word “anxiety,” even when I’m feeling it, because I’ve seen how quickly it gets weaponized.

I watch how providers look at me. I read their faces. I wonder if they’re judging me before I’ve finished describing what I’m feeling. I scan for signs that I’m being written off — again.

No one tells you that surviving a medical crisis means learning how to live with fear. Fear of being ignored again. Fear of something being missed again. Fear that next time, you won’t be so “lucky.”

And there’s something else: rage.

A quiet, burning rage that rises whenever I think about how preventable all of this was. Rage that my pain had to reach the brink of death before anyone took it seriously. Rage that people are still dying — being misdiagnosed, dismissed, disrespected — because of the same biases that almost killed me.

I used to trust the system. Now, I question everything.

But I’m also learning how to take back power — slowly, painfully, but intentionally. I ask harder questions. I document everything. I speak up, even when my voice shakes. I share my story, because silence protects the system, not the patient.

And perhaps most importantly: I’ve stopped apologizing for taking up space in the exam room, in the ER, in my own recovery.

Because I deserve to be believed the first time. Not after the arrest. Not after the trauma. Not after I almost didn’t make it.

Chapter 5: The Advocacy I Never Asked For

I didn’t set out to become an advocate. I didn’t survive a medical crisis thinking, Now I need to tell my story. I just wanted to heal. Quietly. Privately. I wanted my heart to stabilize and my body to stop shaking every time I walked into a doctor’s office.

But the silence started to feel heavier than the trauma itself.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that waiting room. I heard that nurse’s voice. I felt my own — unheard, ignored — rattling in my throat. I thought about how close I came to dying, not from disease, but from dismissal. I kept wondering: What if I hadn’t pushed? What if my friend hadn’t spoken up? What if the ER doctor had been too late?

And the more I asked myself those questions, the more I knew I couldn’t keep them to myself. Because if I — someone educated, assertive, used to advocating for others — almost didn’t make it, what chance does someone have who’s less able to speak, to insist, to be heard?

It wasn’t just my story anymore. It was everyone’s story who had been brushed off, misdiagnosed, or sent home when they should have been admitted.

So I started writing — first to the hospital, then to governing bodies, then to anyone who would listen. Not to place blame, but to demand accountability. To demand better. I asked for an investigation. I asked for answers. I asked for change.

And in doing so, I realized something no one tells you about trauma: Sometimes the only way to reclaim your voice is to use it for others.

I also started hearing stories. From friends. From colleagues. So many of them began the same way:

“I don’t usually talk about this, but something similar happened to me…”

It turns out there are thousands of voices like mine. We’ve just been whispering them in shame or fear, believing we were the exception instead of the evidence of a pattern.

That’s the thing about advocacy: you don’t wake up one day and choose it. It chooses you when staying silent feels more dangerous than speaking up.

I don’t know where this will lead. I’m not a lawyer or a politician or a medical expert. I’m just someone who nearly died in a place that was supposed to keep me alive — and I don’t want that to happen to anyone else.

So I’m speaking. Loudly. Repeatedly. Even when it’s uncomfortable. Especially when it’s uncomfortable.

Because if one nurse, one doctor, one hospital — or one patient — sees this and pauses long enough to question their assumptions, then this pain might mean something.

Then maybe the next woman in that waiting room won’t have to fight as hard to be believed.

Chapter 6: What the System Said Back

After sending my formal report to Markham Stouffville Hospital, I braced myself for a response. I expected acknowledgment. I expected concern. I expected a commitment to investigate the failure that nearly cost me my life.

What I received was a carefully worded letter. Polite. Professional. But vague.

The hospital expressed regret for my experience and assured me that patient safety was their top priority. They promised a review of the incident and said my concerns would be taken seriously.

But beyond the words, the silence was deafening.

The investigation process was opaque. I was given no timeline, no details about the triage nurse’s review, no updates on systemic changes. I asked follow-up questions, and the responses were slow and minimal.

It felt like I was caught in a cycle many patients before me have described — the feeling that the system protects itself more than it protects those it serves.

I started to read up on hospital complaint procedures and learned that most investigations are confidential and internal. Often, results aren’t shared with the patient. The person you complain about may never face consequences. The culture of “not rocking the boat” can make accountability rare.

That wasn’t just frustrating — it was disheartening.

If the system won’t fix itself fast enough, then I will use my voice to demand change.

Because behind every “case” or “incident report” is a person. A life. A family.

And no one should be dismissed when they’re fighting to live.

Chapter 7: What Needs to Change

My story is not unique. It’s a symptom of a system that’s too often built on assumptions, stereotypes, and rushed judgments. If there’s one thing I want readers to understand, it’s this:

Change is not optional. It is urgent.

Hospitals and emergency departments exist to save lives, but all too often, they fail because of human bias and outdated protocols. To truly honor every patient’s pain and every heartbeat, several critical changes must happen.

1. Training that Confronts Bias Head-On Medical staff need ongoing education about implicit bias — especially related to gender, race, age, and mental health. The idea that a woman’s pain is “just anxiety” must be challenged and dismantled. Real stories, like mine, need to be part of that curriculum.

2. Improved Triage Protocols Triage systems must integrate more nuanced assessments that recognize how symptoms vary across populations. Standardized checklists should be flexible enough to catch “atypical” presentations, especially in women and marginalized groups.

3. Transparency and Accountability Hospitals must be more transparent with patients when mistakes happen. Investigations should be timely, thorough, and shared with those affected. Staff responsible for neglect should face appropriate consequences — not hidden behind bureaucratic walls.

4. Patient Advocacy and Support Patients need better support systems to navigate emergencies. This includes training staff to listen empathetically, empowering patients and their families to speak up, and offering advocates who can intervene when patients are dismissed.

5. Research and Data Collection We must invest in research that studies how different bodies experience illness, particularly heart disease in women. Better data will lead to better guidelines — and save lives.

This list is just a start — but it’s a start grounded in real experience and real loss.

I don’t have all the answers. But I have the scars and the stories that demand we do better.

The day I was almost lost was a wake-up call — not just for me, but for every patient who has ever been ignored.

If healthcare is to be truly healing, it must first be truly listening.

Because every patient deserves to be believed. Every symptom deserves attention. Every life deserves a fighting chance.

And that fight begins with change.

Epilogue: A Call Beyond My Story

This book began as my story — a deeply personal journey through pain, dismissal, and survival. But it has grown into something larger. It has become a call.

A call to listen better. To believe more readily. To act faster.

Because behind every statistic is a person. Behind every delay is a heartbeat waiting to be heard.

I survived because of moments of kindness, skill, and courage — from the ER physician, from paramedics, from my friend who spoke up when I couldn’t. But I also survived despite a system that almost failed me.

That failure is not just mine to bear. It belongs to all of us.

If you are a patient, I urge you to trust your instincts and demand the care you deserve. If you are a healthcare provider, I ask you to remember the human behind the symptoms, to question assumptions, and to fight bias every day.

And if you are someone who cares — a family member, a friend, a policymaker, an advocate — I invite you to join this movement. Because meaningful change requires all of us.

This story does not end here. It is the beginning of many voices rising together.

For every person who has been dismissed, for every life nearly lost, and for every heartbeat that deserves to be heard — let this be our legacy.

To listen. To believe. To save.