My Kids Told Me to “Call an Uber” During My Heart Attack—Then Learned Their Father Was My Surgeon
The crushing pain in my chest hit at 3:47 AM like someone had placed a vice around my heart and was slowly tightening it with each labored breath I tried to take. I’d been an emergency room nurse for twenty-eight years before my own heart problems forced me into early retirement, so I knew the difference between anxiety and the real thing.
This was the real thing.
I lay in my bed for fifteen minutes hoping the pain would subside, that maybe I was wrong about what was happening to my body. But the crushing sensation only intensified, radiating down my left arm with a familiar pattern that made my blood run cold. When I tried to sit up, the room spun violently, and I could barely catch my breath.
At fifty-two, I was having a heart attack.
My hands shook as I reached for my phone on the nightstand, scrolling through contacts for my son Ethan’s number. The twins were thirty-six now, both successful in their careers, both living in expensive downtown apartments about twenty minutes from my modest suburban home. They’d been the center of my universe since the day I’d held them as newborns when I was barely seventeen years old and terrified about raising two babies completely alone.
“Ethan,” I managed to whisper when he answered on the fourth ring, his voice groggy and irritated. “Mom, do you have any idea what time it is? It’s almost four AM.”
“Ethan, I need you to drive me to the hospital. I’m having chest pain and I can barely breathe.”
“What?” I heard rustling in the background, probably him checking his phone for the time again.
“Mom, you’ve had anxiety attacks before. Remember last year when you thought you were having a stroke, but it was just stress?”
“This isn’t anxiety, sweetheart. This is different. I need to get to the emergency room right now.”
“Mom, I have a major presentation tomorrow morning. I mean, today morning. I’ve been preparing for this client meeting for weeks, and I can’t show up exhausted and unfocused.”
The pain in my chest intensified as I processed what my son was saying. His presentation was more important than his mother’s potential medical emergency.
“Ethan, please, I’m scared and I don’t think I should drive myself.”
“Look, Mom, just call an Uber. It’ll probably be faster than waiting for me to get dressed and drive over there anyway. And honestly, you know how you get worked up about health stuff sometimes.”
“An Uber?” I repeated, barely able to believe what I was hearing.
“Yeah, they run all night and you’ll get there quicker than if I have to come pick you up first. Text me when you get to the hospital, okay? But try to get some rest if it turns out to be nothing serious.”
The line went dead before I could respond.
I stared at my phone in disbelief. Had my son really just told me to take a rideshare to the hospital during what felt like a massive cardiac event?
My finger hovered over Isabella’s contact information. Bella had always been slightly more empathetic than her twin brother, though both of my children had grown increasingly distant since achieving financial success.
“Mom.” Bella’s voice was sharp with annoyance when she answered. “What’s wrong? It’s four AM.”
“Bella, I need you to take me to the hospital. I’m having severe chest pain and shortness of breath. I think I’m having a heart attack.”
“Oh, come on, Mom. Remember the last few times you thought you were having medical emergencies? It was always anxiety or acid reflux or something minor.”
“This feels different, sweetheart. The pain is radiating down my arm and I can barely stand up.”
“Have you tried taking some antacids? Sometimes what feels like chest pain is actually just stomach upset. You had that spicy Thai food yesterday, remember?”
I closed my eyes and tried to stay calm despite the mounting panic about both my physical condition and my children’s responses.
“Bella, I was a nurse for almost thirty years. I know the difference between heartburn and cardiac symptoms.”
“But you also know that stress can mimic heart attack symptoms and you’ve been anxious about everything lately. Look, I have a huge product launch meeting first thing tomorrow and I literally cannot afford to be running on no sleep.”
“So you want me to drive myself to the hospital?”
“God, no. Don’t drive if you’re feeling dizzy. Just call an Uber or a cab. They’ll get you there safely, and then you can text me when you find out it’s nothing serious.”
She hung up before I could argue further.
I sat on the edge of my bed, phone in my trembling hands, trying to process what had just happened. Both of my children—the two human beings I’d sacrificed everything for, worked double shifts to support, stayed up all night nursing through childhood illnesses—had just told me to take an Uber to the hospital during what might be a life-threatening medical emergency.
The crushing chest pain was getting worse, and I was starting to feel nauseated and lightheaded. Every instinct I’d developed as an emergency room nurse told me that I was experiencing a major cardiac event that required immediate medical intervention.
I opened the Uber app with shaking fingers and requested a ride to St. Mary’s Hospital, the same emergency room where I’d worked for over two decades. The estimated arrival time was eight minutes, which felt like an eternity when every breath was a struggle.
As I waited, I thought about all the times I’d dropped everything to rush to my children’s sides when they needed me. Ethan’s broken arm when he was twelve—I’d left work in the middle of my shift to be with him. Bella’s appendicitis at fifteen—I’d spent three days sleeping in an uncomfortable hospital chair to make sure she wasn’t alone during her recovery.
But now, when their mother was potentially dying, they couldn’t be bothered to miss a few hours of sleep before their important work meetings.
The Uber driver was a kind Pakistani man named Ahmad, who helped me into his car and drove carefully but quickly to the hospital, asking if I needed him to call anyone or stay with me until I was admitted.
“My children know I’m coming,” I told him, which was technically true, even though neither of them planned to join me.
Ahmad insisted on helping me into the emergency room and wouldn’t accept payment for the ride. “My mother is same age as you,” he said gently. “I hope someone helps her if she needs hospital and I cannot be there.”
I checked in at the emergency desk where I recognized several nurses from my years working there. The triage nurse immediately noted my symptoms and vital signs, and within ten minutes I was in an examination room having an EKG performed.
That’s when I saw the name on the cardiologist’s coat who walked into my room. And my world shifted in a way that had nothing to do with my cardiac emergency.
Dr. Colin Matthews.
The same Colin Matthews who’d gotten me pregnant when we were both sixteen years old. The same Colin Matthews who’d disappeared from my life when his wealthy doctor parents forced him to choose between me and his future medical career. The same Colin Matthews I’d loved desperately and had spent thirty-six years trying to forget.
The father of my children who had no idea that the scared teenager he’d abandoned had given birth to twins who’d just refused to help their mother during the most terrifying night of her life.
Colin stood frozen in the doorway of my examination room for what felt like an eternity, his medical chart falling from suddenly nerveless fingers as recognition dawned across features that had matured from the boyish face I’d loved at sixteen into the distinguished countenance of a successful cardiologist.
“Victoria.” His voice was barely a whisper, filled with disbelief and something that sounded almost like relief. “Victoria Ashworth.”
“Hello, Colin,” I managed to keep my voice steady despite the chaos of emotions competing with the physical pain still crushing my chest. “I go by Tori now.”
He moved closer to my hospital bed with cautious steps. His eyes—still the same warm brown that had once made my teenage heart flutter—searched my face with an intensity that made me acutely aware of how much thirty-six years had changed both of us.
“I’ve been looking for you,” he said quietly, pulling up the chair beside my bed. “For over three decades, I’ve been trying to find you.”
“Have you? Well, you found me, though I assume you’re here in a professional capacity rather than as part of some long-term search effort.”
“Tori, you’re having a heart attack.” His voice shifted into clinical mode, though his eyes remained fixed on my face with unmistakable emotion. “The EKG shows significant ST elevation, which means we need to get you into surgery immediately.”
“I know what ST elevation means, Colin. I was an emergency room nurse for twenty-eight years.”
“You became a nurse.” A small smile crossed his face despite the medical crisis. “You always said you wanted to help people who were hurt.”
“Yes. Well, I learned early that some people don’t have anyone else to help them.”
The pointed reference to my situation thirty-six years ago made him flinch, but before he could respond, another cardiologist entered the room.
“Dr. Matthews, the surgical team is ready for your MI patient. We need to move quickly on this one.”
“Dr. Peterson, I need you to take over this case,” Colin said without taking his eyes off me. “I have a personal connection to this patient that creates a conflict of interest.”
“Colin, there’s no time for case transfers,” I interrupted, my chest pain intensifying. “You’re the best cardiologist in this hospital, and I need the best right now.”
“Tori, I can’t operate on you. The emotional stakes are too high.”
“The emotional stakes were high thirty-six years ago too,” I said, forcing the words out through the pressure in my chest. “But that didn’t stop you from making practical decisions then.”
He winced, and I could see him weighing medical necessity against personal complications.
“She’s right,” Dr. Peterson interjected. “Dr. Matthews, you’re the most experienced surgeon available, and this patient needs intervention within the next twenty minutes, or she could suffer irreversible cardiac damage.”
As they prepared to wheel me into surgery, Colin leaned close to my ear. “Tori, I need to ask you something. Do you have children? Is there family I should contact about your surgery?”
I looked into his eyes—the eyes that had passed genetically to both Ethan and Isabella—and made a decision that would change all of our lives irrevocably.
“I have twins,” I said. “Ethan and Isabella Ashworth. They’re thirty-six years old.”
Colin’s face went completely white as he processed the mathematics.
“They’re your children, Colin,” I said quietly. “The babies I was carrying when you left for medical school in the UK.”
I watched a man who’d spent decades performing life-saving surgery under intense pressure completely fall apart emotionally as he realized that the teenage girlfriend he’d abandoned had been pregnant with his children.
“I have children.” His voice cracked with a mixture of joy and devastation. “I have thirty-six-year-old children that I’ve never met.”
“You have children who’ve spent their entire lives wondering why their father never cared enough to find them.”
“Tori, I didn’t know. I swear to God, I didn’t know you were pregnant.”
“I tried to tell you. I called your house dozens of times, but your parents said you’d made it clear you didn’t want any contact with me.”
“That’s not true. I never said that. My parents told me you’d moved on and didn’t want to see me anymore.”
“Where are they?” Colin asked urgently. “Where are Ethan and Isabella? Are they here?”
“No, they’re not here.”
“Why aren’t they here? Don’t they know you’re having a heart attack?”
“They know,” I said, the words tasting bitter. “They told me to take an Uber because they have important work meetings in the morning.”
I watched Colin’s face cycle through shock, disbelief, and anger as he processed what I’d revealed about our children’s response to my medical emergency.
“They told you to take an Uber to the hospital during a heart attack because they had work meetings.”
“Apparently, their professional obligations take precedence over their mother’s potential death.”
As they wheeled me toward the operating room, Colin’s voice followed me: “You’re not going to die, Tori. I’m not going to lose you again.”
I woke up six hours later in the cardiac intensive care unit. Colin sat beside my bed, looking like he hadn’t slept in days.
“How bad was it?” I asked, my throat dry from the breathing tube.
“Bad enough,” he said. “You had what we call a widow-maker heart attack—a complete blockage of your left anterior descending artery. If you’d waited much longer to get medical attention, you’d be dead.”
“Colin, have you called them yet? Ethan and Isabella.”
“I wanted to wait until after your surgery when I could tell them you were stable.”
“What exactly are you planning to tell them?”
“The truth. That their mother had a massive heart attack, that she almost died because they refused to bring her to the hospital, and that I’m their father.”
“You’re going to drop all of that information on them in one phone call?”
I closed my eyes, trying to imagine how my children would react. “They’re going to be devastated about not being here.”
“Good,” Colin said. “They should be devastated. They’re not bad people, but they’ve become self-absorbed as they’ve gotten more successful.”
Colin dialed Ethan’s number at 11:30 AM, giving my children plenty of time to wake up, attend their important morning meetings, and settle into their normal Tuesday routine before discovering that their mother had nearly died while they slept.
“Mr. Ashworth, this is Dr. Colin Matthews at St. Mary’s Hospital. I’m calling about your mother, Victoria Ashworth.”
Even from my bed, I could hear Ethan’s voice rise in alarm. “Is everything all right? I was planning to call her later today to check on how she was feeling.”
“Mr. Ashworth, your mother had a massive heart attack early this morning. She underwent emergency cardiac surgery and is currently stable in our intensive care unit.”
The silence stretched for nearly thirty seconds. “A heart attack? But she called me this morning about chest pain. And I thought she was having anxiety issues like she’s had before.”
“You thought what, Mr. Ashworth?” Colin asked, his tone controlled but sharp.
“I thought she was having anxiety issues. She said she needed me to drive her to the hospital, but I told her to call an Uber because I had a presentation this morning.”
“You told your mother to take a rideshare service to the hospital during a cardiac emergency.”
“I didn’t know it was a cardiac emergency,” Ethan insisted. “She’s had false alarms before, and I had this huge client meeting that I’ve been preparing for weeks.”
“Mr. Ashworth, your mother arrived at our emergency room alone at 4:15 AM. She was having a complete blockage of her left anterior descending artery. If she had waited even another hour for treatment, she would have died.”
I could hear Ethan’s breathing becoming rapid and shallow. “Oh God. Oh my God. Is she going to be okay?”
“She’s stable now, but she’s been asking for you and your sister. I’m concerned that neither of her children has come to the hospital during the ten hours since her surgery.”
“Ten hours?” Ethan repeated, stunned. “She’s been there for ten hours?”
“Yes, Mr. Ashworth. Where are you currently?”
“I’m at work. I just finished my presentation.”
Colin’s voice remained professional but carried an edge that made it clear what he thought of Ethan’s priorities.
“Mr. Ashworth, when was the last time you spent extended time with your mother? Not a phone call. Actual in-person time together.”
“We had dinner with her around Thanksgiving. Maybe a little before that.”
“That was four months ago. Mr. Ashworth, your mother was an emergency room nurse for twenty-eight years. She has more medical training than most people to distinguish between anxiety and cardiac symptoms. Did you consider that when you dismissed her concerns?”
“She was a nurse?” Ethan blurted, shock breaking through. “I mean, yes, I knew she worked in healthcare, but I didn’t realize…”
Colin turned toward me, his expression a mix of disbelief and heartbreak. My son didn’t even know I was a nurse.
The call ended with Ethan promising to come immediately. Colin’s phone rang almost right away—Ethan calling back.
“Dr. Matthews, I just spoke to my sister Bella, and she’s leaving work now too. We should both be at the hospital within thirty minutes.”
Twenty-eight minutes later, Ethan and Isabella arrived, and I could hear their voices in the hallway—sharp, anxious tones mixed with sibling arguments about blame and responsibility.
“This is your fault, Ethan,” Bella was saying. “You’re older. You should have insisted we take her seriously.”
“My fault? You told her to try antacids and blamed her Thai food. Don’t put this all on me.”
“Both of you need to stop arguing about fault and focus on supporting your mother,” Colin’s voice cut through their bickering with authority.
They entered my room looking like polished professionals suddenly thrust into an emotional situation they hadn’t prepared for. Ethan wore his expensive charcoal suit from his morning presentation, while Bella had clearly rushed from work in her designer dress.
“Mom!” Bella’s voice cracked when she saw me connected to monitors and IV lines. “Oh my God, Mom, we’re so sorry.”
“How are you feeling?” Ethan asked quietly, his usual confidence replaced by obvious guilt.
“Like I’ve been reminded that I’m mortal,” I replied. “And like I’ve learned some interesting things about my family’s priorities.”
“Mom, we feel terrible about not bringing you to the hospital,” Bella said, reaching for my hand. “We honestly thought you were having anxiety symptoms.”
“Based on what evidence?” I asked.
Bella and Ethan exchanged glances, apparently unable to cite specific instances of their mother expressing hypochondriac concerns.
“We just assumed,” Ethan began.
“You assumed wrong,” Colin interrupted, his voice carrying an edge of anger that made both my children look at him with surprise. “Your mother is a trained emergency room nurse with twenty-eight years of experience. She knows the difference between anxiety and cardiac symptoms.”
“Dr. Matthews,” Bella said carefully, “we appreciate your medical care for our mother, but we’re trying to have a family conversation.”
“This is a family conversation, Miss Ashworth,” Colin replied. “I’m concerned about the level of support your mother will receive during her recovery.”
“What exactly have you observed?” Ethan demanded, his defensive tone suggesting he didn’t appreciate being criticized by a stranger.
“I’ve observed that neither of you knew your mother was an emergency room nurse for nearly three decades,” Colin said. “I’ve observed that you told her to take a rideshare to the hospital during what she clearly described as cardiac symptoms.”
“Dr. Matthews,” Ethan said, his voice rising, “you don’t know our family situation well enough to make judgments about our relationships.”
“Don’t I?” Colin said quietly.
Something in Colin’s tone made both my children stop arguing and look at him more carefully.
“What does that mean?” Bella asked.
“It means that I’ve been observing your family dynamics for longer than you might think.”
“Dr. Matthews,” I said carefully, “perhaps we should focus on my medical recovery plan.”
“Should we, Tori?” he replied, using my name with a familiarity that made both Ethan and Bella look between us with confusion. “Should we focus on medical treatment while ignoring the emotional factors that significantly impact cardiac recovery outcomes?”
“Dr. Matthews, how do you know our mother well enough to use her nickname?” Ethan asked slowly.
Colin looked at me silently, asking for permission. I nodded slowly.
“I know your mother because I’ve known her for thirty-seven years. Since we were both sixteen years old.”
“Your mother and I were close when we were teenagers,” Colin said. “Very close.”
I watched my children’s faces as they began to process the implications.
“How close?” Ethan asked, though his expression suggested he was already beginning to understand.
“Close enough that when I left for medical school in the UK, I had no idea she was pregnant with twins.”
The silence in the room was deafening. Bella sank into the chair beside my bed, her face completely white, while Ethan gripped the foot rail of my hospital bed.
“You’re saying you’re our father,” Bella whispered.
“I’m saying I’m the boy who loved your mother desperately and was forced by my parents to choose between her and my medical education. I chose medical school, not knowing that decision meant abandoning two children I didn’t know existed.”
“You didn’t know Mom was pregnant?” Bella whispered.
“I didn’t know. My parents convinced me that your mother had moved on and didn’t want contact with me.”
“So you’re our father,” Bella said, voice trembling, “and you just saved our mother’s life while we told her to take a rideshare to the hospital.”
“That’s correct.”
Ethan looked at me with devastation that encompassed both guilt about his recent behavior and shock about his father’s identity.
“Mom, why didn’t you ever tell us he was looking for us?”
“Because I didn’t know he was looking for us. I thought he’d made his choice and moved on with his life.”
“I never moved on,” Colin said quietly. “I’ve spent thirty-six years wondering about the children I lost and the woman I loved.”
“Still love,” Colin corrected. “Still wonder about every day.”
Over the following days, my hospital room became an unlikely family headquarters where decades of separation and years of emotional dysfunction were slowly and painfully addressed. Colin arranged his schedule to spend maximum time overseeing my recovery, while Ethan and Bella both took time off work for the first time in years.
“I’ve never taken a personal day for a family situation,” Bella admitted. “I always thought family emergencies happened to other people with less organized lives.”
Ethan sat reading cardiac rehabilitation information with the intensity he usually reserved for legal briefs. “Mom, did you know that family support is one of the strongest predictors of recovery success after heart surgery?”
“I was an ER nurse for twenty-eight years, sweetheart. I’m familiar with recovery statistics.”
“But you didn’t tell us that our support would impact your medical outcomes.”
“Would it have mattered if I had?”
He was quiet before answering. “Honestly, probably not. I would have assumed you were being dramatic about needing help.”
“Ethan, I’ve been managing fine on my own because I learned not to expect help, not because I didn’t want or need family support.”
Over the weeks that followed, my children began to understand the difference between loving someone and actually valuing their presence in daily life. They learned to show up not out of guilt or obligation, but because they genuinely wanted to spend time with me.
Colin and I slowly rebuilt what we’d lost thirty-six years ago, discovering that the love we’d shared as teenagers had matured into something deeper and more meaningful.
Six months later, I was standing in the kitchen of the house Colin and I had just purchased together, our first shared home in thirty-seven years. Bella was helping me unpack while Ethan assembled bar stools, both of them having learned to prioritize family connection over professional convenience.
“Mom, this kitchen is incredible,” Bella said. “The island is perfect for family dinners.”
“That was the idea. Your father and I wanted space for the whole family to gather comfortably.”
“What’s been the biggest adjustment so far?” Bella asked.
“Learning to make decisions together instead of independently,” I replied. “For thirty-six years, I made every choice by myself. Now I have someone who wants to be consulted and included.”
Colin entered from the garage, looking tired but satisfied. “That’s everything from your old house, Tori. How are you feeling about leaving the place where you raised the kids?”
“Ready,” I said. “That house held a lot of memories, but most of them involved managing everything alone. I’m looking forward to building memories that involve partnership and family connection.”
Two years later, I was no longer Tori Ashworth, the abandoned single mother whose children treated her welfare as secondary to their professional obligations. I was Tori Matthews, married to a man who demonstrated that authentic love means showing up consistently, mother to children who’d learned that meaningful relationships require prioritizing presence over convenience.
The heart attack that almost killed me had actually saved our family by revealing that love without presence is just a beautiful theory, while presence with love creates the kind of authentic connection that makes life worth living.
Some medical emergencies destroy families by revealing insurmountable dysfunction. Mine rebuilt our family by forcing all of us to confront the difference between loving someone and actually valuing their presence in our daily lives.
And every evening when Colin came home from the hospital and my children called because they genuinely wanted to hear about my day rather than because they felt obligated to maintain contact, I felt grateful that nearly dying had taught all of us how to actually live together as people who chose each other repeatedly rather than simply endured each other out of biological obligation.
Sophia Rivers is an experienced News Content Editor with a sharp eye for detail and a passion for delivering accurate and engaging news stories. At TheArchivists, she specializes in curating, editing, and presenting news content that informs and resonates with a global audience.
Sophia holds a degree in Journalism from the University of Toronto, where she developed her skills in news reporting, media ethics, and digital journalism. Her expertise lies in identifying key stories, crafting compelling narratives, and ensuring journalistic integrity in every piece she edits.
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