Code Blue
Life's meaning becomes clear in just one moment. A heartbeat, really.
CPR in real life is violent, frantic, and chaotic — a well-choreographed dance designed to save your life — not to look good on TV. It’s hard to watch.
Especially when it’s your mom.
I almost lost my mom last week. I was just outside the room when they called a Code Blue and hospital staff started CPR, trying to save her life. She could’ve died, and technically did for a few seconds because her heart rate and blood pressure dropped to zero.
A Code Blue means a patient in the hospital needs immediate lifesaving attention. Staff throughout the hospital are assigned each day to the code team. They drop everything, rushing to each bedside when called, ready to do what needs to be done.
Last Friday, it was my mom.
Thinking about losing a parent comes with a ton of swirling emotions. But they’re not the ones you expect. Everyone my age with an older parent thinks about how, at the end, it will be the last wishes, who to call, and where you put the final documents.
But death doesn’t wait for our careful planning. It comes when it wants, not when you’re ready.
I ran into the room, following the Code Blue team. Not really having a job, just…needing to be there. Through the haze in my eyes, all I could see was a crowd of people around a bed, privacy curtains ripped wide open, and the normally dimmed lights turned on brightly. Machines blinked and beeped as instructions were communicated in quick, sharp barks.
“Heart rate zero!” a man administering CPR yells. “Sharps coming in,” another responds. I look to each person shouting orders or asking for help. Trying, but failing to track what’s happening.
Like I said. Chaos.
From the periphery, all I could think was how tiny my mom looked. Her eyes closed, head to the side, I just wished someone would pull her gown back over her shoulder.
I saw one of the nurses turn and look at me. She whispered to another, “He’s family.” Then she saw my badge. “Oh my God, he works here.”
Yeah. I do work here — at Tucson Medical Center.
And in that split second, I thought about the moment I was hired in 2014. It was a life- and career-changing move, one I remember fretting over for days. I smile, remembering seeking Mom’s advice about the new job. Her advice to “not miss an opportunity” put me right here, eleven years later, in this room.
Life is full of moments — the ones we don’t recognize until they tap us on the shoulder and whisper, “Hey, this is one of those moments that you will remember for the rest of your life.”
One of my jobs at TMC is producing the hospital’s TV commercials. Back in 2018, we had a campaign planned that would feature happy patients dancing, ending with the tagline: “At TMC — We keep you moving.”
I’d asked my mom to be the “new knee” patient, as she was scheduled to have a knee replacement one month before the shoot. I thought it would be a fun way to celebrate her and share time together.
Then she had a heart attack, shaking her and our family to our very core. A scary moment, indeed.
But that moment felt like an echo — reaching back to 2014, to the one that put me right here, allowing me to be there for my mom.
“I can’t be in your TV commercial, Timba,” she said sadly, a few days after her heart attack. “My doctor says I have to wait at least a year for my heart to heal before I can get a knee replacement.”
Without missing a beat, I said, “Mom, you’re now our cardiac patient. We shoot in three weeks. See you there.”
Long story short — she was the star of the commercial.
It was her moment.
Dancing and talking about her care, it resonated with people. She became an advocate for women’s cardiac health, speaking to groups and appearing on TV talking about heart attack symptoms in women. She started support groups for other survivors and became a national representative for WomenHeart. She even wrote a book: My Heart Attack Saved My Life (But for What?), reflecting on how emotional recovery often comes from the heart itself.
It sold out.
In a delightful twist, I picked up a fun side job, too. I became my mom’s PR agent. Each season of the year became a chance to talk about heart health.
For February’s Heart Month, she’d ask, “Do you think you can get me on Channel 9’s morning show?” I smiled, “Of course, Mom.”
On Mother’s Day we’d have fun sending emails, encouraging people to gift her book to their moms, sisters and aunts.
When she’d plan a trip home, she’d ask, “What about that newspaper editor in Wichita?” I laughed, “Absolutely. Let’s call.”
So when I think about the panic I felt as my mom was surrounded by thirty-five people from the Code Blue team, I realize this moment didn’t just happen out of nowhere. It began in 2014 — the moment that allowed me to help her heal, to be part of her care, to be there.
As I pushed forward through the Code Blue team to her bedside, I knelt down and grabbed her left hand. Pulling her gown gently back over her shoulder, I shouted, “Mom! Mom! Susan!” Anything to get her to wake up.
Her eyes opened wide — startled, scared, and confused. Her head turned back and forth, taking in the room full of people.
“Timba,” she whispered. “What’s going on?”
“All my friends are here,” I said, trying to force a smile. But I choked back tears as I saw her in the bed. My mom. This tiny but resilient woman. The same lady who I told when I was seven that we’d be best friends forever.
“Your heart stopped, Mom,” I said softly. “They called a Code Blue. That’s why my friends are here — to save you,” I said, nodding to my TMC colleagues, friends, and staff in the room — forever ready to save a life. The same ones who, just moments ago, saved my mom’s.
I look back to her and as much as she could, she smiled. “That’s nice,” she said, and closed her eyes. I smiled too, eyes filled with tears. It is nice.
In the following days, I relived those chaotic moments in the hospital - crooked flashes of movement and noise, a blur of teal scrubs and urgency. The crowd around her bed - some faces I knew, others I didn’t. And through it all, I kept thinking how lucky I was to have been there.
That’s when it hit me — the real power of that moment in 2014 wasn’t about a job. It was the moment that put me there - in this room, beside my mom.
It was a moment that allowed me to be there.
A few of you have asked if these stories will be a book someday. Perhaps. But first, I’m going to ask my Mom for some advice.