There wasn’t much to do growing up in Albuquerque in the 1980s. We’d attend any concert just to see a live band. Music was everything to us. When I turned 21, I was studying at the University of New Mexico and could finally go to bars to see bands. It gave me a sense of freedom.
But there was little on offer, except country western and rock’n’roll, until a club called Beyond Ordinary opened, playing alternative music from Germany and the UK. When the Cure came on the scene, we were like, “Who is this?” The sound, the looks, the lyrics: it was all so different.
There in the club, listening to the Cure, I felt it was OK to be me. I was used to dressing quite smartly for work, but the Cure helped me embrace becoming a “romantic goth”, as my 23-year-old daughter Komal now calls me. It wasn’t pretty but it was big: the hair, the rosary beads and vacuum cleaner gasket bracelets, and the beat-up black cowboy boots.
I’ve been a huge fan of the Cure ever since. Seeing them live was on my bucket list. But every time they played near here, I was working or my kid was little. So I was overjoyed to discover they were coming to the Isleta, an amphitheatre near us, in May 2023.
It was a sunny day, the perfect evening, and our spot on the grass had a great view of the stage. I was excited about getting the merch. Then my friend Andrea texted to tell me to meet her at the gate, as I had her ticket. Apparently – I don’t remember this now – I went to find her and my heart simply stopped beating. I’d gone into sudden cardiac arrest. I lowered myself to the ground, and that was it, I was gone.
In 2000, I had discovered I had a leaky valve and damage on the left side of my heart. I was told to exercise, eat healthily and keep stress levels down. I had an irregular heartbeat, but no major problems. Certainly that day, there had been no indication anything bad was about to happen. But when it did, I was in the right place.
That night the Albuquerque homicide detectives’ team was working overtime as the concert security, as the police often do around here. Coincidentally, the day before, they’d been trained on their new automated external defibrillator device (AED), which helps people experiencing cardiac arrest.
When I collapsed, the officers couldn’t reach the medics, so one of them ran to get their AED while two took turns applying CPR on me. They shocked me twice to bring me round. I’d been clinically dead for 15 minutes.
Andrea saw the commotion and ran through the crowd to reach the officers attending to me. She was yelling, “She’s a pillar of the community, she’s got a daughter, you’ve got to save her!” Afterwards she told me, “You weren’t there. Your eyes were open, you had died.” The huge thing I’ve had to reconcile myself to is: where did I go in those 15 minutes?
I was rushed to hospital and came round. I have flashes of memory – a nurse’s embroidered cap, the smell of a surgeon’s hair. Apparently I asked for an “icy” – crushed ice with cherry juice – which I last drank at high school.
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I believe the Cure was my cure. If I hadn’t been at the concert, close to the gate with police who acted quickly to get the AED, I would not be here. I now call my rescuers my angels, and celebrate 16 May – what I describe as my second birthday – with them.
Recently, I noticed the charity Heart Research UK was selling three prints by Robert Smith. I bought them for my bedroom, and I’m helping the charity spread the message about the importance of accessible, well-maintained AEDs. I’m an artist and work with encaustic wax, and made a sculpture inspired by Robert’s hair, as a tribute. Naturally, what happened to me has affected my artwork: the colours I use got darker, but are slowly starting to lighten up again.
Everyone wants to know how my life has changed since. When I tell friends the overwhelming feeling I’ve had is “do no harm”, they say, “You don’t do any harm anyway!” I trust my conscience to lead me to not only continue to do no harm, but also help wherever I can. That’s a pretty good life to live.
As told to Lebby Eyres
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