Aaron (one of my nephews), one of the puppies and I pose outside the dining room at the old home - (Photo by Ian or Tatum Paterson)

Life is truly a beautiful gift bestowed upon us by God. Every day is a chance to smell the flowers, hug a loved one, write a poem, or try something new. However, it is easy to become trapped in the mundane routines of daily life and forget that. In those moments, we are often given a humbling reminder that we are mortal and only here for a short time, and as such, we should make every moment count.

May 14, 2017, was a very special day — Mother’s Day. For me, it started like any other, with a few exceptions. At the time, I was managing the Control Room for the security company I worked for. Around 6 a.m., I received a call from my night shift controller informing me that the employee meant to relieve him for the day shift had not arrived, and handover was scheduled for 6.

As any manager knows, that usually means you are suddenly in the driver’s seat until you can find a replacement — which, on a holiday, can feel like trying to find a penguin in a sandstorm.

It wasn’t too big a deal. Mum would be at church for the morning and already had lunch plans afterward. I was living with her at the time and knew I would see her later in the day. Hurriedly getting ready, I arrived at the office within the hour. I figured I could catch up on some paperwork and check whether any systems required maintenance so I could arrange the technician’s schedule for the upcoming week.

Like always, minutes turned into hours. At one point, the night shift controller returned — three hours early for his shift. He thanked me profusely and said he appreciated me coming in on my day off to relieve him. I was grateful that I still had most of the day ahead of me.

Once I got home, I spent some time with my puppies and set up Mum’s gift on the dining room table so she would see it as soon as she walked in. After that, the pups and I settled into our normal Sunday afternoon routine — a nap. We curled up together and drifted off to sleep.

Not long afterward, I woke up with a pain in my neck. Thinking I must have slept awkwardly, I tried massaging it, but it did not help. I lay back down and tried to sleep again, but I couldn’t.

About an hour later, Mum got home, and I could hear the joy in her voice when she saw the flowers. I came out to greet her and mentioned that my neck was sore, but assured her I was fine.

As fate would have it, she happened to be with a family member who was a paramedic. Calmly and quietly, they told Mum that I needed to get to a hospital immediately because I was having a heart attack.

I laughed.

Sure, I smoked, but I trained regularly, was in decent shape, and lived an active lifestyle. Mothers being what they are naturally begin to worry, so I reassured her that I had probably just slept funny and that maybe a hot shower would loosen the muscles.

Two hours later, after much arguing, I finally conceded and agreed to go to the hospital — if only to prove everyone was worried over nothing. They decided to take me to Kingsway Hospital in Amanzimtoti, about twenty minutes away.

When we arrived, Mum explained my symptoms to the attending nurse, who immediately began checking my vitals. She said something quietly to Mum before injecting medication into my abdomen. Then, very calmly, she looked at me and said:

“Mr. Rajoo, you are having a massive heart attack. I have administered a strong anticoagulant which should help remove the occlusion, but we have an ambulance en route to transfer you to Westville Hospital, as they are better equipped.”

I furrowed my brow and replied sheepishly, “No I’m not.”

“Yes, sir, you are,” she said firmly but compassionately. “And you need immediate medical attention.”

Before she had even finished speaking, the paramedics arrived. Within minutes, I was in the ambulance racing toward the hospital.

I tried to process what was happening, but mostly I was in shock. I remember wondering, “Is this how it ends?”

That night there was an intense thunderstorm. Blinding flashes of lightning illuminated the sky with every strike, almost as though the world itself was saying, “Hold on, son. This isn’t the end of your story.”

What felt like mere minutes probably took much longer, but everyone moved with unbelievable urgency. By the time we arrived at the hospital, they were already expecting me and attended to me immediately.

That is when I passed out.

I do not remember much of the next hour. When I finally woke up, I was lying in a hospital bed wearing a gown, connected to an IV, trying to piece together the events that had led me there.

Standing beside me was my big sister, tears filling her eyes. The moment she saw I was awake, she let out a sigh of relief.

The storm I mentioned earlier had affected the entire area, including the town where my sister lived. Despite the heavy rain and strong winds, my brother-in-law insisted on bringing her to see me.

Niri hugged me tightly, paying little attention to the various machines and wires attached to me, simply overwhelmed with relief that I was conscious. I looked over at my brother-in-law and, with a slight smile, said:

“I’m really sorry we had to meet under these circumstances.”

The entire room burst into laughter, and I could almost see the weight lift off my sister’s shoulders. She was probably thinking, “Yep, he’s okay. Back to his nonsense.”

Over the following days, I was visited by countless family members and friends, all expressing their love and support and assuring me that they would keep me in their prayers.

A few weeks later, I was finally allowed to return home. The damage caused by the heart attack would be permanent, and no one could confidently say how much time I had left.

As my cardiologist explained, because of the delay in receiving medical attention, there were parts of my heart that would never fully recover. Still, that did not mean I could not live a relatively normal life.

I have said many times to anyone willing to listen that my gratitude toward everyone involved knows no bounds. From Mum, to the family member who rushed us to the hospital, to the nurse who first attended to me, the staff at Westville Hospital, and my cardiologist — they were angels on earth and the reason I am still here today.

Recovery was not always easy. There were moments when I genuinely thought, “This could be it.”

But as time passed, my perspective began to change.

I became less concerned with how much time I had left and more focused on treating each day as the gift it truly is. I began appreciating life differently — showing love more freely to family and friends, seeing beauty in everything from the smallest pebble to the greatest mountain, and feeling a deeper interconnectedness with all living things.

Now, nine years later, I barely recognize the person I used to be, but I am deeply grateful for the person I have become.

I cherish every day I have been blessed with since then — watching my nephews grow up, spending countless hours with my sisters, and becoming even closer to Mum and Dad. It did not happen overnight, but that fateful day became the greatest catalyst for my personal growth.

Today, I focus on doing my best to serve God and live a life pleasing to Him while loving and serving the people around me, recognizing the presence of my Lord within them all.

So today, and every day I am granted, I will continue to sing the Lord’s praises, love and serve others, and cherish this beautiful gift called life until the day I return to my place at the feet of the Lord.