For Privacy reasons, I cannot share who this is. I hope you enjoy life’s beautiful, full circle moments. Once in flow, everything and anything goes.

How I Saved This Country singer’s Life

2007: My mom and I were at Trader Joe’s, living in North County San Diego, when she got a call. A kid she’d been mentoring (to help him ease his fear of dying the last year) was actively dying from cancer, and she needed to get to him immediately. We rushed to his home. She walked into his room while I sat just outside his bedroom door, my view framed by his yellow, swollen legs and a dresser where a photo sat—a picture of him with two of his favorite country artists.

His Make-A-Wish dream had been to meet them. The year prior, they had invited him to their concerts and even to their homes. He was just 15, and he only had a year left to live.

I stared at that photo as he struggled to let go, my mom comforting him, whispering that it was okay to leave his pained body and that he would soon go to an unimaginable place, full of unconditional love and freedom from pain.

Finally, he took his last breath.

I didn’t know him. I had never met him. But the experience left a mark on me. And one undeniable thought stuck: “These singers are good people.”

A Few Months Later…

I was working as an EMT in the ER and regularly staffed concerts in San Diego as first aid. I’d seen everything from Rascal Flatts to Marilyn Manson, Mannheim Steamroller to Guns N’ Roses. If they came through town, I was there, ready to bandage fans or treat overdoses or the artists themselves.

The concerts I was most excited for? These two.

They were the soundtrack of my high school years. Just hearing their music gave me all the nostalgic feels, and now, I was about to see them live and get paid for it.

It was a scorching summer night, and the sold-out indoor stadium was packed. The stage was set in the center of the arena, surrounded by fans on all sides. With no air conditioning, it was like standing inside a giant oven filled with 20,000 sweaty people.

Before the show even started, we had a line out the door of the first aid room—heat exhaustion, headaches, you name it. But nothing major. Yet.

Finally, the concert began.

The concert had begun and here I was, trying to look professional while fighting the urge to sing along to all my teenage anthems. It was surreal, a dream come true for my inner 17-year-old.

About an hour and a half in, the singer went under the stage for a break.

Then my radio rang.

“Shauna, you’re the only female on staff. We need you to go to her under the stage. She’s not feeling well.”

I froze. Wait, she needs me? I grabbed my medic bag, casually (but not really casually) made my way to the ground floor, and was met by security. They escorted me under the stage, stealthily, so the audience wouldn’t notice.

There she was—my 90’s idol.

Trying to stay professional and not completely lose it, I touched her skin and immediately realized we didn’t have time for a full set of vitals. She was dangerously overheated. I needed to get her out of that 100-degree furnace under the stage and into a cooler space.

One of her assistants suggested hiding her in a laundry basket, covering her with clothes, and wheeling her through the audience. It sounded absurd, but it was the best option.

So there I was, next to a laundry basket, putting HER into it, and pushing her through a sea of people while everyone waited for the second half of the show. Yes, it was a long one!

It felt like a random dream. I half-expected aliens to join us backstage. At this point, nothing would’ve surprised me.

Once we reached backstage, I checked her temperature again. Still dangerously high, well over 100 degrees. I applied ice packs to her major arteries, trying to cool her down while calling 911. She needed an IV, which was out of my EMT scope of practice.

As I sat beside her backstage.  Her temperature finally started to drop, and I could breathe again, confident she wasn’t going to die in my arms from heat exhaustion.

When the medics arrived, they took over. My job was done.

Her husband was located and on his way backstage, a security guard leaned in and whispered to him, “That girl helped her.”

He turned to me, gave a nod and a small smile, then rushed into the dressing room to see his wife.

I just stood there, unsure what to do next. A security guard handed me an XXL tour t-shirt for my 115-pound self. “Thanks, I guess?” I thought, but honestly, I didn’t care. I had just saved my favorite country singer’s life.

Here’s where it all comes full circle.

Months before, I sat beside a boy taking his final breath, staring at a photo of him with them—the people who gave him the best last year of his life. And then, as if the universe was tying some cosmic knot, I was the one who helped her when she needed it most.

I don’t know if it’s connected. Maybe it’s not for me to know. But in some beautiful, mystical way, I think it was that boy’s way of saying “thank you” to her for what she did for him.

Life is messy. It’s beautiful. And sometimes, things happen in ways so inexplicably magical, you can’t help but look up to the sky and trust there’s a far greater power weaving it all together.