Serving Hearts, Then Serving God: How a Cardiologist Found the Mahdi

As part of our Professional Profiles series, we highlight members of AROPL with accomplished careers and expertise, showing how their professional paths led them to join the community of Abdullah Hashem. In this article, Vanessa Debora Gardea Vega, a cardiologist from Mexico, shares her journey to find the Mahdi.

My name is Vanessa Debora Gardea Vega, I am 52 years old, and I was born in the vibrant heart of Mexico City. Since an early age, my life has been shaped by the intersection of faith, discipline, and a relentless pursuit of knowledge.

Although I was raised in a deeply Catholic family and educated in religious schools, I always carried within me a quiet yearning — not just to believe, but to understand. That curiosity became a passion in high school, when I first encountered the incredible complexity of the human body. From that moment on, I knew I had to study medicine: a vocation that blends science with the service of others.

I was baptized as a child and raised in Catholic schools throughout my upbringing. That formation shaped my character and instilled in me values such as compassion, discipline, reverence for life, and a deep love for knowledge.

When I entered medical school, I carried with me not only a scientific motivation but also a spiritual foundation that helped me see medicine as a mission of service. I studied for five years and completed one year of mandatory social service — a fundamental part of medical training in my country.

I studied at La Salle University, a private Catholic institution where medicine and spirituality walked hand in hand. Some of our professors were both priests and doctors, and that unique combination deeply marked my training.

We weren’t just taught how to diagnose or treat diseases — we were taught to see each patient as a human being. One of the subjects that impacted me most was Medical Ethics, where I learned that a physician’s heart must beat not just with knowledge, but with a conscience. I graduated as a General Physician and Obstetrician, a title that opened the doors to a career that is as technical as it is profoundly human.

Witnessing the Miracle of Life: My Experience as an Obstetrician

During my medical internship, I experienced one of the most impactful and beautiful moments of my career: assisting in childbirth. In Mexico, the training of a General Physician and Obstetrician includes participating in the complete process — receiving newborns, cutting the umbilical cord, and removing the placenta.

Witnessing the arrival of a new life, hearing that first cry, seeing the emotion in a mother’s eyes — it never becomes routine. Even amid exhaustion and hospital duties, every birth felt sacred, profoundly human. I came to understand that medicine is not only about treating illness — it is also about witnessing life at its most sacred threshold.

After graduating, I decided to take on the National Residency Entrance Exam, a notoriously difficult test in Mexico, with a pass rate of only 3 out of every 10 applicants. I knew it would be a challenge, but my desire to keep growing as a professional was stronger than any fear.

That exam tests more than knowledge — it demands endurance, emotional stability, and deep commitment. When I passed, it opened the door to one of Latin America’s most prestigious medical centers. A new chapter of my journey was about to begin.

After completing my general medicine degree, I undertook an additional five years of specialized training in cardiology, followed by one more year in a subspecialty.

Being accepted into the National Institute of Cardiology “Ignacio Chávez” (INC) was a dream come true. Renowned throughout Latin America for its academic and technical excellence, the INC is more than a hospital — it is a school, a research center, and a place of heart.

I lived through marathon shifts: starting at 7:00 a.m., staying on-call through the night, sometimes leaving at 7:00 p.m. the next day, only to return again a few hours later. The physical exhaustion was intense, but the emotional demands were even greater. Patients came from all over the country with severe and complex cardiovascular conditions, seeking hope.

I had the privilege of learning from world-class mentors, surrounded by brilliant colleagues from diverse backgrounds. The heart, both literally and figuratively, was at the centre of everything. In parallel, I also completed a master’s degree in medical sciences, a field that focuses on evaluating the validity and reliability of findings reported in clinical research and medical studies. This training not only strengthened my scientific understanding but also shaped the way I interpret evidence, diagnose conditions, and make informed decisions in patient care.

Why Cardiology? The Specialty that Restores Life

I chose Cardiology because, among all branches of internal medicine, it is one of the most resolutive. While other specialties face conditions with often irreversible consequences —like neurology, where a stroke can leave a person unable to walk or speak for life— cardiology often gives us the chance to rewrite the story.

I’ve seen patients who, after a heart attack and a catheterization procedure, committed to a rehabilitation plan. Months later, they were running four kilometres a day or swimming in open water. It was as if they had been reborn. The heart wasn’t just beating again — it was living again.

Cardiovascular patients often share a particular trait: what we call in medicine a “Type A personality.” They’re perfectionists, highly driven, and often under intense stress — but they also possess an incredible will to overcome. And that makes all the difference.

Even patients with little initial motivation can experience dramatic recovery if they receive timely and appropriate treatment. Whether through bypass surgery, valve replacement, or cardiac catheterization, I’ve seen how medical intervention can transform lives.

These experiences taught me that medicine is not just about treating the body — it is faith in the power of the human spirit.

The Silence of Death: An Unforgettable Moment During COVID

The COVID-19 pandemic was one of the most painful periods of my medical career. As a team leader, I cared for intubated patients and watched as many of them slowly slipped away, unconscious for weeks, unable to speak, unable to say goodbye.

But there was one case I will never forget.

A patient chose not to be intubated. After I explained the risks, he looked at me calmly and said:

“I have lived what I needed to live. I’m ready to die. I’m not afraid.”

I stayed by his side, holding his hand, and asked if I could pray for him.  I recited verses from the Qur’an that I had memorized in prayer. I spoke to God as I watched his oxygen levels slowly drop on the monitor. I don’t know if he could hear me, but the room was filled with a profound peace. His soul departed gently.

I had been the one to order medications and perform resuscitations countless times. But this time, I simply accompanied death. And that moment marked me more deeply than many lives I tried to save.

A Wide-Ranging Career: Between Public and Private Hospitals

Throughout my career, I’ve had the privilege of working in a wide range of hospitals, both public and private. From Hospital Durango to Clínica Londres, where I also ran my private practice, each institution offered a different world of challenges and learning.

During the Earthquake in 2019

I also worked in public hospitals like the Regional Hospital of Zaragoza (ISSSTE), and most recently at Villa Coapa General Hospital 2 of the IMSS, where I served with dedication and compassion.

During the 2019 earthquakes in Mexico City, I volunteered to assist orthopaedic surgeons in my hospital. Even though orthopaedics wasn’t my specialty, I helped immobilize fractures and apply casts. That experience reminded me that being a doctor means showing up wherever help is needed, regardless of titles.

My education extended beyond Mexico. At one point in my career, I travelled to Cali, Colombia, to complete a short training in a groundbreaking technique: transcatheter aortic valve implantation (TAVI), a non-surgical heart valve replacement procedure. I had the privilege of treating one of the first patients in the region using this technique — a professional milestone I hold dear. That experience reinforced something essential: medicine knows no borders. It unites people from different nations in a shared purpose — to heal, to restore, to give life.

Although I was raised Catholic and initially attended Mass more out of habit than devotion, there came a point in my life when I felt a deeper yearning: to truly know God.

So, I began researching different religions — not casually, but with the same analytical rigor I had used in medicine. That journey brought me to Islam, though at first, I approached it with scepticism. Like many, I had been taught to associate it with intolerance or violence.

Ironically, it was in trying to “disprove” Islam — hoping to convince a Muslim that their faith was irrational and that Jesus was the only saviour — that I began to see its depth.

My spiritual search did not end with my conversion to Islam. Even after wearing the hijab and practicing with devotion. I still felt that something was missing. I had questions that no one could truly answer — about human suffering, social inequality, and even the corruption I saw within religious institutions. I knew that Islam spoke of the Mahdi, the promised Savior, but I never imagined that this figure would be real, alive, and walking the Earth in my own time.

One day, a man appeared in one of the Islamic study groups.  Ismael, who said he belonged to the Ahmadi Religion of Peace and Light. He spoke about the Mahdi — but the message was entirely different than the message of others that spoke about the Mahdi. No threats, no violence, no arrogance. He listened. He answered patiently. He spoke of justice, light, and divine truth. But I didn’t trust easily. For over a year, I challenged him constantly. I brought verses from the Qur’an, passages from the Bible, hadiths, historical arguments. I told him this couldn’t be the truth. I told him the Mahdi had not yet come. I was especially sceptical because his message reminded me of Shia beliefs — a branch of Islam, I had rejected due to certain cultural practices I found troubling. I was defensive, suspicious, and determined not to be misled. But he never pressured me. He never raised his voice. He only repeated one thing:

“Make istikhara. Ask God. Don’t believe me — believe Him.”

So, I did. Many times. And each time, the result —according to the Qur’an— was clear:

“Keep researching.”

And so, I continued asking God. Until one day, there were no more doubts left to resolve. I had read, questioned, examined both with my mind and my heart. I made istikhara again. And this time, the answer was unmistakable: “Believe.” I cried. My hands trembled. I knew that moment would change the course of my life forever. And so, I gave my oath of allegiance. I chose to follow God — wherever He may lead me.

It was not an easy decision. I had to say goodbye to my colleagues, to my echocardiography studies — one of the things I loved most — and, in many ways, to the active practice of medicine. To part of my family.

Without a divinely appointed leader, religion becomes either something inherited from our parents or a confusing maze of endless options that often divide us more than unite us.

Most religions today ask us to follow rituals, or the opinions of fallible human beings who rarely agree with one another. We're told to attend Mass, to pray a certain way, to follow charismatic leaders who may seem trustworthy — but are still human, limited, and imperfect.

And then we’re left to decide whether to follow someone who claims to be a prophet, like Joseph Smith, or to align ourselves with conflicting human interpretations in never-ending debates, like those between Pentecostal and Baptist Christians, arguing over speaking in tongues or whether salvation can be lost.

How could I explain it to other doctors, to my professional peers? That  I had left everything to follow a divine call? I had found God’s appointed one and could no longer pretend otherwise. And yet, inside me, there was no confusion — only peace.

A peace that no career or title had ever given me.

To my colleagues in medicine, I say this:

You, who have dedicated your lives to caring for others — isn’t it time to ask who is caring for you? Many of you work double or triple shifts to afford a private school for your children, to pay for a home, to offer your families a dignified life. We’ve seen what others haven’t: the fragility of the human body, the injustice of the healthcare system, and the helplessness in the face of suffering. You’ve watched life slip away in an instant. You’ve mourned young colleagues lost to COVID. Even with all our training and resources, we don’t always succeed. Because only God can bring true healing.

If someday doctors are needed to care for those who stand with the Messenger of God in a Divine Just State, I hope there are many of us willing to offer not only our medical knowledge — but our very souls.