While on vacation in Cancún, Nicole Moore went for a swim after playing beach volleyball, unaware that this simple decision would attract d*ngerous attention and lead to a life-threatening medical ordeal.
Nicole was wading in waist-deep waters at a Cancún beach in Mexico. On the last day of January 2011, the 39-year-old nurse was vacationing with friends from her exercise group in Orangeville, Ontario, a small town north of Toronto.
At that moment, she was alone. After playing beach volleyball, while others returned to the hotel for lunch, she stayed to enjoy the warm water and wash off the sand from her dramatic volleyball saves, inadvertently creating a disturbance in the sea.
Nicole noticed two people on Jet Skis waving and yelling in Spanish. Laughing, she waved back, thinking they were simply having fun. Unbeknownst to her, they were warning her to leave the water, having spotted two bull sharks and trying to frighten them away. One shark retreated, but the other persistently moved toward the shore.
When the Jet Skiers called out again, Nicole realized something was amiss.
She turned toward the beach and began to wade in. Suddenly, she felt a bump. Before she could react, a shark latched onto her left thigh, its sharp teeth tear!ng deep into her flesh and down to the bone, remov!ng over a foot of skin and muscle. The water turned bright red with blood.
Despite not feeling pain, Nicole knew she was in grave danger and needed to reach shore. Her left leg rendered useless by the shark, she used her arms to propel herself, struggling through the scarlet-stained water.
As she fought to escape, the shark circled and lunged again, clamping onto her left arm. “No!” she screamed.
The shark had her a*m locked in its jaws, pulling her under. Thoughts of her children losing their mother flashed through her mind.
Summoning all her strength, Nicole struck the shark’s nose with her right fist. The shark released her and swam away.
Left drifting in a sea of blood, Nicole, in shock, struggled to remain conscious. Her left arm was barely hanging, and her left leg was immobile.
A Jet Skier, seeing her about to slip beneath the waves, raced over. Grabbing her right hand, he sped to the shore, leaving a trail of bl*od.
On the sand, a crowd gathered, speaking in Spanish and English. Still conscious, Nicole assessed her injuries. She lifted her head slightly to inspect her leg and arm. “Help me,” she gasped, her head falling back on the sand. Her medical training told her not to succumb to exhaustion.
“Talk … to … me!” she pleaded weakly. “Keep me awake …”
With significant blo*d loss, breathing was nearly impossible, and her heart struggled to pump blood to her lungs. Blood shot from her leg every time her heart beat.
An American bystander applied pressure on her leg artery to stem the bleeding.
“My arm …” Nicole gasped. “I need a tourniquet.”
Two young nurses asked for string, and a man pulled the drawstring from his shorts, allowing one of the nurses to create a makeshift tourniquet for her injured arm.
A bystander murmured, “She’s going to d!e. You don’t lose that amount of blood and survive.”
The nurses continued to talk to Nicole, keeping her awake.
Time slowed for Nicole as she thought of her daughters, fearing she’d never see them, her husband, or her father again. She perceived a bright, enveloping light, resigning herself to dying on the beach.
A siren suddenly wailed.
Paramedics hurried her to the hospital, where her organs were failing, and she had lost consciousness and stopped breathing. The ER team, racing against time, worked diligently to save her. During eight hours of surgery, a central line was inserted to pump blo*d and products into her heart, keeping it functioning.
Nicole regained consciousness in a hospital bed, with a breathing tube in her throat. She learned her thigh’s torn chunk was recovered, brought by friends, and reattached surgically. Without a vein connection, it would die. Her arm was seriously damaged, and by the second day, her hand blackened.
Her injuries were severe, with toxins from the trauma, dehydration, a headache, lethargy, and unbearable pain. But she was alive, soon to be free from the breathing tube.
After the att*ck, a friend had called her husband, Jay, and father, Alberto, in Toronto. Soon, they arrived. Upon seeing Nicole, Jay fought tears and, to lighten the moment, agreed to his wife’s request, saying, “OK, you can have your dog!”
On February 5, six days after her ordeal began, Nicole Moore was flown by medical jet to Toronto for treatment by Dr. Laura Snell, a specialist in plastic and reconstructive surgery, alongside Dr. Andrew Fagan, a “surfer dude” intrigued by the case. “What amazed us was seeing the teeth marks on her bones,” Fagan noted.
Upon removing her bandages, doctors discovered decay mixed with seawater and sand. The smell of pus and fluids was overwhelming, and the sight of the dead flap on Nicole’s leg, which lacked bl*od supply and was rotting, shocked them. Her discolored fingers suggested her arm might not be salvageable.
In the operating room, Dr. Snell and Dr. Fagan worked to clean Nicole’s wounds by removing dead and infected tissue. They found there was no bl*od supply beyond most of her arm injuries. They removed the dead flap from her leg and applied a large dressing. Sutures in her arm were released to reduce pressure from necrotic tissue. It took gallons of saline to cleanse the wounds, removing sand and debris.
Despite her critical condition, Nicole was able to sit up and talk soon after surgery, much to Dr. Snell’s surprise. Her positive attitude was remarkable. No matter the news, she’d ask, “OK, what do we do next?”
Meanwhile, Nicole’s daughters, Tia and Ella, ages seven and six, were with their grandparents. Concerned about traumatizing them, Nicole was relieved when they visited and greeted her with big hugs. Within an hour, they were snuggling with her in bed.
On February 8, Nicole underwent another operation in Toronto. During a ten-hour surgery, her doctors grafted tissue from her right leg to cover her left femur. Initially, the graft seemed successful, as rejection typically occurs within 48 hours. A week passed, but on day six, it became clear the graft was failing. Despite multiple efforts in the operating room, the procedure was ultimately unsuccessful.
This setback devastated Nicole. “I was crushed,” she recalled. “I just thought, ‘Can anything else go wrong?'” She became withdrawn, asking to be left alone.
The following day, realizing how many people were supporting her, she gave herself a pep talk. Friends had sent photos, scrapbook pages from her kids, cards, angels, and lots of art. One friend even brought a container of candy sharks, which became a tradition for guests to “attack” when they visited.
On February 22, doctors performed another tissue transplant on Nicole’s leg to prevent infection and encourage growth. They also reassessed her arm, deciding amputation was necessary.
Nicole remained calm. “This is my injury,” she said. “I have to get better.”
On March 4, her arm was amputated. Quickly adapting, she began walking with a crutch, eventually managing to shower independently. She was eager to go home.
Nicole was discharged from the hospital on March 25, but first spent six days at a rehabilitation center, where she was weaned off pain medication, learned to walk with a cane, and tackled stairs. Though still with a leg wound and a painful arm stump, 60 days post-shark attack, she was ready.
Surprise at Home
On April Fools’ Day, after Tia and Ella returned from school, Jay sent them on a hunt for a surprise. Disappointed by the faux treasure, they headed to the kitchen and discovered their real surprise—Nicole. “It was,” Nicole says, “one of the most precious moments of my life.”
Nicole faced a rigorous rehab and further leg surgeries. Like many amputees, she experiences phantom pain, which complicates using a prosthetic arm. Despite this, she continues to persevere. Nicole supports shark att*ck survivors and works to conserve shark populations. She’s resumed her career as a nurse and even completed the Warrior Dash, an obstacle course race.
“I believe that we have the choice as to how we face life. Live it or sit back and let it pass you by,” she says. “I, for one, say bring it on.”