It amazes me that your body can keep moving even after a shock. It wasn’t the first time I felt as though my mind and body were completely separate. When the doctor gave us the news, my body grew heavy, vibrating with tingles. A nurse asked if I needed anything, and I asked for water—knowing that asking her how this happened wouldn’t yield an answer right then.

Meanwhile, my mind went into overdrive. I had to take care of things. A list formed in my head of people I needed to call immediately—calls that made my stomach knot up.

She’s still alive, I thought. Her right side was paralyzed, she had severe aphasia, and we were facing a future no one could predict.

In the early morning hours, a sweet ER nurse escorted us to the neuro tower, giving me hope for the level of care she’d receive. My brother stayed the first night; as an emergency worker himself, he knew how unpredictable that first night could be. One of us stayed with her almost 24/7 for that first month. Only when we felt comfortable handing things off to her night nurses did we go home to our own beds for a few hours.

What I say next isn’t meant to place blame. I realize nurses are short-staffed everywhere, and I know our home lives sometimes bleed into our work. However, when you are terrified for someone you love and on constant alert, memories imprint deeply. You quickly learn to distinguish between those who entered this profession to help and those who are just showing up for a paycheck.

Over nearly two months—across multiple rooms, floors, procedures, and doctors—I experienced more than I ever expected from a single hospital stay: fear, uncertainty, sadness, peace, anger, frustration, and defeat.

Someone advised us early on, “Do not leave her alone.” They were right. There were nights when her monitors alarm went off for over 30 minutes before I could get someone to check on her. One night, she woke me up choking on her feeding tube; even though the monitors showed distress, I still had to physically run to the nurses’ station for help. Even then, their attitude toward my panicked questions was nonchalant. When other family members stayed with her, they experienced similar neglect. The memory of those failures still hurts. I don’t think people realize how much a dismissive, non-committal attitude impacts a patient and their family long after they leave the room.

On the flip side, the ones who truly cared stood out brilliantly. They treated my mother with respect, recognizing that she could understand them even if she couldn’t speak, treating her like a human being rather than a room number. I will forever hold a space in my heart for them. One nurse even called me on a day Mom was doing well, simply to reassure me after a tough morning.

They didn’t know how smart and independent my mom was before the stroke—how she had traveled, built a wonderful career, mastered new skills, and earned multiple degrees. I knew this loss of independence was destroying her, both inside and out. I knew she was so much more than what this stroke had reduced her to. And as much as I tried to reassure her that she would recover, deep down, she knew what was coming.

And she tried to warn me.