Ten minutes after my husband arrived in his hospital room, the room was filled with doctors, nurses, therapists and technicians. Warnings are heard on the cars. The white robes huddled together and whispered. And then Joel was rushed back out the door, wheels spinning, propelled by a fleet of scrubs in sprint mode.
We had just returned from the Olympic Games in Rio de Janeiro. Our next trip would be from Wisconsin to Portland, Oregon to welcome our first grandchild. But first, Joel chose to have a hip replacement. He counted on it to improve his quality of life.
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Instead, a cut from the retractor caused life-threatening bleeding that set off a cascade of catastrophes. Within hours, he went from a healthy, active 63-year-old man to an unconscious patient dependent on life support in the ICU. Kidney failure followed, plus an obstructed colon and compartment syndrome—all complications of what should have been a routine procedure.
To make matters worse, the doctor who takes the ****** up to the hip replacement was tasked with fixing the mistake.
I trusted too much—in the doctors, in the hospital, in the statistics that proclaimed hip replacement common and safe.
Why hadn’t I asked more questions? I thought, reproaching myself. Why hadn’t I educated myself about the risks? Why hadn’t I asked for the procedure to be done at a larger regional facility?
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Prepared for a one- to three-day hospital stay, with a return to normal in six weeks, Joel committed to a month-long hospital stay with no guaranteed survival. And since he was drugged into incoherence, I made decisions for him. With no medical knowledge and little experience in trauma, surgery or hospitals, I once again trusted too much.
The staff invited me to daily briefings, but their terminology confused me and I missed information because they spoke so fast. I wanted to go back in time. I hoped it was all a dream. Still, I tried to memorize their words and repeat each message to our daughters.
The community hospital’s small staff of ICU nurses monitored Joel around the clock, checking his breathing tube, overseeing dialysis and scheduling several surgeries a week. The nurses handed me consent forms with little explanation, assuring me that each surgery was essential to remove the dead tissue from Joel’s leg. I signed the forms until 90% of the muscle in his leg was gone.
The author (background left), her husband Joel (foreground left), her daughter Elizabeth, and her partner Josh celebrate a birthday in Wauwatosa, Wisconsin. Courtesy of Nancy Jorgensen
I had so many questions: Why was the doctor who broke the hip replacement now responsible for Joel’s recovery? Why did the lead surgeon ignore the colon specialist’s recommendation to evaluate Joel elsewhere? Why was there a rotating staff instead of a director in charge of intensive care? And why were two of Joel’s doctors arguing at the central intensive care office?
Then a rabbi came to see me.
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“You know what they’re arguing about, don’t you?” she said.
He never asked us if we were Jewish (we are not) or if I needed spiritual guidance.
Just minutes before, a nurse had told me that a doctor had advocated amputating Joel’s leg; the other disagreed. The argument continued.
Why only two doctors instead of a larger team? I asked myself. Why didn’t they ask my opinion? Who would make the final decision?
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“You can ask for another hospital,” she told me calmly, as if reading my mind. “You could transfer your husband.”
Those six words seemed so obvious.
Twenty minutes to the east was a prominent medical facility affiliated with a medical college and equipped with hundreds of doctors, research teams, and state-of-the-art equipment. But in my shock and stress, I hadn’t considered this alternative.
“He can talk to your daughters,” said the rabbi.
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For the first time in two weeks, I felt someone on my side. She had assessed the situation and suggested that I leave the place that employs her. She suggested that there was a better place than the one she represented. But more than that, she gave me agency. She assumed I had strength even though I felt powerless. She assumed I was fierce, even though I felt impotent.
Her suggestion seemed impossible. Doctors, not wives, made decisions.
Would anyone listen to me? I asked myself. How would I move a seriously ill man who needed minute-to-minute monitoring?
However, I knew that if I didn’t act quickly, my husband’s leg could be gone. He could even lose his life.
Joel playing with grandsons Stanley and George in Sardinia, Italy. “Joel and I joined our daughter Gwen there to help babysit while she trained and competed in a triathlon,” the author wrote. Courtesy of Nancy Jorgensen
I went home and made calls to that regional hospital. I discovered a team of limb salvage specialists who saved legs instead of amputating them and found a doctor to oversee my husband’s case.
At 7 a.m. the next morning, intimidated and fearful, I approached the authority figures I had been taught to trust—the medical professionals rising from their self-constructed pedestals. I told them that I had initiated a transfer and that my husband would be leaving their facility.
All day, I endured delays, waiting for a bed, waiting for approval, waiting for coordination — waiting, waiting, waiting.
At 10pm, Joel was transferred by ambulance to the larger hospital, where he would spend the next 2 1/2 months.
He still needed surgeries, feeding tubes and dialysis. But now, he had a team of doctors dedicated to saving both limb and life, with resources beyond those of the local hospital. And he had a wife with a voice.
Would I have found my voice without that rabbi? I’m not convinced I would have. But once I initiated the change, I intended to do it again.
Not all my requests were heard. But sometimes, when I pointed out a symptom or insisted on a test, my question led to a new treatment. My husband also suffered medical errors in this new hospital but survived. And apart from the brace he now wears, the blue handicap sign on our car, and the scar from his temporary colostomy, he is whole.
Compared to the dying man who remained unconscious and motionless, Joel is changed. I am changed too. Shortly after Joel returned home, I consulted with a law firm regarding a malpractice lawsuit. After almost a year of meetings and investigations, they advised us to drop the case. Wisconsin had a cap on damages and the burden was too high to prove negligence.
Despite this disappointment, I’m still talking. Now, before every doctor’s appointment, I make a list of questions, complaints and possible treatments. When a doctor does a test, I challenge his opinion. When a nurse downplays a symptom, I repeat my concern. When a result goes unnoticed, I draw attention to it. And my advocacy goes beyond medicine. When I appeared in court on a probate matter, I wrote a script for my attorney with points to make to the judge.
The author (left), Joel (second from left), her daughter, Gwen (right), and her husband, Patrick (second from right), and the author’s grandsons, Stanley and George. Courtesy of Kenny Withrow
Although drugs, surgeries, therapies and hard work saved and rehabilitated my husband, it was a complete stranger who precipitated his move to the right facility – and very well saved his life. Although life often seems impersonal, with virtual meetings instead of face-to-face interactions, texts instead of phone calls, and blood tests instead of bedside manner, she made me feel connected and cared for.
At a time when the universe had robbed me—of my husband’s health and companionship, security, contentment, and peace of mind—she gave me a gift. Not expecting anything in return, she stood beside me and supported me. It gave me confidence and hope. Her compassion healed and transformed as much as any test or treatment and left me looking for ways to pay her kindness forward.
This piece originally appeared in February 2025 and is being re-shared as part of HuffPost Personal’s “Best Of” series.
Nancy Jorgensen is a writer, educator, and collaborative pianist from Wisconsin. Her most recent book is a middle grade sports biography, “Gwen Jorgensen: USA’s First Olympic Gold Triathlete” (Meyer & Meyer). Her essays have appeared in Ms. Magazine, The Offing, River Teeth, Wisconsin Public Radio, Cheap Pop and elsewhere. Learn more about her at NancyJorgensen.weebly.com and follow her on Instagram @NancJoe.
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