My husband’s medical team was failing him. Then a stranger walked in and said the 6 words that saved his life.

Ten minutes after my husband arrived in the hospital room, doctors, nurses, therapists, and technicians began pounding the place. Warnings sounded on the machines. White coats hung and whispered. And then Joel was wheeled out the door, gurney 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 will be from Wisconsin to Portland, Oregon to welcome our first grandchild. But first, Joel opted for a hip replacement. He relied on it to improve his quality of life.

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Instead, the retractor’s nick caused life-threatening bleeding that set off a cascade of disasters. Within hours, he went from a healthy, active, 63-year-old to an unconscious, life-support dependent ICU patient. After kidney failure, as well as an obstructed colon and compartment syndrome – all complications that should be a routine procedure.

To make matters worse, the doctor who replaced his hip was tasked with correcting the mistake.

I trusted a lot – doctors, hospitals, statistics declaring hip replacements normal and safe.

Why didn’t I ask more questions? I thought, scolding myself. Why didn’t I educate myself about the risks? Why didn’t I ask to have the procedure done at a larger, regional facility?

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Prepared for a one- to three-day hospital stay, returning to normal in six weeks, Joel instead ended up in a month-long hospital stay with no guarantees. And when he was drunk with discontent, I decided for him. With no medical knowledge and little experience in trauma, surgery or hospitals, I again trusted too much.

The staff invited me to daily briefings, but their vocabulary confused me, and I missed information because they talked so fast. I wanted to go back in time. I hoped it was all a dream. Still, I tried to remember their words and repeat each message to our daughters.

A small cadre of community hospital ICU nurses monitored Joel around the clock, checked his breathing tube, supervised dialysis and scheduled several surgeries per week. The nurses handed me consent forms with little explanation, assuring me that each operation was necessary to remove dead tissue from Joel’s leg. I signed the form until 90% of his lower leg muscles were gone.

I had several questions: Why was the doctor who performed the hip replacement in charge of Joel’s recovery? Why did the chief surgeon ignore the colon specialist’s recommendation to evaluate Joel elsewhere? Why a rotating staff instead of a director in charge of intensive care? And why were Joel’s two doctors arguing at the central ICU desk?

That’s when a rabbi came to see me.

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“You know what they’re arguing about, don’t you?” she said.

She never asked if we were Jewish (we weren’t) or if I needed spiritual guidance.

A few minutes ago, a nurse told me that a doctor had advocated amputating Joel’s leg. Another disagrees. The debate continued.

Why only two doctors instead of a big team? I was surprised. Why didn’t you ask my opinion? Who will make the final decision?

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“You can request a different hospital,” she told me calmly, as if she was reading my thoughts. “You can transfer your husband.”

Those six words seemed so obvious.

Twenty minutes to the east was a major medical facility affiliated with a medical college and staffed with hundreds of doctors, research teams, and state-of-the-art equipment. But in the fuze of shock and stress, I hadn’t considered this option.

“Maybe discuss it with your daughters,” said the rabbi.

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For the first time in two weeks, I felt someone next to me. She assessed the situation and suggested that I leave her workplace. She suggested that there was a better place than what she represented. But more than that, he gave me agency. He assumed I had power even though I felt powerless. She thought I was fierce even though I felt impotent.

His suggestion seemed impossible. Doctors, not wives, made the decisions.

Will anyone listen to me? I was surprised. How do I move a critically ill person who needs minute-to-minute monitoring?

Still, I knew if I didn’t act soon, my husband’s leg might go. He may even lose his life.

I went home, and I called the local hospital. I found a team of limb-salvation specialists who saved the leg instead of amputating it, and I found a doctor to supervise my husband’s case.

At 7 a.m. the next morning, scared and scared, I approached the authority figures I had been taught to trust—medical professionals who were shunned from their self-made pedestals. I told them that I had initiated a transfer and that my husband was leaving their facility.

All day, I endured delays, waiting for beds, waiting for approval, waiting for coordination—waiting, waiting, waiting.

At 10 p.m., Joel was transported by ambulance to a larger hospital, where he would spend the next 2 1/2 months.

He still needs surgery, a feeding tube and dialysis. But now, he had a team of doctors dedicated to saving both limb and life, with resources beyond the local hospital. And he had a wife with a voice.

Can I find my voice without that rabbi? I’m not sure I’ll get it. But once I started the change, I intended to do it again.

All my requests were not heard. But sometimes, when I pointed out symptoms or insisted on testing, my inquiries led to new treatments. My husband also experienced medical errors at this new hospital, but he survived. And aside from the leg brace he now wears, the blue handicap sign on our car and the scar from his temporary colostomy, he’s on the mend.

Compared to a dead man in a state of unconsciousness and motionlessness, Joel has changed. I changed too. Shortly after Joel returned home, I consulted a law firm about a tort case. After almost a year of meetings and investigations, they advised us to drop the case. Wisconsin had a cap on damages, and the burden to prove negligence was much greater.

Despite that frustration, I still speak. Now, before every doctor visit, I make a list of questions, complaints and possible treatments. When the doctor pooh-poohs the test, I challenge their opinion. When a nurse alleviates symptoms, I repeat my concerns. When the result is negligible, I pay attention to it. And my advocacy goes beyond medicine. When I was in court in a probate case, I wrote a script for my attorney with points to make to the judge.

Although medication, surgery, therapy and hard work saved and rehabilitated my husband, it was a complete stranger who got him to the proper facility – and very well may have 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 the bedside manner, she made me feel connected and cared for.

At a time when the universe robbed me—of my husband’s health and companionship, security, contentment and peace of mind—he gave me a gift. Without expecting anything in return, she stood beside me and held me. He gave me confidence and hope. Her kindness healed and transformed as much as any trial or treatment and left me searching for ways to repay her kindness.

This piece originally ran in February 2025 and has been re-shared as part of HuffPost Staff’s “Best of” series.

Nancy Jorgensen is a Wisconsin-based writer, teacher and accompanist pianist. Her most recent book is a middle-grade sports biography, “Gwen Jorgensen: USA’s First Olympic Gold Medal 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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