Three months ago, I suffered a stroke. One moment, I was reading the paper at the kitchen table; the next, everything went black, and I was unconscious for nearly two days. When I awoke in the hospital, groggy and confused, the first thing I noticed wasn’t the IV in my arm—it was my daughter-in-law standing at the window, as if she owned the room.
She smiled softly and said, “Don’t worry—you’re in good hands now.” But as she chatted casually with nurses about a nursing home she’d already “selected,” I realized what was unfolding: while I lay unconscious, my son had handed her power of attorney—medical, financial, everything—without informing me.
All decisions were made for me: where I’d recover, how my insurance was handled, even clearing out my things “in case” I needed assisted living. It was as though I’d been erased. When I finally found the strength to speak up, my son said, “We didn’t know if you’d make it. She was trying to help. I didn’t want to be in the middle.” As if my life was a parcel being returned.
I felt hollow. My own son—now a stranger. Yet I forced a smile and thanked them both.
Inside, though, something shifted. I felt powerless no more. Quietly, I met with a lawyer and rewrote my will. I removed them, changed my power of attorney, and granted all decisions to someone who truly respects me. I haven’t told them—yet—but I refuse to be stripped of my autonomy again.
