December 2025 Carol Chabot

On October 20, 2022, after wrapping up work, I headed to my friend’s house to meet a few women from our weekly group. Suddenly, as I was talking to my friends, a wave of dizziness came over me. With no warning signs, no medical history in my family, and a lifestyle focused on health and nutrition, it felt impossible to believe something could be wrong. My friends reacted quickly, laying me on the floor and placing a cool, wet washcloth over my eyes. I found comfort in the darkness because my eyes kept darting back and forth. My friend tried to reach my husband, who was flying in a helicopter, but he didn’t answer at first. After several attempts, he finally picked up, and she explained my symptoms. Knowing me well, my husband warned her not to take my word for feeling “better”—I’d insist I didn’t need the hospital. Listening to his advice, she called for an ambulance and followed it, sirens blaring, as my husband raced to meet us there.

Arriving at the hospital brought a new level of uncertainty. I was alone in a hallway, wracked with head pain and nausea, clutching a vomit bag and still hiding under the washcloth. I remember moaning for help, feeling desperately vulnerable as I waited for a CT scan that seemed like it would never come. Relief came when my husband arrived and, seeing my state, demanded urgent attention. The scan results were life-changing: a subarachnoid hemorrhage and a right PICA aneurysm. The gravity of the diagnosis barely sank in before my husband made another critical decision—I would be transferred to Maine Medical Center for specialized neurocritical care.

From this point, my memories fade, leaving me reliant on medical notes and the accounts of my husband and loved ones. The next morning, I would go into surgery to address the problem. The prognosis seemed good initially, and I recovered well from the procedure with no complications. My two daughters were at my side, and I was stable, so my husband left briefly to go pick up my car at my friend’s house. Suddenly, everything changed. A rebleed left me unresponsive, and my daughter frantically called my husband to return. Doctors had to resuscitate me after I coded; I was intubated, unable to breathe on my own, and heavily sedated. My world narrowed to survival.

To relieve the pressure building up in my brain from the bleeding, the surgeon first placed a drain on the right side of my scalp. This allowed excess blood and fluid to escape, reducing swelling in my brain. When the drain on the right wasn’t working well, they put in a second on the left side. Despite these efforts, a follow-up CT scan showed that the bleeding was getting worse. The blood was pressing on parts of my brain that control movement and fundamental functions —the cerebellum and brainstem. Three neurosurgeons came together and decided I needed an emergency surgery called a suboccipital craniectomy. This meant they removed a piece of bone from the back of my skull to give my swollen brain more room and reduce the pressure. My condition was so severe at this point that the doctors told my family I might not survive. I came out of surgery, but the focus was solely on making it through the next few days.

The support I received was overwhelming in the best way. My youngest, who was in his senior year at GWU in DC, rushed home so that all three of my children were at the hospital, with my husband. My family and a waiting room packed with friends rallied around us. Their presence was a lifeline.

During this time, I experienced vivid dreams—some comforting, some frightening. The dreams felt so real that, once I started to recover, I asked my husband about things I was convinced had happened. He explained which memories were dreams and which were real, and we laughed and cried together as I tried to sort them out. Even now, those dreams are still etched in my memory.

Five days after the surgery, I began opening my eyes every so often, but I was just staring blankly. My family was told about the possibility of locked-in syndrome. This is a rare condition where a person is conscious but unable to move or communicate due to complete paralysis.

Eventually, a breakthrough: I managed to move my right toe on command. It was a tiny action, but to whoever was in the room, it meant everything. The head nurse was amazed: he said a few expletives and quickly left my room to get the doctors so they could witness it too. I had no other functions but at least there was some progression. Slowly, I started to respond to more requests—blinking once for yes, twice for no. My neurological exams that they did physically were much better than what my scans were showing, a small light in a very dark tunnel.

After two failed attempts, I was finally extubated and taken off the ventilator about two weeks after my stroke. The feeding tube in my nose was replaced with one that went directly into my stomach, a PEG tube. I spent about a month at Maine Medical Center. Recovery was slow and unpredictable—sometimes I’d make progress, only to take a step back. Through it all, the nurses and therapists were incredible and compassionate. Saying goodbye when it was time to move on was bittersweet, but I was determined to keep moving forward.

I was transported to a rehabilitation hospital, where I spent another three weeks relearning basic tasks: sitting up, using a wheelchair, showering, and brushing my teeth. Every day was filled with speech therapy, occupational therapy, physical therapy, and lots of sleeping; the exhaustion to this day can be so overpowering. The milestones, though tiny to an outsider, felt monumental in the moment. I’ll never forget the day when a friend came in and cut my hair. Before the stroke, my hair was very long, but the surgeons had to shave parts of my scalp, leaving me with a lopsided haircut—one more visible sign of everything I’d lost. She was able to cut my hair so it looked more normal. Even though there were many successes, there were so many times when I felt deep self-doubt and frustration about not being able to do what I used to. The emotional rollercoaster became part of the landscape, each victory carrying with it both excitement and the ache of knowing how far I still had to go.

Looking back, I realize how deeply every interaction shaped my journey. The gentle squeeze of a hand, the therapists’ patient instructions, the way my family celebrated each tiny victory as if it were a marathon run—all these moments stitched together a safety net. Recovery was never a straight line. It was a dance between progress and setback, hope and despair, but always, always, it was the love and support of those around me that helped me to keep going.

Eventually, I was able to leave the rehab hospital, and my husband and I spent the next two months living at my daughter’s and son-in-law’s house. She worked from home and lived on one floor, so she could feed me through my feeding tube, oversee the in-home physical therapy, occupational therapy, and speech therapy, and make sure I had plenty of time for rest. About a month into my stay, I passed the swallow test and my feeding tube was finally removed. What I craved and had been talking about since the rehab hospital —mashed potatoes and gravy —was my first real meal. My daughter would mash up her cooking in the food processor and my husband would give me liquid with thickener so I could safely swallow.

When I left my daughter’s house, I was learning to walk with a walker and manage the bathroom by myself. Back home, I continued outpatient therapy (PT, OT and speech) at NE Rehab three times a week for a year. I couldn’t drive, so getting to appointments was tough. My husband’s coworkers were amazing; he would bring me to most of my appointments and other family would help with rides. I was so thankful when my son was home on college break because he would take over the driving duties. The therapies were challenging but rewarding—I did the prescribed exercises every day at home. I started driving slowly and 10 months after the stroke, I drove myself to my therapies at NE Rehab. I’ll never forget how I felt; I loved my independence.

This year, I celebrated three years since that terrible day. I’m still recovering and making progress. I go to the gym a few days a week, run, hike, read, garden, and cook—activities I once thought might be lost to me. It’s not easy. I do things differently now: I have balance issues, no hearing in my right ear, my right eye doesn’t track correctly, I have right-sided weakness, aphasia, and I struggle with dizziness, processing information, and staying focused. But I’m alive and moving forward. Marking this third anniversary, I’m starting to embrace the idea of acceptance. For a long time, I thought accepting my limitations meant giving up on progress. Now, I understand that acceptance and hope can exist side by side.

I’ve joined the Maine Brain Aneurysm Awareness support group, and it has made such a positive impact. They offer a space to talk openly with people who truly understand because they’ve faced similar challenges. Sharing experiences helps reduce my feelings of isolation, builds confidence, and provides new ways to cope. Sometimes just knowing you’re not alone makes all the difference.