Advocate Spotlight: Pat Barber

I am a stroke survivor. My life changed forever in my 40s, during what was supposed to be a joyful and exciting time. I was out of town—out of state, actually—traveling with my youngest daughter as she toured universities for the upcoming year. It was a trip full of hope and possibilities, a milestone in her life that I was so grateful to be a part of. It was our first girl trip without my husband, and we felt quite accomplished for not getting lost. That night, we went to bed feeling on top of the world, excited for the morning.

The next day, the morning of my daughter’s big interview, I woke up in our hotel room feeling odd, as though I had slept too hard. At first, nothing seemed amiss. I got up, started putting on makeup, and got dressed. But I felt… off. I found myself staring in the mirror, wondering why everything seemed slightly out of focus—not visually, but perceptually. As a nurse, I flipped into nurse mode and reviewed all the signs and symptoms of stroke. How could I possibly have a stroke, I thought. I was young, healthy, had no family history, took no medications, never smoked, had no blood pressure issues, and was not overweight. With Nurse Barber almost satisfied, I took out my red lipstick and applied some to ensure there was no facial droop. There was. However, my perception was totally not present, so I brushed it aside, telling myself I was fine.

It wasn’t until I called my daughter to get ready for her interview that I realized something was terribly wrong. The words I tried to say didn’t make sense. They came out jumbled, incoherent. In that moment, I was struck by a terrifying reality: I was alone in a hotel room, with my youngest daughter, and something was terribly wrong.

My daughter called 911, but when the paramedics arrived, I refused to go with them. Denial is a powerful thing, and I was deep in it. Now I was in true mother mode, which ruled over the nurse mode. I was solely focused on getting my daughter where she needed to be and on time. My daughter, desperate and resourceful, sought the help of the hotel manager, who called for another ambulance. Meanwhile, I left the room, convinced everyone was overreacting. Now I was fixated on getting a cup of coffee and certain that this nightmare would simply go away.

As I shuffled toward the breakfast area, the second ambulance pulled up outside. I still didn’t want to believe anything was wrong—until I tried to switch my coffee cup to my other hand. The cup slipped from my grasp and shattered on the floor. That was the moment I knew. I couldn’t deny it anymore. I was in trouble. I was having a stroke.

This time, I went with the paramedics to the emergency room. But because so much time had passed since the onset of my stroke, I was no longer eligible for the medication that could have reduced its impact.

Looking back, this experience is a stark reminder of how critical it is to have emergency plans in place—at schools, in athletic programs, in workplaces, and anywhere people gather. A plan is so much more than calling 911 or starting CPR. It’s about coordination and communication: ensuring paramedics know exactly where to go, that CPR is initiated when needed, that accurate information is relayed to emergency teams, and that family and friends are informed and supported.

You cannot assume these things will happen seamlessly without a plan. My story is proof of how precious every second is in an emergency—and how much difference a well-thought-out plan could have made.

The past is over, you can’t change it. While the future isn’t here yet, the present is. The present is a gift we all have today. Let’s use that gift to shape the direction of the future. Choose to make a difference. I encourage you to get involved with the American Heart Association. Together, we can change the future of health and be the progress that ensures longer, healthier lives for all.