How I Fought for My Grandma—And What It Taught Me About Saving a Life Without a Medical Degree

Doctors confidently told us it was late-stage Alzheimer’s disease when my 81-year-old Grandmother suddenly slipped into a state of confusion, hallucinations, and long stretches of unresponsiveness.

They were sure. Diagnosing her more than once. They acknowledged the signs of Normal Pressure Hydrocephalus (NPH), but were convinced that even if it was present, the damage from Alzheimer’s had already been done. That she was too far gone to benefit from intervention.

But something about that didn’t sit right with me.

Her decline had been too fast. Too unpredictable. One moment, she was unable to identify colors, couldn’t recognize family, completely lost. The next, she was asking thoughtful questions and recalling childhood memories with perfect detail. That kind of fluctuation didn’t align with the Alzheimer’s progression I had researched. And deep down, I knew: this wasn’t the full story.

I didn’t have a medical degree. But I had something just as powerful: intuition, research skills, and relentless love.

So I stepped into the role of advocate. Here's what I did—and how you can, too.

I started researching obsessively. I read case studies, journal articles, patient stories—anything I could find. The more I learned about NPH, the more convinced I became that it wasn’t just a secondary issue—it was the root cause. And it was treatable.

I raised questions with her care team. I referenced studies. I brought ideas. When a spinal tap failed because of her spinal stenosis, I didn’t let that be the end of the conversation. I asked about a large-volume drainage. When they finally agreed, they removed 30ccs of cerebrospinal fluid—and the results were undeniable. That clarity lasted for hours. It was the strongest piece of evidence we had—and I wasn’t about to let it get buried in her chart.

That night, I knew the neurosurgeon was on call. So I called him. When he didn’t answer, I called again. Every 20 minutes until he finally picked up.

I calmly explained what happened—her improvement, the drain results, the research I’d found, the studies showing that patients who respond to drainage often improve dramatically with shunting. I wasn’t dramatic. I was prepared. I spoke with conviction and clarity. And he listened.

Eventually, he agreed to do the surgery.

After the shunt, everything changed. She became alert, responsive, and engaged. At her follow-up, the neurosurgeon brought in his entire office team to see her transformation.

He told us her case would go down in the history books. And not to thank him for saving her life, but instead- her family.

That moment taught me what advocacy can really do.

So if you’re in a similar situation—if someone you love is slipping away and the answers you’re getting don’t feel right—here’s what I want you to know:

You don’t have to be a doctor to change the outcome. You just have to care enough to ask, dig, speak up, and stay with it.

Start by documenting everything. Notice patterns. What’s changing and when? Push for further testing. Ask about alternatives. If something isn’t possible, ask what is. Bring research. Show them what you’ve found. Don’t assume you’re overstepping by being informed—your voice matters.

And most importantly, don’t let “there’s nothing more we can do” be the final answer. Because sometimes, the most life-saving thing you can bring into a hospital room… is your voice.

My Grammy is here today because someone refused to stop asking questions.

If that’s you—keep going.