I never expected to stand on the other side of care. As a nurse, I am trained to assess, plan, and intervene. But when my spouse suffered a mild stroke, I stepped into a role that no training fully prepares you for that of a caregiver.
Despite being classified as mild, the stroke left him with right-sided hemiplegia. Overnight, independence was replaced by dependence.
Activities of daily living became obstacles. Feeding, bathing, dressing, and mobility required assistance. The physical limitations were evident, but the emotional toll ran deeper. Loss of function often translates into loss of dignity, and that is something no clinical guideline can fully address.
Investigations were reassuring on paper. Brain imaging showed no evidence of hemorrhage, pointing to an ischemic event. From an evidence-based standpoint, we proceeded with standard care including antiplatelet therapy, rehabilitation, and risk factor management.
I leaned heavily on structured physiotherapy, emphasizing repetition, consistency, and early mobilisation. As a nurse, I understood the science. As a caregiver, I felt the slow and often discouraging pace of recovery.
Progress was not linear. Days of small improvement were followed by plateaus. It was in this space of uncertainty that we began to explore beyond conventional medicine. Like many families in Malaysia, we turned to traditional practices not out of ignorance, but out of hope.
One approach we tried was leech therapy. It is believed in traditional practice that leeches remove stagnant blood and improve circulation. From a scientific perspective, the mechanism in stroke recovery remains unproven.
Yet, I chose not to dismiss it outright. Instead, I ensured it was done safely, with attention to hygiene and monitoring for complications.
This experience forced me to confront an uncomfortable truth. Evidence-based practice does not always address the emotional and cultural realities of patients and families. While science guides treatment, belief sustains perseverance.
As nurses, we are taught to prioritise data, outcomes, and protocols. But caregiving revealed another dimension. Patients are not just clinical cases.
They are individuals navigating fear, uncertainty, and hope. Families, too, are active participants in the healing process, often seeking meaning beyond what medicine can quantify.
Caring for my spouse reshaped my practice. I became more patient, more observant, and more respectful of perspectives outside textbook medicine. I learned that small gains matter. A slight movement, a steadier step, a moment of independence these are victories that redefine progress.
This journey highlighted a critical gap. We need to bridge science and tradition rather than position them as opposing forces. Dismissing traditional practices outright risks alienating patients.
Blindly accepting them without scrutiny risks harm. The balance lies in informed openness grounded in safety and respect.
Caregiving is relentless. It demands physical effort, emotional resilience, and constant adaptation.
But it also brings clarity. It reminds us why we entered this profession in the first place. Not just to treat disease, but to care for people.
Low Kim Lian is a lecturer at the School of Nursing, Faculty of Medicine and Life Sciences, Sunway University,
- This is the personal opinion of the writer or publication and does not necessarily represent the views of Ova.
