Solitaire Miles was born in the 1960s to hippie parents. They named her after a glamorous character in the James Bond novel Live and Let Die.
But glamour was not a trait Miles identified with growing up.
"I went to Catholic schools, and I was sort of a science geek," Miles said. " I got along well in school, and good grades were my main focus."
In 1985, just a few months after graduating from high school, Miles had a stroke. Her mother rushed her to the hospital. But instead of receiving medical attention, the nursing staff accused Miles of being on drugs.
"Probably because my name was Solitaire and it was the mid-1980s," Miles suggested.
Miles' mother argued with the nursing staff, trying to convince the staff members that her daughter wasn't intoxicated.
"And while they argued, I collapsed and went into a coma. I was unconscious for nearly three days. When I woke up in the ICU, the doctors finally admitted that I had suffered a real stroke."
However, the neurologist treating Miles was convinced that she had taken something to cause the stroke.
"The neurologist ordered a toxicology screen, and it came back clean," Miles said. "And then, instead of apologizing, he accused me of being on birth control pills, because birth control pills can, in some younger women, cause blood clots."
Miles was terrified and too weak to defend herself. But in that moment, her unsung hero appeared: Sister Maura Smith, the principal of Miles' Catholic high school.
"Sister Maura cared deeply about her students, but I was only one student out of hundreds in my class, so when she walked into that ICU room, I was really surprised to see her there."
Miles doesn't know how Sister Maura knew she was in the hospital. But the hospital to which she had been admitted was associated with the Catholic Church, so she figured news of her illness had traveled fast.
"Now, Sister Maura was a big woman. She had a deep, commanding voice and a very strong presence," Miles said. "And once she walked into my hospital room and took a look at the situation, she started yelling."
Miles remembers the nun backing the neurologist up against a wall.
"And as I watched from my bed, she grabbed his white coat collar in her hands and made it really clear that her student wouldn't be abused under her watch."
After a few moments, the doctor muttered something Miles couldn't quite hear. Then, Sister Maura released her grip.
"He slumped back against the wall, and then he left the room very quickly."
Quietly, as though she hadn't just treated a full-grown man like a schoolboy, Sister Maura turned around, sat down in a chair next to Miles' bed, gave her a smile and then took out a rosary and began to pray.
"After that moment ... the whole tone changed, and suddenly the doctor and the staff treated me with more respect. I became a patient instead of a suspect," Miles recalled.
Sister Maura's kindness didn't end there. She stayed by Miles' bedside for hours as the young woman drifted in and out of consciousness.
"Sister Maura walked in the path of compassion and righteousness — not through words, but through action. She showed up, she spoke up and she stayed ... and because she stayed, I lived, and that is the story of my unsung hero."
My Unsung Hero is also a podcast — new episodes are released every Tuesday. To share the story of your unsung hero with the Hidden Brain team, record a voice memo on your phone and send it to myunsunghero@hiddenbrain.org.
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