COVID Era Hospital Nightmares - Neglect and Abuse

Remembering the hospital horrors of the past 5 years

Five years ago, under the guise of "Stay Safe," hospitals enforced life-threatening no-visitor policies, isolating patients during their most vulnerable moments. Consumed by endless rigid COVID-19 protocols, the compassionate care once provided gave way to neglect, leaving defenseless patients to suffer and, tragically, pass away alone. Even as time wore on, the lifeline of patient advocates was cruelly denied, stripping patients of their voice and autonomy in critical medical decisions.

Medical advocates, the steadfast guardians of patient rights, were barred from offering their essential support. With families locked out, countless patients faced confusion and despair, unable to question treatments or even voice their needs. Deprived of basic comforts like hydration and mobility assistance, many deteriorated rapidly, their pleas unheard.

This devastating absence of advocacy led to unnecessary suffering and death—not from COVID-19 itself, but from the very protocols meant to protect. This heart-wrenching reality illuminated the irreplaceable role of medical advocates in shielding patients, ensuring informed consent, and holding healthcare systems accountable. In a world where efficiency often trumps empathy, advocacy is not just beneficial—it's a lifeline. We must vow that such a betrayal of our most vulnerable will never happen again.

My Family’s Story

The events of December 27, 2021, initiated a devastating ordeal. My parents, both hearing-impaired and suffering from altered mental status, dehydration, and acute kidney injury, were admitted to Virtua Our Lady of Lourdes Hospital. As their Medical Power of Attorney, I was prepared to advocate for them, but instead, I was forcibly removed from the emergency room by security, leaving them vulnerable and without support. Hours of agonizing uncertainty followed before I received any information. The subsequent call, informing me that my stepfather required a ventilator, was delivered with a sense of urgency that left me no room for an informed decision. Though initially hesitant, I trusted the doctor's assertion that it was his only chance. A decision I now profoundly regret, as a post-mortem review of his medical records revealed critical omissions that prevented me from making a truly informed choice.

I relentlessly sought updates from the doctor regarding my parents' condition, but my pleas were met with deafening silence. Days turned into an agonizing void, devoid of any communication from the hospital or my parents themselves. I was left in a state of desperate uncertainty, with no understanding of their conditions, no awareness of their care plan, and unable to even reach my mother via the hospital phone. A nurse's callous assertion that my mother refused to speak to me proved to be a cruel deception. She was, in fact, trapped within the hospital, deprived of basic care, and desperately calling for water.

The grim reality of my parents' hospitalization was painstakingly pieced together from medical records, documents deliberately withheld while they were under the hospital's care, leaving me in a state of agonizing ignorance, utterly unaware of the suffering, neglect, and mistreatment unfolding behind those closed doors; this deliberate withholding of crucial information, hidden within chart reviews only uncovered months later, left me powerless to make informed decisions or advocate for them in real-time, as transparency was denied and their care was left to those who failed to communicate, fostering a constant state of uncertainty and fear for their well-being. Their stories, their struggles, and the moments I should have been there to advocate for them were all locked away in these records. This lack of communication, this disregard for family involvement, is something we cannot allow to continue. Families should not have to fight to learn what is happening to their loved ones; it should be their right to be informed every step of the way.

Three days after her admittance, I finally reached my mother. She was sobbing, pleading for water—a basic human need cruelly denied. I immediately confronted the nurses and, after a barrage of calls, finally reached the doctor, confirming there were no fluid restrictions. Shockingly, despite her prior UTI diagnosis, no antibiotics had been administered. Then, communication abruptly ceased; my attempts to reach her, the nurses, and the doctors were met with silence. She was left to suffer, isolated and ignored, a victim of the hospital's callous indifference.

The question still haunts me: why was my mother, desperately begging for water, denied this basic necessity? It was painfully obvious she was struggling to communicate with the staff; her hearing impairment, compounded by the staff's masks, created an insurmountable barrier. Each phone call brought the same heartbreaking plea, and each time, I erupted in fury, demanding answers from the nurses' station. Instead of addressing the core issue, they resorted to a cruel tactic: confiscating her communication devices. They silenced her, cutting off her lifeline to me and leaving her utterly helpless, unable to even call for assistance.

By the fourth day, my mother's condition had deteriorated alarmingly. She was disoriented, denied essential care, and critically dehydrated, reaching a breaking point with the hospital. A nurse's report documented her removal of her IV and refusal to allow a replacement, her desperate cries of "I want to leave" and "don't touch me" echoing her distress. When the nurse attempted to assess her orientation, she responded with curses and complete non-compliance. Despite being informed of her deteriorating condition and lack of IV access, the doctor's response remained tragically inadequate.

On day five, just after midnight, the nurse placed my mom in restraints, citing reasons such as “removing lines, tubing, and being combative.” What followed was nothing short of horrific:

At 74 years old, my mother was subjected to 11.5 hours of physical restraints, a horrifying ordeal lasting from midnight until 11:35 a.m. During this time, she was forced to endure the unspeakable indignity of sitting in her own urine and feces, her nose bleeding as she desperately pulled out clots, with no assistance whatsoever. Her hospital gown was soaked and stained with blood. She begged for water, which was confirmed in an audio recording. Despite her desperate state, no one helped her clean her up or change her wet clothes.

Respiratory therapy documented her oxygen saturation at 90-91% on 15L of oxygen, though she remained disoriented but responsive. By 11:35 a.m., the nurse finally came in to clean her up and administer medication. The nurse documented: “Patient seems to be following commands a little better. Patient is still confused and her lips look bluish pale.” Yet, despite this, the nurse administered 1mg of Ativan, a sedative that only worsened her confusion and breathing.

Upon the attending doctor's arrival, he immediately removed the restraints, but my mother's lips remained alarmingly bluish pale, a clear sign of oxygen deprivation. Yet, no immediate action was taken to address her critical condition. The horrifying truth was revealed hours later: the oxygen line had been completely unplugged from the wall. It wasn't until 3:33 p.m., a full fifteen hours after she was restrained, that a physical therapist made this shocking discovery. Only then was the oxygen reconnected, and the nursing staff finally alerted to this near-fatal oversight.

Months later, I discovered something chilling. I had missed a call that went straight to voicemail. In this 3-minute audio recording, my mom was speaking directly to the doctor (the nurse was in the room), begging for help and explaining the abuse she was enduring. She told the doctor that the nurse was torturing her and wanted another nurse, Lou. She explained that they had taken away her communication devices—no nursing call button, no hospital phone.

For nearly two agonizing weeks, I was systematically cut off from my mother, struggling to reach her by phone. It wasn't until I secured legal counsel and finally gained access to visit her that I discovered the shocking truth: the hospital phone had been deliberately hidden in the closet, a calculated act to sever her connection to me. Even then, a single call slipped through, going straight to voicemail. Though I kept my cell phone close, I missed it, and that voicemail became a chilling testament to the horrors she endured within those hospital walls, a desperate cry for help captured in her own voice.

You can listen to the voicemail and see the accompanying pictures/slides that explain what was happening throughout the audio.

https://rumble.com/v509w28-whats-happening-in-the-hospitals.html

Months later, while reviewing Mom’s medical records, I discovered undeniable proof of the hospital’s neglect through those records. At 74 years old, she was suffering from altered mental status and severe dehydration, yet her care was shockingly inadequate. She wasn’t even tested for a UTI until two days after being admitted and wasn’t given antibiotics until 17 days later. Meanwhile, the hospital remained singularly focused on COVID-19, ignoring other treatable conditions that were rapidly worsening. In addition, she was denied IV fluids for 24 hours, further exacerbating her condition. As I continued reviewing her records, each new discovery was more infuriating than the last—a clear and devastating pattern of neglect that should never have happened.

A baffling and deeply concerning pattern emerged from my mother's medical records: multiple entries incorrectly designated Spanish as her primary language, despite her complete lack of proficiency. Staff members even documented their confusion, noting, "Patient is answering in English?" This begs the question: were they attempting to communicate with her in Spanish throughout her entire ordeal? Had I been present, this egregious error would have been immediately corrected. Instead, the hospital failed to fulfill their basic duty of care, neglecting to communicate with me, her designated medical advocate. It was glaringly obvious she was unable to effectively manage her hospital stay. Yet, not a single staff member bothered to confirm her language preferences. Despite my explicit notification on the very first day of her admission that she was hearing impaired, they inexplicably chose to speak to her in a language she didn't understand, rather than simply contacting me.

A truly alarming entry in my mother's medical records documented a "Delayed or Excessive Hemorrhage following failed attempted termination of pregnancy," a claim utterly detached from reality. My 74-year-old mother, with no indication of pregnancy, was subjected to this egregious error, revealing a catastrophic failure in the hospital's ability to accurately assess and document her condition. This wasn't a solitary mistake; her records contained multiple instances of this bizarre misdiagnosis. Further compounding the issue, she was placed on the mother/baby unit, likely used in part for COVID patients, raising serious concerns about the appropriateness of her placement and the standard of care she received. The potential ramifications of this misdiagnosis are terrifying. Could it have influenced her care, leading to incorrect treatments or unnecessary procedures, further endangering her health? The fact that this false diagnosis was propagated in her home healthcare referral underscores the systemic breakdown in the hospital’s protocols and communication. This error wasn't merely a clerical oversight; it was a glaring red flag, a symptom of the chaos and negligence that permeated my mother's hospitalization. It threatened the continuity of her care, potentially leading subsequent healthcare providers to make critical decisions based on fabricated information, thereby obscuring her actual medical needs. Had I been allowed to advocate for her, this dangerous and absurd error would have been rectified, preventing the potential for further harm.

While my mother was being neglected by the hospital, my stepdad remained on a ventilator as his condition worsened. The doctor informed me that Remdesivir had been stopped due to declining kidney function, which had worsened due to the drug. However, I never authorized the use of Remdesivir. Months later, when I reviewed his medical records, I discovered that, without my knowledge or consent, the hospital administered powerful medications to him, including Remdesivir, Baricitinib, Fentanyl, Precedex, Rocuronium, and even a flu shot. As his medical POA, I was legally responsible for making his medical decisions, yet I was never informed of these treatments, which ultimately led to his declining health in the hospital. They had taken complete control of my stepdad’s body, his life, and his choices. The doctors and hospital staff ignored my legal authority as his POA and made every decision without me. And through it all, they continued to deny me access to both of my parents. The standard of care was —and still is— nonexistent. Hospitals have become a dangerous place.

My stepfather remained on the ventilator, his body confined by restraints and his mind dulled by fentanyl and midazolam. The question lingered, a chilling echo: why were both my parents subjected to such restrictive measures? For nearly his entire nine-day stay, he was kept bound, a practice that seemed to disregard basic human dignity. The hospital continued to blatantly disregard my legal authority as their Medical Power of Attorney, making critical decisions without consultation and ignoring my rightful role as their advocate. I remained barred from seeing either of them, a powerless observer to their suffering, trapped behind the hospital's closed doors.

Seven days later, I was reassured again that my stepdad’s ventilator dependence was decreasing and that he was improving. When I reviewed the medical records later, I discovered the terrifying truth—my stepdad was unarousable. His sedation level was documented as “unacceptable: patient unresponsive.” They had stopped the midazolam the day before, and he was now only on fentanyl. Yet, no one had informed me that he was in this state. Each page of his medical records revealed a further layer of negligence, compounding the already devastating situation.

The following morning, I called the hospital for an update on my stepfather, and was met with immediate cause for concern. Nurse FP, newly assigned to his care, informed me that my stepfather was now 100% ventilator dependent. This contradicted previous reports indicating a dependence of approximately 40%. When I challenged this discrepancy, he placed me on hold, only to return moments later with a dismissive, "Oops, it's actually 80%." This blatant display of incompetence completely shattered any semblance of trust I had in his ability to provide accurate information or proper care.

The conversation veered into an utterly inappropriate and deeply disturbing direction. Instead of focusing on my stepfather's critical condition, the nurse launched into an unsolicited and accusatory vaccination lecture. He interrogated me about my living situation, my COVID status, and my vaccination status, implying that my parents' suffering was a direct consequence of their unvaccinated status. I was utterly appalled. My stepfather's life hung precariously in the balance, and instead of providing compassionate care, this nurse was delivering a condescending and judgmental lecture.

A chilling realization washed over me: my stepfather was trapped in enemy territory, and I was powerless to reach him. I immediately contacted the doctor, relaying the details of the nurse's disturbing vaccination lecture. I asked her point-blank if the hospital condoned such behavior towards family members. Her attempt to dismiss the incident, claiming "He was probably just trying to educate you," only fueled my outrage. I countered, "No, I know the distinct difference between education and a condescending lecture. That nurse clearly lacks the appropriate mindset to provide care for my stepfather.”

Nurse FP increased my stepdad's Fentanyl four times that day and raised the midazolam five times, despite repeatedly documenting that my stepdad was unarousable and unresponsive between dose increases. Finally, another nurse took over his care and began reducing the midazolam, but by then, the damage had already been done. The hatred of the unvaccinated was real. Joe Biden, Fauci, and the mainstream media had painted a target on the backs of the unvaccinated, and in that hospital room, my stepdad became a victim of it.

Eight days later, the true horror of my stepfather's condition remained hidden from me, revealed only months after his death when I finally gained access to his medical records. That day, he was documented as unarousable and unresponsive, finally free from the restraints that had bound him for so long. But his body was failing. The pulmonary notes painted a devastating picture: hypernatremia, a stark indicator of infection and electrolyte imbalance; sepsis, the body's overwhelming response to infection; shock, the life-threatening collapse of his circulatory system; and acute hypoxic respiratory failure, a direct consequence of COVID pneumonia—UNVACCINATED. The final word, "UNVACCINATED," felt like a cruel and unnecessary postscript to his suffering.

The word "UNVACCINATED" was not a mere medical detail; it was a constant, repetitive refrain throughout my stepfather's records. It became a chilling symbol of the hospital's prevailing mindset, where the unvaccinated were not treated as vulnerable patients deserving of compassionate care, but rather as problematic cases to be processed and disposed of. This relentless labeling revealed a disturbing dehumanization, an attitude that prioritized judgment over medical empathy.

Just as with my mother, the hospital demonstrated a devastating pattern of delayed antibiotic treatment. It wasn't until nine days into his critical condition that they finally initiated antibiotic therapy for his pneumonia.

As I continued to dissect his medical records, a disturbing pattern of injury emerged. My stepfather had developed multiple wounds during his hospitalization: on his chin, perineum, sacrum, and left ear. The implications were horrifying. Were these injuries a direct consequence of prolonged restraint? Had he thrashed in desperate agony while bound? These wounds were not just marks on his body; they were stark, physical manifestations of the hospital's failure. They raised harrowing questions about the level of care he received, revealing a devastating physical toll and underscoring the undeniable inadequacy of his treatment.

The night of January 4, 2022, shattered any semblance of hope. The doctor called, her voice stark and clinical: my stepfather was coding. Instead of focusing solely on the desperate fight to save his life, she remained on the phone with me, coldly narrating the two-minute intervals of their resuscitation attempts. A wave of disbelief and horror washed over me. "Why are you calling me and not focusing on my stepfather?!" I demanded, but she offered no explanation, leaving me to endure the agonizing sounds of their efforts. Seven minutes stretched into an eternity, and then, a flicker of hope: his heart began beating again. She offered a brief promise to call back once he was stabilized, leaving me suspended in a terrifying limbo.

A short, agonizing interval later, the phone rang again. My stepfather was coding once more. The doctor's voice, now a familiar harbinger of dread, counted the two-minute increments. After four minutes, his heart resumed its fragile rhythm. But then came the third call, the one that shattered me completely. The doctor's words were stark and final: his body was trapped in a relentless cycle of coding, a pattern that would likely persist until his inevitable death. She suggested I make him DNR. I was adrift in a sea of confusion and despair, desperately seeking answers, utterly lost. And then, she delivered a blow that will forever haunt me: "We probably broke all his ribs. He's probably in a lot of pain." Though utterly shattered, I consented to the DNR, a decision that felt like a final, crushing defeat. I had never envisioned my stepfather's last moments unfolding in such a horrific manner. Shortly after, a different doctor delivered the final, devastating blow: my stepfather had passed away. He died alone. Utterly alone. No comforting presence, no gentle touch, no loving voice to ease his final moments. The unbearable knowledge that he suffered in isolation, without anyone to advocate for him, will forever be etched into my soul, a haunting reminder of the profound injustice he endured.

My stepfather was gone, the victim of their relentless mistreatment from the moment he entered those doors. There was no time for grief; my focus now shifted entirely to saving my mother. I had to extract her from that place before they inflicted the same fate upon her. Even after my stepfather's death, my mother's care remained appallingly negligent, fueling my growing rage. Following each oxygen desaturation episode, the hospital inexplicably maintained her oxygen levels at artificially high levels for a full 24 hours, instead of attempting to wean her off. When I confronted the pulmonologist, I was told that standard protocol dictated attempting to reduce oxygen levels after a mere 20 minutes. This glaring discrepancy exposed a serious and alarming disregard for established medical protocols, confirming my worst fears about the hospital's competency.

Sixteen days into my mother's harrowing hospital stay, and a mere week after my stepfather's devastating death while on a ventilator, the hospital attempted to coerce me into placing her on the same invasive and potentially fatal device. Despite the trauma of losing my stepfather, and despite my mother's clear lack of need for such aggressive intervention, they pressed me relentlessly but I refused their dangerous request.

Despite my mother's oxygen levels only slightly dipping below normal, the hospital's response was alarmingly disproportionate. They placed her on a specialized mask, causing her oxygen levels to surge far beyond healthy parameters. Dr. SG, an infectious disease specialist, observed my mother during the initial desaturation, noting she was fully alert, communicative, and sitting upright, contradicting the notion of a critical event. Yet, they persisted in treating her as if she were in crisis. Dr. SG prescribed a five-day course of antibiotics, only for Dr. MP, another infectious disease specialist, to abruptly discontinue them after just two days, raising serious questions about the consistency and rationale of her treatment. Even as my mother demonstrated improvement, she was transferred to the Progressive Care Unit, where her oxygen was more than doubled, an extreme measure that seemed entirely unwarranted given her prior recovery from more severe desaturations. Meanwhile, my mother's pleas that the high-flow oxygen was suffocating her were completely ignored, highlighting the hospital's persistent disregard for her voice and her experience.

To add insult to injury, the nursing staff filed a formal complaint against me for my decision to withhold the news of my stepfather's ventilator use and subsequent death from my mother. At that critical juncture, she was disoriented, rapidly deteriorating, and fighting desperately for her own survival. I knew I needed to be present, physically and emotionally, when she received this devastating news, but the hospital, in their relentless obstruction, refused to allow it. Faced with an impossible choice, I made the only decision I could, prioritizing her fragile state and my ability to support her through the ordeal. Their complaint, in light of the circumstances, reveals a profound lack of empathy and a complete disregard for the emotional trauma my mother was enduring.

The medical record revealed “The patient continues to inquire about her husband. Staff have followed the daughter’s wishes, informing the patient that due to HIPAA, they cannot provide details and redirecting her to her daughter for information. The committee supports informing the patient of her spouse’s death. In review with her attending on 1/19/22, and given her current health status, this conversation will be deferred until she improves clinically.”

Day after agonizing day, I persisted, spending countless hours desperately trying to obtain updates, a relentless struggle that mirrored the entirety of her harrowing 30-day hospital ordeal. To this day, I remain in awe of her survival, attributing it solely to divine intervention. She endured 25 days of cruel isolation, a period of profound vulnerability. Even after the established COVID incubation period had passed, Dr. MP, the infectious disease specialist, callously used the pandemic as a convenient excuse to avoid seeing her altogether, abandoning her to her suffering.

The medical record stated, “Unable to obtain subjective information. In the setting of the COVID-19 pandemic, patient observed through glass window only, to reduce personal exposure and preserve PPE.”

For nearly 25 days, I had been desperate to see my mother and the hospital provided little information, leaving me in the dark. With no other options, I was forced to hire an attorney just to be allowed inside the hospital and speak with her. After nearly a month of being alone, I was finally granted permission to visit—but only for 15 minutes.

Seizing the fleeting opportunity, I immediately contacted the doctor, confirming my approval and imploring him to officially lift her isolation. He assured me he would, placing the order and igniting a spark of hope that I would finally be able to hold my mother's hand, offer her comfort, and truly understand the extent of her ordeal. But just before my scheduled visit, the doctor delivered a crushing blow: the hospital administration had overruled his order, and my mother remained trapped in isolation. He also relayed her heartbreaking words, that she had been refusing medications and physical therapy, her voice heavy with despair, "What’s the point? I’m not making it out of here alive." The bureaucratic cruelty of denying her contact with her family, compounded by her own sense of hopeless resignation, was utterly devastating.

Upon my arrival, I witnessed the nurse and aide tending to my mother, and the truth became brutally clear: the bedsores and deep tissue injury were far more severe than they had ever admitted. I was overcome with horror. As they continued, I surveyed the room, and the extent of her isolation became starkly apparent. The nurse call button hung uselessly on the wall, completely out of her reach. The hospital phone was deliberately hidden in the closet, severing her lifeline to me. Her cell phone, her last vestige of connection, was dying, and its charger was nowhere to be found. The food I had brought her over the past two weeks lay untouched, a testament to her neglect. Her water and other essential items were placed on the opposite side of the room, utterly inaccessible from her bed. She was weak, bedridden, and immobile. For weeks, my mother had been confined to this desolate space, deprived of basic necessities: no water, no food, no clock to mark the passage of time, unable to use television for distraction, and no means to contact me. She had been subjected to conditions that were tantamount to imprisonment, left to languish in a state of utter dehumanization.

During my visit, the assistant nurse manager and patient advocate delivered another cruel blow: my previously "approved" 15-minute daily visits had been revoked. Their justification? A dismissive, "It's not fair to others." They then condescendingly granted me three hours that day, with a stern warning of "nothing more." They had neglected my mother for weeks, barring me from her side, and now, having witnessed the devastating consequences of their negligence, they sought to continue isolating her. She was refusing vital treatments, rejecting crucial medications, and barely consuming any sustenance—she desperately needed my presence. Yet, instead of allowing me to provide the support she so clearly required, they continued to obstruct me at every turn, even if it meant jeopardizing her life. It wasn't until months later, while meticulously reviewing my mother's medical records, that I uncovered the disturbing conversations hospital staff had held regarding her mental state—discussions they had deliberately concealed from me.

The lead doctor had documented in the medical record, "Patient is very depressed and appears to be giving up. She asks if she’s going to die practically every day. She’s eating very little. Staff have discussed telling her about her husband’s death, but given her fragile state, we will defer until she is more stable and has family at her bedside.”

The day following my visit, I engaged in a lengthy and heated conversation with the doctor, my fury still simmering. He offered little in the way of answers, but did provide a sliver of hope: if her oxygen levels remained stable, my mother could be discharged within a few days. They proposed a rehab facility, a suggestion I immediately rejected. The doctor, in a condescending tone, warned, "This won't be easy. We don't think you will be able to handle it." I dismissed his concerns outright. My sole focus was extracting her from that place and bringing her home. Even after just a single three-hour visit, the hospital staff had observed a noticeable improvement in her condition, undeniable proof of what I had always known: the vital role of family support in a patient's recovery. But even then, the hospital's campaign against us was far from over.

The day before my mother's scheduled discharge, I received a jarring call from the priest and the nurse manager. The priest, acting as their spokesperson, coldly informed me that the hospital's ethics committee had made a unilateral decision: they would be the ones to break the news of my stepfather's death to my mother. I erupted in fury. "Who do you think you are? This is a private family matter. It's none of your business!" I retorted. "She's coming home tomorrow. You have no authority, and you are absolutely forbidden from saying a word to her." The sheer audacity of their intrusion, after everything they had done—stripping her of her autonomy, disregarding her rights, making life-altering decisions without our consent—was staggering. They had treated her as if she were disposable, as if our family's bond meant nothing. There's a word for that: abuse. While I desperately wanted her homecoming to be a celebration of relief and joy, the stark reality of her condition hit me with devastating force. She was unable to walk, speak clearly, eat, drink, or even use the bathroom independently. And I was now tasked with the daunting responsibility of caring for her severe bedsores and deep tissue injury, the physical manifestations of their neglect.

Before home healthcare arrived arrived, I was competely on my own for three days. Every two hours, I was compelled to reposition her, a grueling task to prevent her bedsores from deteriorating further. She constantly slid down the bed, and each lift was a Herculean effort. I was running on empty, physically and emotionally depleted, gripped by fear and utterly heartbroken. Today, my mother, a testament to resilience, requires 2L of oxygen and lives with diagnoses of Chronic Kidney Disease, liver disease, and PTSD. She needs assistance to walk. She is an extraordinary woman, a fighter, a survivor of what can only be described as torture within a hospital in the United States of America.

Beyond My Story: The Urgent Need for Patient Advocacy

Patients were abused, neglected, and left to suffer in isolation. They died alone, their voices silenced. The systemic failures that enabled these atrocities persist and demand immediate action. We can no longer tolerate the deafening silence that protects those who perpetrate such harm. Patients deserve nothing less than dignity, compassionate care, and the fundamental, inviolable right to have an advocate by their side. It is time to demand legislative action that unequivocally enforces patient rights, prevents medical neglect, and holds hospitals accountable for their decisions. We need laws that guarantee absolute transparency, ensure families are fully informed, and protect patients from the devastating consequences of unnecessary isolation, which leads to irreversible physical and emotional decline. No one should ever be subjected to the horrors my mother endured. If you have information, a story to share, or simply wish to join the fight for change, please reach out to me. Together, we can forge a healthcare system that prioritizes patient dignity, enforces hospital accountability, and guarantees a safer, more transparent future for all. Contact me at fighting4medicalfreedom@proton.me