To Whom It May Concern,
This letter is written with purpose—and with the weight of having witnessed what happens when a healthcare system stops seeing the human being in front of it. It is not a complaint. It is not an attack. It is a plea—for accountability, for change, and for the return of what once made healthcare truly meaningful: humanity.
This letter speaks not to a single story, but to many. It gives voice to those who were silenced. It speaks on behalf of someone who suffered—needlessly—in the final months of his life. While the events described are real, this letter does not target any one institution or individual. It speaks to a system-wide failure that continues to silence and abandon those who choose differently.
My brother was diagnosed with lymphoma and made a legal, personal decision to decline chemotherapy. He asked, respectfully, if there were other ways to be supported. From that moment on, the system began to turn its back. Doors closed. Support disappeared. Appointments were delayed or denied. Reception turned cold. His dignity and rights were treated as if they no longer mattered. He tried again and again to access care, but each time was met with the same dismissive answers—“Call back tomorrow,” “The system is down,” “No appointments available.” The message was clear: if you do not comply, you do not count.
Even when he made the difficult decision to request Medical Assistance in Dying (MAiD), no one answered. He couldn’t even get through to secure an appointment to discuss the forms. And when he pleaded for something—anything—to ease the unbearable pain of advanced throat lymphoma, the support he received fell painfully short of what any human being should expect when facing the end of life.
His body weakened. He struggled to breathe. He lost his voice. He could no longer eat. He was fading right in front of his family. He called. He asked. He cried out for help. And the system stayed silent. Instead of receiving true palliative care, he was offered antidepressants—as if choosing a different medical path, one without chemotherapy, somehow made him confused, irrational, or mentally unwell. It felt like punishment. It was not care. It was abandonment.
The sad reality is that this is not an isolated case. Across the healthcare system, care has become cold, transactional, and increasingly out of reach for those who ask for a different path. Calls go unanswered. Patients are rushed or brushed off. Public reviews echo the same pattern: dismissiveness, delayed care, and disregard for those who question or choose differently.
The influence of pharmaceutical agendas in modern care is no longer a secret. Prescribing incentives and rigid protocols far too often take priority over patient-centered care. But patients are not checklists or data points. They are human beings. And when treatment becomes more about following systems than seeing the person, the system stops healing.
Families are left to watch their loved ones deteriorate, powerless to help, while the system shrugs, hands are tied, and suffering is dismissed. But not everyone forgot their oath. When my brother reached the breaking point of his suffering, it was not the clinic that stepped in. It was a single physician—not even responsible for his care—who heard the cry of a dying man and answered it. We called him the Samaritan. He didn’t have to act. He chose to. He listened. He acted with urgency, clearing away the barriers that had been left behind. He did what no one else had done: he showed up when it mattered.
And he did not stand alone. Alongside him came a small team of extra-mural nurses—steady, skilled, and present. My brother called them the angels. They didn’t see him as a burden or a case to manage. They saw him as a human being deserving of care. They didn’t just perform a task—they brought warmth, presence, and reassurance. They stood with his family in those final moments, the ones who had carried the weight of witnessing his pain day after day, holding on through every moment of suffering. And in choosing to show up, they gave back what had been taken for so long: dignity, comfort, and peace.
My brother did not die alone. He did not die abandoned. He left this world knowing he was seen, heard, and cared for—because of the few who refused to look away.
So we ask: What happens to a system when the price of care is measured in dollars instead of human dignity? Healthcare must return to what matters—not protocols, not paperwork, not profit margins, but people. It is about the human being in front of you, scared, suffering, asking for help, and the family waiting on the other end of the phone, hoping someone will finally answer, holding on to the smallest hope that someone will care.
Too often, that hope is crushed by the very first gatekeeper—a receptionist who plays favorites, raises their voice, hangs up without warning, or leaves patients waiting in endless call queues, only to be disconnected and forced to start all over again. It is easy to become disconnected from reality when you are on the inside looking out, but for those on the outside—desperate, scared, and begging for care—it feels like being locked out of a system that no longer sees them as human beings.
And if you are lucky enough to get past that gatekeeper, you are often met with a detached system that seems to have grown numb from seeing too many suffering faces. But no matter how overwhelmed or desensitized the system has become, the truth remains—they chose this profession. They chose to stand at the frontlines of human need. And with that choice comes a responsibility to care, to show up, and to never let someone’s pain be dismissed as just another file, another number, or another problem to avoid.
To those who still carry compassion—the ones who showed up, who listened, who acted—thank you will never be enough. You reminded us that the title you carry is not just a credential. It is The promise: to protect the vulnerable, to uphold dignity, and to never turn away from a human being in need. You reminded us that humanity still lives in medicine.
And to those who have forgotten what that promise means, we ask you now—look again. Take a long, honest look at the certificate on your wall, and ask yourself if you have truly honored the oath behind it. Not the title. Not the paycheck. The promise. Because in the end, healing does not come from policies or procedures, but from the presence of people who bring empathy, courage, and humanity when it matters most.
And it is written in the hope that it reaches the hearts of doctors, nurses, front-line care workers—and yes, even the gatekeepers, whose voices are the first that patients hear—not to shame or blame, but to help them remember that every word, every choice, every moment of presence matters. To invite them all, every single day, to choose again—not for policies, not for paychecks, but for the next person who needs to feel seen, heard, and not forgotten.
Sincerely,
A Voice for the Silenced, written for my brother, whose courage gave life to this letter.
(On behalf of those who were abandoned for choosing differently)