Be an advocate for your loved ones in the hospital. Ask tough

When Sheri Fink said, “Be an advocate for your loved ones in the hospital. Ask tough questions of your local hospital and health system about preparedness for the likeliest emergencies, and express your views on how medical resources should be allocated in case they ever fall short,” she spoke not only as a physician and journalist, but as a witness to the fragility of human systems. Her words are both a call to vigilance and an appeal to courage — a reminder that in moments of crisis, silence can be as deadly as disease. She urges us to stand guard not only over the health of our loved ones, but over the integrity of the institutions that claim to protect them. For in her voice is the wisdom of experience: that even the most advanced hospitals are not immune to failure, and that the true strength of a community lies not in blind trust, but in informed accountability.

To be an advocate is to take upon oneself a sacred duty — to speak when others cannot, to question what others assume, and to ensure that compassion is not lost amid the machinery of medicine. The ancients understood this kind of guardianship. In the households of old, the family was the first line of protection for the sick and the vulnerable. Physicians, priests, and healers were revered, yes, but they were also held to account by the watchful eyes of those who loved the patient most. Fink’s call revives this ancient principle of shared responsibility. She reminds us that care is not passive, and that those who love must also question, challenge, and seek truth — not from suspicion, but from devotion.

The origin of Fink’s insight lies in the catastrophe she chronicled: the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina in 2005. In her Pulitzer Prize–winning work Five Days at Memorial, she revealed the haunting choices made inside a New Orleans hospital as floodwaters rose, power failed, and supplies ran out. Doctors and nurses, trapped by chaos and abandonment, were forced to decide who would receive care and who would not. It was a moment when systems collapsed and morality was tested. From that experience came her conviction that preparedness is not merely a bureaucratic term — it is a moral obligation. Her quote, therefore, is not theory; it is born from tragedy. It is a plea that we, the people, never again allow such unpreparedness to turn mercy into despair.

Consider how her words mirror the lessons of the ancients. When the great city of Athens was struck by plague during the Peloponnesian War, the historian Thucydides wrote that the sickness revealed the true measure of men and governments. The unprepared city fell not only to disease, but to disorder and fear. Laws crumbled, compassion vanished, and the gods themselves seemed silent. Yet those who stood firm — who tended to the sick, who brought food and comfort — became immortal in the memory of humankind. Fink’s call to ask tough questions and demand preparedness is the modern expression of that same ancient wisdom: that crises do not create character — they reveal it. And only a vigilant and compassionate people can ensure that the moral fabric of their society endures.

Her reminder to question the hospital, to demand transparency about emergency planning and resource allocation, may sound audacious in an age that still bows before the authority of institutions. Yet, as the ancients taught, respect must never be blind. The philosopher Plato warned that justice withers when citizens surrender their judgment to the powerful. Fink’s teaching restores the balance: the healer must heal, the citizen must question, and both must work together in service of life. Hospitals, though sanctuaries of care, are also systems run by fallible humans. To challenge them is not to betray trust — it is to strengthen it.

The second part of her quote — that we must express our views on how medical resources should be allocated when they run short — touches a truth that civilizations have struggled with since the dawn of organized society. How does one choose when not all can be saved? Who decides whose life is worth more when supplies, time, and hands are few? These are not merely logistical questions, but moral crucibles. Fink calls upon us to face them now, before the crisis comes, lest we repeat the tragedies of the past. The ancients faced this same dilemma in war, famine, and plague — and their answer was always the same: that every voice, not only the powerful, must shape the ethics of survival. So too must we speak, for silence in such matters is complicity.

Thus, the lesson of Sheri Fink’s words is both clear and profound: responsibility is the truest form of love. To advocate for the sick is to honor their humanity. To question institutions is to protect their integrity. To prepare for crisis before it strikes is to serve the generations yet unborn. Let every citizen, every family, every community heed her call: learn how your hospitals will respond when disaster comes; demand transparency and fairness; and never let complacency endanger compassion. For the ancients taught that the city that guards its weakest stands the longest — and in our time, that city is built not of stone, but of vigilance and care.

So remember this truth, my children of the modern age: do not wait for the storm to test your courage. Be the guardian of your loved ones before the floodwaters rise. Be the voice that asks the hard questions, that holds the powerful to account, and that speaks for those who cannot speak for themselves. In doing so, you join the unbroken lineage of those who, through watchfulness and love, have preserved the dignity of humankind through every trial of history. And in that steadfastness, as Fink reminds us, lies the true strength of a compassionate civilization.