This article is part of an ongoing Stroke & Patient Advocacy series documenting Katina Rankin’s personal experience navigating Mississippi’s healthcare system.
By K. Monroe Carter/Permission Granted by Katina Rankin
A firsthand account of neglect, dismissal, and the empathy deficit harming patients across the state.
Let’s talk about inpatient therapy. Let’s talk about what really happens behind the polished brochures, the reputation, and the glossy claims of “premier care.” I fought to be admitted to one of the top rehabilitation centers in Mississippi. Their reputation preceded them. I expected excellence. I expected professionalism. I expected basic human decency.
This is not about bashing care. It’s about telling the truth — my truth.
When a patient enters a facility, often broken, frightened, and adjusting to a new reality, they deserve respect. Yes, my presence helps pay salaries. But beyond the economics, patients deserve dignity, compassion, and safety. Those should not be negotiable.
And let me be clear: I did have blessings. I went from temporary right-side paralysis to riding in my “Cadillac” — my wheelchair — to walking with a walker because GOD and dedicated therapists got me there. I was told by a health professional at another facility that I wouldn’t walk for a year. My response: “No offense. I don’t receive that. I trust GOD to heal me.” And HE did and is!
But that doesn’t erase what I endured.
Unheard. Uncared For. Dismissed.
One day I was extremely short-winded and felt awful. I told my physical therapist. We kept going. When the doctor walked in, I tried to express my symptoms. The therapist talked over me to say my vitals were “normal.”
Shouldn’t patients be listened to? Shouldn’t our bodies and voices matter? I knew something was wrong — the same way I knew when I kept falling before my stroke was diagnosed. Yet in that moment, I felt invisible.
And this wasn’t an isolated incident.
Techs repeatedly dismissed patients who pressed the call button. One walked into my room mid-shift, sat on the sofa, and carried on a heated personal phone call — then had the audacity to laugh it off: “Sorry, I don’t know why my friend is calling me with drama at work.”
Meanwhile, I was a fall risk, unable to safely get to the restroom by myself. Two moments stand out:
1. The One-Hour Disappearance.
I called for assistance and was told someone would be right in. I waited. And waited. My blinds were open. I could see the sundeck. My assigned tech was outside on the phone for an hour. Yes, I timed it.
2. The Argument Over Who Would Help Me.
A tech and a nurse got into a verbal tug-of-war with words — over who should assist me to the restroom. A supervisor later appeared asking what happened. What happened? I was trying to heal while adults argued about doing their jobs.
The Final Straw: A Dirty Plate and Filthy Towels
That day is seared into my memory.
I ordered catfish from rehabilitation room service. It arrived. I pinched a piece — delicious. Then I went to move it to add ketchup and hot sauce. Underneath the fish was a dried, crusted spaghetti stain. Not a fresh mistake — a used plate.
Let that sink in: I was served food on someone else’s dirty plate.
Shaken, I rolled myself into the bathroom for a fresh towel. The first towel had pubic hair on it. The second had a booger. The third had a bloodstain.
My hands were shaking as I photographed everything: the soiled plate, the contaminated towels. Then I rolled to a supervisors office and showed them to the supervisor. I immediately asked my case manager for early discharge.
His response? “Next time, take pictures.”
I handed him my phone.
Mississippi’s Real Healthcare Crisis: A Deficit of Empathy
Before nurses, techs, CNAs, and food service workers start composing rebuttals filled with “We’re overworked”—stop. Ask yourself:
Is this how you’d want your loved one treated?
Stop hiding behind the shield of “short-staffed.” This is a wake-up call to Mississippi’s healthcare industry.
Every few months we hear the same refrain:
“We’re overworked.”
“We’re burned out.”
“We’re short-staffed.”
Let’s call it what it has become: a crutch. A convenient, rehearsed excuse used to deflect complaints and silence patients who dare to speak up.
Mississippians know hard work. Teachers are teaching without supplies, feeding children out of their own pockets — including children of the very healthcare professionals who shout “burnout” the loudest. Law enforcement officers work double shifts in dangerous conditions. Nonprofits stretch pennies into lifelines. Grocery clerks, social workers — all overworked.
The difference?
They still care. They still show up for people.
Here in Mississippi, we don’t just have a staffing crisis — we have an empathy crisis.
The Mississippi Board of Nursing reports more than 66,000 licensed nurses in the state, yet patient complaints keep rising. These aren’t complaints about wait times — they’re about neglect. Indifference. Mistreatment.
The Mississippi Department of Health confirms that complaints pour in regularly from hospitals and nursing homes. If “overwork” is the excuse, then overworked doing what? Because too many patients — especially the vulnerable — are being ignored, dismissed, or mishandled.
Healthcare today is loud about “self-care” and quiet about accountability.
Everyone wants higher pay, better hours, and viral sympathy posts.
But compassion?
Service?
Duty?
Somewhere along the way, those became optional.
Let me be crystal clear:
Yes, staffing shortages are real.
Yes, burnout is real.
But so is choice — the choice to treat people with decency.
Being tired doesn’t excuse cruelty.
Being short-staffed doesn’t justify neglect.
The next time someone says, “We’re doing the best we can,” ask:
For whom?
Because if patients don’t feel it, the job isn’t getting done.
Real heroes don’t beg for hashtags. They roll up their sleeves, they serve, and when something is broken, they fix it.
Mississippi doesn’t need another press release about burnout.
Mississippi needs healthcare workers who remember why they entered the profession:
TO CARE.
And let me add — this is not an indictment of every worker in the building. There were gems on the 3rd floor, and my outpatient therapy team treats me with love, skill, and humanity.
That story comes next.
Mississippi stands at a crossroads. We can keep pretending that burnout is the only villain, or we can confront the painful truth: a healthcare system without compassion is a machine — cold, mechanical, and dangerous. Patients deserve better. Families deserve better. Mississippi deserves better. And unless we demand change — real, measurable, enforced change — more people will suffer in silence. I will not be silent. My story is not just a testimony; it is a warning, and it is a call to action. Accountability is not cruelty. It is care. And it’s time our healthcare system remembered the difference.
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Katina Rankin is a stroke survivor, journalist, author, and founder of Katina’s Klassroom, a nonprofit literacy initiative in Simpson County, Mississippi, dedicated to empowering children and families through reading, equity, and food security.
Editor’s Note: This series aims to empower Mississippi communities, especially underrepresented voices, with accessible knowledge while emphasizing professional care. Stay informed, but prioritize your healthcare provider’s expertise.
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