Healthcare… two syllables, a social pact, a promise made of outstretched hands and trembling hearts. Yet every morning, those hands find empty doctor’s rooms and corridors full of fatigue. Gurneys pile up like cardboard boxes beneath a glowing sign that reads “Emergency Room,” but no one tells you that beyond the door lies a wait that feels like a sentence. Remember your neighborhood hospital? Once it was a refuge, now it’s a war zone: digital charts freezing, staff on the brink, wards pared to the bone. The State, that grand director, pulled funding and cut beds— now your hospital stay is a lottery: will you walk out alive? Wait in the hallway or go home with a dripping bandage? Kitchens serve tasteless meals, because the materials budget is meager. Nurses sprint with their carts, yet there aren’t enough of them to cover every shift. Security guards forbid you keepsakes: “No outside food,” “No blankets,” “Don’t disrupt the routine.” Meanwhile hospital bills stay unpaid, accounts stay red, and the wards smell of economics, not of care. They sell you excellence in glossy brochures, leather armchairs and marble waiting rooms, but then you learn an MRI costs extra, a covered ultrasound means a six-month wait, and if you want private priority, prepare to leave a third of your paycheck at reception. City hospitals swallow doctors and doctors flee to richer nations. A surgeon working sixty-hour weeks becomes a weary hero, while specialties are bought at a high price and scholarships are a mirage. Training? Another expense slashed. Biomedical research? A luxury the treasury deems nonessential. What about chronic patients? Premature infants? Elderly with labored breaths? Hospital bureaucracy becomes an unclimbable mountain of lawsuits, insurance disputes, bureaucratic silence. The prescription slip costs fifty cents, yet each pill comes at a higher price: your dignity in not feeling like a burden, your peace of mind in not fearing a budget cut will push you off the list. And regional co-pays? A spaceship of codes and deadlines. “Family” isn’t enough—you need pay stubs, ISEE certificates, attestations, valid papers, and one wrong stamp and you start all over again. Have they ever told you healthcare is a right? They repeat it in campaign speeches, then drain resources, dismantle departments, privatize ward by ward. They call them “community hospitals”: rooms where a bed counts more than a caress, shifts that run until collapse, silences that drown out tears. And general practitioners? They’re vanishing rarities. Your “trusted doctor” is now a screen behind a call, a prescription sent by email, a click for each test and every symptom. Human contact shrinks to a report, a visit to a recorded consultation. Prevention doesn’t trend, it doesn’t buy ad space in elections. Mammogram campaigns cost less than an annoying statistic, mass vaccinations earn a triumphant tweet, yet leaking ceilings stay open, crumbling walls remain, reminding us bricks matter more than beating hearts. And yet, in every ward, a shred of humanity survives: the nurse who holds your hand, the volunteer who breaks the silence, the technician explaining the machine with a tired smile. They deserve the true applause, not those who cut and sell pieces of healthcare on clearance. So, citizens, shall we make a pact? Let’s stop applauding the white coat as a miracle. Let’s stop treating our health as an optional extra. Let’s stop turning blind eyes to the wounds of public healthcare. We need real investment, not a PR operation. We need living hospitals, not bait for health tourists. We need medicine that heals, not balance-sheet numbers. We need a system that measures wellbeing in saved lives, not saved costs. And if this monologue rekindles in your chest a fire of rage and compassion, don’t snuff it out—ignite it in your mayors, deputies, ministers. Because a nation’s true health isn’t in spending charts, but in the smiles of patients going home, in hands trembling no more at the mere thought of an unpaid co-pay or an endless corridor of waiting. Good night, Healthcare… tomorrow we ask you to wake up.