“He Deserved Better”: The Tragic Loss of Cary Patrick Uhle

Melinda Uhle still hears her husband’s voice, still remembers the last time they spoke—before everything went dark. Before the hospital protocols took him away forever.

It all began in July 2021. Cary Patrick Uhle was full of life. Just days before falling ill, he had gone skydiving with his daughter. A strong, kind, God-fearing man, Cary loved fishing, working as a home inspector, and being with his family. He was married to Melinda for 30 years. They had three children, including a young son, and a baby granddaughter who was only six months old when Cary was taken.

When COVID hit their household, everyone felt sick except their youngest. Cary had been coughing up small amounts of blood, concerned but not in crisis. Out of an abundance of caution, he asked Melinda to take him to the hospital. Neither of them could have known this would be the last time he would walk out free.

Melinda dropped him off at Indian River County Hospital in Vero Beach, Florida. Within moments, they took him away—before even formally admitting him. “He called me and said, ‘I think this was a mistake. They’ve got me in a closet,’” Melinda remembered. When she tried to take him home, staff told her, “You can’t have him.” He wasn’t even admitted. No paperwork. No consent. Just gone.

That was the beginning of the nightmare.

Cary, a healthy, coherent man, was immediately placed under isolation. The only medication they offered was remdesivir—a toxic drug known to cause organ failure in early Ebola trials. “There were no options,” Melinda said. “We asked for ivermectin. They said that was unheard of.”

She and her children stayed in constant contact, Cary keeping his phone hidden under the sheets so they could hear what was happening. What they heard was horrifying. A nurse threatened him: “If you don’t do what I say, you’re going to die.” She refused him food, water, and medication for his anxiety. Cary was terrified of her. So much so, he begged to have her removed from his room—which they eventually did. But not before days of cruel, inhumane treatment.

He had to write his own meal requests on paper. If he missed the timing due to testing, he wouldn’t eat. Nurses wouldn’t even bring him water. “He would send me pictures of his urinal, full and untouched,” Melinda recalled. His room wasn’t cleaned, his needs ignored. “People in prison have more rights than he did.”

One young male nurse showed kindness—helped Cary use the bathroom and even spoke gently to Melinda. “Maybe men should become nurses,” she thought. But the compassion was rare.

Melinda remembers Cary speaking of “Night Angels”—nurses who came in the dark hours and treated him gently. “But I think he was hallucinating from the drugs,” she said. “He was hoping they were angels, but they weren’t.” Eventually, they ventilated him.

The nurse who Cary feared the most—who had been banned from his room—returned that morning. Her presence sent him into a panic. Melinda fought to have her removed, but the damage was done. “They sent her in to do the dirty work,” Melinda believes. “She was going to be the one to intubate him.” Another nurse replaced her, whispering calming words to Cary as they put him under. “Think about walking into your home… seeing your wife…” But he never came back.

Melinda and her children stayed glued to a phone near a bedroom window—where the only signal worked—just in case the hospital called. They lived on the floor, on mattresses, too afraid to leave. By the time Melinda received the 3 a.m. call that Cary had “taken a turn,” he was already gone. “I was too late. He died about fifteen minutes before I got there.”

No one came to comfort her. No one checked on her as she sat alone by his body for nearly two hours. When she finally left the hospital, broken and dazed, she walked past a nurse she knew who casually greeted her with, “Good morning.” That was it. No doctor ever spoke to her. No one at the hospital followed up. The silence was louder than any words.

Cary’s mother was screamed at by hospital staff for taking photos of her dying son. The funeral director who handled Cary’s body—an older man who’d seen it all—told Melinda, “Nothing they’re doing is right. I’m sorry you’ve been caught in this.” He quit his job soon after.

Cary never signed consent for any treatments. Melinda never authorized anything. Yet he was drugged, denied food and water, terrorized, and eventually killed by remdesivir and ventilation—part of a deadly hospital protocol pushed by the CDC. “They told him he deserved it for not being vaccinated,” she said. “They said it with glee.”

To this day, Melinda struggles with PTSD, anger, and grief. Her young son still asks, “Why did my daddy die?” She doesn’t have an answer. She wants the doctors to explain it. They won’t. She wants justice. None has come. The trauma of losing Cary—so senselessly, so cruelly—is etched into the fabric of her family’s life.

Melinda’s story is not rare. The COVID Humanity Betrayal Memory Project (CHBMP) has archived over 1,300 stories just like hers, and published more than 900. They’re coming in faster than we can keep up. Different names. Different hospitals. But the same exact protocol. The same terror. The same betrayal.

These are not medical errors. These are crimes against humanity—systematic, intentional harm under the guise of public health. And they must be stopped.

At CHBMP, we are fighting to expose these crimes, demand accountability, and amplify the voices of victims and survivors. Our Task Force is made up of those who’ve lived it—families like Melinda’s, still reeling from their loss, but standing up to say: Never again.

If you or a loved one has been harmed by COVID-related hospital protocols or policies, please do not stay silent. Go to betrayalproject.org and document your story. The truth matters. Your voice matters.

Let us speak for those who can’t. Let us fight—for justice, for truth, and for the lives that were stolen.