I used to think of Medicare as a billing system—codes, forms, numbers. I treated it like a vendor, not a covenant. I didn’t see the trust built into each transaction. I didn’t grasp that when the government paid a claim, it wasn’t just approving paperwork—it was placing faith in the provider.
That ignorance, whether it was willful or just negligent, cost me my standing, and it stained my conscience. What I did was illegal. I pled guilty. I was sentenced. I’m writing this not to excuse what I did, but to help others see what I failed to.
I come from a family where medicine was more than a profession—it was a calling. My father, Dr. Gerald Haydel, flew to Grand Isle every week to serve people who had no other doctor. My grandfather opened a clinic in Houma in the 1920s. Three of my uncles were doctors, another was a pharmacist. My sisters are nurses. My brothers are surgeons and anesthesiologists. I was raised around people who believed medicine was about service, not profit.
And yet, I lost sight of that. Somewhere between managing practices, signing contracts, and trying to keep things afloat, I accepted a business model I should have questioned from the start.
Here’s what I failed to respect: Medicare exists to protect the dignity and health of seniors and people with disabilities. Each regulation—the anti-kickback rules, the necessity requirements, the documentation standards—is there because the system has to guard against abuse. Not just financial abuse, but moral abuse: wasting resources that were meant to care for people like my own mother when she had Alzheimer’s.
Instead of upholding those safeguards, I compromised. I agreed to pay marketers for orders that came through telemedicine—orders that looked legitimate on paper, but weren’t rooted in real medical need. Some of those braces were shipped to patients with dementia. Some were never even opened. And every time I submitted a claim, I was putting my name behind a falsehood.
I forgot that each claim represented a person. That trust isn’t infinite.
What I broke can’t be undone. But I hope, in the long run, my efforts now can mean something more than shame.
After my plea, I was sentenced to prison. I turned over financial records, sold property, and began paying restitution. I accepted that I would lose my license and that I might not get it back. I let go of the idea that this could be explained away. It can’t.
More than the legal consequences, what stays with me is the weight of betraying a system I should have defended. When I stood in court, I heard Judge Zainey say that my offense was not about clinical incompetence. It was about ethics. I hadn’t botched a surgery—I had broken trust. And trust, in medicine, is everything.
Each time I look at what happened, I return to the same point: Medicare was not some abstract government program. It was a promise. A promise to treat people with respect, to use taxpayer funds honorably, and to put patients above profit. I didn’t uphold that promise.
I did not renew my chiropractic license in January 2023. Disciplinary action is still pending. I don’t know if I’ll be allowed to practice again. But if I am, I don’t want to return to business as usual. I don’t want a clinic with my name on the sign or a line of paying customers.
If reinstated, I’ve asked to serve 100 hours of pro bono care for people who have no means to pay. That’s the court’s recommendation too. It would be a small way to give back, to show in action—not words—that I understand the privilege of care. That I remember what it felt like to help someone without expecting a dime. I’m not seeking redemption through publicity. I’m just trying to do something that feels honest.
I’ve been working with the Prison Professors Charitable Corporation. I created a course on entrepreneurship for people serving time. In it, I share my story plainly. I explain how shortcuts get justified, how blurry lines become excuses—and how that mindset ruins lives.
To anyone in private practice: don’t assume compliance is someone else’s job. If your business model depends on not knowing the rules, walk away. Don’t sign anything you don’t understand. And don’t forget who Medicare is for.
Medicare is sacred. Not just regulated. Sacred.
This isn’t a story about being caught. It’s about waking up to the harm I caused—and refusing to look away from it. I failed a program that sustained my family and my community for generations. I lost my good name. I let down patients I never met. That will always be true.
But I am still here. And if I’m given the chance, I’ll spend whatever time I have left trying to restore a piece of what I broke. Whether that’s in a clinic, a kitchen, or a classroom, I don’t get to choose. I only get to show up—and serve.
