Bryson City Secrets: Even More Tales of a Small-Town Doctor in the Smoky Mountains

by Walt Larimore, MD

  Each had come from a different perspective in counseling me — but each came from a life of continual learning and abundant living — and each had offered me wisdom in unique ways. But I was still confused about the meaning of the Bible story Ken had read me.

  So that night, on the bench, I sought wisdom from the highest of sources. As I sat at my Creator’s feet, lost in wonder at the magnificence and splendor of his universe — a universe that couldn’t even contain his goodness — I sensed his confirmation of the words of his wise servants.

  Then I sensed his giving me a thought — an idea. I left the bench and rushed back inside. I walked to the living room and turned on the lamp by my quiet-time chair. Picking up my Bible, I turned to 1 Samuel and read the passage Ken had shared with me a number of times. Slowly, its meaning for me became clearer.

  I knew I could stay and fight, as David’s son Absalom would later choose to do — and in doing so, he lost his life and his inheritance. Or, like David, I could choose to quickly and quietly leave a dangerous situation. I would be leaving my calling, but I would also be leaving the evil that seemed bound and determined to destroy my practice, my wife and me, and my children. Like King Saul, there were those who clearly wanted to hurl spears at us and our kids. I knew, at that moment, that like David before me, I would have to silently and swiftly leave the “spear throwers” behind.

  I knew that by making this decision I’d be choosing to leave my vengeance to others. That night, I realized and accepted that my Creator was more than willing to take that responsibility from me — and that he was mightily capable to carry it out.

  At that moment, my decision was final.

  chapter thirty-four

  LEAVING

  There was surprisingly little negative reaction to my and Rick’s announcements at the next medical staff meeting. We had met earlier during the day with the hospital administrator, Earl Douthit, and the chairman of the board of trustees, attorney Fred Moody.

  Both had tried to talk us into staying, vowing to do whatever they could to make our future experiences pleasurable. But Rick had determined to leave the private practice of medicine and move to Asheville to teach. In the meantime, I had accepted a position with Dr. John Hartman and his new group, Family Practice Associates, in Kissimmee, Florida.

  Barb and I had flown to Kissimmee on three occasions in the previous six weeks to interview, tour the community, and look for a home. John and Cleta Hartman were ecstatic about our joining their practice. I would be the fourth family physician in the group. We had also looked at opportunities in Asheville, just sixty miles away, but felt it was too close to the snakes and nightmares we desired to leave behind.

  Our office staff was apoplectic. They were convinced we were being forced out of town by the older doctors — a sentiment shared by Gary Ayers, the morning deejay at Bryson City’s only radio station, WBHN, and Pete Lawson, the editor of the Smoky Mountain Times.

  Don and Billy, the EMTs, came to see us, along with Millie, the dispatcher. They were as angry as hornets and ready to call a grand jury investigation of our being “kicked out of the county.”

  The coaching staff of the football team encouraged us to stay and fight those who were, in their view, running us out of town — and they vowed to do everything in their power to help us. No amount of discussion seemed to change their sentiments. But, truth be told, my story did sound fairly lame.

  Rick’s story was that he was being called into another form of medicine — one just as noble. My public reason was that I needed to relocate for family reasons — especially to be close to a center that took care of the special needs of children with cerebral palsy. My story was the truth — but, unlike Rick’s story, mine was not the whole truth.

  Those who were the saddest to hear about our leaving were our patients. The doctor-patient relationship is one of the most special of all human relationships. It’s a relationship founded in trust when the patient seeks a doctor’s help and the doctor agrees to give that help. In fact, it’s more than a relationship — it’s a special covenant. The patient agrees to take the doctor into his or her confidence, to reveal even the most secret and intimate information related to his or her health. The doctor, in turn, agrees to honor that trust and to become the patient’s advocate in all matters related to health — physical, emotional, relational, and spiritual.

  Saying good-bye was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done — especially saying it to the families whose children we had delivered. I had harbored a deep desire to follow these kids through childhood, adolescence, and adulthood. I wanted to be on the sidelines when they played ball, cheering them on. I wanted to go to their graduations and weddings. I wanted to deliver their children and, should the Lord grant me long life, their children’s children. These dreams were now dead and buried.

  The day we closed the office, several special folks came by to see us. Clem and Doris Monteith dropped by and left me a picture of the two of them, together with Walter and Walter’s mother, Doris. Vanessa and Mrs. Black Fox came by to pray for us. Preston Tuttle and Joe Benny Shuler stopped by and read me the riot act for leaving. But in the end, each gave me a bear hug, along with their gratitude.

  Coach Boyce Dietz and a couple of the other coaches stopped in to bid me farewell — as did Gary Ayers and Pete Lawson, who were both looking for an angle they could splash across the county’s media. Carl Arvey, the police chief, and Tim from Social Services both stopped by to say good-bye. John and Ella Jo Shell from the Hemlock Inn said their farewells to us that afternoon — as did Ken and Tina Hicks and their boys.

  Don and Billy, the EMTs with whom I had worked so closely for four years, came through the staff entrance of the office, as they usually did. They brought Millie, the dispatcher, with them. They all read me and Rick the riot act for “deserting” them. But it was in good humor and well received.

  As the afternoon was winding down, Doc John, Becky, their son John Jr., and his wife, Rita, came by to tearfully administer hugs and fond farewells. A number of the hospital staff stopped by just before or after shift changes. Throughout the day, each of the five local doctors came by to say good-bye. Even Dan and Samson stopped by. Both were still healing and looking forward to continuing their daily walks downtown. I kept waiting for Louise to drop by — but she never did.

  After we said good-bye to the last patient, we had a staff party. It was a time for us to grieve together. We laughed as we recounted special memories and special patients. We shed tears as we talked about our patients who had passed on — and all the babies we had delivered. There were smiles all around as we discussed what we meant to each other and how we would miss each other.

  After a final prayer and our final good-byes, Rick and I were left alone. We walked through the office together. We didn’t say anything — and we didn’t have to. I went into my office one last time. The boxes were packed, and the movers would pick them up in the morning.

  Then we turned and, after locking the door one last time, left.

  The next morning, the movers arrived just after dawn. By parking behind the house and packing the van via our back door, almost no one knew they were there.

  As the movers worked, Scott was right alongside them, helping in any way he could. The men were kind in putting up with him. I initially wondered what the dozen or so three-inch sticks were doing in Scott’s T-shirt pocket until I saw the men sitting on the metal ramp attached to the back of the truck, taking a smoke break. And there was Scott “puffing” away on one of his stick cigarettes.

  And imagine our feelings when one of the movers walked into the kitchen, where Barb and I were doing some packing.

  “Here,” he said as he handed us three wooden spoons. “We found these hidden in the living room sofa. Scott told me to throw them away, but I thought you might need them.”

  He smiled, and we laughed. Now we knew where these instruments of his occasional spanking had been hidden.

  By midafternoon the movers were d
one and had shut up the van, and our bags and clothes were in the car. We figured it would take us two days to drive to Kissimmee. We were planning to drive until we were tired and then spend the night in a motel along the way.

  Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. I heard Barb exclaim, “Louise! Come in.”

  “Don’t want to stay long, Mrs. Larimore,” I heard Louise retort as she stepped into the kitchen. She gave me a funny look and then turned back to Barb. “And I don’t like good-byes. Never have. Never will.”

  Barb smiled. “Louise, it’s sweet of you to come by.”

  “Well, I only got one thing to say to you,” she began as she turned back to face me. “At the beginning you was a bit uppity. You thought you knew more than you knew. But at least you knew how to say ‘yes ma’am’ — and that was good. Then over time you learnt our ways. And you let me teach you — and that was good.”

  Louise looked down and took a deep breath. “But I gotta admit, you and Dr. Pyeritz taught me a lot too. And in my opinion, you done more for Swain County Hospital than any other doc I know — ’cept maybe Dr. Cunningham.” She looked up and smiled at me. “And I’ll tell ya this also. Deliverin’ them babies here is the best thing that’s happened since I started here. It brought hope and happiness back to our little hospital. There ain’t nuthin’ like hearin’ the cry of a little baby.”

  Her eyes began to tear up, as did mine. She stomped a foot on the ground. “Now look what ya done. I swore I wasn’t gonna come over here and begin blubberin’, so I’m gonna leave. Just wanted to say good-bye, Dr. Larimore. You been a good doctor — ”

  Louise paused and looked away from me as a tear fell across her cheek. She wiped it off and continued. “I know you ain’t tellin’ folks the real reason you’re leavin’. I know there’s secrets you’re bein’ forced to keep. I’ve lived here a long time. I know there’s a lotta secrets kept covered up in any small town.”

  She looked away for a moment and then back into my eyes, “But more important, you’ve been a good friend to me. I’m gonna miss you.”

  I stepped forward to give her a hug, half expecting her to swat me away — but I was pleasantly surprised and pleased when she didn’t.

  “I’m going to miss you too, Louie.”

  She returned my hug and then turned and gave Barb one, and then she scooted out the door before we could say anything.

  “Y’all come back and visit sometime!” she exclaimed as she walked quickly down the driveway toward the hospital. We waved good-bye over her shoulder, not realizing we wouldn’t see her again for seventeen years.

  We quietly finished loading the car, and then the four of us walked around the back of the house to the bench. There was enough room for all of us to sit together, as long as Scott sat on Barb’s lap. We sat quietly, each lost in our own thoughts, gazing across the Smoky Mountains, the cool wind softly blowing our hair.

  Barb broke the silence with a sigh. “Honey, we best be going.”

  She lifted Scott off her lap, and she and the kids headed for the house. I continued to sit alone for a few minutes. A thousand thoughts were swirling through my head. Could my friends and patients here ever forgive me for leaving? Would they ever find out the real truth? Could I find professional satisfaction in Kissimmee? Would medical practice in Osceola County, Florida, be any easier than my practice in Swain County had been? Would it be easier now that I had four years of practice under my belt? And what about Kate and Scott? Would they be OK? Would they heal from this trauma? Would — could — God use me in another practice the way he had in this one?

  I paused to smile at myself. The uncertainly I felt, and the doubts, fears, qualms, and worries swirling through my mind would each have to be met head-on. And although I was uncertain about my and my family’s future, more than ever before in my life I was grateful for the strong, quiet confidence the God I served had given me about himself. I knew that the road ahead might never be safe — and it would likely have hidden dangers of its own — but I was confident that it would all work together for good.

  I finally stood and began to walk toward the house. I turned back and looked at the now-empty bench — and I gazed one last time across the ageless mountains I had grown to love.

  I suddenly realized that I was leaving a different man than the one who had first sat on this bench four years earlier. I was more experienced as a man, a husband, a father, and a friend. I was wiser and more seasoned as a doctor. But, more than anything, I had grown to know and love my Creator and my God more deeply and sweetly than I could have ever imagined. And I suspected that in some small measure I had made him known. For that, I was eternally grateful.

  Epilogue

  Five days after Kate’s dreadful phone call in November of 2002, Barb and I arrived at her apartment in Washington, D.C. We had planned to spend Thanksgiving there with her, along with Scott, who would be flying in the next day.

  The irony of being with our children during a national holiday intended to remind us to express gratitude to God for his many blessings, while at the same time wrestling with both the emotional weight we and Kate were carrying and the concern and trepidation about finally discussing the horrors of so many years ago, was not lost on us. We prayed for wisdom and guidance many times before and during the flight to Washington.

  Kate had also been in mental and emotional torment since our initial phone call. Why did they keep me in the dark? she wondered. What was the real reason our family left Bryson City? Had her mom and dad just run from their problems? Did we lack the courage she’d always thought we had?

  Kate later told us that, even though she couldn’t imagine why we had done what we had done, she knew, without any doubt, how very, very much we loved her. She trusted us with her life, so she knew she could trust us with her past.

  When we arrived at her apartment, we hugged and wept together for what seemed an eternity. Barb and I hastily placed our luggage inside Kate’s apartment, and the three of us walked to a coffee shop on Pennsylvania Avenue to have a long talk.

  I don’t remember much about our discussion, but I do remember how our strong bond of trust with Kate undergirded our evening together. That bond, developed over countless hours of dates, family nights, family vacations, family holiday traditions, morning and evening meals together, nighttime prayers and stories, family worship, and walks all developed an unbreakable bond between Barb and me and our precious daughter. Not only had this bond kept us connected through the years, but it also drew us especially close during this incredibly difficult time. The foundation of our love and respect for each other, along with our shared faith in God, allowed this terrible trial to be more bearable.

  Our time together that night was cleansing and purifying, tearful and loving — and it ended in a prayer and a long family hug. As Barb and I left Kate that evening, we knew deep within that everything we had been through would be worked out by God for good.

  By the time Scott joined us, Kate had convinced us to include him in our talks. To the shock of all three of us, Scott remembered the entire event. To him, it seemed to be no big deal. His greatest concern through the years was how Mickey’s behavior might have affected his sister. However, since she had never mentioned it to him, he had assumed it wasn’t affecting her.

  Our children were exceptionally close. They could talk together about almost anything. They were each other’s counselor and confidant. They could talk for hours and were surprisingly accurate in predicting what the other would think or say about nearly any subject. So to have such a deep and painful discussion as a family didn’t seem unusual.

  What impressed Barb and me most during our Thanksgiving visit was our children’s maturity and knowledge of biblical principles. We would each take time to share our insights about the difficulties of our past and how, in each case, God had turned apparent disease and disaster into a blessing for each of us. Kate’s CP and surgeries, Scott’s many accidents, our financial downturns, and many other family events had taught a
nd matured us. We could see the good and the blessing that eventually developed from each situation. As a family, we were convinced the same would come from this time of talking so openly about something we all would rather have forgotten. Finally we could talk no more. We were physically and emotionally spent. We gathered around each other to have an evening prayer. In bed that night Barb and I held each other close for a long time.

  The next morning was Thanksgiving Day. We shared a glorious Thanksgiving lunch at a restaurant in the gargantuan lobby of Union Station near the Capitol. After our meal, we practiced a Thanksgiving tradition for our family — we each named something for which we were thankful. Around and around the comments went — for many, many minutes. We laughed and smiled and occasionally shared some tears as we each recalled all the things for which we could truly give thanks. But most of all we were thankful for each other and for the many gifts bestowed on us by our Creator.

  Kate later wrote to us, “It was good for us as a family to discuss what had happened and its effects on us. I knew the Lord could bring wholeness and healing to our family. I knew that in some ways our family journey was just beginning.”

  The next time we were together as a family was that Christmas. Kate was back in Colorado Springs after having completed her White House internship, and Scott was back from college.

  After our first dinner together, Scott and Kate excused themselves and went downstairs to visit. They talked a long time while Barb and I cleaned up after dinner and then got ready for bed. We were in bed reading when Kate and Scott came in.

  “Dad,” Scott began as they entered the room, “we need to talk to you guys.”

  Before we could answer, he walked across the room and hopped up on the bed. Kate followed. I smiled, because this reminded me of the countless nights during the kids’ growing-up years when we would sit on the bed like this as a family and just talk about the events of the day.