Engineering a Life

by Krishan K. Bedi

  Nearly three months after implementation, Mr. Gilreath told me Dr. Zenni was very pleased, and had said, “Since you put that Indian downstairs, there has been a eighty-seven percent improvement in the instrument, supplies, and case cart system.”

  Mr. Gilreath and I laughed, wondering how he had calculated such a precise percentage.

  Six months after we implemented the changes, Mr. Gilreath persuaded the surgical committee to make me a member. Previously, only physicians were members, and more recently, the committee appointed Mr. Poll, assistant administrator of the Diagnostic Department, as well.

  As the months passed, word of Providence Hospital’s improvement spread throughout Cincinnati, the Friesen concept hospitals in America, and especially the hospitals wanting to implement the case cart system. Providence Hospital had lost close to one million dollars during its first nine months in operation, and its occupancy rate was at approximately eighty percent. After Mr. Gilreath, Mr. Poll, and I were brought to the hospital, we turned things around, showing a profit of one million dollars and an occupancy rate of ninety-nine percent, sometimes even running at full capacity. Although the hospital was a nonprofit organization, this money was used to buy new equipment and upgrade to new technology. As a result of these improvements and an elimination of certain highly paid positions, it was no longer necessary to eliminate 125 employee positions, which Mr. Gilreath felt would have been negative publicity.

  The six hospitals in the Cincinnati area were amazed and envious because we were their competition, and now Providence, with its increase in good publicity, was taking some of their business. Providence Hospital gained fame throughout the country, and we started receiving calls from other hospitals wanting to see our operations, specifically the CCS. Since my team implemented the system, Mr. Gilreath asked me to conduct weekly tours.

  “This is your pride and joy, Kris,” he told me. “The credit should be given to you.”

  Many hospitals, although not following Friesen’s design, were moving to the CCS, which allowed operating room nurses to concentrate on their professional work instead of worrying about supplies, sterilizing instruments, and preparing instrument trays. Even Congressman Tom Lukin visited Providence to see what all the talk was about.

  During the tours, I made sure to give my team credit for all their hard work, even praising the SPD staff. “They are working very hard to make this system function,” I informed the visitors as we passed through the basement level. “If even one of these sections is taken away, the hospital will fail.”

  “Kris, I have some big news for you,” Mr. Gilreath told me one day. “The news of this hospital’s success has reached the ears of Gordon Friesen. I talked to him on the phone this morning, and I told him that you are the key person in making all this work.”

  “Really?” I said, surprised yet pleased at the same time.

  “Yes, Mr. Friesen is interested in you. So interested, in fact, that he wants you to come to Germany to consult for a hospital he has designed there.”

  If I was surprised before, now I was stunned. “He wants me to go to Germany?”

  “Yes, there is a two-thousand-bed complex in Köln— Cologne —that needs a great deal of work. He sounded eager to have you go there for a consultation visit.”

  My mouth dropped open at the word “two thousand.” That was nearly five times the size of Providence.

  “Mr. Friesen sounds very taken with you, Kris,” Mr. Gilreath continued, after giving me a moment to register the news. “He didn’t even ask me if I wanted to go to Germany and help with this hospital. I would have loved an opportunity like this.” Then he added with a smile, “I’m happy for you, Kris. You may be going to Köln, Germany.”

  Several weeks later, Mr. Gilreath walked into my office again. “It’s final, Kris. Mr. Friesen has given me the confirmation. You are going to Köln. Just let me know when you will be able to travel.”

  While in Germany, I would receive $300 per day, and my airfare, food, and living expenses would be covered. On top of that, I would still be receiving my paycheck from Providence during that time. This was typical of Mr. Gilreath’s generosity. He told me in confidence, “Kris, you worked very long hours as well as weekends at the hospital, so I will consider these two weeks as compensatory time. You deserve it.”

  My trip to Germany took place toward the end of October 1974, and by the time I returned home near the middle of November, I was mentally exhausted. My first day back at Providence, Mr. Gilreath was eager to hear all about the trip, and I told him everything I could think of. The layout of the hospital was extremely different from Providence Hospital’s. Located in a building of its own, the SPD department served several buildings of patients as well as the outpatient clinics. The buildings were connected by a network of tunnels, through which the supply carts were transported by a monorail system. The intricacy of the design was mind-boggling. After a week of observation, asking many questions, and taking pages upon pages of notes, I noted some of the problems were similar to those at Providence Hospital. For one, the supervisory staff did not accept the new design, and any problems that developed were not dealt with immediately. The supervisory staff would simply leave the problems, hoping they would resolve on their own, or the staff would blame the system, saying it simply did not work.

  Each day, I spent eight to nine hours at the hospital and then returned to my hotel room, where I would write down my observations and ideas that might lead to possible solutions. I constantly compared the German hospital to Providence Hospital, trying to use my previous experience to help me understand this huge complex. I could hardly wrap my mind around the separate buildings, and the tunnels, and the heartbeat of the place, the SPD building. All the while, the language barrier made communicating with the hospital staff difficult. Many could speak only German, and the few who knew English had thick German accents that I struggled to understand.

  In the evenings, I enjoyed a beer and a nice meal at the hotel, but at night, I could not sleep soundly. Though I felt worn out, my mind was swimming with all the information I tried to take in. Also, I was missing Raj and my two sons, especially the baby Christopher.

  Although a challenging experience, in the end it was rewarding to say that Gordon Friesen personally asked me to be a consultant for a large hospital in another country. After I returned to the US, I sifted through all my notes, compiled my recommendations into a report, and sent a typed copy of the report to Gordon Friesen at his Washington, DC, consulting office.

  Chapter 18

  In November 1974, Raj and I enrolled Subhash at Summit Country Day for preschool, paying an extra $150 for his uniform, a grey jacket with blue slacks and a tie. Raj and I were proud to take Subhash to this private Catholic school directed by nuns. Earlier in August, Raj had taken Subhash to a preschool in a church basement, but when Raj and I went to an open house where Subhash showed us all he learned and everything they did there, Raj remarked, “Gee, Subhash knows everything there. Maybe we need to place him at a better-known private school. If he stays here, he may get bored and run into problems.”

  Summit Country Day was a prestigious school recommended to me by the physicians at Providence Hospital. The fee was $3,000 a year, but Raj and I felt that the high cost was worth Subhash having a good educational foundation. In December, Subhash brought us his report card. We were pleased to see he excelled in all areas, even earning the honorary achievement reward.

  “He is doing so well,” Raj said. “Do you think it is a good idea to take him out of school for so long when we go to India? I don’t want it to affect his reports poorly.”

  “Yes, it may make it more difficult for him when we come back,” I said. “But it is equally important for Subhash to see his grandparents.”

  We had planned a trip to India in February, and Raj and I were eager for our parents to meet Subhash and Christopher.

  On February 15, 1975, our flight landed in Bombay. While sitting in the lounge to wait for our next
flight to New Delhi, Subhash became extremely annoyed with the dozens of flies dashing around our heads. One big fly landed on the tip of his nose, and he swatted it away vigorously, hitting himself in the process. He made it his duty to kill as many of them as he could, at first smashing them with his hands, and then hitting them with a rolled up magazine.

  We reached New Delhi at around 10:00 a.m. Before the plane landed, I shaved and put on a suit, while Raj changed into a pantsuit and put the boys into a fresh change of clothes. It was our belief that when you come from a foreign country, you should be dressed up and looking your best.

  While we waited for our luggage to pass through customs, our family members were waiting anxiously for us outside. It is always a nuisance when you know your family is out there waiting, and you haven’t seen them in years, but you must wait for those infuriating customs officials to display the contents of your luggage to the world. When we finally burst out of the airport into the blinding sunshine, the hassle was forgotten. All at once, we were surrounded by Raj’s sister and brother, my brother, my cousin-brother Ved Bedi, my maternal uncle, and our parents. With loud cries of delight, they embraced us and draped marigold garlands around our necks until Raj and I were weighed down by at least ten garlands each. Even Subhash was given garlands. He eyed them curiously and flashed a charming grin at whoever patted his head, squeezed his cheek, or bent down to embrace him.

  There were tears from Raj and me as we bent to touch our parents’ feet. At first, my eyes only watered, but Raj’s tears streamed down her cheeks. Our mothers wept joyfully, and soon we all were shedding tears of joy and laughter as everyone began speaking at once. Raj embraced her sister who took a closer look at Christopher, held close to Raj’s chest. His eyes were wide, and at eight months, he was getting bigger, more lively, and full of gurgling baby talk.

  We all were full of words, everyone asking questions and trying to answer at the same time. Finally, someone suggested we take the party to Ved’s house in Delhi where we planned to stay the night. From the airport, Raj’s parents traveled to Karol Bagh where they were staying with Raj’s aunt.

  When we first arrived at Ved’s house, Raj and I tried to rest, since we had not slept on the flight. Christopher and Sub-hash were wide awake, having slept easily on the plane. Ved’s son and daughter, a few years older than Subhash, entertained him and played with him. At one point I was talking to Ved’s kids in Hindi, thinking they might not know English well enough to converse. To my dismay, the daughter asked in a loud voice, “Uncle, don’t you know English?”

  I was stunned, and her father corrected her. “You do not talk like this to your uncle.”

  “Oh, it is okay,” I said, and from then on I conversed with her in English. Later this became a joke, and my sister-in-law also made a comment, saying “Krishan, you must talk in English with my kids.”

  I spent most of the day and evening talking to my parents. As evening approached, Raj took Christopher by taxi to her aunt’s house in Karol Bagh where her parents were staying. They would stay the night there, and the next day I would pick them up on the way to Malaudh. Meanwhile, the excitement and chatter at Ved’s house did not stop until after midnight. We drank cup after cup of hot black tea, and Ved’s wife cooked a meal and snacks for us to enjoy. Subhash, a naturally happy and friendly child, kept everyone busy. He interacted easily with my father and amazed everyone with his intelligent remarks. Like me, he did not act shy around strangers, instead seeming to thrive at this social gathering. The laughter and the stories continued relentlessly until finally, my parents observed how tired I must be after all the traveling. Exhausted from the long day but happy that we were together once more, we all went to sleep, eager for the next day to begin.

  In the morning, we left New Delhi at around ten o’clock. We rode in my sister’s chauffer-driven car to pick up Raj and Christopher, and then headed toward Malaudh, approximately 200 miles away. On the way, we stopped at Lake Karnal for lunch and some fresh air, as well as to give Subhash a taste of the outdoors in India. We stood beneath the cool shade of the trees and admired the shimmering blue water, pointing out to Subhash the boats floating leisurely and the fishermen waiting for the fish to bite. Raj placed a small blanket on the ground, set Christopher on it, and proceeded to change his diaper, folding it up when she was finished and disposing of it in a nearby garbage bin. Raj’s mother watched curiously, but did not say anything. Raj also pulled out a small jar of mashed Gerber carrots and began feeding Christopher.

  After leaving Lake Karnal, we stopped in Mandi Gobind-Garh to visit my brother’s family, my maternal uncle, and my maternal grandmother. From there, we drove to Samrala to eat dinner with my sister and her family. My sister and her husband received us into their home with great excitement. They could not get enough of Subhash and Christopher, and they played with the two children while we talked. We did not leave Samrala until 10:00 p.m.

  It was 11:00 by the time we reached Malaudh. We were tired from the long day and ready to settle down at my parents’ house. We began to unload our suitcases, and once inside, Raj rummaged through the baby bag, looking for Christopher’s bottle so she could feed him. It was a special kind of bottle with disposable plastic bags we inserted so we would not have to wash the bottle.

  “Kris, I can’t find the bottle case,” Raj said frantically after several moments of searching. “We must have left it in Samrala.”

  How would we feed Christopher now? He was beginning to cry, and Raj held him on her lap, trying to soothe him, but he only cried harder. I found a cup in the kitchen, and we mixed his Similac formula in that, but Christopher only pushed it away, scrunched up his face, and continued to cry. He was so used to his bottle with the American-made nipple that he would not accept anything else. Raj was getting upset and did not know what else to do. Right away, I told my brother that he needed to go back to Samrala to get the bottle. The car was still parked outside so he left immediately. In the meantime, I asked my father if any shop in Malaudh would have baby bottles.

  “It’s a small place,” my father answered. “All the shops are closed by now.”

  Looking from Raj’s anxious face to Christopher wailing on her lap, he knew something must be done.

  “I will be back,” he said.

  He walked down the street to a neighbor’s house, persuaded him to open his shop, paid for a bottle, and brought it home, all within fifteen minutes. However, Christopher still would not accept it. He wanted his own bottle with the American nipple, not these different Indian nipples. Frustrated, Raj and I tried to keep Christopher calm while we waited for my brother to return from Samrala.

  In the meantime, Subhash had to go “number two.” I took him to the lavatory on the roof, which, having no light bulb, was pitch black inside. Subhash immediately began screaming, “Nooo, nooo, I don’t want to do it! I don’t want to go in there. Don’t make me!”

  Ignoring his protests, I carried the struggling Subhash into the lavatory and sat him on the four bricks. Wailing at the top of his lungs, Subhash would not use that dark room sitting on bricks over a dark space. Seeing this would never work, I took him downstairs into the light, and placing him over to an open drain, I said, “Squat and go, Subhash, go!”

  He looked up at me for a moment and started crying. “My stomach hurts, Daddy. My stomach hurts,” he moaned.

  By this time, all my family members were watching. Raj sat across the room with Christopher on her lap, an amused look on her face as if to say, “What will you do now?”

  I wondered the same thing. Then, an idea hit me.

  “Mother, let me have a bucket,” I said.

  “What do you need a bucket for?” she asked.

  I just looked at her for a moment, and she realized what I meant to do.

  “Oh no. I am not having anyone go in my bucket I use in the kitchen. I will never be able to use it again. We will have to throw it away. What a waste of a perfectly good brass bucket!”

  “Bibi,” I
pleaded. “Right now we need to solve this problem. Subhash is having a stomachache and needs to go. I will buy you a new bucket.”

  My mother sighed dramatically and went into the kitchen to fetch the bucket. I filled it a quarter full with water and held Subhash over it, making believe it was a commode.

  “Go ahead, Subhash. Do it,” I urged.

  Miraculously, my plan worked, and Subhash finally went in the bucket.

  A short time later, my brother returned with Christopher’s bottle at 1:00 a.m. Christopher had quieted down from a screaming wail to a sad whimper, and now he accepted the American bottle right away with no fuss.

  “These Amrikan kids,” my mother grumbled. “They do not know Indian ways.”

  It was a phrase I would hear many times during our stay. Raj and I had no idea our first night in Malaudh would be so rough.

  On February 27, we attended a wedding of Raj’s sister in New Delhi where the groom lived. After the wedding, the relatives on Raj’s side returned to Raj’s parents’ rented home in New Delhi to go to sleep after a long ceremony in the early morning hours. My mother-in-law, whom I called “Biji” according to Indian custom, told the kitchen servants to rest for a few hours and to be ready at 11:00 a.m. to prepare lunch for the family members. The bride and groom also would be returning soon after lunch for their first visit as a married couple, and all must be ready to receive them. However, after everyone went to sleep, Biji received a message from the groom’s parents saying the bride and groom would be returning at 9:00 a.m., several hours earlier than expected.

  I was awake when the message came, and I observed how tense Biji became.

  “Oh, what do I do now?” she moaned. “I have already told the servants to go rest.”