“So specifically, what do they want?”
“Physical examinations on all physicians over age fifty.”
“That’s window dressing. They want to cover their asses by saying that they have a physician surveillance program. That kind of assessment won’t show a damn thing.”
“Look, Warren, we have only two choices: Just go along with the farce or decide to make physician evaluation meaningful like looking at the nuts and bolts of how docs practice.”
“I don’t like patting ourselves on the back too much, Arnie, but we have a pretty good QA program as it is. We see the reports every week and when we have a doc whose work is beginning to slide, we know it. Everything we do at Brier is under the scrutiny of someone, especially nurses and other docs. That’s the best way to pick up problems from dementia, to psychiatric, and to my all-time favorite, staff who just don’t give a damn.”
“That’s doing nothing, Warren. It’s the status quo.”
“If you tell me that we’re going to do psychiatric evaluations, cognitive function tests, tests of physical skills, especially fine motor skills and dexterity, and if you’re going to do them on everyone, fifty and over, who works at Brier Hospital, professional, administrative, and all others, I’ll go along.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“Then, I’ll pass,” said Warren.
“We still have to talk about Jacob Weizman.”
“I don’t want to hear it,” said Warren.
“You think I like this? Jacob, just like the rest of us, is answerable for his actions. We have too many complaints. If we don’t deal with them, someone else will. I’m calling a special meeting of QA to discuss our options in dealing with Jacob Weizman.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Monday morning. They hadn’t seen their first patient when Betty Kaufman, the receptionist at Jacob’s, office turned to Margaret. “ Lydia Barns want a word with you.”
“Send her in.”
Lydia was one of their newest patients, and a professor of economics at UC Berkeley. “Margaret, thank you for speaking with me.”
“Of course, Lydia. What is it?”
“Can you find someplace private?”
“Sure. Come into Jacob’s office. He’s still on rounds.”
“The main reason I moved my care to this practice was Dr. Weizman. I guess I’m a little old-fashioned, but I really like the hands-on, and if you’ll excuse the term, old-fashioned type of medicine.”
“You sure picked the right place.”
“It disturbed me a little when instead of seeing Dr. Weizman, you assigned me to Dr. Spelling, but I assumed, wrongly I’m sad to say, that she practiced like he did.”
“Jacob is so busy, and he’s not a kid anymore. That’s why we brought Dr. Spelling on board.”
“Believe me, I understand perfectly. I not saying that I’m prepared to leave the practice, but Dr. Spelling, while she has all the moves, the charisma, and the intelligence, doesn’t have it.”
“It?”
“The patients who sent me here said that Dr. Weizman is smart, compassionate, and when he works with his patients, they have his full attention. Moreover, they know that he cares about them. Dr. Spelling’s mind is all over the place. She feigns caring, but she can’t sell it to me. I think someone should talk with her, perhaps Dr. Weizman.”
“I will. Thank you for being so forthright. Too often we discover we’ve screwed up when a patient sends us a nasty letter or transfers to another physician.”
“One thing more. Please don’t use my name. I hope to work this out.”
When Lola arrived at the clinic Monday morning, Elena pulled her aside. “She was waiting at the front door when I arrived.”
“Who?”
“Sarah Hughes. It looks like you have your work cut out for you today.”
As Lola approached her office, Sarah stood and stared at her through reddened eyes. She looked at the floor and began chewing on her fingernails. “I’m real upset, Lola, I...”
“Hold your horses, Sarah. Let me get my coat off. Would you like some tea?”
“No thanks, but I could use a strong cup of coffee.”
Lola buzzed Elena. “Are you doing a Starbuck’s run this morning?”
“Sure, what would you like?”
“A double cappuccino,” whispered Sarah. She paced the room while Lola shuffled papers around her desk and pulled out a note pad. Dust motes danced in the sunlight streaking through the blinds and illuminating Lola’s still-messy desk.
Lola watched Sarah’s fitful actions. “I can’t work on a moving target. Have a seat.”
Sarah marched to the La-Z-Boy chair, but continued to fidget in place.
“I want you to do something for me, Sarah.”
“Okay.”
“I need you to relax. Let’s take a minute, then we’ll start.”
“I am relaxed.”
“Sure. If you were any more relaxed, I’d need to put you in a straightjacket.”
Sarah clenched her arms across her chest.
“This will take just five minutes. First, lie back on the La-Z-Boy letting your weight fall into the cushions, then close your eyes and slowly inhale and exhale. As you breathe in, say to yourself, ‘I AM’; as you breathe out, say ‘RELAXED.’”
Sarah sat up. “You’re kidding.”
Lola smiled, and then gently guided Sarah back into the reclining position. “Just do it.”
After ten minutes, the soft knock on the door ended her relaxation as Elena handed Lola the paper cup with the Starbuck’s logo. Sarah sat, opened the lid, and added five packs of Splenda.
“That was good. Don’t you feel better now?”
“Yes, Doctor.” Sarah smiled.
“How’s it going?”
Sarah studied the carpet. “You heard about the anti-abortion demonstration in Emeryville?”
“It’s a small town, Sarah. I talk with many girls, and to answer your question; yes, I heard about your meeting with the chaplain. I know you want to talk about it.”
“It wasn’t just that we’re on different sides of that issue, it’s...”
“What is it?”
“The chaplain, Carleton Dix...he creeps me out, and the demonstration was not the first time. You believe in body language...I mean reading a person by movement, gesture and look. The man licks his lips...can you imagine...he licks his lips?”
“Of course. Often body language tells me more than words. It’s essential in my work and it’s crucial in understanding how people relate to me and to each other.”
“The chaplain touched me before and he did it again at the demonstration...it made me feel sick...it grossed me out. Is it me? Am I overreacting?”
“He touched you sexually?”
“That’s it, Lola. I’m not sure. I only know that he did it once and I told him never to touch me again, but he did it anyway and I went ballistic. I said things that maybe I shouldn’t have.”
“If you have something to tell me, it’s all right, you know.”
“About the chaplain?”
“Anything.”
“I left the impression that he tried something sexual but I’m not sure it did happen, yet...”
“Jacob’s a pretty good judge of character, Sarah. He’s had many run-ins with the chaplain. He thinks something’s not kosher with that man. Maybe what you’re feeling is more accurate than you know.”
“But, what if I’m wrong? What if he was just trying to help? Even a hint of molestation can ruin a man.”
“Maybe you need to talk about this with him. Maybe a meeting would clear the air.”
“I can’t, Lola. I can barely stand to look at him.”
“You’re holding something back from me, Sarah. What is it?”
“It’s nothing...I mean nothing happened.”
“Don’t be ashamed. If something’s happening to you at home or anywhere else, I can help. Please let me help. If it’s about your mother or father,
I can...”
“Oh, God...no...no. They’d never... He’d never. If anything’s wrong, it’s with me.”
This is all wrong, Lola thought. Too much...too soon...too little control.
Lola moved to Sarah’s side. “I’ve been at this for a long time. Nothing you say can shock me. I’ve heard it before. We’ll work our way through this, I promise.”
Sarah sobbed in Lola’s arms. “I’m so sorry...so sorry.”
A soft knock at the door interrupted their session.
“I’m sorry, but we must stop. I think we did a lot today. I’ll see you Thursday.”
When Sarah reached home that evening, it was pouring. She saw Kelly Cowan’s Honda Civic parked in the driveway, with her wipers on and the windows fogged.
She’s been there a while. What is it now?
She exited the car. Kelly approached her saying, “I’m so sorry, Sarah. Those girls killing their babies...it’s just too much for me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The protest at the abortion clinic. I just wanted to apologize.”
“I’d almost forgotten that pathetic demonstration. Go away. I’ve had enough of you and that sick chaplain.”
“He didn’t mean anything. He’s too emotional about the issue, and for reasons beyond me, he finds it particularly frustrating when he deals with you.”
“That’s an easy one to solve, tell him to keep the hell away from me.”
Kelly took two steps closer to Sarah, and looked down. “I want us to be friends again. We were so close. We had so much fun together...I don’t want this stuff to keep us apart.”
“It’s not going to happen, Kelly. I’ve moved on. I’m in a new and better place. I’m not going backward.”
“But, we were so close...”
“You’re a sweet girl, but we live in different worlds.”
“Please, Sarah.”
“Don’t make me say something I’ll regret.”
“Don’t do this...”
“I have a flash for you Kelly, go home.” Sarah turned and started for the front steps.
Suddenly, Kelly grabbed Sarah’s upper arm and spun her so they were face-to-face.
She reddened, her nostrils flaring. “You can’t diss me that way and get away with it. Don’t screw with me, Sarah or you’ll regret it.”
Suddenly calm, Sarah faced Kelly. “You just proved to me how right I was. Now get the hell out of here.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Ahmad Kamal joined his family for dinner in their small apartment in Berkeley. This was the first time in three weeks that he found the chance to eat at home.
“We never see you anymore,” said his mother Jasmine as she left the tiny kitchen and placed a large casserole dish on the dining room table. The aroma of spiced lamb and onions filled the room. “Habib. Come, it’s ready.”
His father Habib came to the table, placed his textbook to the side, and stroked his black curly beard. “You look too thin, Ahmad.”
“How are things at Brier Hospital?” asked Jasmine. “I love that place. I volunteered for a while.”
Ahmad put down his fork. “They hate us. Everywhere I turn, they hate us!”
“They don’t all hate us, Ahmad,” said Habib.
“Please, father. You teach at the university, a fantasy world. I deal with reality, the average American, and that group…well, let’s say that they’re not the most enlightened.”
“It took me nearly a year after 9/11,” Ahmad continued, “before I had to stop watching the news on television. It makes me sick, and every time the media reports a new Islamic atrocity, people look at me as if I were responsible.”
Habib put down his fork. “Terrorism is the last resort of the oppressed who have no options.”
“Respectfully, father, you know that’s only a small part. It’s powerlessness, the ignorance of people living in the distant past, and an intolerance of the beliefs of others. We’re not Muslim, nor did we know of any Arab, Muslim, or Christian who would carry out such vile acts.”
“You’ve lived in the U.S. too long. Have you forgotten your days in Gaza and in Nablus? We both know many such individuals.”
“Nevertheless, father, just like the mortification of American Jews over the Rosenberg case, the reaction of the Italians to The Sopranos, or the embarrassment of the Irish over the vicious acts of the IRA, we’re Arabs and we’re tainted by the acts of our brethren…the savagery of an archaic culture inflicting mayhem on itself and everything it touches.”
Ahmad took a drink of ice water. “You should see how they look at me…how they stare. Some refuse to have me as their physician. I can’t stand it. I thought we had a life here, but now, I’m not so sure.”
“It will pass,” said Jasmine. “Americans carry the pain of 9/11 and the daily losses from the action of Islamic extremists. To them, an Arab is an Arab.”
“Nobody cares that we’re Christian. That we’ve been Christian for generations. Turn the other cheek…I don’t think so mother.”
“This is a wonderful country,” said Habib, “but not one without its faults. You’re going to hate this, Ahmad, but as a Palestinian Christian, unwanted by our Muslim brothers, I have a taste of what it’s been like to be a Jew in the world: homeless, reviled, and oppressed.”
“Abba, you don’t understand. How would you like to hear, ‘Get that fucking A-rab away from me’? Who knows what they’re saying behind my back? I’m torn between my oath as a physician and my dignity as a man…an Arab man.”
Ever since her confrontation with Tommy Wells, Ginny Harrison noted a change in his behavior. He was extraordinarily polite in his interaction with her and the other nurses and several times, she caught him staring.
Ginny sat with Mary Oakes, her nursing director. “I hate the way he looks at me, it’s freaky.”
“Are you sure you’re not reading too much into this? Maybe you’re feeling a little guilt for reporting him.”
“No way. I gave him ample warning, yet he refused to listen. I was doing my job, Mary, and I’d do it again.”
“I always attributed his behavior to the small-man syndrome...his need to ingratiate himself with the nurses and to increase his standing, pardon the pun. I don’t think more is going on, Ginny, do you?”
“I don’t know, except the hospital’s and nursing administration’s preoccupation with drug security has succeeded in making me uncomfortable when I enter that room. It’s reached the point when a simple mistake, a counting error, a broken vial, can become a career ender.”
“I know, but I’ve lived through a DEA investigation of drug pilfering. You get to know what a hamburger feels like on the grill.”
Ginny saw Tommy several times that evening as he pushed his laboratory supply cart around the ward drawing blood. She looked at the wall clock that read 10:45 p.m. Only 15 minutes to go.
Nurses’ report, and I’m out of here.
Ginny turned toward the nurse’s station when she saw a white-coated man leaving room 545, the room farthest away from the nursing station and near the stairwell. The man started her way, and then suddenly headed toward the stairwell.
“Wait...wait!” Ginny shouted as she ran down the corridor.
At the sound of her voice, the figure stopped moving and turned to face her. It was Tommy Wells.
She approached him asking, “What were you doing in 545? Where’s your equipment cart? What’s going on?”
“I was just...”
“You were just what?”
“Damn it, Ginny. If you let me talk, I can explain.”
“Explain what? I’m sick and tired of your lame explanations. You’d better tell me right now. What you were doing in Mr. Soto’s room, and it better be good.”
Tommy’s hands, balled into fists, hung at his side as he leaned toward Ginny.
Suddenly frightened, Ginny backed away. “Don’t,” she cried.
“Don’t what? Haven’t you done enough to screw me at Brier?
”
He’s not going to intimidate me, Ginny thought.
“I asked you a simple question, Tommy. Should I repeat it?”
“I came here at the end of my shift because Mr. Soto asked me to. I saw him earlier tonight. We got to talking, and he asked me to come back if I could.”
Ginny said nothing.
“If you don’t believe me, ask him.”
Ginny entered the room. Mr. Soto, a 70-year-old Japanese man with multiple myeloma, a painful malignancy of his bone marrow, sat propped up on three pillows, watching TV.
“Hey, Ginny. Isn’t it about time for you to leave?”
Ginny inspected the room to see if anything was amiss. “Just about. How are you feeling?”
“You know...I feel like crap. I don’t like to talk about it. I was just about to take my pain pills and try for some sleep.”
Soto looked past Ginny, saw Tommy. “Shouldn’t you be going home too, Tommy?” He paused a moment, turned toward Ginny. “You have a good man in Tommy. The hospital’s fortunate to have him. He was kind enough to keep an old man company. I really appreciate that, in fact I plan to write to the hospital to thank them for the likes of Tommy and your nurses. They’ve been great.”
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