Lady Justice and the Broken Hearts

by Robert Thornhill

  “Can’t sleep?” she asked, stuffing a thermometer in my mouth.

  “Mummmph,” I answered.

  “I guess that’s a ‘no,’” she said checking my blood pressure. “As long as you’re awake, how about a walk? Maybe that will put you back to sleep.”

  “Sure, why not?”

  I put my book aside and we headed down the hall. At two in the morning, the 5th floor was quiet as a mouse. We passed by patient rooms and I could see folks snoozing away. Some had friends or relatives on the pull-out bed. Other rooms were dark and vacant. As we made the circle, nurses were at their stations staring at monitors or typing on their computers. Other than that, the long halls were empty.

  As we walked, we chatted about various things. Eventually the subject of my employment came up. She was fascinated to learn that at sixty-five I had become a cop and had just recently retired and opened my own P.I. business.

  As we passed the elevator, I heard the ‘ding’ and saw the door open. A frazzled-looking man made his way down the hall.

  “That’s Mr. Spencer,” Kim said. “His mother is on this floor. He works weird hours, but every day he comes by without fail to see how she’s doing.”

  “That’s pretty special,” I replied, but then my cop brain kicked in. “So anyone can pretty much come and go all night?”

  She nodded. “Not much security. The guards that are here don’t even carry weapons. We’ve never had a bit of trouble except for the emergency room. There’s been a few incidents down there.”

  Pretty lax, I thought, but who was I to argue.

  We finished our round and Kim got me tucked back in bed.

  “Get some sleep,” she said, giving my pillow a fluff.

  “I’ll try,” I replied, but it was easier said than done. I had hoped that my jaunt around the 5th floor would wear me out, but I was still wide awake.

  I picked up my novel and figured I’d read until I nodded off.

  I had gotten through one chapter when a young man dressed in scrubs came into the room. He seemed surprised when he saw that I was wide awake.

  “Uhhhh, name and birthdate?” he asked looking at his chart.

  “Walt Williams, 6/12/43.” I thought it best not to use the Locutus thing again.

  He looked up from his chart. “Wrong room. Sorry to bother you.”

  I guess it’s a good thing that they ask for name and birth date every time. Who knows what I might have gotten that was meant for someone else!

  Jason Marks tiptoed to the bedroom door and peeked in. Marcie was sound asleep. He crept to the nightstand and picked up the lanyard that held her hospital ID card. He froze as she stirred, but moments later she was softly snoring.

  He quietly left the room and changed into the scrubs he had found at the Salvation Army Thrift Store. Then after checking on Marcie one last time, he slipped out the door and headed to the hospital.

  At two-thirty in the morning, the main entrance to the hospital and the lobby were pretty much deserted. The only person he saw was the security guard at the front desk. He nodded to the guard as he passed, making sure that the ID card was plainly visible. The guard, who was watching a show on a small TV, looked up briefly and returned the nod, then returned to his program.

  He stepped into the elevator and punched the button to the 5th floor. When the door opened, he cautiously surveyed the hall in both directions. Seeing no one, he made his way to room 536. He had looked at Marcie’s work schedule and seen that she had been assigned that room as well as 538.

  At that hour, he figured that the occupants would be sound asleep. It was a shock when he went into 536 and the patient was wide awake, reading a book. He recovered quickly, saying he had the wrong room, and quickly left.

  In the hall, he paused a moment to regain his composure, then peeked into room 538. The patient was sound asleep as was another person on the pull-out couch.

  As quietly as possible, he made his way to the side of the bed. He pulled a syringe out of his pocket and emptied the contents into the man’s I.V.

  Before exiting the room, he checked the hallway again. As before, it was empty.

  He made his way to the elevator without being seen, walked past the security guard who was still absorbed in his program, and disappeared into the night.

  I finally found myself drifting off to sleep, so I set my book aside and turned off the lights. I had just slipped into la-la land when all hell broke loose.

  I heard an alarm and someone yelled, “Code Red! Room 538!”

  Instantaneously, the hall was filled with nurses, and technicians were rolling machines into the room.

  I could only hear bits and pieces of the conversation, but I could tell by the tone of the voices that things were not going well.

  Then, it became very quiet, and I could plainly hear the words, “Time of death, 3:10 A.M. I’m so sorry Mrs. McCloud, we did everything we could to save your husband.”

  In a muted voice I could barely hear, came the reply. “I know you did, dear. It’s nobody’s fault. I wonder if I could have a few moments alone with my husband before you take him away?”

  “Certainly. Take as much time as you need. Just push the call button when you want me to come back.”

  After all that, I knew I wouldn’t be going back to sleep anytime soon. As I lay there in the dark, my heart ached as I thought about the grieving widow in the next room saying a final good-bye to the man with whom she had shared so many years of her life.

  It made me think about my own mortality and how lucky I had been. For five years, I had put myself at risk and had cheated death many times, and now I had just had my heart repaired and had cheated death again --- at least I hoped so.

  With the events of the past month, the kidney stones and the open heart surgery, I had experienced an epiphany of sorts. Once I understood that my feeling of invincibility was just an illusion, and that all of us are just a heartbeat away from taking our final breath, it made me take a long, hard look at my life and my relationships.

  It made me realize that every day and every moment with Maggie and my friends were precious. I had always lived by the motto, ‘don’t sweat the small stuff,’ but now, that became even more important, and I vowed to do what was recommended in the old Johnny Mercer song written in 1944, ‘accentuate the positive and eliminate the negative’ things in my life.

  As I was mulling all this over in my mind, I heard a gasp coming from the next room and an, “Oh, my God!”

  There was another Code Red, but all too soon the room became quiet and I heard the words, “She’s gone.”

  I found out later that eighty-eight-year-old Beatrice McCloud had taken her husband’s hands in hers, laid her head on his chest and quietly joined him in peaceful surrender.

  Malcom had died because his heart was broken.

  Beatrice had died of a broken heart.

  It was a night that none of us would soon forget.

  CHAPTER 12

  The next day was like the old Clint Eastwood movie, The Good, The Bad and The Ugly.

  The good was that I was feeling quite spry for just having my chest cracked open five days earlier. With Maggie at my side, I made six trips around the 5th floor. I had been worrying about my ability to climb the three flights of stairs to our apartment, so under Marcie’s watchful eye, I climbed the steps to the 6th floor of the hospital with no ill effects. That was a load off my mind knowing I wouldn’t have to bunk with Jerry or the Professor.

  The bad was witnessing the aftermath of the previous night’s tragedy. As soon as Marcie came into my room, I could see that her eyes were red and puffy. Not only had one of the patients under her care passed away, but his spouse as well. Even though the job description of these brave nurses included a steady diet of pain, anguish and death, it had to hurt when one of their charges was lost.

  The ugly came in the person of Harold McCloud, the sixty-year-old son of Malcom and Beatrice. Everyone in our wing of the 5th floor could hear McCloud ranting at
poor Marcie.

  “How in the hell could you people let this happen? Yesterday, you told me my dad was recovering nicely, then suddenly both he and my mother are gone. What did you people do to them or maybe it was what you didn’t do for them. Whatever it was, I’m going to get to the bottom of it and somebody’s going to pay!”

  Later that afternoon, I received more good news. Liz Crane, popped into the room. After examining my charts, inspecting my incision and listening to my ticker, she said that, barring any setbacks, I could go home the next day.

  Hallelujah!

  It wasn’t that I was receiving bad care. Quite the opposite. I couldn’t imagine having been treated better. Six days in the hospital, away from home, family and friends is more than enough. I knew there were patients in the ward that had been there for months. I was very fortunate indeed to be able to walk away in six days.

  So, one more night of huffing and puffing. When in the hospital bed, they strapped gizmos around my ankles that were attached to a machine that would alternately inflate them about every thirty seconds. They were supposed to keep the circulation going in my legs so I wouldn’t develop clots. In addition, the blood pressure cuff that was attached to my arm would automatically inflate every fifteen minutes. Add to that the fact that my bed would actually inflate about every half hour. It was damn near impossible to sleep with all the probing, squeezing and whooshing. If somehow I miraculously dropped off to sleep, I would be aroused by a nurse or a tech wanting to check my vitals or draw blood.

  Like the night before, I fell asleep during the ten o’clock news, but was wide awake around two in the morning. I had just climbed out of bed, taken a leak and was about to sit in my chair and read when I saw the young man who had come into my room the night before pause at my door. Our eyes met briefly, then he moved on. I went to the doorway and looked up and down the hall, but he was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he had gone into another patient’s room.

  Oh well, not my problem, I thought. Tomorrow night I’ll be in my own bed.

  Just as he had the night before, Jason met Marcie at the door, but tonight there were no candles or wine.

  “Hi, sweetie,” he said, taking her coat. “How was your day?”

  “Horrible! Just horrible! Last night one of my patients died, and to compound the tragedy, his wife passed away too. And if that wasn’t bad enough, their son chewed me out royally, like it was my fault. No, not a good day.”

  “I’m so sorry. What can I do to make things better?”

  “Just be supportive. I’m exhausted both physically and mentally. I just need to shower and get some rest. Tomorrow has to be a better day.”

  “I understand. You get your shower and I’ll rub your feet until you fall asleep.”

  “Thanks for understanding. You’re a dear.”

  Jason smiled as she disappeared into the bathroom. His plan was working perfectly. She was a strong and determined woman, but there was no way she would be able to withstand the pressure of losing patient after patient. The feelings of failure, sadness and depression would soon be more than she could bear and she would finally give up that damnable job.

  After she was asleep, he slipped out of bed, dressed in his scrubs, and grabbing her I.D. card, headed to the hospital.

  Like the night before, the security guard barely acknowledged his presence as he made his way to the elevators.

  The hallway was deserted. No new patient had been placed in room 538, so he headed to 536. Surely the old geezer would be asleep tonight.

  Damn! he thought as he approached and saw the light on in the room. He paused briefly and looked in. The old guy had just come from the bathroom and their eyes met briefly.

  Cursing under his breath, he hurried back to the elevators.

  Not tonight, he thought. But there would be more. As many more as it would take to make Marcie see the light.

  Harold McCloud’s face was beet red and you could almost see the steam rising from beneath his collar as he sat across from his attorney.

  “I just don’t believe it! You’re telling me that my mother and father both die, and at a hospital for chrissakes, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it?”

  “Get a grip, Harold,” his attorney replied, “or you’ll be in there next. These things happen. They were eighty-eight and eighty-nine years old. I’ve examined the consent forms that your father signed, and unless you can prove malpractice, our hands are tied. Let it go. They both lived a long, happy life. Most of us would be thrilled to death to know that we would go peacefully in our sleep.”

  Harold got up and stomped out. His attorney was no help at all, but he definitely wasn’t going to let it go. His parents were both dead and someone was going to pay.

  Checking out of the hospital is like being in the army or at the Driver’s License Bureau --- hurry up and wait.

  I was awake early, but nothing was going to happen until I had met at least a half-dozen people. First, the doc on duty had to review my file and give the okay for my release. Then I had to meet with someone from the pharmacy to explain the meds I would be taking for a while. Then there was the nurse who gave me my walking orders which included no driving for at least two weeks and no lifting of anything over ten pounds for eight weeks. She put the fear of God into me by mentioning that my breastbone was healing and if I popped it loose, the surgeon would have to cut me open again. Not a pleasant thought.

  After all of that, Marcie clipped the stitches in my chest where the tubes had been and removed the I.V. catheters from my wrist and neck.

  I was dressed and ready to go before noon, but it was two hours later when they brought the wheelchair to carry me to the car.

  Leaving was a bittersweet moment. I was chomping at the bit to get home, but at the same time, I had just been through a traumatic, life-changing event. During my six days in the hospital, I had developed a great respect for the nurses who had ministered to my needs and made my stay as pleasant as possible. Even though our relationship was purely professional, I couldn’t help seeing them as friends and there was a part of me that was sad, knowing that I would probably never see any of them again.

  I said my goodbyes and thanked them for their kind care not realizing that our paths would cross again --- much sooner than any of us could possibly know.

  CHAPTER 13

  I had been home from the hospital two weeks when I got the call.

  By this time, I was doing pretty much everything that I had been doing before surgery except lifting more than ten pounds. I was very careful in that regard. The last thing I wanted was to be cracked open a second time. I was back to driving and my incision only hurt when I coughed, sneezed or laughed.

  I was at my desk doing paperwork when the phone rang.

  “Mr. Williams, this is Kim Delany --- from the hospital.”

  It took a moment for the name to register. I never knew her last name. All that was on her badge was Kim. “Hi Kim, good to hear from you. How can I help you?”

  “Uhhh, just calling to see how you’re getting along.”

  I could tell by the tone of her voice that she was calling about something more than my recovery.

  “Gee, I didn’t realize that floor nurses made follow-up calls.”

  “You got me. I wonder if I could come by your office. I need to talk to you --- if you’re back to work, that is. I don’t want to rush you.”

  “Sure, come on by. Frankly, I’ve been bored out of my mind. I’m ready to get busy --- as long as it doesn’t require me to lift over ten pounds.”

  “Good thinking,” she replied. “I can be there in a half hour.”

  I gave her directions and thirty minutes later she was sitting in my office.

  “So how can I help you? Boyfriend trouble?”

  “No, nothing like that. It --- it may be nothing, probably just my imagination, but I’m concerned about the number of people dying on our floor.”

  That surprised me. “Really? You deal with people who have had heart at
tacks and transplants. I would have thought that a lot of them wouldn’t survive.”

  “Actually, that’s not the case. We rarely lose a patient. We have lost four in the past three weeks. That’s almost as many as we lose in a year.”

  “Couldn’t that just be a run of bad luck? I mean, you flip a coin ten times and statistically you would expect to see five heads and five tails, but if you do it long enough you would eventually get ten heads in a row.”

  She shook her head. “Cardiac care is not like flipping a coin. We have the best doctors, nurses and equipment at St. Luke’s. Nothing is left to chance. That’s why these deaths are so puzzling. It all started while you were with us. I’m sure you remember the night we lost Malcom McCloud in the room next to you.”

  “I do. It was tragic. I don’t see how all of you do what you do, day in and day out. Undoubtedly the losses affect you personally.”

  “They do. It takes a rare combination of personality traits to do what we do. A good nurse must be compassionate and empathetic, but strong enough to not let the occasional losses get him or her down. It’s heartbreaking when we lose someone. It affects some more than others.

  “So what do the hospital administrators say about this recent string of deaths? Surely they’re aware that this is not the norm.”

  “Of course they’re aware, but this is a political hot potato and a publicity nightmare. Our cardiac program is advertised and recognized as the best in the city. Administrators aren’t anxious to sully that reputation. Sure, they’ve looked at our procedures in each case, but nothing was mishandled. Everything was done according to the book.”

  “So how can I help?”

  “Something’s just not right on the 5th floor and nobody can figure out what it is. Maybe we’re all just too close to the situation. You’re a professional investigator. I thought maybe a set of fresh eyes could see something we’re missing.”