Weekends at Bellevue

by Julie Holland

  Skeletons

  I have told no one about the paging aside from Jeremy and Mary. I vacillate between thinking it is a harmless prank and feeling as though I am being spied upon and haunted. I’m not sure if the paging is connected to the “Julie whore” letter or not. I don’t know how many people have it in for me, though my love of efficiency hopes it’s only one.

  And then one night, a new phone number glows from my pager, the beeping startling me out of sleep: 561-6969.

  This is a clue. 561 is the old Bellevue exchange from the mid-nineties when I started working; it changed to 562 after a year or two. It must be coming from someone at the hospital. But why the old exchange? Is it a longtime employee? Maybe it’s someone who used to work at Bellevue but doesn’t anymore?

  Working alone, I play the sleuth. The 561 smells like a slipup. The hidden harasser is giving himself away.

  I skim through my mental Rolodex, recalling past Bellevue employees. CPEP has a pretty high turnover: Images of people who have come and gone flip like pages of a photo album in my mind. It could’ve been anyone: the guy who wheels patients to X-ray, one of the coffee shop waiters. Anyone.

  I rack my brains as I stroll down memory lane, and then … I remember.

  I inhale sharply, putting my hand to my open mouth. I know. And I know I know.

  On the night of the FDR rape case, I received a transfer from another city hospital. I hadn’t been called ahead of time about the patient, but someone had sent him anyway, putting my name as the accepting doctor on the transfer form. The name of the doctor sending the patient was Martin, the moonlighter who had called Dr. Lear at home on Christmas day. The moonlighter who thinks he was fired because of me.

  When I saw his name, I only thought, Oh, I guess he got a job somewhere else after all. It’s kind of an asshole thing to do, send a patient without permission, but I didn’t think too much of it beyond that. He probably remembered I work there on the weekends, so he put my name down. But I guess this must have stirred up some bad memories for him.

  This is just a little too disturbing for me to wrap my head around. And is it just the paging or did he send that sick letter too?

  I decide I’m done sleuthing; I need a real detective to take over, but I don’t call the cops. I ask my pal, the head of the hospital police, if he can track down Martin at the other hospital. Is there any way he can get the HP there to figure out if he is the one who has been paging me?

  They do, and he is.

  The HP’s review of the phone records from the psych ER where he works reveals that he’s been calling my pager. They think the letter’s from him, too. Martin has a sister in Philadelphia, which could explain the postmark on the envelope.

  Okay, so, we have my stalker, and it’s not a psych patient. It’s another psychiatrist. The huge condom, that psychopathic letter, the months of paging, they all came from a shrink. A weekend CPEP attending, just like me. Doctor, heal thyself, man!

  I call a colleague who works upstairs on the prison ward, a specialist in forensic psychiatry, to ask his advice. He knows scary sociopathic patients inside and out, and I pick his brain for guidance. Should I press charges? Should I let Martin know I figured it out, that I’m on to him? Would it be dangerous to confront him?

  He recommends that I let it go. “In no way should you confront him. Given the personality structure of someone who would do this, any confrontation could inflame him.”

  Dude, where were you when I started this job?

  Martin’s hospital administration does confront him, though. They let him know that they have seen the phone records, and no more is said. Luckily, it is enough. The paging stops, but I am nervous. He must know that I know it’s him. What if he tries to silence me?

  It is a Wednesday night, shortly after the stalker mystery is solved, when I receive a frightening phone call. In my own bed at home at 2:30 in the morning, I listen to a recorded voice informing me that prisoner number 141021267 is being released at two p.m. the following day. It takes a moment for me to understand why I am getting this, an automated call from Rikers. Why am I being informed about a prisoner’s release?

  But by the time I put the receiver down, I get it. Mr. Brown, the man I put into prison for four months after he punched me out of my smarmy attitude, will be free to exact his revenge, and he knows where to find me.

  It’s pretty tricky to fall back asleep after a phone call like that.

  Great. Now I have to watch my back twice as much. I don’t know if an enraged, humiliated Martin is finally coming to sexually assault me in person, upgrading from the proxy method, or if the man I sent to Rikers will hunt me down to finish the job he had barely begun.

  I start asking for a police escort to walk me to my car after work.

  Mary is proud that I am asking for assistance in an appropriate way, but my father scoffs when I mention it. He asks, “Isn’t there a self-defense class you can take or something?”

  I have officially lost my mojo, and my father sounds as ashamed as he makes me feel. Even though I’ve been in therapy long enough to know better, he can still push my buttons, making me feel like that little kindergartner who had to learn not to ask for help.

  Afraid to walk the halls alone, I stop leaving the ER during my shifts. I bring my dinner from home so I don’t have to go to the coffee shop. Again I tell the doorman at my building to be extra-suspicious of anyone looking for me. I start to lift more weights at the gym and sign up for a kickboxing class.

  I also stop carrying my pager. It doesn’t happen all at once. First, I don’t replace the dead battery; I keep forgetting. Then finally, I convince myself I don’t really need to carry a beeper, and I stick it in my desk drawer.

  If I dare leave the CPEP, I tell the nurses where I’ll be: the AES, my call-room, the coffee shop. I give Jeremy the CPEP phone number. He was the only one who ever really paged me much, besides Martin.

  Many Rivers to Cross

  I found a lump.”

  Lucy is calling me on a Saturday night from East Hampton. I’m at the CPEP in the nurses’ station, with my feet up on the desk, signing charts.

  “Where?” I ask. I put down my feet. “It’s in my neck.”

  I pause. Careful what you say here. “It’s probably just a swollen lymph node,” I offer.

  “Of course it’s a swollen lymph node, you idiot. I think my cancer’s back.”

  “But it could just be a swollen node because you’re sick. There’s tons of reasons. Do you have a sore throat? A cold? Anything?” I am grasping at straws I’m sure she’s already rifled through.

  “Nope. Nothing,” she says.

  I don’t want this to be happening. Not now. It’s crazy for this to happen now, after her cancer’s been gone so long. And also, not now that Sadie is pregnant. After Lucy and Sadie got settled in their newfound stability as a couple and as home owners, they took the ultimate leap of faith in each other, and in life itself. They decided to have a child together, choosing a sperm donor out of a book. I remember Lucy telling me about it, tickled because not only is the donor a tall, blond, blue-eyed and brilliant scientist, but he wrote in his profile that he loved Gorgonzola cheese and basset hounds. Sadie is carrying the child; Lucy wasn’t allowed to because of her history of breast cancer. Even though it was nearly five years ago, the fertility docs felt it was too risky. I remember thinking at the time that they were over-erring on the side of caution.

  “Lucy, you’re five years clean already, right? Why are you assuming the worst? It could be absolutely nothing.” Our roles are preassigned. I will wear the rose-colored glasses while she looks through the glass darkly. Except that on the inside, I am fast-forwarding to a grim ending, yet completely unable to allow myself to discuss the possibility.

  Lucy, however, is resigned to what will be and does not pretend otherwise. “Why not? Why not get completely freaked out? I have one swollen lymph node on one side of my neck. If it were on both sides, I’d say maybe you’re right, maybe I h
ave a sore throat or a cold and I somehow don’t even know it. But it’s on one side of my neck and we both know what that means. My cancer’s back and I’m going to die. It was really just a matter of time. Five years clean. Turns out it doesn’t mean a fucking thing.”

  We go back and forth a little more, the charade on a seesaw. I have a feeling she’s right, and maybe she senses this, but I feel like I have to balance out her realistic assessment with my hopeful illusions, so I keep telling her not to worry and it’s going to turn out to be nothing.

  I need to get back to work and tell her so. I hang up the phone, dazed. I try not to worry about losing my friend and mentor, my hero, to breast cancer. Five years clean. Time to get on with your life. You got a big promotion? Buy a house, have a kid, celebrate! Oops, not so fast …

  I need to think about all of this later. I’ve got a job to do and she hasn’t even seen her oncologist yet.

  There’s no point in worrying about all of this now. It’s not going to change anything.

  I’ll Cry Instead

  I am with Jeremy at Lucy’s house in East Hampton, the summer of 1998, when she calls me from the city with the news: the lump in her neck is from her breast cancer. Her oncologist did a biopsy and a CT scan. The breast cancer has metastasized to her brain.

  Just when it seems that she has it all, the pregnant wife, the house in the Hamptons, the director’s position at CPEP, it all comes crashing down. Somebody up there has an exquisite sense of timing, if you ask me.

  “Are you scared?” I ask her. I feel like the twelve-year-old girl from Kansas again, and as usual, when it comes to Lucy, I don’t know what to say.

  “Hell no! I’m not scared, I’m pissed!”

  She sounds it, too. She already did her time, fought the fight. Why should she have to go through it all again?

  “I love you,” I say. It is the first time I have told her, and it is long overdue.

  “I know you do, Jules. I love you too.”

  “I’m sorry this is happening to you,” I say meekly. I hang up the phone and cry in Jeremy’s arms. Maybe she’s not scared, but I am. I’m scared for her, and I’m scared for me. I’ve never gone through this with someone. Dying. I know she has an epic struggle ahead of her, and even though she won the battle before, I’m afraid, ultimately, she is going to lose this war.

  I have no clue how I can help her, how I can make this better. What can I give to her, to support her as she undergoes chemo, radiation, maybe more surgery? And how is Sadie, in her second trimester now, going to deal with this?

  When I try to talk to Mary about it, we hit a touchy area. Because Lucy was Mary’s patient, protocol dictates that my therapist become tight-lipped when I bring her up. Lucy is no longer seeing Mary, though I think, given the new circumstance, she should. I think Mary can help her through this, can offer more psychological support than I possibly could. I want Mary to be Lucy’s therapist again, and I tell her so.

  “You know that’s between me and Lucy,” chides Mary. “Why is it so important to you that she be back in therapy now?”

  Always with the questions. Every good therapist asks instead of answers. We are taught to deflect certain questions with reflected queries, tossing it right back into your lap. For instance, if a patient asks, “How old are you?” a well-trained therapist should find out the patient’s fantasies and wishes, such as “How old do you think I am?” meaning: How old do you want me to be? Any variation on “Why do you want to know that? How would that help you?” would be an appropriate answer in a shrink’s office, but not in the outside world.

  When I was in my residency, training to be a questioning psychiatrist, we used to play a game I called “shrink ping-pong.” Whoever can’t think up a question to lob back at the other doctor loses. “How are you feeling today?” “What would be important to know about that?” “Why do you feel the need to know why I’m asking?” It can go on endlessly. Kind of like the average psychotherapy session when you are skirting around the big issues, like, “I’m afraid my friend is going to die and I have no way to stop it, and I have no real means of helping her.”

  Lucy goes through weeks of radiation to shrink her brain tumors. She doesn’t want anyone at work to know where her recurrence is, afraid they’ll assume she has neurological or psychiatric symptoms and therefore can’t pull her weight in the CPEP. They know something is up, but they are low on details. I watch her like a hawk, afraid she’ll give herself away. I make her change her outgoing message in her office because she slurred a word. She makes fun of me for worrying so much about how she appears to others, but I want to protect her. She re-records her outgoing message to appease me, but soon it is obvious to everyone that she is sick. She loses her hair and starts to wear scarves to work, and then makeup. She’s never worn makeup to work since I’ve known her, but now, because she is sicker, thinner, and bald, she feels it’s best to put on a happy, colorful face.

  HBO has been shooting a documentary about Bellevue’s CPEP. The director, Mary Ann DeLeo, and the producer, Sarah Teale, spend weeks on end taping everyone going about their jobs. When I sign out on Monday mornings, the camera is right in my face, or else it is in Lucy’s face. DeLeo is queen of the ultra close-up. Lucy and I joke that you can’t turn around too fast or you’ll get bonked by the lens. We try to keep up our witty banter when the camera is rolling, but it feels staged and stale. I wish the magic between us could be captured and aired for all to see. I love signing out to Lucy, seeing her agree with my diagnoses and treatment plans, laughing at my jokes. When she speaks up to add something, it is inevitably germane and wise. Will the HBO audience appreciate that?

  Lucy refuses to see Mary Ann and Sarah while she is out sick. They want the cameras to follow her wherever she is, at home, at the oncologist’s. What they don’t realize is that Lucy needs brain surgery to remove the tumors. They ask me to talk to her but I won’t. I know Lucy won’t budge on this one.

  Halloween falls on a Saturday night and I decide to dress up for work. I find a blue dress, matching beret, and my old volleyball knee pads. I smear white toothpaste on the dress: Monica Lewinsky. I decide to visit Lucy on my way to work to show her my getup, and hopefully to cheer her up. I make sure to apply some red lipstick before I enter her apartment, so she can get the whole look. I never wear makeup to work, but tonight I have eye shadow and blush to complete the ensemble.

  Lucy is home with Sadie, who is due any day now, watching basketball, sitting on her couch, bald—no scarf, no wig. They both get a kick out of my outfit, and I walk back to my car, glad I made the stop to see her. When I get to CPEP, Mary Ann is there. She films me in my outfit, and I show her the accessories to the costume: my cigar, and the copy of Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass I am carrying. (The ultimate betrayal, as far as I’m concerned, is that Bill shared the same book of poems with Hillary and Monica.)

  Again, Mary Ann asks about Lucy. She wants to know how she is and when she’ll be back. The star has been off the set for a while, and the director is anxious for her return. I let Mary Ann know that Lucy is doing better, I just saw her at her apartment, and that she should be back at work pretty soon.

  Later, when I watch the final cut of the documentary, I notice how awkward Lucy seems as Mary Ann follows her out the door from CPEP one day. Lucy is leaving early to go see her oncologist.

  “The doctor goes to see the doctor,” Lucy muses, as the camera follows her down the hallway. Her hair is scattered in every direction of the compass, letting shards of light through to the camera. “The big C,” Lucy jokes.

  It is anything but funny. I can tell she’s making a joke because she feels like she’s supposed to. Knowing Mary Ann, she is holding the camera close to her, following her down the hallway, not ending the scene, hoping for more nervous chatter, even though I’m sure Lucy would like to yell, “Cut!”

  In the next scene of the film, it is three months later. Lucy is back from her medical leave, working at CPEP again. She is wearing a scarf to c
over her bald head, and her cheeks are hollowed.

  Do You Want to Know a Secret?

  It’s the Bellevue holiday party, and Lucy has been back at the job for a short while. September and October were filled with neurosurgeries and radiation. Sadie gave birth to Billy in early November. He was named after Lucy’s father, and his arrival was followed just two days later by her first round of chemotherapy. The tumors have been removed, and she is now on high-dose steroids and Dilantin to prevent seizures. The steroids are revving her up, making her hyper, almost hypomanic. She is way more irritable and impulsive than usual. At the party, Lucy nearly gets into a fistfight with one of the male nurses from the upstairs wards. He is antagonistic and inappropriate, which is typical for him, but then again, so is she. I try to run interference, keeping everyone calm, and the situation deflates eventually, but not before she invites him to step outside. It’s a party; everyone’s dressed up. Now is not the time to rumble, I plead.

  I end up speaking to our boss, Dr. MacKenzie, later in the night. He is Lucy’s supervisor, and I know they’ve spent a lot of time talking lately. In his late forties, with curly salt-and-pepper hair and glasses, he’s so tall I have to crane my neck to establish eye contact. “I’m worried about Lucy. Have you noticed how reactive she is lately?” I ask.

  “Well, you know Lucy,” he responds, noncommittal. I don’t know how much he knows about her situation. Does he know about the neurosurgery? The steroids? Does he know, but doesn’t realize that I know? We are like two secret agents, wary of committing an act of treason.

  “So you’re not worried about her behavior?” I ask.

  “Not any more than usual.” He smiles.

  “Okay, then.” I leave it at that. I want to talk to someone who understands the situation, who knows what medicines she’s taking. I want to tell him I’m worried the steroids are making her disinhibited and aggressive, but I don’t. I have no idea what he knows and what he doesn’t. I don’t want to get her into trouble, but I’m afraid she’s going to get herself into some.