“Do you believe this? I
mean this can’t be true,” I raved as I read the article in the “Post.”
“City to Shutter Free Clinics
Council cites Cost and Duplication of
Services”
“You seem to taking
this rather calmly,” I continued, addressing my dear wife, Nurse James.
She was preoccupied
playing with our baby girl, Rose Elisabeth, who celebrated her three month
birthday that day.
“Happy Birthday, sweet
Rose. Who’s my big girl?” she cooed and held the girl up as high as she could
reach.
Rose giggled and
squealed.
“Forget the paper, at
least for a while. Just look at this smile, this big beautiful smile.”
I did put the paper
down and stood behind my two girls.
It
will be OK. Just remember this is what is truly important. But, our patients?
They’re important, too.
“I suppose you’re
right, it will work out for the best. But, how many of our patients will be
able to be cared for at the University Clinic? Walking two or three blocks is a
lot different than taking a bus across town.”
“They’ll never close our clinic.
We do too much good work,” she concluded.
“All the politicians
care about is dollars, mostly how much they can put in their own pockets. You
know what I always say…”
“Yes, yes, they are
only two types of politicians, those that are in jail for corruption and those
who haven’t been caught yet.”
“I’m glad you pay
attention. Let me look at page eight where they go into more specifics about
the clinics slated to be closed.”
Pages rustled and Rose
laughed as I found the rest of the article.
“The free clinics which
are to be closed has not yet been determined, but speculation is that clinics
in neighborhoods where there is access to other care, such as private urgent
care clinics and free standing Emergency rooms will be the first on the
chopping block…”
“See, we should be OK.
There certainly are none of those in that part of town.”
“There’s more. ‘In
addition, those clinics in parts of the city where the crime rate is high or
there is an unusual amount of gang activity also may be shuttered. Public
hearings, where private citizens may voice their concerns, will be held in the
next few weeks. Exact time and venue will be announced.’ I think that
means we’re in trouble.”
Miss James stared at
Rose and then held her close to her chest. Rose instinctively tried to help
herself to a snack.
“Well,” Miss James
began, “we’ve got a few weeks anyway. We should plan to go to those hearings.
You know, speak up for the downtrodden.”
“You’re right, like
always,” I answered as I looked at the clock. “Six thirty? I better be on my
way. I hope there isn’t much traffic or I’ll be late. I don’t want to ruin my
perfect record.”
Miss James smiled at me
and my “perfect record,” but didn’t comment. I kissed Rose and my lovely wife.
“I wish it was next
week and you were back at work,” I commented as I gathered up my white coat. “The
other nurses are OK, but they are not Nurse James.”
I began the usual
thirty minute drive to the clinic.
Not
too much traffic for a change. I can’t believe they would even think about
closing our clinic. On the other hand, if we moved maybe there could be a
proper medical facility with a real modern lab and state of the art imaging.
Dream on, doctor. This is not Beverly Hills or Beacon Hill. As far as
politicians are concerned: no money, no voice. Then again, maybe I shouldn’t be
so cynical. Here I am entering the “clinic neighborhood” and it’s not so bad.
There are some trees over here and a little park. And, on the corner, members
of one of our many independent youth group are hanging out. There’s even some
new construction going up. It’s hard to believe, but someone, somewhere,
actually has an interest in developing this part of town. Funny, I don’t know
why I never noticed it before. Whatever that building’s going to be it looks
very elaborate.
My head shifted away
from my troubles as the radio blasted out some classic rock:
“Sitting on a park
bench
Eyeing little girls
with bad intent…hey Aqualung”
Jethro
Tull seems very appropriate for this part of town.
I arrived at 6:55 and
was greeted by Miss James sub, Mrs. Selma Cranston. She looked exactly like one
would expect someone named Selma Cranston would look, mid fifties, matronly,
dull brown hair tied back into a bun, adorned with a white, knee length dress,
white stockings and white shoes,
I’m
surprised she isn’t wearing a white nurse’s cap.
“Good evening, Dr.
Barnes, I’m Mrs. Cranston. I’ll be helping you tonight. This is my first night
here and I’ve never been in a clinic like this, so I hope you’ll be
patient.”
“Glad to meet you. I’m
sure you’ll do fine. It’s a bit of work, because it’s just the two of us. No
techs, no aids, but we usually manage.”
What
did she mean, “clinic like this?” We’re just like any other clinic; that is if
those other clinics are visited by Ravens, bizarre superheroes, vampires,
werewolves and mythological beasts.
“There’s a patient in
room one, Milo Campo, 63, complaining of a non healing wound. He’s wearing a
pith helmet and carrying a toy rifle. Oh, and I brought some fried chicken to
eat, in case you get hungry later.”
“From Purdy’s Chicken
Shack?”
“Where else?”
“Well, then let’s get
to work.”
I picked up the chart
for Mr. Campo. “Nonhealing wound on right buttock, no allergies, travelled to
Tanzania recently, no other medical problems.”
I did my usual quick
knock and went in.
“Good evening, Mr.
Campo. What is the problem which brought you into our fine clinic this
evening.”
“Get down, get down or
he’ll get away,” he hissed through clenched teeth.
I looked back over my
shoulder and then around the room.
“Who or what will get
away,” I wondered out loud.
“The rhino, of course.
Now get down before you get trampled.”
This
can’t be happening.
Mr. Campo was dressed
in beige safari gear, sported a gray pith helmet and was carrying a large,
plastic hunter’s rifle. He grabbed me by the arm and pulled my arm, with
considerable force, I must add. I joined him crouching behind the exam table.
“I don’t see the
rhino,” I whispered.
He handed me his
glasses.
“They asked me to check
your wound, the one on your buttock,” I said. “How did you get it and when?” I
added.
He looked around,
pointed his toy rifle but then put it back at his side. He put his mouth
against my ear.
“I was attacked by a
rhino, a rare, vicious black beast who gored me in the buttock with his horn,
almost a year ago,” He replied in a very low monotone. “But, I’m on the trail
of that black demon. It’s not just any old rhino, you know. The monster I’m
trailing is the rare Sumatran Three Headed Rhino. That’s right, three heads,
three horns and a heart as black as its hide. When I get the rhino’s three horns,
I’ll grind them up and sprinkle some of the dust on my wound. Its special
properties will make it heal in a few days. The rest of the dust will be saved
for the future. One can’t be too careful or unprepared these days.”
I nodded my head in
agreement.
“Speaking of wounds,” I
countered. “I believe you are here to have that wound checked, by a doctor,
specifically, Dr. Barnes, who is me?”
“Oh, yeah, right. I’ve
lost the trail anyway, Dr. Barnes.”
“Well, just drop your
jeans and I’ll take a look.”
Mr. Campo slid his beige
khaki pants and underwear down to his knees revealing a wound on his right
cheek which was open to the air, about twelve by ten centimeters, extending
into the subcutaneous tissue, but not involving any muscle or bone. There was
some yellowish drainage, but no redness.
“How do you take care
of this?” I queried.
“Take care of? I just
leave it alone. It doesn’t hurt. I just have to change my underwear every few
days.”
“Well, I think,” I
began, “if you cared for it properly and kept a bandage on it, perhaps it might
start to…”
“There it goes,” my
patient screamed, “you won’t get away, you brute.”
And, Mr. Campo burst
out of the exam run, trying to run while pulling up his underwear and pants at
the same time. It was all I could do to hold the laughter inside as he finally
got his pants pulled up and fastened and then bounded away, chasing his
imaginary, three headed rhinoceros.
Oh,
well, you lose some and then you lose some. Onward to new frontiers,
I moved on to room two,
Myron Davis, 38, complaining of abdominal pain for five days. No previous
medical problems, no allergies, no meds.
Should
be simple.
“Good evening, Mr.
Davis, what brings you into our night clinic?” I began.
Myron Davis was dressed
in a black suit, white shirt with French cuffs, blue paisley tie, black socks
and shiny, black leather shoes. He definitely did not have the look of our
usual client. He was half sitting, half laying in the chair, his black hat
perched on his chest, and did not get up to greet me. His face was flushed and
beads of sweat dotted his forehead.
“Hiya doc, I hope you
can help me,” he replied to my introduction. He looked around the room as if he
there were other people present.
“It’s just you and me,
Mr. Davis. Now what seems to be bothering you.
“It’s my gut,
Dr….Barnes,” he answered staring at my name tag. “it feels like someone is
driving a metal stake through it.”
“When did this pain
begin?” I asked.
“Twenty years ago.”
“Did you say twenty
years? Why did you come in tonight?”
“Excuse me Dr. Barnes,
but are you recording this?”
“No,” I responded
truthfully.
“Is any of what I say
going into any sort of database or computer?”
“No, I’ll write it down
and it will go into a chart.”
“A written chart,
nothing electronic?”
“Sorry, to disappoint
you Mr. Davis, but we are not a very well funded clinic. Computers and Ipads
cost money; money the taxpayers are apparently loathe to spend. So, here we
are, paper, pens, stone knives and bearskins.”
“That’s good, very
good,” he concluded. “They won’t be able to find me.”
“Excuse me?” I had to
ask, “But, who won’t be able to find you?”
“The spies, the
government, our government, the Russians, the Germans, the Japanese, the
Chinese, insurance companies, credit bureaus, credit card companies, banks,
Disney; they’re all spying on us, spying on me, all the time, watching every
move you and I make, watching every moment of our lives with massive
computers.”
“Are you sure about
this?”
“No question. Tell me,
if someone makes an unauthorized purchase with your American Express card, do
you get an e-mail or text message or phone call? Or, maybe all three. How do
they know?”
“Hmmm…” was my reply,
“but what about your abdom…?”
“Don’t trust anyone is
my creed. No credit cards, no bank account, no social security number, just pay
cash for everything, leave no digital footprint and no one will knock on your
door in the middle of the night and cart you off to CIA headquarters.”
“Your abdominal pain,”
I tried again to get a history, “When does it occur?”
He looked at me and
then at his stomach and then took a deep breath.
“I began with this pain
about twenty years ago when all this computer stuff started to grow. It was the
World Wide Web which made me realize that no matter what I do, someone
somewhere is going to find out or be affected. Then it was online banking and
credit cards and My Space then Facebook and Twitter. But I learned the truth.
Someone is always watching, always monitoring. I couldn’t find any peace. Sleep
has become a luxury I just can’t afford. What if I say something about my pain?
Someone will be listening. Well, my pain has just stayed with me. So, I took a
chance and went to see doctors. I tried Tagamet, then Zantac, Prilosec,
antacids. I had EGD’s and gallbladder surgery and finally resigned myself to my
throwaway diagnosis: IBS.”
“So,” I interjected,
“Why are you here tonight?”
“Oh, I need some meds
refilled. If I call a pharmacy to get my prescription refilled they’ll put it
in their computer and that’ll be the end. They will know where I am.”
“So all you want are
some free samples? That’s easy. If we have any, you are welcome to them.”
“Just Carafate, it’s
the only thing which helps.”
“Give me a minute and
I’ll check in the back.”
“Uh, what are you
writing?”
“Just your diagnosis
and treatment. Probable gastritis, treat with Carafate. Samples given.”
“But, didn’t you hear
anything I said. Everybody’s watching, they’ll find out. Sure, you only write
it down now, but next month someone scans that chart and then, boom, I won’t be
able to get health insurance, find a job, anything. I’ll be labeled, branded
for life with…just the sound of it is ominous…gas-tri-tis. A mixture of gas and
garbage. Just forget I was ever here. And, please, shred that chart.”
Mr. Davis got up, put
on his fine black hat and walked out.
Two
for two. A great start to the night.
“Room three,” I
murmured, “Misty Rowe, ten, fever, cough, history of leukemia. No allergies.”
I knocked and went in
starting my intro before I even saw my patient’s face.
“Good evening, Mis…” I
started, but stopped when I was greeted by Evella, Goddess of the Night.
“Dr. Barnes,
congratulations,” she said softly, her voice a bit raspy.
“Thank you Evella,
Goddess of the Night,” I answered, but I was a bit shocked at her appearance.
In the six weeks since I’d last seen her at my wedding, she had wasted away.
Her skin was now a pasty yellow and her eyes almost glowed with jaundice. But,
she still had her smile and her feisty demeanor.
“This is Misty, Dr.
Barnes, a friend of mine. We met at the hospital while we were being treated.
She’s in remission from ALL. Her mother works nights a lot and I watch her when
I’m well enough. I do have a consent from her mother so that I can make medical
decisions for Misty, if you’re worried about the legal niceties.”
“No, no, I’m sure
everything is in order,” I said softly, a bit distracted by Evella’s cachectic
appearance. I recovered my composure and added, “What’s the problem, Misty?”
“I’ve got a bad cough
and my chest hurts. My fever today was 102.8.”
“Have you been treated
for your leukemia recently?”
“My last chemo was four
months ago. I thought I just had a cold, but Miss Worry wart here insisted we
come to see you.”
I listened to her
chest, which was clear, inspected and palpated, shot a Chest X-Ray which was
normal diagnosed her with a cold and gave instructions for her to call her
Pediatrician and Oncologist the next day.
I’m
more worried about Evella.
“Misty, if you don’t
mind,” I asked my young patient, “I’d like to talk with Evella, the Goddess of
the Night, alone.”
“You don’t have to
worry about me, Dr. Barnes,” she answered. “I know she’s got bad cancer and I
know she’s probably not going to live much longer. Just like my friends, Justin
and Liv. They died of their cancer. I cried for them, but, at least they didn’t
have to suffer very long.”
“Kids with cancer live
with death hanging over their head every day,” Evella explained. “You’re a
doctor, you should know that. Anyway, anything you have to say, you may say in
front of Misty. We have no secrets and she knows I’m dying. I assume that’s
what you wanted to talk about.”
“Such remarkable
intuition, Evella, Goddess of the Night, of course that’s what I want to talk
about. Our first meeting taught me more about healing and the proper way to be
a physician than all the lectures and rounds combined. And, you make great
cookies. I’ll miss them and you.”
“You’re sweet, Dr.
Barnes,” she said in that special voice she had as she patted me on the cheek
and then on my derriere. “However, even though this vile cancer has had the
gall to invade most of my vital organs, I am not planning to check out as soon
as everyone thinks. I’ve got a lot of years of livin’ to pack into the time I
have left. See this?”
She held up a colorful
brochure.
“Two week cruise in the
Mediterranean. Barcelona, Monte Carlo, Venice, Rome, Athens, all the food I can
eat, first class all the way. If I’m going out, I’m going out in style.”
“Sounds great,” I
observed. “You don’t need a companion, do you? Because, the news is that this
place may be shut down which will leave me out of a job.”
“You’re still sweet,
but not my type. Don’t worry about me, I’ll find some young buck to keep me company.”
“I wish you nothing but
the best, Goddess,” I added.
I gave her a kiss on
the cheek and, at that moment, we heard music coming from the lobby. The
familiar strains of “Night Clinic Blues” no doubt being strummed by the
talented hands of Wild Fingers.
Two
in the morning? Very strange, very strange indeed.
We all went out to the
lobby where Wild Fingers Dixon sat strumming his guitar, softly humming along.
There were a few patients waiting to be seen and they seemed to appreciate the
early morning concert.
“…Oh Night Clinic Blues”
A familiar bluesy voice
joined the guitar.
“Dear Nurse James, what
are you doing here at,” I looked at my watch, “Two eighteen in the morning and
who’s watching the baby?”
“She’s here, with me.
Neither one of us could sleep and she kept pining away to see her father, so
what could I do?”
She held little Rose up
and I gave both my girls a big kiss.
“You do your work and all
of us will keep Rose entertained,” she decided. “Good evening, Evella and…”
“This is Misty, a
friend of mine who wasn’t feeling well, but, your wonderful husband has made us
both feel better,” Evella answered.
“I’m not so sure of
that,” I replied “and, if you’ll excuse me, I have a few more sick people to
see.”
I left them in the
lobby as Wild Fingers shifted to “God Bless the Child,” one of my favorites. I
listened for the deep soulful voice of my wife while perusing the chart of my
next patient.
“Elsa Walderstein, 78,
deaf, complaining of severe headache.”
I
hope she brought an interpreter.
I knocked and went in
to room one. Fortunately, there was a younger woman seated with my patient.
“Good evening, I’m Dr.
Barnes, what’s the problem you are having?”
The older woman sat in
her chair and stared at me with a smile on her face, but it was obvious she did
not comprehend. She was wearing a light jacket which covered her thin short
dress, slightly worn white tights and square toed ballet slippers.
“Hello to you, Dr.
Barnes,” the younger woman replied. “My name is Eva Schosser and this is my
mother, Elsa Waldenstein. She has been having headaches for about three weeks
and they seem to be getting worse. I’m sorry she can’t tell you herself. She’s
almost totally deaf and only speaks German.”
Eva was middle aged,
neatly dressed, with light brown hair and blue eyes which revealed only concern
and worry.
“Why did you decide to
bring her here tonight?” I queried.
“She told me that her
headache was much worse and she felt like someone was pounding on the inside of
her with an ax.”
“That’s how she
described it? Pounding with an ax?”
“Yes. Does that mean
something?”
“Probably not, but it
is an interesting choice of words.”
“How’s her health in general?”
“Considering her
tortured past, excellent.”
“Tortured past?”
“Dr. Barnes, Elsa
Waldenstein was famous in the old country. She was on her way to becoming Prima
Ballerina for the top ballet company in East Germany. Unfortunately, one of the
party officials took an unusual interest in her, a very intimate and unnatural
interest. The rest of the story is not pretty. Let’s just say that she escaped
East Germany and came to this country with nothing except the clothes on her
back and a baby growing inside. Her flight to freedom was arduous with danger
constantly lurking, but she survived and made it to this country. Unfortunately,
there was a price. Hardship and injury caused her to lose her hearing, thus
ending her dance career. She was granted political asylum here, but has lived a
very hard and difficult life. A deaf woman with a newborn baby who doesn’t
speak the language has few prospects. But, we survived. Only now she has these
headaches and she cannot find rest. I’m afraid for her; afraid that this
relentless malady will finally break her spirit.”
An
amazing story.
“I will certainly do my
best to help her,” I said hoping both Eva and Elsa sensed the genuine concern
in my voice. “Let me examine her now.”
I started at the top
and worked my way down. Everything was normal. As a matter of fact she appeared
remarkably healthy for a 78 year old woman.
“Was she doing anything
unusual when the headaches began? Or, has she suffered any injury, even
something very minor?”
“Not that I’m aware of,
but I’ll ask.”
Asking Elsa a question
involved a complex series of hand gestures and written notes in German, which
were followed by head shaking, nodding, more notes and finally, calm.
“She says no,” was the
final result.
“I wish we had a CT
Scanner, but we’re just a poorly equipped community clinic. Let me try
something. I’ll be back in a minute.”
I asked Mrs. Cranston
to start an IV on Elsa and then took care of the other two patients who were
waiting, both with simple problems which were easily treatable with
medications. They were sent on their way and I returned to Elsa and Eva.
“I’ve got something
here that I think will help Elsa’s headache,” I explained to Eva. “It’s some
medicine that will relieve any tension she may have in her muscles. It works
almost immediately.”
“Thank you, Dr.
Barnes,” Eva said and then she wrote a message to Elsa who looked up at me with
hope in her eyes.
I took a syringe from
my pocket and injected one milligram of Versed through her IV. She winced a
little when it first went in.
Eva and I watched as
the forlorn look on Elsa’s face began to fade. She closed her eyes and then the
corners of her mouth began to turn up and a smile appeared. She opened her eyes
and I saw a twinkle of life appear which had been absent a few seconds before.
She jumped up from her chair and took off her coat, revealing her light dress
and dancer’s body. She took my hand lightly and caressed it and then she did a
pirouette.
“I think the medicine
has helped,” I observed.
But there was more. She
exited the exam room and when she saw Wild Fingers with his guitar she gestured
for him to play. She stared at his fingers as he started to play, a classical
piece which I didn’t recognize. Elsa, however, saw something that must have
been from her past.
She began to dance, en pointe, moving gracefully across the
waiting room on her toes, jumping and spinning in perfect rhythm to the music.
The first rays of the sunrise pierced the clinic windows creating a dazzling
display of colors and illuminating Elsa in an array of red, orange, yellow,
green, blue and purple. She danced to me and curtsied, she elegantly leapt over
chairs and spun around tables as those of us in audience stood in awe and
applauded.
But, it could not last.
The beautiful display was interrupted by three men, dressed in three black
suits, wearing three pairs of black rimmed glasses and carrying three identical
black briefcases.
This
has to be bad news.
“Doctor,” man number
one began, “I am Mr. Jacobs, from the Department of Health, this is Mr. Binder
from the City Inspector’s Office and that is Mr. Berkowitz representing City
council. May we talk to you.
Jacobs,
Binder and Berkowitz. Perfect name for a law firm.
“Certainly,” I
answered. “We can talk here.”
“Is there some place
more private?” one of three inquired.
“Anything you have to
say, you may say here, as I’m sure it may have some effect on my patients.
Wild Fingers, Evella
and Misty, who was holding Rose, Eva and Elsa and Mrs. Cranston all stood
silently, anticipating bad news. Miss James had vanished.
“As you wish,” Black
suit number three answered. “We have an order here for this clinic to be
vacated immediately. It is the conclusion of the City Inspector’s office that
this building is unsafe and poses a hazard to anyone who occupies it. City
Council has voted that this clinic be closed immediately. We are now requesting
that the premises be vacated immediately.”
“But, Mr…uh…Berkowitz,
what will become of the people who live in this neighborhood, who depend on
this clinic for their well being, where will they go?”
“Doctor, I’m sure your
intentions are most noble, but this building is unsafe. Would you want to be
examining a sick child and have the building collapse? Of course not. All of
your patients will be more than welcome at the County Hospital Clinic.”
“County? That’s five
miles away. Do you expect our patients to walk?”
“Doctor…Barnes, I will
not argue any further. The decision has been made. This building will be
demolished and County Hospital will assume the care of your patients.”
“I won’t leave. I’m
staying right here,” defiant words came from behind me, from Miss James.
“You’ll have to cut my arm off to get me to move.”
At that moment there
was a faint “click” and my dear wife handcuffed herself to a sink which was behind
the reception desk.
“Misty, if you could
please hand me baby Rose. Thank you.”
And, there we were, a
stand off. On the one side were three carbon copy bureaucrats waving legal
papers and, on the other, Miss James and Rose, battling for the little people.
I was putting my money on my wife and baby.
The three men looked at
each and then at Miss James and then at each other again.
I
think she may actually win.
A voice interrupted the
confrontation.
“THERE IT IS, THAT
THREE HEADED MONSTER.” it shouted. Milo Campo returned.
“I’ve finally tracked
it down after all this time. You won’t get away from me this time you vicious
rhino. Black as night with a black heart to match. You’ll pay for what you did
to me.”
“That’s a real rifle
he’s pointing,” I whispered to Evella, who was standing close to me. Maybe we
should get down.”
She nodded and we both
stated to lower ourselves to the floor, as did the others in attendance.
My
wife and Rose, they’re stuck.
“Prepare to pay,” Mr.
Campo hissed through clenched teeth as he pulled the trigger.
Shots were fired and
then there was a short scream. I jumped up and shielded Miss James and Rose,
just in time to see Elsa jump, pirouette and push Jacobs, Binder and Berkowitz
out of harm’s way. Evella tried to tackle Mr. Campo as he kept shooting, only
now his rifle was pointing harmlessly at the ceiling, knocking out the lights
and setting off the sprinkler system. Finally, the shooting stopped as Wild
Fingers and Evella wrestled the gun away.
There was another
scream as Eva knelt beside Elsa, who was lying in pool of blood.
I ran to her side as
sirens whined in the distance.
Misty hung up the phone
and shouted, “Ambulance and police are on the way.”
I felt a very thready
pulse on Elsa as she smiled at me, struggling to breathe.
“Good doctor,” she
whispered to me in English.
The pulse vanished.
I started CPR, but Eva
stopped me.
“Please,” she said, “Please,
don’t; you gave her a few minutes of peace and joy, but let her go. Just
remember; remember the smile on her face and remember her dancing.”
Eva looked at her
mother’s lifeless face and buried her face in her chest. Tears streamed down
her cheeks when she looked up.
You know,” she began,
trying to speak through her tears, “I had never seen her dance before. Oh, I’d
seen newspaper clippings and photos in her scrapbook, but never the real thing.
You gave me a gift that will be with me forever. And, I will be able to watch
her happiness over and over.”
She had recorded her
mother’s dance on her phone and now the graceful beauty of that dance would
live forever.
The police came and
took Mr. Campo away in hand cuffs. Jacobs, Binder and Berkowitz left their
papers with the day shift crew who started to appear and begin the task of
moving everything out. The police cordoned off where the shooting had occurred
and went through the motions of performing an investigation. I resigned myself
to looking for a new work venue.
My dear Miss James,
however, remained defiant.
“Call the papers, call
channel twelve,” she screamed, “I can see the headlines:
‘Bureaucrats try to
oust Mother and Baby.’
“All the publicity will
surely keep us open.”
“Are you sure about
this?” I asked. “Is this what’s right for Rose?”
This
cannot end well.
But, our luck was about
to change.
I heard a car screech
to a stop outside the clinic and looked up to see a big black limousine.
Even
more trouble?
A burly chauffeur
stepped out and opened the rear door. Out stepped a woman dressed in pink,
bright pink which shimmered as the morning sun outlined her perfect figure. A
broad white hat and dark glasses shielded her face. There was the sparkle of
emerald and diamond earrings and emerald and diamonds rings adorning her
perfect beauty. As this mystery woman walked closer, ignoring the police
barricade, I realized I knew her.
Medusa.
I looked up at the sky
and was not disappointed as Pegasus circled overhead. There was a faint whinny
as that noble equine acknowledged me.
“Medusa…” I began, but
she held up her hand.
She gave me a light
kiss on my cheek as I took her hand and led her into the clinic lobby where she
removed the hat and sunglasses, allowing her long silky hair to fall about her
shoulders. She was even more beautiful than I remembered.
“I see you’ve moved up
in the world,” I observed.
“My life is a
rollercoaster. The fruit of immortality, I suppose. He’s good to me, fun and
rich and generous. Which is why I’m here.”
“You’re going to make a
donation to the Dr. Barnes Survival and Party Fund?” I asked facetiously.
She looked me in the
eye and then answered, “Not quite, but close. Have you seen the new building
going up a few blocks over? The fancy one?”
“Yeah, I was wondering
what it was going to be.”
“That, dear Dr. Barnes,
is going to be your new home, that is, the new Clinic. I read about the budget
cuts and I was worried that this clinic might be in line to get the ax.”
I was speechless for a
moment and then I said a soft, “Thank you.”
“No,” she replied,
“Thank you.”
“Me?”
She looked down at the
floor and then stared into my eyes again.
“I was cold and you
made me warm,” she explained. “For that simple act of kindness I am grateful.
And for all the acts of kindness you and the people at this clinic perform, we
are all grateful and indebted to you.”
She reached into her
Chanel purse and fumbled around for a moment before pulling out a big manila
envelope.”
“Here are all the
details. There is an endowment of $150 million to keep the clinic funded. The
new clinic will have a larger waiting room, eight exam rooms, a procedure room,
a complete lab which will be properly staffed, Radiology with a CT Scanner and
ultrasound, also staffed, a kitchen, storage and doctor’s offices. You also have
my pledge that you will not want for anything as long as I’m alive, which, as
you know, will be a long time.”
“I don’t know how to
thank you, for myself and all the people who live here. When will it be ready?”
“About two months from
now.”
“And between now and
then?”
“You’re stuck here, I’m
afraid.”
“But, the building’s
been deemed unsafe; we’re supposed to vacate.”
“Ah, yes, that. Politics
and graft. My husband did some checking. Some of our less scrupulous political
servants were trying to get this space at a cut rate price. They bribed a City
Inspector to condemn the building so that they could put up some sort of
shopping mall or low rent housing or something. Whatever, they’ll be on their
way to jail soon.”
“Did you hear all that,
Miss James?” I turned to my wife, still handcuffed to the sink. “I guess you
can set yourself free.”
“Yes, it all sounds
wonderful,” Miss James answered. “Now, if you’ll just get me the key, I’ll set
myself free.”
“The key? What key?” I asked.
“The key in the desk in
the back. It’s where you keep your stuff. I found these cuffs back there and
came up with the idea to chain myself to the building.”
“I’ll go look, but I’ve
never seen those handcuffs before. In the meantime, maybe Medusa would like to
see beautiful baby Rose?”
I took Rose from my
wife and handed her to Medusa and went into the back to find the key. I
searched high and low, up and down, back and forth, but there was no key. I had
no choice but to report my failure and suffer Miss James wrath.
“WHAT, NO KEY? DO YOU EXPECT
ME TO STAY CHAINED TO THIS TOILET FOREVER?”
“It’s a sink,” I
corrected.
She tried to kick me.
Medusa once again came to my rescue.
“I think I can help,”
she offered, “rather, Pegasus can help.”
“What can a horse do
about handcuffs?” Miss James wondered, showing a distinct lack of faith and
understanding of things mythological.
“I’m game to try
anything,” I added.
Medusa let out a loud
long whistle and Pegasus alighted outside the clinic door. Medusa whispered in
his ear and he turned around so that his hindquarters faced my wife.
“Close your eyes,”
Medusa commanded.
Both myself and Miss
James closed our eyes. There was a sharp noise as Pegasus gave a precise kick
and the handcuffs opened up.
Miss James rubbed her
wrists as she got up and bowed before the winged horse.
“Thank you, both of
you,” she addressed Medusa and Pegasus. “I wish you both a long and happy
life.”
I also thanked them and
walked Medusa to her limousine.
“Will we see each other
again?” I wondered out loud.
“Perhaps, should the
opportunity or need arise. I have a special place in my heart for you. The
envelope I left has the name of the builder and architect for your new clinic.
Good luck and be happy,” she advised as she climbed into her fancy limo and
drove away.
“Rose,” I said, holding
up my daughter, “I think you are due for a change. A diaper change.”
Miss James and I
carried her to the back.
“And, just what were
you doing with handcuffs?” she asked as she grabbed my arm.
“Me, I thought they
were yours,” I answered. “What could I possibly do with a pair of handcuffs?”
“I can think of a few
things,” Miss James remarked as she bent over to change Rose’s diaper, trying
to hide the smirk on her face.
