Cry From The Grave
Chapter 4
At that same moment, well across the Missouri River, Dr. Musa Zakhary opened the door of his garnet Acura ILX, a vehicle he termed his "mid-life crisis self-gift". With his classes done for the week at Webster University, and with a half-hour of discretionary time in hand, Zakhary remote locked his car and sauntered through the parking lot of St. Matthew's Grove to visit his mother-in-law, Verna McBride. Since Verna's ovarian cancer had spread into her bones within the last couple of months, she had also developed a dreaded case of bleeding out. Nothing seemed to turn the tide and yet, Zakhary and his wife Kerry knew homebound care would be a hardship with their three young children witnessing the horrific, measured slide toward their grandmother's death. St. Matthew's was just a short distance away from Zakhary's office in the Sam Priest Center that housed Webster's history and political science department. Putting the deadlines of grading and lectures behind him, he opened the front doors and walked in.
The facility of St. Matthew's Grove was laid out like an extended letter X with a massive oblong bulge in the middle. The large narthex sat at the enlarged crosspoint of the hospice, with a functional welcome center manned by volunteers. A fountain bubbled behind that desk near the back doors that opened out onto the courtyard. Down the slanted hallways toward the building's front were patient rooms and Isabel Andrews' office. Dean Hibbler's office was located off the north side of the narthex in between two wings, the back one which led down to the library, the nurses' lounge, and a small cafeteria. The chapel faced Hibbler's office from the south side of the narthex, and down the back hall from the chapel were two more patient rooms, a supply nook, and the therapy room.
It was in the therapy center that Zahkary found his beloved mother-in-law. Here, Verna McBride and her fellow patient James Caple were displaying more annoyance than usual, and each claimed the frustration was largely the fault of the therapist. Zahkary chuckled, glad to see Verna so feisty for a change, and grabbed a magazine before seating himself in the hallway at an angle where he could see most of the activity. He didn't want to intrude yet he believed it was critical to keep a keen eye on the proceedings. The physical therapist was the butt of considerable complaints. Eric Carter, who was working with Verna on her wrist joints and her fine motor skills, was part-time at St. Matthew's Grove and spent the majority of his day as a student at Eden Theological Seminary across the grounds, taking classes in the morning and helping out at the school bookstore in the early afternoon. Zahkary wondered what caused this man to go from physical therapy to a pursuit of the ministry. Highly anxious and never sure of himself, Carter tended to rub his fingertips together when he became extremely nervous, and his fingers were going at warp speed that very moment.
"Good afternoon, Dr. Zakhary," a pleasant voice said to his right. Zakhary turned his head and saw Isabel Andrews coming toward him, with two other people he recognized. Staff nurses Beverly Overton and Billy Hanspard both gave quick nods to him before heading into the therapy room. Presumably, the sessions were nearly over. Isabel stayed behind and Zakhary got up to greet her.
"Hello, Isabel," he smiled, dwelling briefly on the notion that she was the only staff member he hailed on a first-name basis. "Looks like Mother is holding her own in there. Eric isn't flogging her like he normally does."
She refused to take the bait and nodded, with a glimpse of sorrow in her eyes. "Eric is still learnign that hospice PT is different from the outpatient variety with the vibrant. He needs to listen to the patients and not control the proceedings. It's still helpful to have someone around who is trained and licensed and willing to do this to accommodate our budget. Not that it matters much in the long run."
She noticed the nebula of confusion on Zakhary's face. "I am sorry, Musa," she said, surprising him by using his Christian name. "You're here to see Verna and to enjoy her for a bit and there I go moaning about the future."
Zakhary leaned in, touching her arm. "Isabel," he said, "you wouldn't be moaning about the future for no reason. Even in the short time we've known you, you're not the type to drop your guard. 'Not in the long run.' What did you mean by that?"
Isabel looked down the hall each way, as if expecting the walls themselves to be eavesdropping on their conversation. "You have been such wonderful supporters of what we do here, Musa, even if that means we do things so frugally it seems Ebenezer Scrooge runs the place." She winced, looking down the hallway again. "I am just saying that if you have the opportunity to consider another facility for Verna, you should give it a close look."
"Are you saying St. Matthew's might close?" Zakhary whispered stridently. "We practically just put Mother here!"
"I can't tell you more, Musa, and even now I've told you too much," she replied, her eyes on the ground and her hands clutching a file. "I'm telling you this because you and Kerry are faithful visitors and want the best for Verna."
She looked as if she wanted to say more, but at that moment they heard both a reactionary curse from Eric Carter and a painful yelp from Verna. Musa brushed past Isabel into the therapy room to fins his mother-in-law teetering precariously on the padded table. Carter was kneeling beside her, struggling to regain his own balance while trying to prevent her from falling. Wordlessly, Zakhary sprinted to Carter's side, lowering himself into a crouch, and bore Verna's weight against his own body.
"What were you trying to do?" blurted Zakhary, frustrated but with no hint of anger in his voice.
Carter got on Verna's other side. "The wheelchair. She wanted to transition from the chair to the table and back. She tottered and I nearly dropped her."
Isabel Andrews came up from behind as Beverly Overton hovered nearby and Billy Hanspard stood at the ready in case he was needed. With a measured heave, both Zakhary and Carter swiveled Verna's frail figure into the wheelchair.
Carter was clearly both exhausted and embarrassed. He nodded to Zakhary. "Thank you."
"I haven't allowed her to fall yet," Zakhary replied, giving the briefest of smiles, "and I don't intend to start now."
"What is this?" came the bellowing voice of Dr. Dean Hibbler from the door. "Can we have one day when we don't have a total disaster in therapy?" He strode into the center of the room, taking stock of the silent population upon the medical tableau. Both nurses stared at him with glassy eyes. Carter cowered from the force of the doctor's arrival, physically sliding himself onto the table yet avoiding eye contact. Isabel Andrews met Hibbler's blazing oculi with a muderous stare of her own. For his part, Zakhary stood upright, taking stock of Hibbler and drinking in the antagonism that steamed from his persona.
"What just went on here?" the doctor barked. "Mr. Carter, I take it we almost had a patient injury?"
"Sir, I..." began Carter. "It was...nothing happened. Thanks to Dr. Zakhary..."
Hibbler looked around. "Two nurses, my nursing director, a therapist, and a bystander, and still we can't avert a disaster for the course of one afternoon! Mr. Carter, you were performing a prohibited maneuver! And given your defiance, did you at least have anyone assisting you with your action?"
"Which was what, precisely, Doctor?" Isabel interrupted sharply.
Hibbler weighed her response. "What do you mean by that?"
"You're demanding that he have assistance. What, then, was he doing that demanded that?"
Hibbler looked at Carter. "Well?" he snapped at the therapist.
"No! No! No!" Isabel shot back. "You bit his head off. You must be the expert on these things. What was he doing? You tell me!"
And now the fury was smoking at maximum force behind Hibbler's eyes. He had never gotten along with Isabel before, but this was the first time his nursing director had shown him up in public. He knew she had to be irate over their discussion yesterday, but that could not be helped. Her lack of professionalism could.
"Nurse Andrews!" he bellowed. "If you believe that an unsafe environment is best for our patients, then by all means make that argument! But you do so at your own peril!"
"I don't think..." began Beverly Overton.
"I wasn't speaking to you!" growled Hibbler.
"Doctor," Zakhary approached Hibbler standing before him nose to nose. Two-day-old gyro, he thought as he caught whiffs of the doctor's lunch. "I can assure you that this was the type of thing that could happen to anyone. I helped. We caught my mother-in-law. It happened in the blink of an eye."
"Supreme standards of compassion you have there, sir," wheedled Hibbler, "but you're not the one running the facility."
"Or running it into the ground," Zakhary heard himself reply to the executive director of St. Matthew's Grove. He saw everyone looking at him, in shock, unglued by the force of those damning words.
Several moments went by before Hibbler turned his gaze to isabel. He pointed a weathered finger in her direction. "Since you obviously can't leave confidential matters to rest, I think we need to rectify that. You meet me in my office. Tomorrow at ten o'clock."
No one made a sound. Hibbler made as if he was leaving when he turned around. He looked back and forth at Carter and Zakhary.
"Eric, since you can't keep from screwing up, let alone doing what I've prohibited, perhaps we should take that evidence as divine guidance. Pack up your stuff. You're done." As the gathered souls let out a collective gasp at this bluster, Hibbler then wagged his finger at Zakhary, growling like a pit bull.
"And if a raghead like you thinks I'm running this place into the ground, maybe you should take your precious Verna elsewhere." He strode out, his loafer heels clacking the tile as he swept past the threshold.
The small congregation in the therapy center was drenched in gloom. Overton and Hanspard looked around, their eyes cast low in embarrassment, looking for equipment they could pretend to shift back into its proper places. Carter sat still, head in his hands, which had turned red with rage as the veins seemed to bulge from his fingers. Zakhary swore he heard the splatter of tears on the floor at the man's feet.
He felt a hand on his arm, holding it firmly. It was Isabel.
"I told you," she said. "I told you too much. And now it's over, Musa." She walked silently out of the room. Zakhary looked around at those who remained, the ones who now flitted around aimlessly as if he wasn't there.
"Musa?"
Zakhary awoke from his daze. "Mother," he said quietly, stooping next to her and embracing his mother-in-law gently. "Mother, I'm sorry."
She nodded weaily. "I'm so tired, Musa. Do you think you could wheel me back to my room?"
"I will, Mother. I will."
He remembered little of the rest of his visit. Verna made some attempt at conversation, bickering faintly about the food, but within fifteen minutes, she appeared tired and ready for a nap. He let her doze in her chair as he slipped out of the room. He made his way through the central narthex and turned right toward the doors. A blast of anger stormed from his nostrils as he looked back toward Hibbler's office, a sliver of light seeping out through the crack in the door. Zakhary shook his head. He knew he shouldn't let his emotions get the better of him, and with Verna facing death there were more important issues than his own sensitivities to bear. But he couldn't shake the hurricane swelling within his heart as he approached his car. It was as he settled in the driver's seat and turned on the ignition that Hibbler's face appeared in his mind again, making him want to vomit. This was no passing annoyance. For the first time in his adult life, he felt absolute hatred toward another human being.
"Are you saying St. Matthew's might close?" Zakhary whispered stridently. "We practically just put Mother here!"
"I can't tell you more, Musa, and even now I've told you too much," she replied, her eyes on the ground and her hands clutching a file. "I'm telling you this because you and Kerry are faithful visitors and want the best for Verna."
She looked as if she wanted to say more, but at that moment they heard both a reactionary curse from Eric Carter and a painful yelp from Verna. Musa brushed past Isabel into the therapy room to fins his mother-in-law teetering precariously on the padded table. Carter was kneeling beside her, struggling to regain his own balance while trying to prevent her from falling. Wordlessly, Zakhary sprinted to Carter's side, lowering himself into a crouch, and bore Verna's weight against his own body.
"What were you trying to do?" blurted Zakhary, frustrated but with no hint of anger in his voice.
Carter got on Verna's other side. "The wheelchair. She wanted to transition from the chair to the table and back. She tottered and I nearly dropped her."
Isabel Andrews came up from behind as Beverly Overton hovered nearby and Billy Hanspard stood at the ready in case he was needed. With a measured heave, both Zakhary and Carter swiveled Verna's frail figure into the wheelchair.
Carter was clearly both exhausted and embarrassed. He nodded to Zakhary. "Thank you."
"I haven't allowed her to fall yet," Zakhary replied, giving the briefest of smiles, "and I don't intend to start now."
"What is this?" came the bellowing voice of Dr. Dean Hibbler from the door. "Can we have one day when we don't have a total disaster in therapy?" He strode into the center of the room, taking stock of the silent population upon the medical tableau. Both nurses stared at him with glassy eyes. Carter cowered from the force of the doctor's arrival, physically sliding himself onto the table yet avoiding eye contact. Isabel Andrews met Hibbler's blazing oculi with a muderous stare of her own. For his part, Zakhary stood upright, taking stock of Hibbler and drinking in the antagonism that steamed from his persona.
"What just went on here?" the doctor barked. "Mr. Carter, I take it we almost had a patient injury?"
"Sir, I..." began Carter. "It was...nothing happened. Thanks to Dr. Zakhary..."
Hibbler looked around. "Two nurses, my nursing director, a therapist, and a bystander, and still we can't avert a disaster for the course of one afternoon! Mr. Carter, you were performing a prohibited maneuver! And given your defiance, did you at least have anyone assisting you with your action?"
"Which was what, precisely, Doctor?" Isabel interrupted sharply.
Hibbler weighed her response. "What do you mean by that?"
"You're demanding that he have assistance. What, then, was he doing that demanded that?"
Hibbler looked at Carter. "Well?" he snapped at the therapist.
"No! No! No!" Isabel shot back. "You bit his head off. You must be the expert on these things. What was he doing? You tell me!"
And now the fury was smoking at maximum force behind Hibbler's eyes. He had never gotten along with Isabel before, but this was the first time his nursing director had shown him up in public. He knew she had to be irate over their discussion yesterday, but that could not be helped. Her lack of professionalism could.
"Nurse Andrews!" he bellowed. "If you believe that an unsafe environment is best for our patients, then by all means make that argument! But you do so at your own peril!"
"I don't think..." began Beverly Overton.
"I wasn't speaking to you!" growled Hibbler.
"Doctor," Zakhary approached Hibbler standing before him nose to nose. Two-day-old gyro, he thought as he caught whiffs of the doctor's lunch. "I can assure you that this was the type of thing that could happen to anyone. I helped. We caught my mother-in-law. It happened in the blink of an eye."
"Supreme standards of compassion you have there, sir," wheedled Hibbler, "but you're not the one running the facility."
"Or running it into the ground," Zakhary heard himself reply to the executive director of St. Matthew's Grove. He saw everyone looking at him, in shock, unglued by the force of those damning words.
Several moments went by before Hibbler turned his gaze to isabel. He pointed a weathered finger in her direction. "Since you obviously can't leave confidential matters to rest, I think we need to rectify that. You meet me in my office. Tomorrow at ten o'clock."
No one made a sound. Hibbler made as if he was leaving when he turned around. He looked back and forth at Carter and Zakhary.
"Eric, since you can't keep from screwing up, let alone doing what I've prohibited, perhaps we should take that evidence as divine guidance. Pack up your stuff. You're done." As the gathered souls let out a collective gasp at this bluster, Hibbler then wagged his finger at Zakhary, growling like a pit bull.
"And if a raghead like you thinks I'm running this place into the ground, maybe you should take your precious Verna elsewhere." He strode out, his loafer heels clacking the tile as he swept past the threshold.
The small congregation in the therapy center was drenched in gloom. Overton and Hanspard looked around, their eyes cast low in embarrassment, looking for equipment they could pretend to shift back into its proper places. Carter sat still, head in his hands, which had turned red with rage as the veins seemed to bulge from his fingers. Zakhary swore he heard the splatter of tears on the floor at the man's feet.
He felt a hand on his arm, holding it firmly. It was Isabel.
"I told you," she said. "I told you too much. And now it's over, Musa." She walked silently out of the room. Zakhary looked around at those who remained, the ones who now flitted around aimlessly as if he wasn't there.
"Musa?"
Zakhary awoke from his daze. "Mother," he said quietly, stooping next to her and embracing his mother-in-law gently. "Mother, I'm sorry."
She nodded weaily. "I'm so tired, Musa. Do you think you could wheel me back to my room?"
"I will, Mother. I will."
He remembered little of the rest of his visit. Verna made some attempt at conversation, bickering faintly about the food, but within fifteen minutes, she appeared tired and ready for a nap. He let her doze in her chair as he slipped out of the room. He made his way through the central narthex and turned right toward the doors. A blast of anger stormed from his nostrils as he looked back toward Hibbler's office, a sliver of light seeping out through the crack in the door. Zakhary shook his head. He knew he shouldn't let his emotions get the better of him, and with Verna facing death there were more important issues than his own sensitivities to bear. But he couldn't shake the hurricane swelling within his heart as he approached his car. It was as he settled in the driver's seat and turned on the ignition that Hibbler's face appeared in his mind again, making him want to vomit. This was no passing annoyance. For the first time in his adult life, he felt absolute hatred toward another human being.
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