Chapter 9

After reassessing a patient on 5 South who’d vomited five times, despite IV Gravol and Ondansetron, I washed my hands thoroughly at the nursing station. I still wanted my fried rice, gol ding it. While striding into the hall, I almost collided with a man carrying a vase of red roses.

“Sorry,” I said.

“No problem, Doctor.” He grinned at me over the red petals, baby’s breath, and ferns. He had a slight accent, and his formal way of talking didn’t sound quite French. “You’re a busy woman.”

I was impressed that he hadn’t assumed I was a nurse, even though he looked to be at least in his late 60’s, with laugh wrinkles around his eyes and salt and pepper hair. Maybe the white coat gave me a certain gravitas.

The man detoured around me, the pant legs of his three-piece silver suit swishing. Hardly anyone wears a suit to the hospital anymore. Well, maybe an older psychiatrist or two. But for the most part, it’s scrubs or, if you’re lucky, a clean shirt and pants.

The man also didn’t move the way a doctor does, which is generally hurrying from place to place, staring at a watch, kind of the White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland. This man moved more like a dancer, setting the vase on the nursing station counter with a smile and a little bow.

“Who’s that?” I asked, Sandra, a round, middle-aged nurse who was rolling a portable vital signs machine down the hall.

“Oh. Peter the preacher,” she said, her mouth relaxing into a smile.

“Is he one of the ministers here?” I’d never seen him before, but this was my first ward rotation. Up until now, I’d only done emerg (yes!), psychiatry (uhh) and family medicine (ugh).

“Not officially, but he’s a cancer survivor from St. Joe’s. We thought he wouldn’t make it, but he showed us all. Now he comes to preach every Sunday afternoon.”

Peter the preacher leaned over the counter to speak to the receptionist and the nurse who were sitting there. “Here is a gift for my favourite secretary and my favourite nurse.”

They laughed.

“We’re all your favourite nurses,” called the nurse, but she was smiling.

“As you should be. The gift is for all of you, for saving my life! Ah, Sandra, my angel,” he said, crossing the hall toward us. “Are you still working your magic on your sweet patients?”

“I don’t know if it’s magic, but I’m working,” said Sandra.

“I know and you know it’s magic indeed.” Peter the preacher made a little bow at me, snapping his heels together. “And who might this young lady be?”

I said, “I’m on call for internal medicine, but I’m the palliative care resident, Dr. Hope Sze.”

“Ah.” He nodded sagely and held out his hand to shake mine. His fingers trembled only very slightly, and he didn’t appear to be hiding any money in his hand.

I shook it. He gave my hand a little squeeze, bowed his head, and said, “Enchanté.”

I murmured back, “Enchanté,” a French expression that never fails to delight me. I mean, when was the last time an English stranger said he was enchanted to meet you? Then Peter the preacher added, “Would either of you lovely ladies you like to come to our Sunday meeting? It’s at 3 p.m. in the palliative care lounge. Patients and caregivers come together to talk and sing.”

Sandra patted the vital signs machine. “I wish I could, Peter. I have to work.”

“This is work as well as play!” said Peter, but he turned to me. “Dr. Sze?”

He pronounced my name pretty well, with the “ts” sound. So I mentally awarded Peter the preacher some extra bonus points, but I shook my head, too. “Duty calls. But thanks for the invite.”

“Maybe next weekend. I’m here every Sunday at 3 p.m. and Tuesday at 2 p.m.

Even if you only come for a minute, we’d welcome your presence!”

I smiled instead of refusing outright. Next weekend, I’d be in Ottawa.

“À bientôt!” Peter waved and bore down on a woman in a wheelchair. “Mildred! You look especially ravishing today.”

The wheelchair woman, Mildred, continued to look straight ahead, blankly, but he took her hand and spoke softly to her anyway before greeting her daughter, a tiny woman who stood extra-tall while speaking to Peter the preacher.

I glanced around the nursing station and realized that the entire collective mood had lifted, just because one man smiled, sprinkled compliments liberally, and marked the place with roses.

No one had told me what religion he belonged to. Probably some sort of Christian denomination, since St. Joe’s was a Catholic hospital. It didn’t matter to me, but it would to Ryan, so I asked Sandra, who was now charting the vital signs in her patient’s chart, “Is he Christian?”

“He’s Anglican, but his services are non-denominational,” she said, looking up from the binder. “Are you thinking of going?”

“Ah, no.” It wouldn’t make my top 10,000 list of things to do.

“I sometimes pop in, if I’m on my break. Peter doesn’t mind. In fact, he encourages us. He usually has cookies at his service.”

I laughed. “I’ll keep it in mind if I’m starving. I’ve got to have lunch first.” Amazing how much free food matters when you’re on call.

I bolted down to the residents’ room. While I scarfed down my cold fried rice, I remembered visiting a depressing old folks home in London, Ontario. and I realized something. If I were stuck in a hospital or other institution, I’d rather go to a church service than rot in my room all day. I’d like people shaking my hand and looking at me like I mattered, even if their hands shook and they bumped into the walls with their walkers. I’d like to sing. I’d definitely choose Peter the preacher, with his smiles and his roses, over staring out the window and smelling my neighbour’s stool (although you’re supposed to lose your sense of smell as you get older, which might be adaptive if you’re stuck in an institution like this).

Stan punched the door code and burst into the residents’ lounge with a cafeteria tray, instantly making the small room smell like fish and boiled rice. I held my breath while he settled down in front of the TV and turned to ask me, “You met that guy who’s making it rain in the ER?”

“It’s not funny,” I said. “He probably will get better service for his mom. That’s not fair to all the people who don’t have cash to hand out to the rest of us.”

“I say he’s just being honest.” Stan put his hands behind his head and stretched his elbows out before propping his feet on the coffee table. “All of us want good service for our moms. He’s just making sure of it.”

“I didn’t take his money.”

“Yeah, but some people did. And even if you didn’t take it, did you look at her chart?”

“A little,” I admitted.

“You wanted to make sure everything was being done for her, right? Well, so did I. And I found that she didn’t have a physio or occupational health consult. So I put that in.”

“Did you take the money?” I had to ask.

He pretended to zip his lips.

“Stan!” I was shocked.

“Hey, I’m not saying either way. A gentleman never kisses and tells, or takes money and blabs about it. That way, everyone’s happy.”

I cut right to the chase. “I think it’s against our license.”

“Really? You think the Collège has a policy on that? Let’s see.” He pulled out his iPad and clicked on a few buttons. “Hmm, I’m not seeing it. Home free.” He proceeded to laugh at my face. “No, I didn’t take it. But lots of people did.”

“Who?”

“Oh, the cleaning staff.”

“Cleaning staff!”

“Sure. They’re important. You want to make sure that your mother’s the one who gets a pillow and clean sheets? You know how to make it happen. Um, who else. One or two of the nurses. The X-ray tech, I’m pretty sure, because we were up to a three hour wait, but his mother zipped in and out.”

“But what’s the point if she gets her X-rays faster if she just ends up sitting in emerg for a few days?”

“Not much,” Stan admitted. “That’s why she needs a bed. In the meantime, she could use a private nurse. That’s what I told him. Someone to make sure she can get up in the middle of the night without falling, can help her to the bathroom…”

“Is he hiring her one?”

“He’s looking into it. The hospital doesn’t look kindly on hiring outside nurses, but if he wants to hire a sitter and it just happens to be a fully qualified nurse, that’s his business.”

I pressed my hand into my mouth. I don’t know why I was taken aback by Stan counselling a patient how to build his own, personal two-tier health care system in the middle of the St. Joe’s emergency department, but I was.

Stan snorted. “If that was your mom, Hope, you’d do everything you could for her, right? Bring her meals from home, her own blanket and pillow…”

“Sure.” People did that all the time. Sometimes, they even brought pictures to decorate the stretchers, because they were stuck in emerg for so long.

“This is just the next step up.”

“Bribing your way to a bed upstairs?”

“Hey, don’t knock it until you’re the one trying to get your loved one admitted.” Stan stuck a great big wad of fish in his mouth and chewed. At least he kept his mouth closed while he was chewing, although he managed to grin at my expression while he was doing it.

I knew what he was saying. And now that he’d opened my eyes to the possibility, if I had to pull strings, pay money, whatever it took, wouldn’t I make goddamn fucking sure everything got done for my mother, my father, or most of all, my little brother, Kevin?

You bet I would.

So where did that leave me? Or any of the other patients?

Nowhere, really. Or, stuck in the emergency room at 245 percent capacity.

I shook my head. I didn’t know what to do, so I quickly checked my e-mail. Ryan had sent a picture of his grandmother sleeping in her hospital room, although they’d had to settle for a semi-private instead of a private. I sent a quick message of sympathy. After a pause, I e-mailed Tucker to tell him I had a date with Elvis. Then I waved at Stan and headed back to the emerg for more consults and my remaining 17 hours of call.