Holding Their Own: A Story of Survival (2 page)

Spider was late picking him up at the airport because of traffic
. Bishop loaded his gear in the back and mumbled under his breath, “Hurry up and wait.” As they pulled out, Bishop was shocked at the volume of cars and the lack of rules. Spider worked the big, black SUV around everything from Mercedes Benz sedans with gold trim to mule-drawn carts loaded with rags and baskets. At one point, he quickly pulled over and stopped. “What’s up?” asked Bishop.

“
US military convoy is coming around,” replied Spider, “If you don’t pull over, they’ll shoot you.” Sure enough, traffic cleared, and several Humvees and troop carriers came speeding past. On the back of the last Humvee was a sign that read, “STAY BACK 300 METERS OR YOU WILL BE FIRED UPON.” Bishop had a good laugh over the fact it was printed in English.

At that point in
the war, there had only been a few, short news stories about terrorist activities in Iraq, as the “Insurgency” was just getting started. The victory on land had been quick, but the celebration had been short. The Iraqi people expected the Americans to solve all of their problems immediately after toppling the old regime. The Americans were only there to kick the Iraqi Army’s ass. Nobody said anything about rebuilding a country, and Bishop had to smile, thinking about thousands of Army officers who no doubt were complaining about the “
Chicken Shit
” involved in changing their original mission.

Bishop had joined the army for one very specific reason – college money. He signed up for Reserve Officers Training Corps (ROTC) because he didn’t have enough money, grades or athletic ability to go to college any other way. His degree was in engineering, with a major in Fluid Dynamics. This was not due to any passion for things fluidized, but because his counselor had advised him that a wonderful job in the oil business awaited all who understood the science. What the counselor had not told him was that finishing in the bottom 50% of a small class, from an unknown west Texas college did not provide for a six-figure resume. He had, however, managed to acquire a love for certain aspects of fluid during his college years - mostly involving the panties of co-eds. After graduation and all of the associated parties, a hung-over Bishop reported for active duty. The Army gave him four years of college; they expected four years of service in return.

The Army had been a
big, fat nothing for Bishop. His expectations of military life were completely different than the actual experience. Growing up on the ranch, he had been raised around firearms and loved shooting. He had believed his training would include exposure to some serious firepower. In the end, he estimated that he had fired more rounds each summer as a kid than he had shot the entire four years in the Army. Bishop thought the military would teach him how to fight, get him in peak physical condition, and turn him into a warrior. There was very little training on how to fight. The physical conditioning was easy for him, and there was almost no training whatsoever to turn him into a badass.

One of the few positive experiences was attending the Airborne School at Fort Bragg. Nothing special or gung-ho here, as every Army officer had to go through Airborne School. He had never flown on a plane before, let alone jumped out of one
. Skydiving was actually fun.

What Bishop did learn was a lot of new terminology, such as “Chicken Shit
,” and “Hurry up and wait.” He spent three and a half years in Signals and G2, or Army Intelligence. Given his degree, the Army wanted him to operate base sewage and water systems. He thought that sounded like a
really shitty idea
, and eventually ended up as a messenger boy behind the “Green Door.” He, like every other peacetime officer, requested every class, school and opportunity that he could find, only to be denied almost all of them. His degree was not from an “Army” school, and his family was not an “Army” family. The limited seats in the various schools typically went to those who were part of that inner circle.

To be fair, Bishop could not blame it all on some hidden political society
. He was not exactly the model officer and gentleman. Bishop had developed issues with absolute authority, especially when lives were on the line. The Army expected men to execute a battle plan that was based on time-tested, empirical results. The plan was never discussed, questioned or enhanced for the current situation. It simply was
THE
plan and was to be executed without question. No idea or modification, no matter how creative or brilliant, would be considered. While the military did change its tactics based on new equipment or lessons learned, the process was very slow. If it had worked during WWII, it should work now. Unless the plan resulted in “unacceptable causalities,” it was just fine.

Bishop did not believe this was the right way to run any organization, and that put him at odds with command. On
e of his performance reports summed it up best, “This officer has a mindset and desire to be a warrior---a highly skilled, individual fighter. This unit requires soldiers, or men who fight well in a team environment with defined and dedicated roles. There is no room in this division for individuals, regardless of how motivated.”

He had to smile as he thought back
. In addition to his authority issues, he suffered from ADDDI, or Attention Deficit Disorder Due to Intercourse, as he had developed quite the reputation with the ladies off-base. While his service record would definitely not be studied by any war college, there were several pretty, young girls who missed him after he was reassigned to the Reserves and moved back to Texas.

The traffic pulled Bishop’s mind back to present day as he maneuvered the truck through the side streets in the congested medical center. Driving in this area was an adventure in itself. One of the largest concentrations of medical facilities anywhere in the world, the Houston Medical Center consisted of over 30 hospitals, numerous teaching facilities, and hundreds of research and procedure labs. Almost every major medical university in the south maintained some presence in the medical center. For years, the petroleum and medical industries had been the economic backbone of the city. The cluster of large hospitals, office buildings and the supporting restaurants and shops was really a small city unto itself. It also had a very healthy “non-rush” hour of its own.
A
healthy
rush hour for the Medical Center
, Bishop thought -
Terri will love that one
.

As Bishop worked his way through the side streets and shortcuts, he could not believe his “luck” when he found an open parking spot less than four blocks from the hospital
. He parked his truck and headed for the building.

Dr. Richard Hopkins was practically on the verge of tears for the first time in 30 years
. He had built his department from scratch and invested all of his time, energy and emotion into the facility. This morning, when the emergency staff meeting was called, he assumed it was simply another update on the legal proceedings and financial troubles that the hospital system seemed to always be experiencing. He really did not understand any of it, nor did he really care. As long as the nurses and technicians showed up for work, and he could order tests, the rest of it was mundane, useless information. He thought that management was wasting precious time that could be devoted to healing people. When the meeting began, the hospital president spoke quietly and went directly to the point. “We have been denied any more time to reorganize our debt. This morning, a judge rejected our final appeal and ordered the facility to shut down by Friday of this week. We cannot make payroll nor pay our suppliers.” No one said anything at first - either from shock or lack of understanding. After a few awkward moments of silence, one of the department heads asked what this meant. Dr. Hopkins thought the president could not have been more clear – no paychecks, no medicine, no labs and no procedures. The hospital was closing.

Walking through the corridors of the facility after the meeting had broken up, he regretted not having paid more attention to the previous warning signs that the facility was in trouble. There had been dozens of briefings and financial presentations
. As he reflected on the proclamation, he realized no one should have been surprised by today’s announcement. He consoled himself in that he was not the only one who seemed shocked by the cold reality of business and money. Following the president’s bombshell, everyone seemed to go through the Kubler-Ross stages of death and dying. At first, it was denial – they won’t let the hospital close. Then they progressed through anger, depression, bargaining and finally, a kind of numb acceptance. Dr. Hopkins did not even call his wife or any of his friends - he simply walked out and headed toward his office to pack up his belongings.

A heated argument brought him out of his fog
. The head of a nursing department was being confronted by three of her staff. “What do you mean NO PAYCHECKS?” yelled one. “You expect us to continue to work through Friday without pay? To hell with
your
moral code---the parking here costs me $20.00 a day, and if I’m not getting paid, I’m not coming to work.”

Another nurse chimed in, “I haven’t been paid for my overtime for two months
. I pulled double shifts and had to pay for daycare. We are eating oatmeal. How can I do this?”

Dr. Hopkins started noticing other aid
es, nurses and even some interns leaving with boxes. One orderly was pushing a hospital bed loaded with personal items and a coffee maker down the hall. “My God,” the physician thought, “I wonder if I can find any boxes to pack
my
belongings in?”

Brenda Mitchel
l had been an R.N. at Houston General for 14 years. Unlike so many who entered the field for job and financial security, she chose nursing for the gratification of helping people. She was a Christian woman . . . self-sacrificing, and believed strongly in her responsibility to the sick.

Brenda recognized the signs that the hospital was in trouble months ago
. The cuts in benefits, lack of new equipment and weeks going by without overtime pay on her check stub could only mean one thing---the facility was struggling. After the news of the closure spread like wildfire throughout the facility, Brenda quickly decided to stay and help until the last patient was transferred. She began preparing a mental checklist of what each of her patients would need in order to be moved. As she sat at the nurses’ station making entries into the charts, two other nurses approached.

“Brenda, we are leaving
. We wanted to stop and say, ‘Goodbye,’” said the older one.

“How can you leave?” she replied, “We have 34 people in this unit. They need us. We took an oath
, and besides that it’s against the law for us to leave.”

The two women looked at each other and then down at the floor
. For a moment, Brenda thought she was getting through to them, but then the younger nurse responded in a quiet, almost inaudible voice. “Brenda, I just can’t. I have enough gas to make it through Friday, and that’s it. Management is responsible for this, so let management take care of the patients. I need to use what gas I have to look for another job.”

Dr. Hopkins rounded a corner only to be confronted by a patient in a wheelchair. Her soft gray hair, line-etched expression, and forearms sprinkled with brown spots were clear indicators of her advancing age. She lifted her bony finger to get the passing physician’s attention. “Doctor – do you know where my nurse went? I can’t find anyone, and no one answers the buzzer. Where did everyone go?”

Only then did it dawn on Dr. Hopkins that the staff was leaving, and only a handful
was left to take care of the patients. His mind was racing. The needs of the thousands of patients would quickly overwhelm any staff that did remain loyal to their oath. How many would stay? Nothing in medical school had prepared him for a situation like this.

He decided that he would stay and honor his oath, that there was really no other option as he would never be able to sleep at night knowing he had left the sick behind to fend for themselves.

When Dr. Hopkins reached his department’s small section of the building, he was almost run over by an orderly pushing an ultrasound machine down the corridor. “Whoa,” said Dr. Hopkins, “Where are you going with that?” The orderly was not even from his department. The interloper just stared - first at the physician, then at his ID badge - and then continued pushing the expensive machine, almost running. As the doctor caught his breath, he noticed that his department was in complete chaos. Papers littered the floor, drawers were pulled from desks, storage closets were open, and their contents scattered.
We are being looted
he thought, and reached for a phone to call security. The phone rang for more than a minute, but no one answered at the hospital’s security desk
. If this is going on all over the hospital, they are probably very busy. I will call the police.

Lt. Michel Porter was an
18-year veteran of the Houston Police Department. He had survived numerous staff reductions because of his record and the fact that he had been injured in the line of duty. Porter was responsible for Sub-station #4, which included the Houston Medical Center area. He had watched the number of officers assigned to the department be reduced by almost half since he had left the academy. Repeated budget shortfalls, a bad economy, and numerous mistakes by city politicians had resulted in deep cuts almost every year. When he had been promoted to station commander six months ago, he had inherited responsibility for 16 square blocks of business and residential territory. On paper, it looked as if it should be an easy beat. Mostly commercial, with a few blocks of affluent residential neighborhoods, any reasonable analysis would indicate a small police presence would be all that was required. Actual criminal activity and paper analysis were in disagreement. Lt. Porter, or Big Mike as everyone referred to him, understood that the medical center was one of the largest, sweetest targets left for criminals in the city.

A flailing economy delivered a double blow to law enforcement - reduced staff coupled with an increasingly desperate population. A desperate population committed more crimes
. The medical center was one of the few places left in the city where you could drive for several blocks without empty storefronts and half-empty parking lots. Employees and hospital visitors came and went throughout the day and night. Restaurants and shops remained open and had customers at all hours as well. Customers meant money, and money was a magnet for the desperate. At first, the complaints had been about beggars pestering hospital staff as they reported for work. When the economy worsened, beggars became knife-toting muggers. Soon muggers became robbers brandishing pistols---that is until the organized gangs moved in, and the run-of-the-mill gangsters were forced out. Were it not for the fact that the hospitals had hired large numbers of private security, the situation would have been much worse. Most of the private security officers were actually policemen who were let go by the city. The quality of security provided by these private police forces made a big difference in keeping things under control. Big Mike knew most of those ex-policemen drew as much or more pay as when they were in the department and wondered how much their cost had contributed to the financial issues facing Houston General.

Lt. Porter had listened to endless debates at both headquarters and the city council meetings
. The medical center was one of the few “bright spots” in the city when it came to tax collection. The debate always centered on “social redistribution” versus “reward and reinvest in what is working.” Shouldn’t the area generating the revenue receive the lion’s share of the funds? The council members argued that the city could not be seen as protecting the rich while poorer neighborhoods were left to become the Wild West. Lt. Porter was beyond contemplating that age-old debate any further. He simply wanted to get in his 25 years and retire. The constant battles with low morale, stretched-too-thin resources, and the other consequences of a shrinking force had taken their toll on him and his family. Only the love for his fellow officers kept him in the game. He sometimes felt a small hint of remorse over the fact that he tried to protect his officers more than the citizens of the city. It was only a small tinge and always passed quickly.

The duty sergeant interrupted Big Mike’s thoughts with a louder than normal knock on the doorframe – a sure sign that something was wrong
. “Lieutenant, there is a problem down at Houston General. We have received several calls of looting and hospital employees stealing equipment from the building. I guess they had a big announcement this morning that the place was shutting down on Friday, and now the rats are abandoning the ship and taking lots of equipment and even prescription drugs with them.”

Big Mike digested that information for a second and then asked, “Who’s running their security shift this morning
?”

The sergeant answered
, “It’s George, and it took me quite a while to get him on his cell. There is a crowd gathered in front of the building, and he has all of his guys trying to keep things in order. He says he needs help and needs it right away.”

Another officer appeared over
the sergeant’s shoulder and said, “Boss, we have a problem down at Houston General. You better flip on the TV and check it out. It looks pretty serious.”

As Bishop walked to the front entrance, he noticed nurses, orderlies, candy stripers, and other staff leaving the facility, carrying their personal effects and looking either bewildered or disgusted. When he turned the corner heading to the front doors, a large crowd blocked his way. Many of the people were simply curious what all the fuss was about. There were at least three television news teams, complete with vans pointing satellite dishes at the sky. The crews seemed excited, filming the growing crowd of spectators. Several hospital security guards were trying to keep anyone from entering the building, and this was causing tensions to rise quickly. Already there were a few heated arguments in process.

Working
his way through the crowd, Bishop overheard a man shouting at one of the guards, “What do you mean I can’t go in? I was told to get my wife out of this place, and now you won’t let me go in? How am I supposed to get her out?” Several others were echoing similar protests. Bishop realized there was no way he was going to get in through the front door, so he reversed course and headed along the side of the hospital. As he strode along, trying to figure out what to do, a side emergency exit door opened. Two men in scrubs peered outside, and then began to pass out boxes. Bishop waved as he walked toward them, but they paid no attention to him. He entered the door between them.

A little disoriented, he made his way to the main lobby and didn
’t even notice the absence of the volunteers who normally manned the information desk. He rode to the third floor, exited the elevators, and proceeded to room 323. As he entered the room, the stench almost overwhelmed him. Mrs. Rita Peterson, his mother-in-law, shared a room with two other patients. Clearly one or more of them had soiled themselves and hadn’t been cleaned. He ignored the overwhelming odor and proceeded to the last bed where Rita was lying.

Rita’s eyes were open, and she was moaning
. He had seen her awake only briefly in the last month and had not heard her make any noise at all. She was trying to move, and obviously something was wrong. He was relieved that the smell did not seem to be emanating from her, but then realized she was in agony. Her thin brows were clenched, and she was grinding her teeth at the same time as trying to yell out. Her weakened body was shaking badly. Bishop moved to her side quickly and took her hand, repeatedly asking, “Rita, Rita, what’s wrong? Are you okay? Tell me what’s wrong.”

Rita’s eyes cleared for a moment and she whispered
, “THE PAIN. Oh Lord, it hurts so bad.” Bishop hurried to the foot of the bed and located Rita’s clipboard. He had spent enough time at her bedside in the last few months to know a little about how the nurses charted. He flipped a few pages and realized no one had made any entries in the record all day. Rita was in pain because she had not been given her medications. He looked up to see that her IV drip was almost empty as well. She and all of the other patients in the room seemed to have been ignored by the hospital staff.