The Seer by Clifford Beck - HTML preview

Chapter 14

The shiny metal key fit smoothly into the stainless steel doorknob, and turned easily clockwise. It was Monday morning, and opening the door of his office, Gordon felt a slipping sensation beneath his feet. Looking down, he found Saturday's mail on the floor, and picking it up, saw it to be nothing more than flyers and circulars. Walking through his small waiting room, Gordon dropped the handful of junk mail into a conveniently placed waste can. He sat at his desk, looking at his schedule. His first patient, Maurine, would arrive at ten o' clock.

It was during her first visit that she revealed how her nursing career had come to a sudden stop. She had been assigned a patient who had been admitted for a strange genital rash that turned out to be syphilis. However, the middle-aged man also presented a psych issue, in the form of a personality disorder. He behaved as though entitled to treat women in a demeaning manner, in order to gain a sense of empowerment. Most of the time, this manifested in sexual harassment, but during his hospitalization that behavior escalated, and while Maurine was changing his bag of IV antibiotics, he reached up between her legs and aggressively groped her. Her initial reaction was shock, but as she backed up against the wall, Maurine became enraged as she saw a smile creep across her patient's face.

With his painful infection, he was unable to get out of bed, but reacting from anger, Maurine pulled the IV pole toward her, hung the new bag of antibiotics, and opened the drip. At such a high rate, the drug flooded his body, causing his heart to fail. Still enraged, she stood at the foot of his bed as he began profusely sweating, and within moments, he lost consciousness. Leaving the IV open, she walked out of the room as her patient's condition continued to deteriorate. About ten minutes later, a woman wearing a headscarf went into the room to dust mop the floor. She wasn't part of the medical staff, but one need not be a healthcare worker to recognize the sight of death.

Her screams were heard from far down the hall, attracting every member of the unit staff. Of course, the first person in the room was Maurine, who quickly corrected the IV drip rate. But by this time, her patient was beyond help, and although a resuscitation had been performed, it proved fruitless, and the man who had assaulted Maurine was pronounced dead. The doctor in charge of the code signed the death certificate as the man's body grew cold. An investigation was carried out, but because of Maurine's quick thinking in slowing the antibiotic's drip rate, no evidence of medical error could be found, and a death taking place in a hospital didn't, legally, require an autopsy. Maurine was cleared of any wrong doing, until a co-worker stepped forward, having witnessed her actions just before the resuscitation. No criminal charges were filed, but Maurine was forced to resign. Over time, the specter of guilt raised its head and she began to develop symptoms of what Gordon would diagnose as a conversion disorder. The battle between her conscience and continued anger had created a dynamic that displayed itself as a tremble of her right arm and hand. Oddly, the same hand used to kill the man who had fondled her from his hospital bed. Now, twice a week, she sat in front of Gordon, pouring out her soul, and although he was aware of her actions, he was bound by confidentiality, and unable to notify anyone that, twice a week, a killer sat in his office, begging for absolution.

By the end of the day, Gordon was more stressed than usual, and it was only Monday. His experience in Evergreen cemetery echoed in his mind throughout the day, costing him enough of his concentration that he felt the need to double check his notes. With only a few minor additions, he finished his notes and glancing at his desk clock, noticed the lateness of the evening. His therapist’s office was closed, but as a professional courtesy, his doctor had given him his home phone number. This was not an issue that would have been a crisis, but Gordon was beginning to fear for his sanity and didn't think his doctor would mind the call.

Dialing the number, Gordon let the line ring until, finally, a man answered.

“Hey, Walter,” Gordon began. “I hope I didn't catch you during dinner.”

His doctor, knowing that Gordon was new to private practice, assured him that he could call any time, day or night.

“Thanks,” Gordon replied. “Look...uh...I don't know how to explain this, but I need to talk. Do you have any free time tomorrow?”

His doctor kept his schedule on a tablet, and briefly studying it, discovered an opening at four thirty, his last appointment of the day. Gordon would have to cancel his four 'o clock appointment in order to be there on time, and in less than twenty-four hours, Gordon found himself sitting in a chair, across from his doctor's desk, trying to convey the experiences that left him both confused and afraid.

He remembered when Gordon talked about his parents, and that his mother died when he was in medical school.

“Gordon,” he began. “When your mother died, how did you handle it?”

Gordon had counseled people through the grieving process, and knew that if any part of it was disrupted, anxiety issues could result. But, he didn't feel anxious or depressed. The problem, as he saw it, was stress. Between running a private practice and waiting on the state's investigation, he had developed the need to vent, and as a psychiatrist, Gordon realized that dialogue was the best course of action.

“Well,” he replied. “There wasn't a lot of time. I mean, I was in school.”

A moment went by as his doctor continued an uncomfortable degree of eye contact.

“You think I'm suppressing something, don't you?” Gordon asked.

He wrote a few notes, then tossed his note pad on his desk.

“C'mon, Gordon,” he said. “You know how this works. People suppress things all the time. It's one of the things that drives neurosis. If you suppress a symptom, it's going to find another way out.”

“Yeah,” Gordon interrupted. “Carl Jung, I know. So, you think these experiences I'm having are just suppressed grief?”

His doctor already had an answer. “Well, if I were the patient, what would you say?”

Some issues can be too confusing to figure out on one’s own, and occasionally, everyone needs a sounding board. This was the place Gordon found himself.

“Gordon,” he continued. “Go back and visit your mother's grave. Talk to her. Take the time to grieve. And don't worry about it. Life's hard enough, okay?” The advice his doctor gave him was the same as he would have given any of his own patients, under the same circumstances.

With a possible answer to his ghostly issue, Gordon's session ended early. Both men stood, and shaking hands, Gordon thanked his doctor for giving him his time. He looked forward to the weekend, when he could go to his mother's grave and resolve the matter, allowing himself to move on with his life. He also decided that he would visit several times throughout the year, thinking it might help to avoid a relapse as well as to simply visit. Gordon also realized that in obtaining his education, he had robbed himself of the chance to talk with his mother. Now, he would have to make due with one-sided conversations. At least, he could imagine what she might say.