“It
may only be a matter of time before God unleashes a plague upon the earth.”
Sister Mary Pius
Chapter 1
The
waiting room was standing room only. The thirty-year-old hospital had hardly
kept up with the growing population of the province. The once state of the art
Emergency Department was in dire need of simple things like an updated seating
area, a lick of paint and more space. The sniffles and groans of sick people
filled the area. The sign on the wall said, Estimated wait time: 4
hours. There were three wickets at the front of the
room, each with nurses taking basic medical information from patients and
determining their level of priority.
Keating’s
right arm was draped across Horan’s shoulders. Horan held the
elderly Keating tight
around the waist to keep him from falling as he
carefully helped him sit in front of a wicket. Keating’s body melted into the
chair. The perspiration on his brow was visible and his mouth sagged as if he
was having a stroke. Horan quickly
explained that Keating had been sick on and off for over a year. He had a flu
that he could not get rid of. He told the nurse he begged the elderly man to go
to the doctor, but Keating refused. His symptoms became worse over the past few
months. He had an unquenchable thirst but found water bitter and turned his
stomach. The thirst was followed by unstoppable nose bleeds. He had lost a considerable
amount of weight but attributed this to stress and being over worked. He also
had torturous pain throughout his body.
The
nurse noted the symptoms and placed a hospital bracelet around Keating's wrist.
She prioritized him as ‘urgent but
not life threatening’. She brought out a wheel
chair and with Horan’s help, lifted Keating on to the
padded seat. By
this time, Keating was starting to come to
and began talking nonsensical. He was unaware of his surroundings
and his
speech slurred as he grabbed Horan by the
collar and pulled him closer, whispering, "Don't tell them who
I am. I don't want the media to get wind of this. I don't want any rumours or
panic." Keating was winded and couldn't focus his eyes.
"No
Patrick, don't worry about things like that now. You'll see a doctor soon and
you'll be fine." Keating's head fell forward, and he passed out again.
Agatha
Catania, the Emergency Department
nursing supervisor, didn't care who he was. She was more interested in getting
him into triage and assessed. With expert precision from years of crisis
medical experience, she took Keating’s vital
signs. His temperature was 101, his pulse was racing, his respiratory rate was
laboured and his blood pressure was 180 over 95.
She
wheeled him into an examination room and two more nurses assisted her, lifting
him onto a bed. "We have to get him
into a gown to be examined," she said, and started to unbutton his shirt.
"No,
I'll do it.” Horan pushed her hands away from Keating’s
chest. She shoved his hands back
"I
am a nurse sir."
Horan
decided to divulge their secret. "He's the Roman Catholic Archbishop for
the province and I’m his
assistant. We're both priests. Please, let me do
it." Agatha felt like he was expecting her to bow her head and genuflect
at the mention of his title.
Agatha
was the first person in her Conception Bay family to get a university degree.
Her father, a weathered fisherman, broke his back to ensure his only daughter
received a good education. He never wanted her to work on the water. Her family
had Italian and English roots but centuries of blending their
accent
with the local Irish dialect spoken throughout this island in the
cold North Atlantic left its people with a distinctly townie or bayman
accent. She was a bayman and a proud Protestant raised
in the Church of England but often mistaken for Irish Catholic due to her thick
bayman
pronunciation
of certain words. Four years of university and ten years of working at the
biggest hospital in the province could not take the bay out of the girl. Father
Horan’s assumption that she was a good Catholic girl was more than justified by
her words and actions.
Putting
this old man into a Johnny-coat was
one less thing she had to do during this busy shift. She moved back to allow
Horan to unbutton the shirt. "I am sorry, go ahead. The doctor will be in
shortly." She walked out of the room allowing the two men their privacy.
By
the time Dr. Luke Gillespie
entered the examination room, Horan had the Archbishop
in his hospital gown and a blanket pulled up to his chest. He was mopping his
supervisor's brow with a cold facecloth.
"Your
friend has a nasty flu from the looks of this," he surmised while reading
the vitals from a clipboard.
"For
some time now," Horan informed him.
"Let’s
have a look." Gillespie took his stethoscope from around his neck and
began to listen to Keating's heart and lungs.
"How
long has he been sick?" he asked as he took the stethoscope out of his
ears.
"He’s
had the flu on and off for a little over a year. He just can't shake it.” Horan
informed him. "It started getting worse a couple of months ago. He was
tired all the time, he has lost a considerable amount of weight, maybe 20 to 25
pounds in a short period. He has fevers on and off and diarrhea.”
Gillespie
folded his arms and pondered his patient’s predicament. "How old is
he?"
"He'll
be 60 in a month. One more thing,"
Horan added.
"He has this incredible thirst for water, but
every time he drinks it, he throws it up saying
it's bitter and vile.” Horan’s face showed concern and fear. “He also has
uncontrollable nose bleeds. He can bleed for hours. I've never seen anything
like it and he complains of constantly being in pain. Sometimes the pain is so bad
he cries, which is unlike him."
The
doctor could sense his attachment to this man.
Gillespie
tilted the Archbishop's head back until his mouth opened
and
placed a tongue-depressor inside. He shone a small pen light
into his patient’s mouth. He was alarmed to see white spots and a thick coating
on his tongue. He threw the tongue depressor in the garbage and felt Keating’s
lymph nodes in his neck and armpits. They were enlarged.
The
Archbishop began to come to and broke into a heavy cough. His throat was dry,
he could not get his breath and his head fell forward. Horan put his
arm under his Archbishop's shoulders and lifted him to open his airways.
Without notice he broke into a harder cough that came from the pit of his
belly. Suddenly blood spewed from his nose, splattering his
chest. He coughed again, and the blood flew
through the air. Gillespie instinctively jumped back but the projectile blood
splatter reached him, dotting the top of his scrubs. Keating slid
back into a trance. The front of his hospital gown was soaked in his blood.
Horan propped up the pillows as the doctor laid him back down.
“I
keep him elevated when he is like this, so he doesn’t choke on his own blood.”
He stared at the doctor as if hoping
for an answer.
Nurse
Catania
followed by
two other nurses ran into the room ready to take direction. "I want
everyone who comes in here to be wearing latex gloves,
masks and gowns,” ordered Dr. Gillespie. “He is quarantined as of
right now." The three nurses left and headed toward the supply cabinet to
get suited up.
Father
Horan was shaking, “Does he really need to
be quarantined?”
"It's
standard procedure when staff is exposed to blood. You'll have to go
to
the waiting area." The doctor pointed toward the door.
"Is
he going to be alright? I have to notify some people of his situation." He
took note of the concern on Gillespie’s face.
“Call
whoever you need. We're going to run some tests now."
Dr.
Gillespie felt a sense of panic come over him. He quickly scrubbed the blood off
his hands and checked in the mirror to see if any landed on his face. It was
clean. "Thank God for that," he whispered to himself.
Nurse
Catania
returned,
covered in a mask and gown "Are you alright? What is it?" The look on
his face stopped her in her tracks.
Gillespie
hesitated. "I am ok. I am thinking of a few possible
causes. I can't be sure till I get the tests back."
He
looked at his patient unconscious in the bed. " I’ll
write up a requisition for blood and urinalysis. Make sure no one else comes
into this room and keep yourself covered."
"Do
you think it's another wave of something like SARs?" Agatha knew she had a
mountain of paperwork if it was.
Several
causes were running through his head. "I am not sure, but I think it's
more serious than the flu."
Gillespie
looked at the chart again "Who is he? His name and face are
familiar."
"Are
you Catholic?" Agatha asked. He looked at her like he didn't understand
what language she was speaking.
"I
was born Catholic, but I haven't practiced in a long time."
"He
is the Catholic Archbishop for the province. The other gentleman is his
assistant."
"I
haven't been to church in a long time. He wouldn't be familiar to me. Maybe my
Mother," he added as an afterthought.
Gillespie
shrugged "I don't care who he is. He's a patient to me. Money and power
are no good to anyone in a hospital bed."
*******
It
took a few hours to get the x-rays back. Dr. Gillespie stood
in the Emergency Room office, examining the test results and
looking at the Archbishop’s x-rays displayed upon the wall when
Nurse Catania approached him.
"What
does it show?” She stood next to him
looking at the screen.
Gillespie
shook his head. "I don't know. I've
never seen anything like this before."
Nurse
Catania picked up the paperwork from his desk and read the results. "He
has an infection. That's obvious."
"My
gut told me to test for AIDS or HIV," he confessed.
Agatha
looked at him with a smirk on her face "Really?"
He
looked away from the x-rays.
"The white spots on his tongue and the swollen lymph nodes in his neck and
armpits gave me concern. I have to go with my
gut."
Agatha laid
the paperwork down on the desk "What about a disease similar to
SARS?"
"No.
Tests are clean for that too. As a matter of fact, according to all these
tests, he is as healthy as a horse."
"I
thought for sure it was going to be Tuberculosis, but his lung x-rays
are clear," Luke was thinking out loud, "I am at a loss. I am really
at a loss."
"I
just checked on him before coming in here, he's still unconscious and he hasn't
had another bleeding episode yet," she informed him. "So, what
now?"
Gillespie
was running symptoms and diseases through this mind like a computer searching
for information. "He's not fitting into any one disease. It seems like he
has bits and pieces of several diseases." A thought popped in his head.
"Does his chart say anything about him being a hemophiliac?"
"I
don't think so. I'll check." Catania left the room and returned a few
minutes later with the Archbishop's chart.
"No. Nothing about any type of bleeding disorder. Do you want me to test
him?"
"Yes.
Maybe we'll find a clue there."
Agatha
returned to the main nursing station, retrieved the needle and rubber
tourniquet to take blood from the Archbishop. The nurse at the counter informed
her that Father Charles Horan was in the waiting room and wanted to speak to
someone.
She
put her supplies in her uniform pocket and headed to the waiting area. Horan
was pacing in the hallway with a cell phone to his ear,
speaking to
someone about
the Archbishop's situation.
He
said good-bye when he saw Nurse Catania coming towards him.
"Any
news?" he was anxious, and his hands were shaking as he tried to put the
cell phone into the holster on his belt.
"Not
yet," she answered.
"We are running tests. Can you think of anything that maybe
causing this?”
Horan
shook his head. "He was always healthy and active up until a little over a
year ago. He caught the flu and couldn't shake it. He would often complain of
pain saying he thought every nerve in his body was on fire." He shoved his
hands in his pants pocket and looked worriedly toward
the ceiling.
Nurse
Catania wasn't sure if he was looking for answers or divine intervention. She noticed how young this priest was
- he
couldn’t be more than twenty-five. Yet the lines around his
eyes made him look much older. He seemed too young to have the responsibility
of caring for the head of the Church in this province.
"I
have seen similar symptoms in a few other priests but
not as severe as the Archbishops," Horan
confessed.
"You
told us when you came in that no one else around him had these symptoms," the
nurse
reminded him.
"Not
as severe as his. The rectory is old. It's not unusual to hear people
complaining about the cold and dampness in the rooms. It's easy to catch a flu
there but no one has been as violently ill as the Archbishop."
Father
Horan loved the historical structure of the rectory but knew it had to be
brought up to code in many areas. The rectory was built behind the Basilica of
St. John the Baptist. Its construction began after the Basilica was finished
around 1855. The entire Catholic
compound was constructed using limestone and granite imported from Galway and
Dublin, Ireland, as well as bricks from Hamburg, and local sandstone quarried
from St. John's and Kelly's Island in Conception Bay, giving the buildings
their characteristic grey colour. The
buildings
are located on the highest ridge overlooking the city of St. John's facing
toward the narrows surrounding St. John's harbour. They were purposely built
that way to greet fishing vessels entering through the narrows. The first thing
the sailors would see was the largest church buildings in North America at that
time. Much of the church and rectory remained the same as when it was built
except for the wiring. The cost of upkeep was staggering. The heat alone cost a
king’s ransom. Declared heritage buildings, they had to stay true to their
history thus drafty windows and cold stone walls kept their residents in a
constant state of freezing temperatures even when it was hot outside.
"What
about you? Do you spend a lot of time with him?" she queried.
"I've
known him forever. He was the priest at my
orphanage when I was a boy.”
He turned to face her. “He's
the reason I became a priest. After I was ordained I
transferred back to his office to work with him. When he became Archbishop, he
chose me as his assistant,” he ended, proudly.
"So,
you're like father and son?" The question came out of her mouth before she
could stop it. She never understood the Catholic hierarchy but knew it was
inappropriate as soon as she asked it.
Father
Charles Horan’s face took on a
look
of smug authority. "I am his assistant. This is not a father-son
relationship. We are priests."
Nurse
Catania
had a feeling that he had answered this question before, maybe many times. She
tried to cover her embarrassment by saying,
"I need to know his next of kin for his record. He has your name listed,
but does he have family who should be making decisions for him?"
“He
doesn’t have family other than the church.” Agatha knew
he was lying but didn’t know why.
“Ok,
well he has you listed so I will let you
know if anything changes.”
She
turned and walked back into the emergency
unit.
She never looked back at Father Horan but could feel he was watching her. She
felt like a school girl who had just been disciplined for talking back.
Suddenly the hair on the back of her neck stood up and goose bumps formed on
her arms. She felt cold and decided that Father Horan may be a man
of God, but he gave her the creeps.
*******
Archbishop
Patrick Keating was peaceful in his bed
when she entered his room. Agatha turned his arm over, tied the rubber
tourniquet around his forearm, inserted a needle into his vein and
proceeded to draw blood. She had just finished when
he opened his eyes and looked up at her. "I’m taking
your blood, so we can run some tests to find out what is wrong with you."
Her voice was soothing. She was used to calming people down in the Emergency
area.
"I
am so thirsty." His lips were pasty and stuck together. He could barely
get the words out.
"I
can't give you any water just yet, but I'll get some ice chips. They will give
you some relief." Agatha called out to a nurse who was walking by and
asked her to bring ice chips for the Archbishop. She returned with a Styrofoam
cup full and a small stick with a sponge on the end to help wet his lips.
Agatha
wet the sponge and rubbed it along the Archbishop's lips until they were
moistened. At first, he seemed relieved, then he licked his lips and began to
gag.
"You've
put vinegar on my lips!" He tried to spit the water out and wiped his lips
with his sleeve. "You cursed woman, where is Charles?" He changed
from peaceful to difficult in a matter of seconds. Agatha felt the same air of
superiority that Horan had exuded.
They're
certainly cut from the same cloth she thought. "It's ice chips. They'll
make you feel better." She tried to calm him down.
"It
tastes bitter like vinegar." She felt like a servant who had done wrong,
"Here,
try the sponge yourself. It's soaked in cold water. You can suck on it like a
lollypop." She took the sponge out of the cup and handed it to him.
He
put it between his lips, spat it out,
coughing and sputtering. "It's vile woman. Get me
some water," he ordered her.
"This
is water." She wasn't afraid to talk back to him.
He
hit her hand and the cup full of ice landed on the floor. "Get me
Charles."
She
stood back from the bed, collected her blood vials and turned to walk away.
When she got to the door she turned towards him, "You’re quarantined. No
visitors." She placed the vials in
the collection tray she thought to herself, “I’m not Catholic, he can go to
hell for all I care.”
