Amnesia (5 page)

“Thank-you Darrion,” the man behind the desk answered, almost sarcastically, pointing to the plush leather chair opposite him. “What brings you around this morning?”

“Why
,
I simply wanted to let you know that I’m incensed by this cowardly act, and wanted to pledge whatever support I can give. Have you found anything yet?”

Windham inwardly cringed at the thought of having Stanton anywhere near his trials, but also knew that without his support, and his father’s before him, he wouldn’t be the senior senator from Idaho. “Actually, no, we’ve heard nothing yet. However the FBI is optimistic that if we haven’t had a ransom note by now, the kids might not have really been kidnapped, perhaps just gone away for the weekend.”

“I hope that’s all it is,” Darrion replied, “but it is Monday afternoon, and no one has seen them yet, right?”

“True,” Gregg answered with a sigh, “but that is all we can hope for now.”

“Well, they are just kids, after all, I guess,” the doctor opined, “and you know that kids do this type of thing. I even flew over to Paris for a weekend once. I thought my father would have a heart attack on the spot, but we all survived. I’m sure they will be back any time now and we will all have worried for nothing.”

“Thank-you, Doctor Stanton, I’m confident all will turn out alright. We have the best teams working on it and I’m sure we will get it resolved happily.” He stood, and came around the desk, trying to usher his guest back toward the door.

Darrion also stood, taking the hint, letting Windham lead him out. “Oh, Gregg, one more thing.”

Windham froze, sensing what was coming, the hair on the back of his neck warning him to tread lightly. He pasted his politician smile on and turned back to his guest.  He wished he were larger than his five-foot-ten, 130 pound frame offered, perhaps then he wouldn’t feel quite so intimidated by the six-foot-two man facing him. He swallowed the thought as well as his concerns, and managed a polite “Yes?”

“About that position we were discussing, the National Medical Czar replacing the Surgeon General, have you heard anything yet?”

“Doctor Stanton, as I told your father,” Gregg answered the query, “I am doing all I can on the hill. This is congress, after all, and things move slowly.”

“Good, Gregg, what more can we expect?” Darrion offered in a conciliatory tone that reminded Windham of the spider and the fly. “I know you’ll do what’s right.”

Windham opened the door, bid farewell, and then closed it again. He turned, leaned his back against the door and shook his head in disbelief. National Medical Czar! Gregg knew exactly what he was referring to. It was the elder Stanton’s belief that the medical world needed shaking up, doing away with the current healthcare structure, and appointing a single man to direct, and correct, the nation’s healthcare crisis.

This “Medical Czar,” Stanton believed, should be given direct and extensive powers to clean up the mess left in the wake of HMO’s, tort lawyers, and insurance companies. The Medical Czar would have the power to remove Medicare and Medicaid entirely and take all healthcare decisions back from the States. He felt that there should be one governing body that would control not only costs, but also the care given. It was a wild idea, one few would support, but the nation needed a solution that was fresh and new. This one might actually work, unlike any of the other politically correct attempts made thus far.

Of course Stanton, a man made famous and rich through his own medical practice and political allies, had felt that there was no one better to lead this new organization than his protégé, the younger Doctor Stanton—the politically ambitious and savvy son of the medical baron: Darrion.

Senator Windham partially agreed with the idea. He had seen skyrocketing insurance premiums that had beset his constituents; people going for little, or even no, insurance just to survive, then being hit with something catastrophic forcing them into medical bankruptcy. He even knew of families that had sold their homes and moved into apartments or trailers, just to afford the yearly increases in premiums. How could someone lose their home when all they wanted was health insurance to protect their family? It was enough to sicken him.

He also knew that it wasn’t entirely the fault of insurance carriers. Medical centers, physicians, surgeons, all workers in the healthcare arena were constantly under the pressure to be perfect; in every way, every day. They were expected to always run the exact tests that were needed, use all the best equipment, and know almost presciently the exact ailment and cure. Then they were expected to wave a magic wand and make it all better. However all of this cost a great deal of money, for research, equipment, even training to stay current, and these costs are spiraling out of sight.

Then came the tort and trial lawyers, always eager to line their pockets, caring nothing for either the physician or the client. Courts were deluged daily with attorneys trying to give clients “what they deserve,” seeking more creative ploys to elevate settlement amounts and court awards. No physician or health care center could handle these numbers, so they invest in their own insurance companies, who are all too willing to charge high premiums to protect their own interests, and possibly their clients as an afterthought.

At first it looked like the Health Management Organizations, or HMO’s, were the silver bullet to end the spiraling costs. And they looked good too—at first. They pay their own doctors, they run their own tests, and they are the insurance carriers all in one. Of course businessmen, rather than physicians, run them so they were able to keep the bottom line firmly in sight, keeping expenses down, thereby holding the public premiums down as well. Unfortunately it was a two edged sword: they kept costs down by forcing doctors to avoid the more expensive tests and procedures, no matter how necessary they may be. Soon the horror stories began to be heard of people suffering or dying needlessly, doctors’ quotas, where the doctors are paid to not treat people, and people being refused service if they had been seen too frequently or out of the proper sequence.

So what was the answer? All of Washington was searching for it, but thus far it had avoided detection. Then Stanton had come to see Windham. The senator had listened politely, nodding in all the right places, but knowing that no one was willing to turn over the control of peoples’ lives entirely to a single entity, let alone a single man. He had thanked Stanton for offering his concern, and said, as all good politicians do, that he would look into it and get back to him.

Only Ralph Stanton was not willing to be dismissed so easily. He had called in several of his political allies, put down a great deal of “campaign contributions” and had pushed Windham as far as he legitimately could. Then he had suggested that there were a few illegitimate ways. Windham finally agreed, under duress, that there was nothing too wrong with the plan, but that there was nothing he could do about it. To which Stanton simply laughed and said that a man who sat with the Senate Finance Committee and had the president’s ear, could accomplish a lot more than he may at first believe. Then he slapped him on the shoulder and walked out of his office, but never quite out of his life.

Senator Windham turned to view his inner sanctum and resisted the temptation to run to his washroom upstairs and scrub at his skin. He felt as if he couldn’t take any of this anymore. Looking around the room he saw the beautiful and expensive curio cabinet, filled with gifts from visiting dignitaries, including a genuine Native American peace pipe from his fact finding trip to see if Death Valley, Arizona was the best place to store spent nuclear fuel rods. “The General,” a hand carved elephant from his trip to Hong Kong, hung above the cabinet on the right.  An ancient and real samurai sword from the visit from the Japanese trade ambassador, searching for Idaho potatoes, hung above the cabinet on the left. So many trinkets to boast about; too many to count.

At first he was thrilled at what was given to him, but now he knew that it was all just part of the game, everyone wanting something from “The Senator from Idaho.” At one time even the game was thrilling to him, seeing how a single discussion could overthrow an entire year’s worth of talks. But now he knew it was all little more than junk and posturing.

Today as he looked around the cluttered room it felt oppressive and claustrophobic. He wished it would all go away, the games, the clutter, and the shallow power. He’d give it all up in a heartbeat, he thought, just to have peace of mind and a safe family. Yet even with all he had been through, and was still going through, he knew he was addicted to it and would never be free of the allure.

He went back over to the massive desk that sat in the middle of the room, the most intimidating piece of furniture he had ever seen. It was a deep brown polished to a high sheen he could have used as a mirror to shave with. There was no mark anywhere on it, and it was his personal pride and joy, the first thing he had bought when he had won his first election. He was so proud that day, and so anxious to save the world. Yet at this moment he wanted nothing more than to save the one thing that his office couldn’t control.

His stomach churned again, as it had often of late, and he reached into the bottom right drawer and pulled out a bottle of Mylanta. He realized that he had been through many such bottles recently, probably an ulcer gleaned from years of high-pressure politics. He also realized that politics wasn’t the only part of his life that had acids eating at his stomach lining. He sighed, put the chalky medicine back, and closed the drawer wishing that he could close away the stress as easily. When this was all over, he vowed, he would take his whole family on a nice European vacation. Perhaps that could help with other problems as well, he thought optimistically.

He looked over to the right side of his desk and gazed at the only thing that really mattered to him; the beautiful face of his only daughter smiling back at him. It wasn’t the typical school portrait that was in the hand carved wood frame, but was actually a candid photograph that he had taken of her unawares during their vacation last year.

They had gone to Disneyland that year, despite his reluctance to go, because she said she wanted to get a picture taken with Mickey Mouse just like all of her friends had. She had been watching the professional photographer so she could get the perfect pose. Gregg had called her name, standing off to her left, the side opposite Mickey. The look in the picture was so radiant that he had framed it so he would always remember how happy she had been. A face he wondered if he would ever see again.

This time he couldn’t stop the tears. He buried his head in his hands and wept.

*
             
             
*
             
             
*

Lissa dug through her purse to find the cash to pay the taxi driver. She expected the ride from her apartment would be rather expensive, but had never expected it to be quite this much. Unfortunately the driver demanded cash and wouldn’t listen as she had tried to talk him into a check, explaining what had happened, and that she was running late. He just sat there stoically holding out his hand, with dirt under his fingernails she noted, demanding dollar bills. Finally she found a last dollar, hidden in the bottom of her bag, and thrust the money into his oversized paw. He sped off without a single word, no doubt thinking about how ditzy she was.

She took a deep breath and headed up the four flights of stairs toward her practice in the building adjacent to Saint Alphonsus hospital. Although there were two elevators the stairs were the only exercise she got these days. With the echo of her footsteps in the stairwell still ringing in her ears
,
she hurriedly walked past the packed outer waiting room, the one reserved for well children, and past the receptionist.

“Morning Carla,” she intoned, as she rushed past the desk toward her inner office. She felt as much as heard the giggle of the children behind her, knowing that she looked the mess she felt.

She threw her things onto the already cluttered desk and again took a calming breath. Feeling somewhat better, she opened the door and slipped past the inner waiting room, noting it too was full of sick children and their parents, and then stepped into the restroom. She looked in the mirror and shook her head, wondering how she could ever make it through the day. It must be true what they say about Mondays, she thought.

Washing her face, and combing back through her long light brown hair, she recreated her professional look. She pulled her hair back up on top, pinning it there, leaving a few wisps to drape across her cheeks. She put on a touch of eye shadow and lipstick, just enough to add depth to her face, and adjusted her smock over her clothing. Again she looked into the mirror and decided she may as will get on with it, everyone was running behind, and there was a lot to do this day.

“How did rounds go at the hospital?” The cheery medical assistant asked, as Doctor Brandon reappeared in the hall.

“I’ll have to do later rounds today,” she answered, as curtly as possible, trying to stave off any further questions. She immediately regretted it, as she saw the look on her co-workers face. She reached out her left hand and put it on the other’s arm, trying to apologize. “Sorry, it’s been a bad day.”

She was rewarded by the immediate return of the friendly smile that had greeted her. “Hey
,
it’s Monday, I can relate.”

Not with this, she thought, but let it drop. “What do we have going today?”