May 27-29, 2022
Just a little more than 24 hours had passed when Mrs. Parker realized that word about her husband’s condition had gotten out. She received a text from someone she and Anthony barely knew, a middle manager in Phoebe’s human resources department. But somehow the woman had heard he was in critical condition and messaged to say that she was praying for him.
“How does she know?” Mrs. Parker wondered. “Had news about Anthony gotten out?
If that wasn’t intrusive enough, the woman stopped by the room. You don’t want to move him to Emory or somewhere? she whispered. Shouldn’t you get him out of here?
It seemed an inappropriate question on so many levels, not the least of which was how little they knew each other. Still, Mrs. Parker was polite. “We’re good,” she responded. “I appreciate your concern, but we’re good.”
Other people might not have a high opinion of Phoebe, but Mrs. Parker did. She was confident its staff was going to save Anthony. She compared it in her mind to when President Donald Trump came down with COVID-19 and had to be rushed to Walter Reed National Military Medical Center. That was an all-hands-on-deck emergency, and the staff at Phoebe, whose senior executives milled in and out of Anthony’s room, had made it clear that this was an all-hands-on-deck emergency, too.
Andrea, the Parkers’ middle child, who was 43 and served as a commander in the Coast Guard, had arrived from suburban Washington, D.C., late the previous evening. So had Richard, a UPS long-haul driver, based in Atlanta, who was 39 and the youngest sibling. None of them doubted that their father was in good hands. They supported their mother, and their mother was going to stick with Phoebe.
That’s what Anthony had always done when others raised questions about the hospital. When doctors shared concerns about staffing issues that were leading to poor patient outcomes, Anthony questioned the propriety of their actions, not Phoebe’s. When friends complained about loved ones dying in Phoebe’s care, he didn’t use his position on the board to press the hospital for an inquiry. He would say he was confident Phoebe had acted appropriately. When he asked Phoebe to invest in Albany Tech’s nursing program and instead it gave money to the predominantly white community college, he stewed privately, but he didn’t raise a ruckus. “They just don’t know they need us yet,” he’d say to his staff. “We’ll be here when they do.”
Mrs. Parker’s loyalties also ran deep. When the spouse of a co-worker had nearly died from an infection she’d gotten after a hysterectomy at Phoebe, she asked Mrs. Parker to help get a letter to CEO Joel Wernick. Mrs. Parker didn’t do it. Who knew whether Phoebe was responsible? she reasoned. It didn’t feel like something she should take to Anthony, much less for Anthony to take to Wernick.
Yes, there was the time years earlier when he was being treated for lymphoma and had been admitted for what was supposed to be a laparoscopic biopsy of a spot that had been detected on one of his lungs. The doctor emerged from the biopsy saying he’d ended up performing major surgery. “Did he just tell me he opened Anthony’s chest?” she said to herself, feeling a lot like she would when Dr. José Ernesto Betancourt told her that her husband had gone into cardiac arrest. The surgeon back then explained that he’d changed plans because he’d had a hard time reaching the section of the lung that he’d wanted to check for cancer and that fortunately he’d found no signs of disease. But afterward, Dr. Parker’s radiation oncologist complained that the biopsy hadn’t been necessary.
Why hadn’t her husband’s doctors communicated with one another? Mrs. Parker wondered. A lawsuit certainly crossed her mind but not her husband’s. He would have never considered such a thing. Not when it came to Phoebe. He’d have a longer recovery, but he’d be fine. His thinking was, “Let’s move on.”
She was praying that her husband would be fine this time, too, that his faith in Phoebe would be vindicated. On Sunday, three days after the ablation, it seemed that might be the case. The cooling period had ended. Dr. Parker’s body was being returned to normal temperature. His three children were in his room, singing along with a recording of the South Carolina State fight song — “Get up for the Bulldogs. Everybody, get up!” — hoping their father could hear them, when suddenly he opened his eyes.
