incontinent, elderly patients with the runs? It was absurd. And impossible.
The Mountain Wing was officially a nursing home that fell under a litany of regulations from the province’s Ministry of Health and Long-Term Care. In contrast, the Belvedere Wing was officially a retirement residence; governments left those places alone, unregulated. It looked like Gloria Oliveira was playing loose with ministry staffing standards in the Mountain Wing.
“How many patients do you have here?” Zol asked.
“The ward holds eight,” she said.
“And the beds are full?”
“One is free.”
Natasha opened her briefcase and pulled out her pen and notepad. “And how many have diarrhea?”
Gloria looked to Amelia for the answer. “Three,” Amelia whispered.
“We don’t have reports of any of them,” said Natasha. “Only the four in the Belvedere Wing.”
Gloria bristled. “They just started this morning.”
Zol studied the hallway again. There were no isolation carts outside any of the rooms. No easy access to gowns and gloves for the beleaguered staff rushing from patient to patient. No wonder gastro was flying through the Lodge. If he didn’t get this place sorted out in the next few days, Peter Trinnock would see him dispatched to North Overshoe, if only to satisfy the Prime Minister.
“Where are the isolation carts?” he asked.
Gloria pointed to a doorway down the hall. “In the utility room.”
“You need to put them outside every door,” said Zol.
Gloria looked surprised at such a revelation. “We got only one cart.”
“Ideally,” said Natasha, “you should have four. One for each room.”
“But this is small ward. Where we put three carts?”
“You could place the cart in the hallway where it’s easy to access,” said Natasha. “And make sure the staff always wear gloves when in contact with patients and their . . .” She paused, searching for a discreet way to phrase it. “Secretions.”
Gloria frowned and crossed her arms. Zol sensed her tallying the cost of purchasing hundreds of vinyl gloves and laundering scores of isolation gowns. Infection control didn’t come cheap, but this was a virulent strain. One that may have cost her own mother her life.
CHAPTER 6
When Art Greenwood asked Gloria to unlock the Heintzman’s keyboard on Wednesday morning, he could almost feel the scowl in her response. In yet another of her edicts, she replied that a singalong was not appropriate, considering the ongoing
situation
. She was allowing the residents to use the common room this morning, but that was as far as she was willing to go. Eventually, he persuaded her that closing Camelot to visitors didn’t mean the residents couldn’t enjoy the piano; for heaven’s sake, singing didn’t spread disease. Of course, she knew damn well that the natives were getting restless and needed a boost in morale. None of them had ever seen such heavy body-bag traffic.
While shaving this morning he’d heard a piece on the radio, a song featuring Josh somebody-or-other. It was the sort of thing that Betty, Phyllis, and the other girls would love — soft and dreamy. Eager to keep the tune in his head so he could pick out the chording, he wrote down the first line of the lyric in his green notebook. Over the years, he’d nearly filled the book with first lines, organized by category. Show tunes, jazz standards, songs from the war, old favourites, and a few hymns and spirituals. All he had to do was read the words of the first line, and the entire melody would pop into his head. After that, his hands knew what to do. And as long as he took his Xanucox arthritis capsules twice a day as prescribed by Dr. Jamieson, the old fingers stayed limber enough.
He was fingering the melody of the new piece with his right hand when the sharp clatter of Phyllis Wedderspoon’s footsteps announced her entry through the Lodge’s front door. The keys to her Lincoln jingled in her hand as she stomped on the mat.
“Back
The Mountain Wing was officially a nursing home that fell under a litany of regulations from the province’s Ministry of Health and Long-Term Care. In contrast, the Belvedere Wing was officially a retirement residence; governments left those places alone, unregulated. It looked like Gloria Oliveira was playing loose with ministry staffing standards in the Mountain Wing.
“How many patients do you have here?” Zol asked.
“The ward holds eight,” she said.
“And the beds are full?”
“One is free.”
Natasha opened her briefcase and pulled out her pen and notepad. “And how many have diarrhea?”
Gloria looked to Amelia for the answer. “Three,” Amelia whispered.
“We don’t have reports of any of them,” said Natasha. “Only the four in the Belvedere Wing.”
Gloria bristled. “They just started this morning.”
Zol studied the hallway again. There were no isolation carts outside any of the rooms. No easy access to gowns and gloves for the beleaguered staff rushing from patient to patient. No wonder gastro was flying through the Lodge. If he didn’t get this place sorted out in the next few days, Peter Trinnock would see him dispatched to North Overshoe, if only to satisfy the Prime Minister.
“Where are the isolation carts?” he asked.
Gloria pointed to a doorway down the hall. “In the utility room.”
“You need to put them outside every door,” said Zol.
Gloria looked surprised at such a revelation. “We got only one cart.”
“Ideally,” said Natasha, “you should have four. One for each room.”
“But this is small ward. Where we put three carts?”
“You could place the cart in the hallway where it’s easy to access,” said Natasha. “And make sure the staff always wear gloves when in contact with patients and their . . .” She paused, searching for a discreet way to phrase it. “Secretions.”
Gloria frowned and crossed her arms. Zol sensed her tallying the cost of purchasing hundreds of vinyl gloves and laundering scores of isolation gowns. Infection control didn’t come cheap, but this was a virulent strain. One that may have cost her own mother her life.
CHAPTER 6
When Art Greenwood asked Gloria to unlock the Heintzman’s keyboard on Wednesday morning, he could almost feel the scowl in her response. In yet another of her edicts, she replied that a singalong was not appropriate, considering the ongoing
situation
. She was allowing the residents to use the common room this morning, but that was as far as she was willing to go. Eventually, he persuaded her that closing Camelot to visitors didn’t mean the residents couldn’t enjoy the piano; for heaven’s sake, singing didn’t spread disease. Of course, she knew damn well that the natives were getting restless and needed a boost in morale. None of them had ever seen such heavy body-bag traffic.
While shaving this morning he’d heard a piece on the radio, a song featuring Josh somebody-or-other. It was the sort of thing that Betty, Phyllis, and the other girls would love — soft and dreamy. Eager to keep the tune in his head so he could pick out the chording, he wrote down the first line of the lyric in his green notebook. Over the years, he’d nearly filled the book with first lines, organized by category. Show tunes, jazz standards, songs from the war, old favourites, and a few hymns and spirituals. All he had to do was read the words of the first line, and the entire melody would pop into his head. After that, his hands knew what to do. And as long as he took his Xanucox arthritis capsules twice a day as prescribed by Dr. Jamieson, the old fingers stayed limber enough.
He was fingering the melody of the new piece with his right hand when the sharp clatter of Phyllis Wedderspoon’s footsteps announced her entry through the Lodge’s front door. The keys to her Lincoln jingled in her hand as she stomped on the mat.
“Back
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