Charity Hospital

Charity Hospital

I had been to Charity Hospital before. Not inside, of course. Nobody had been inside for years. But that morning, the front doors were open.

Curiosity got the best of me, so I walked through those open doors. The lobby was welcoming; fresh flowers were everywhere. The floors gleamed.

“I didn’t realize you had reopened,” I said to the smiling receptionist.

“Ma’am?” she replied.

“When did you reopen?” I asked.

“We’ve never closed, ma’am. Charity Hospital has been caring nonstop for the people of New Orleans since 1736.”

“Thank you,” I said, walking around her desk and heading to the nurses’ station.

I knew that wasn't true. Everyone knew what happened after Katrina in 2005. The hospital was condemned and permanently closed 21 years ago.

I stopped near the nurses’ station and watched them work. There were doctors hurrying down the corridors, and aides were caring for mobile patients. Everything seemed normal… too normal.

Just then my keys slipped from my hand and landed beside my foot. I set my bag on the nurses’ station and bent over to pick them up.

They weren’t there. Then I saw them about three feet away. I didn’t think I had kicked them but how else could they get there? There was no one close enough to me to have kicked them.

Anyway, I stepped over and retrieved my keys. I turned back to pick up my bag only to see that it was moved to the far end of the nurses’ station.

First my keys, then my bag. Apparently, someone was having fun at my expense, but no one was nearby.

The PA system crackled to life, calling Dr. Abagail. Dr. Abagail Boudreaux. Dr. Abagail, please report to exam room 5. Calling Dr. Abagail. Dr. Abagail to exam room 5.”

The nurses stopped what they were doing to look at me. I stood there. My name was Abagail, but I sure wasn’t a doctor.

“Doctor, didn’t you hear the page?” asked one of the nurses.

“You have me confused with someone else,” I stammered. “I am not a doctor. I am a reporter, writing about health care for children in inner-city New Orleans for the past 21 years, ever since Hurricane Katrina,” I said.

“Ma’am, that makes no sense. We know you’ve been under stress lately, but you’ve also been the lead doctor here for the past five years. You need to go to exam room 5… now! Quit stalling,” hissed the nearest nurse.

I stood still. And then I saw it. The wall across from the nurses’ station was a rogues’ gallery of current and past doctors. Their years of service were listed clearly at the bottom of each picture.

And there it was. The last picture in the lineup. Dr. Abagail Boudreaux, 2000-2005. And hanging next to the portraits was a beautifully lithographed calendar declaring today was September 4, 2005.

That made no sense. My birthday is September 4th. Today. 

Hurricane Katrina hit the day after my fifth birthday. We lived in Plaquemines-Balize Delta, a part of Plaquemines Parish that jutted out into the Gulf. The area was completely wiped out.

I heard the announcement again from the PA system calling for Dr. Abagail.

“Doctor, are you going or do I need to get a doctor for you?” asked one of the other nurses.

I looked at all of them. I looked at the wall with the calendar. I dropped my keys in my pocket then walked to the end of their station and picked up my bag.

I would find exam room 5 and open the door. There would be a doctor in there and I’d be asked to put on a mask or leave. End of confusion.

I walked down the hallway looking for exam room 5. Finally, at the far end of the hall, I found it. I stood outside the door for a moment, straightened my shoulders, and stepped inside.

There were a couple of nurses, an aide, and slightly outdated equipment in that room. No doctor.

“Finally,” said one of the nurses.

“Put on your lab coat and mask,” said the other nurse.

I just stood there and gaped at them.

Then the first nurse started reading her notes. “This is Thomas Guillot. He is the bank president of Crescent City Bank. According to the police report, he was crossing Canal Street when an out-of-control cab trying to miss a streetcar hit him. He has multiple broken bones. There appear to be internal injuries. X-ray has been called.”

She lowered the clipboard and looked directly at me.

I had no idea what was going on. They all acted like I was the person they were expecting, so I walked over to the gurney and looked down at Mr. Guillot.

Lying on that bed was Earl Cannon, my fiancé.

He turned his head and looked straight at me. There was no recognition in his eyes. I reached for the gurney, but the room was already disappearing around me.

Everything went black.

As I began to wake up, I became aware that I was confined in a space far too small for me. I couldn’t straighten out my legs. My arms were pressed close to my sides and chest.

Then I heard a familiar voice, someone I obviously hadn’t heard in years. I turned my head just slightly toward the voice—my eyes flew open. Standing beside the small bed I was scrunched into was my childhood pediatrician.

“Abagail fell down the home stairs from the top floor,” I heard him say to a nurse recording my condition. “She hit her head hard when she landed at the bottom. She is unconscious and has a concussion along with numerous scrapes and bruises. There are no broken bones nor internal injuries. This is an unfortunate accident as she always loses her balance on those stairs, but she usually catches the banister. This time she missed it and landed at the foot of the stairs.”

“Dr. Hebert? Why are you acting like I am a child and why am I in a child’s bed?” I asked.

This couldn’t be real. I have never fallen down stairs in my life. And Doctor Hebert died in 2010 due to complications of an illness he contracted while working with children in very poor conditions after the hurricane.

“Dr. Hebert,” I tried again.

He obviously didn’t hear me or was ignoring me.

I laid there staring at him and must have blacked out again because I was now back in exam room 5 looking down at Mr. Guillot or Earl or whoever the heck he was. I was now wearing a white lab coat and face mask and had a stethoscope hanging around my neck.

“Dr. Abagail, are you alright?” asked nurse one again.

“Look, I don’t know why I am in this room dressed like a doctor. I am a reporter writing an article on inner-city healthcare for children since Hurricane Katrina,” I said. “If this gentleman needs a doctor, I suggest you get one because… I. Am. Not. A. Doctor.”

I backed up, took off the lab coat and mask, and walked out the door.

I stood in the hall right outside that door. Then I heard it open behind me. Nurse number two was holding my bag out to me saying, “You left your bag. And what is Hurricane Katrina? We’ve never had a hurricane named Katrina hit New Orleans. You should know that. You’ve lived here your entire life.”

“Thank you for my bag,” I said, taking it from her hand. I turned and started walking down the hall toward the nurses’ station.

When I reached it, I realized it was now closer to the front door and on the opposite side of the hall. The rogues’ gallery and calendar were nowhere in sight.

I’m outta here, I thought. I must be having a nightmare I can’t wake up from. This is too surreal.

I stepped up to the nurses’ station. Before I could say anything to them someone spoke to me.

“Dr. Abagail. It’s so great to see you. I didn’t know you were back from your vacation yet,” said a young… apparently a young intern. “When did you get back? I know I shouldn’t say this, but you are my favorite doctor to work with.”

I just stood there. What could I say? I had no idea who was talking to me.

“That project you gave me to do before you left on vacation is nearly complete. Do you have time to see my notes and offer some advice on finishing the project?” he asked. Then he turned around and started back down the hall.

The nurses turned to look at me. I turned and followed him down the hall.

I was a few steps behind him. When he reached the end of the hall he turned left. I slowly approached the turn and looked around the corner to my left. I didn’t see him. I didn’t see any open doors. I only saw an empty hall.

By now, I was past being confused. I turned to head back down the hall, then decided to poke my head into exam room 5 to see if they finally got a legitimate doctor.

Whaaat? Where is exam room 5. There are exam rooms 1, 2, 3, and 4. Each room was plainly numbered. There were four rooms, two on each side of the hall. There were no closets or anything to indicate where another room could be. Four exam rooms, that’s all.

Okay, folks, I’ve got to get out of here.

I started back down the hall toward the front doors. After taking a couple of steps, I stopped and looked around. It wasn’t the same hall. Everything was laid out differently. There was no nurses’ station nor a front door straight ahead. The only thing I saw behind me were double doors leading to what appeared to be the operating rooms.

Where was I now? What floor was I on? And besides that, how did I get here?

I had no idea.

I stood there looking at those doors for quite a while. Doctors, nurses, even a couple of beds with patients went in and out those doors. They stepped around me but otherwise acted as if I weren’t there.

I turned around to leave. There were no other doors. No halls opening off the waiting room.

I saw no way out.

I was trapped.

Just me and those doors leading into the operating rooms.

I had no other options. I opened those doors and walked inside. I stood there looking around. Everyone seemed to be busy. They all had something to do and were doing it.

“Dr. Abagail, this way, please,” said a polite, pleasant-looking aide.

I turned to see who had spoken and there on the wall hung a rather large mirror. I couldn’t miss my reflection in it. 

Oh, no. Here we go again. I thought. I was wearing surgical scrubs and a face mask, a hairnet covered my hair, and I was even wearing those little booties that cover your shoes.

“Hurry, Dr. Abagail. You are needed in surgery STAT,” he urged.

I followed him toward one of the operating rooms.

He pushed open the door. I stepped in. I stopped. What I saw was… well, it was. I don’t know what it was.

“Dr. Abagail, I can’t go in any farther,” the aide said. “You are needed. Now.” He let go of the door and left.

I stood there trying to make sense out of what I was seeing. It was totally unbelievable.

I felt myself blacking out again. I grabbed the door for support—

And found myself sitting on an old, dilapidated bench with the busy street in front of me. I looked back over my shoulder. I slowly stood and turned around.

No Trespassing signs stood about every 50 feet. Windows and doors were boarded up. Graffiti was sprayed all over the destroyed walls. Surrounding the structure was a tall fence with razor wire at the top.

And just barely visible above the doors… Charity Hospital.