August 29, 2008
Dear Diary,
Don’t ever say, “things just couldn’t get any worse.” That’s just a double-dog-dare-you to the gods who’s crack their collective knuckles and say, “Oh yeah? Well, watch this!” Lest I catch a lighting bolt for saying so, than – surely it must be that they want nothing more than to prove to us mortals, who’s really in control. Well then, mea maxima – MAXIMA culpa. I certainly went and lit their things-just-couldn’t-get-any-worse fuse this time, because Sestan is gone.
Gone. Without a trace. And I don’t even know where to begin to start to look for him. Who to call -- and those imbeciles at the hospital let it happen! I gave up trying to sleep and went back to the hospital that night. if he woke up, I just needed to be there. When I got there, I went to his room – and there was no one there! His bed was made up - no chart, none of his things! I assumed they had moved him to another room. I went to the nurses’ station and asked where they’d moved him. The nurse on duty looked at me and said, “The patient in room 107?” Oh, he’d been checked out.
“’Checked out’? What do you mean‘checked out’?”
“Yes,just this afternoon, Miss.”
“Checked out -- well, how is that possible? Where? He couldn’t have checked out. There must be some mistake!” I asked her to please check and then asked her again, to double check the patient list. She had to have been mistaken. I was certain of it. I was agitated. Leave it to Sestan to go all Rambo and jump a crocodile and nearly get himself killed on an island fueled by tourists swilling spiced rum and incompetent hospitals who lose track of their patients!!! Strangling the anger rising in my throat, I asked to see a supervisor – someone, anyone in charge. Shortly, I was approached by a nurse with a personality as starched as her uniform. All business, she asked if she could help me. I explained patiently,(again) that the patient in room 107 had been checked in – was gravely injured and it wasn’t possible that he could be moved -- and that now they were trying to tell me he checked out! “Please calm down,” she requested. “And what is your name please?”
“Isabelle. Isabelle Cassai ... “
“Are you family?”
“No… I’m his, friend -- his girlfriend. We’re here on vacation and I just know he wouldn’t - I mean he COULDN’T have been released without my knowing about it…“ I trailed off. Well, that was probably the farthest thing from the truth. She told me they were not able to disclose any information if I wasn’t his spouse, or immediate family. A banquet of emotions were battling for first place inside of me. I found myself trying to defend myself, but nothing I said would convince her to tell me anything besides the bare fact that he had indeed been properly released and was transferred to another hospital. She offered to review the discharge orders. “Please. Yes – please do.”
She came back and repeated the same catatonic litany. Yes, it was an authorized released. Someone had come – a gentleman –(I got her to divulge that much) whose name she could not disclose of course - and he’d made arrangements for Sestan to be transferred to another facility.
“What facility? Where? Can you just tell me where?”
“I am not authorized to disclose that Miss – you said it’s Cassai - ? That is confidential information. It’s hospital policy” (the apparent and only important deciding factor), she stated with finality.
This was only the beginning of a maddening sequence of my experience with bureaucratic bigotry at its finest.
I don’t know what I was thinking for doing this, but I found a phone and called the local police who told me that this was not a matter for law enforcement. I found my way to the hospital admitting office and spoke with staff, quizzing them - who, if they knew anything, also refused to disclose because I fail to meet the “blood relative” test. Doesn’t having someone’s blood splattered all over you because they are saving your life count for anything? They soon grew tired of me and security was summoned who “suggested” that I needed to leave the hospital premises because I was causing a disturbance. I decided that I wouldn’t be able to accomplish much to locate Sestan from a Jamaican jail cell, so I left.
I raced back to the beach house – nursing hopes that Leemoni or someone else might know something. Leemoni, received the news with calm concern. But she didn’t know anything. Still, I’ve sensed since we got here that she knows Sestan. I peppered her with dozens of questions.
Turns out, Sestan has occasioned Montego several times this year and always rents the villa when he’s there. He is a good guest she offers – considerate. But outside of housekeeping matters, she said she does not become familiar with his personal affairs. Well enough.
I’ve been trying to sort out all that’s happened – and hoping to find a thread of something that will help me find out where they took Sestan. I can’t find his passport either. He must have had it in the backpack – or maybe the jeep. I searched. Nothing.
I drove to the consulate to file an inquiry. They didn’t offer much hope or assistance, but said they will try to look into it. And if they find out anything, they will call me. I’ve now called every hospital in Montego. No one has admitted a Sestan Faraschour. What am I doing here? Should I pack up and leave?
I don’t know his family – or, if Sestan even has a family. He never mentions family. He once told me, I’m his family, but never offered any explanation. Who else can I call? His family – or lack of one, has been in the “things-we-don’t-ever-discuss” category. Most major holidays – Christmas, Easter – we spend them together, or sometimes with my father, the colonel – oh the colonel! That’s it. I need to call him. Now! He will know what I should do….. Isa B.
Dear Diary,
Don’t ever say, “things just couldn’t get any worse.” That’s just a double-dog-dare-you to the gods who’s crack their collective knuckles and say, “Oh yeah? Well, watch this!” Lest I catch a lighting bolt for saying so, than – surely it must be that they want nothing more than to prove to us mortals, who’s really in control. Well then, mea maxima – MAXIMA culpa. I certainly went and lit their things-just-couldn’t-get-any-worse fuse this time, because Sestan is gone.
Gone. Without a trace. And I don’t even know where to begin to start to look for him. Who to call -- and those imbeciles at the hospital let it happen! I gave up trying to sleep and went back to the hospital that night. if he woke up, I just needed to be there. When I got there, I went to his room – and there was no one there! His bed was made up - no chart, none of his things! I assumed they had moved him to another room. I went to the nurses’ station and asked where they’d moved him. The nurse on duty looked at me and said, “The patient in room 107?” Oh, he’d been checked out.
“’Checked out’? What do you mean‘checked out’?”
“Yes,just this afternoon, Miss.”
“Checked out -- well, how is that possible? Where? He couldn’t have checked out. There must be some mistake!” I asked her to please check and then asked her again, to double check the patient list. She had to have been mistaken. I was certain of it. I was agitated. Leave it to Sestan to go all Rambo and jump a crocodile and nearly get himself killed on an island fueled by tourists swilling spiced rum and incompetent hospitals who lose track of their patients!!! Strangling the anger rising in my throat, I asked to see a supervisor – someone, anyone in charge. Shortly, I was approached by a nurse with a personality as starched as her uniform. All business, she asked if she could help me. I explained patiently,(again) that the patient in room 107 had been checked in – was gravely injured and it wasn’t possible that he could be moved -- and that now they were trying to tell me he checked out! “Please calm down,” she requested. “And what is your name please?”
“Isabelle. Isabelle Cassai ... “
“Are you family?”
“No… I’m his, friend -- his girlfriend. We’re here on vacation and I just know he wouldn’t - I mean he COULDN’T have been released without my knowing about it…“ I trailed off. Well, that was probably the farthest thing from the truth. She told me they were not able to disclose any information if I wasn’t his spouse, or immediate family. A banquet of emotions were battling for first place inside of me. I found myself trying to defend myself, but nothing I said would convince her to tell me anything besides the bare fact that he had indeed been properly released and was transferred to another hospital. She offered to review the discharge orders. “Please. Yes – please do.”
She came back and repeated the same catatonic litany. Yes, it was an authorized released. Someone had come – a gentleman –(I got her to divulge that much) whose name she could not disclose of course - and he’d made arrangements for Sestan to be transferred to another facility.
“What facility? Where? Can you just tell me where?”
“I am not authorized to disclose that Miss – you said it’s Cassai - ? That is confidential information. It’s hospital policy” (the apparent and only important deciding factor), she stated with finality.
This was only the beginning of a maddening sequence of my experience with bureaucratic bigotry at its finest.
I don’t know what I was thinking for doing this, but I found a phone and called the local police who told me that this was not a matter for law enforcement. I found my way to the hospital admitting office and spoke with staff, quizzing them - who, if they knew anything, also refused to disclose because I fail to meet the “blood relative” test. Doesn’t having someone’s blood splattered all over you because they are saving your life count for anything? They soon grew tired of me and security was summoned who “suggested” that I needed to leave the hospital premises because I was causing a disturbance. I decided that I wouldn’t be able to accomplish much to locate Sestan from a Jamaican jail cell, so I left.
I raced back to the beach house – nursing hopes that Leemoni or someone else might know something. Leemoni, received the news with calm concern. But she didn’t know anything. Still, I’ve sensed since we got here that she knows Sestan. I peppered her with dozens of questions.
Turns out, Sestan has occasioned Montego several times this year and always rents the villa when he’s there. He is a good guest she offers – considerate. But outside of housekeeping matters, she said she does not become familiar with his personal affairs. Well enough.
I’ve been trying to sort out all that’s happened – and hoping to find a thread of something that will help me find out where they took Sestan. I can’t find his passport either. He must have had it in the backpack – or maybe the jeep. I searched. Nothing.
I drove to the consulate to file an inquiry. They didn’t offer much hope or assistance, but said they will try to look into it. And if they find out anything, they will call me. I’ve now called every hospital in Montego. No one has admitted a Sestan Faraschour. What am I doing here? Should I pack up and leave?
I don’t know his family – or, if Sestan even has a family. He never mentions family. He once told me, I’m his family, but never offered any explanation. Who else can I call? His family – or lack of one, has been in the “things-we-don’t-ever-discuss” category. Most major holidays – Christmas, Easter – we spend them together, or sometimes with my father, the colonel – oh the colonel! That’s it. I need to call him. Now! He will know what I should do….. Isa B.
