Indiscretion. M.G. Crisci
“Equity participation is not about seniority; it's about contributions. AFA is not a hospital, you know,” I replied accurately but insensitively.
Her pained expression telegraphed low blow. To her credit, she maintained her composure.
“Don’t take this the wrong way. I love you very much. I’ve heard the wonderful things advisors have said about you at the Pete and Dawson dinners but, let’s be honest: you’ve only been there eighteen months, while the three of them started by making invoices and taking out the trash.”
I countered. “Let’s think selfishly for a moment. Why did I get involved? We felt we had enough to be comfortable, but this was our chance to be super-wealthy and to drive our Bentley GT off to our private hangar at Westchester County Airport before boarding our jet to our mansion on Lake Tahoe. Remember? At fifty-seven, how many more chances like this do you think will come along?”
“Maybe I’m missing something. Aren’t you making a ton of money?”
“But you said it yourself: I’m not making what they’re making.”
“Martin, how much is enough?” countered Lauren. “Don’t get me wrong. I love the good life just like you, and we’ve been fortunate to have more than most. But are money and toys the measure of a man? I thank God every day that he has given us good health and a beautiful family. But most of all, I thank him for my wonderful loving husband. You have been and always will be the love of my life. What else do we need?”
7.
An emotional crisis in Scottsdale.
Lauren and I decided to celebrate our thirty-fifth wedding anniversary and her promotion to director of surgical services at Cornell by spending two weeks at the Four Seasons in Scottsdale, Arizona.
Our son Bart and Valerie, his beautiful wife of five years, and our first and only grandchild, two-year-old Bianca, had decided to join us. Valerie had just officially retired from her position as marketing and design director at the Elite Baking Company in Stamford, Connecticut. For the past seven years, she had reported to the two financially generous but egotistical founders, Barry Self and David Toys, who rarely saw eye-to-eye. She and Bart had decided it was time for her to manage the family’s expanding commercial real-estate portfolio while running the family and handling a few selected design projects.
Valerie’s personality was mini-Lauren: gracious, soft-spoken, and certainly no pushover. I would joke with Valerie that she was a superwoman just like her mother-in-law… married to a difficult man-child, birthing a precocious daughter, and putting up with her father-in-law’s bizarre sense of humor.
Unfortunately, Martin Jr., our other son, was now living in Manhattan and was unable to join us. He had just completed an extensive information technology needs analysis for RD Fluids, a midsized ethanol processor poised for growth because of the escalating price of oil. They asked him to present his finding at an off-site board meeting near their San Antonio headquarters.
The March weather and our two-bedroom desert-view casitas worked perfectly for us as a family. Lauren and Valerie were regulars at the spa and pool. At the same time, I hacked around the golf course (sans Bart) and took hundreds of sunset and sunrise pictures to add to my extensive, unorganized digital library.
The vacation was a slam dunk from Bart’s point of view: free five-star accommodations and a central business location so that he could hop on a charter plane to close yet another real-estate deal and still be back for a free four-course dinner. There was also unlimited grandparent babysitting, which allowed our sophisticated, worldly children to savor the local Scottsdale evening hotspots without having to worry about Bianca or Donovan, their complacent, white cinderblock-shaped English bulldog who snored like a roaring lion.
Late Tuesday afternoon, the concierge paged Lauren to participate in a planned conference call with a group of hospital managers. I coaxed an invitation to watch superwoman in action, under one condition: “to keep my big mouth shut.” The remote conference included two doctors, one in Boston and one in New York; two of Lauren’s senior nurse managers, Darlene and Cathy; and the hospital’s chief administrative officer, Lorraine Tremble.
Cornell’s growing reputation as the place for complicated procedures was attracting patients from all over the United States and abroad, leading doctors to jockey for calendar time in the new operating rooms. This conference call pitted Dr. Samuel Crittenden of Manhattan — a caustic, arrogant, sixty-something man and one of America’s lead heart specialists — against Dr. Gabriel Wentworth of Boston — an up-and-coming orthopedic sports surgeon who was about fifteen years Dr. Crittenden’s junior. A third doctor, the polished, handsome, single Chief of Surgery, Dr. Winston Barnhorn, played the role of referee. I remember Lauren pointing out that when Dr. B. (his nickname among the nurses) entered the operating room, the nurses, particularly the single ones, had trouble concentrating on the surgery at hand.
Due to an honest administrative error, both Crittenden and Wentworth had wealthy international patients flying in for lengthy elective surgeries in the same operating room on the same day. Neither wanted to change his schedule since both booked months in advance.
As the three postured and haggled, Lauren offered a practical solution. She would reopen an operating room currently being remodeled on a one-time-only basis. Within twenty minutes, she had obtained hospital management approval and assigned experienced staff, who were delighted to be paid the overtime rate.
True to form, Crittenden harrumphed out of the room with not so much as a thank you, while Barnhorn complimented Lauren profusely. “Lauren, before you arrived, this place was a well-meaning zoo. I cannot tell you how appreciative I am of all your hard work and professionalism. I hope that husband of yours understands how lucky he is.”
I looked at Lauren. “Now that was an impressive display of soothing two titanic egos. Maybe you can give me a few pointers.”
Suddenly I was Lauren’s straight man. “I thought you were never going to ask. Courtney tells me it would hurt your cause at the office.”
“Ha. Little Ms. Abrasive thinks I need polish. Amazing how you women always stick together.”
“Honey, let’s not get all defensive,” replied Lauren with a disarming smile. “We’ve joked about your style over the years. Sometimes you say things without thinking and people get upset until they get to know you better and realize your specialty is putting your foot in your mouth. Think about it. Our last name communicates all: ‘Ruff’”
I stared in self-denial. “Now wait a minute…”
“Honey,” she interrupted, “Let’s not argue. We’ve got so much to be thankful for; let’s enjoy our vacation.”
“Deal,” I said, putting out my hand.
The phone rang again before we completed our handshake. I assumed it was the hospital. “I guess they can’t live without you. They’re probably fighting about bathrooms now.”
She waved her hand as if to say, Quiet. It was Martin, Jr., calling on his cell phone from the San Antonio airport.
It was a call that would change our lives forever.
~
Lauren listened silently. Small tears began to form in her eyes. She stayed calm and composed as she spoke. “When did you first begin to feel this way? [Pause.] I see. I didn’t realize it. [Pause.] Honey, there’s no reason to be embarrassed. Dad and I love you very much. I think the important thing right now is for you to relax as much as you can, then figure out the fastest way we can get you. [Pause.] I’m not great on plane connections and such; let me put Dad on the phone. (Pause.) Yes, I’ll explain what you just told me.”
Lauren looked at me. “Martin’s in San Antonio. He says he’s having a mental breakdown — everything is spinning and he can’t catch his breath. He wants us to come and get him. He’s worried you’re going to demean him on the phone.”
“Mental breakdown? Are both