A Death Sentence
Fritz Seubering worked hard all his life to provide for his loved ones. Of necessity, he kept a careful eye on his money. After all, he had a wife, three children and a widowed mother to support. Thanks to his keen business sense, he was able to keep his finances on an even keel through two world wars and the Great Depression. Yet even after his mother's death and putting all his children through college, Fritz refused to slow down. Although his mortgage had long since been paid off and he had acquired a substantial nest egg, he continued to push himself. The Yankee work ethic was so ingrained in him, that he simply didn't know how to stop.
"When are you going to retire?" Dottie, his spouse of nearly fifty years, asked when yet another birthday came and went.
"Someday, I suppose, but not yet," he replied. "I've still got a few good years left in me."
"We're not getting any younger, you know. We don't know how much time we have left. Maybe it's time we actually enjoyed ourselves for a change."
"I could take a couple of weeks off and we can go to Florida or California."
Dottie's face looked even more forlorn.
"Or what about France? I know you've always wanted to visit Paris. You know what, I might be able to take an entire month off and we can go on the grand tour: Paris, London, Rome."
"That would be nice," his wife said in a voice that lacked enthusiasm.
"What do you really want to do?" he asked.
"For us to just spend time together. I'd like to be able to have breakfast and dinner with you, to watch television with you in the evenings, for us to spend an occasional weekend visiting the grandchildren."
Fritz had never realized until that moment how lonely his wife's life must have become after the children went out on their own.
"I'm sorry if I've neglected you," he said, putting his arm around her waist. "It was not intentional, I assure you. I just wanted to take care of you all, to be the best husband I could."
When his wife looked up at him, there were tears in her eyes.
"I know. I couldn't have asked for a better man than you. You've worked hard all your life to take care of your family, but it's okay for you to slow down now."
"All right, dear," he agreed. "I promise I'll give some serious consideration to retiring."
Fritz continued working for another six months, without giving any thought to quitting. He did, however, make the effort to spend more time with his wife. Three days each week the two had breakfast together, and five days out of seven they enjoyed a peaceful dinner for two followed by an evening of television.
With their fiftieth wedding anniversary on the horizon, Fritz secretly contacted a travel agency to make plans for a four-week tour of the highlights of Europe. Although traditionalists would demand a gift made of gold, he was certain his wife would prefer sailing across the Atlantic on the Queen Mary and seeing the Palace of Versailles, the Tower of London and the Roman Colosseum to getting a gold necklace or bracelet.
Ironically, the day Fritz was going to surprise Dottie with a copy of the itinerary of their trip, he came home to find his wife crying in the kitchen over a cup of coffee.
"What is it, my dear?" he asked, immediately worried. "Are the kids and grandchildren all right?"
"Yes, they're fine," she answered, wiping her eyes with a tissue.
"Why are you crying then?"
"I just got a call from my doctor. You know those headaches I get, the ones I thought were because I needed new glasses? Well, they weren't caused by my bad eyes. I've got a brain tumor."
People take bad news in different ways. Some immediately cry; others get angry. Some have to sit down; others need a drink. Fritz just stood there like a statue. There was no expression on his face, no movement of his eyes. Dottie wondered if her husband had even heard her.
"Fritz?"
Ever so slowly, her husband's movements returned. He blinked. Then he exhaled. Finally, he looked his wife in the face, his eyes silently pleading with her to take back her words.
"I have cancer," she said, as though he needed further explanation.
Although she made the announcement matter-of-factly, they both knew that the diagnosis was tantamount to being a death sentence.
Over the next several months, the couple consulted the most renowned oncology doctors in Boston and New York. Not one of them offered an optimistic prognosis.
With the holiday season approaching, Dottie finally convinced her husband to return to their home in Arlington.
"I think we should try the Mayo Clinic next," Fritz argued.
"No. I want to go home. I'm tired."
"You've got to fight this thing," he cried, preferring not to say the word he had come to hate.
"I'm afraid I don't have your strength."
"You gave birth to three children, didn't you? Was that an easy task?"
"I was in my twenties at the time."
It was then that Fritz realized his wife had given up hope and wanted to go home to die. He wanted to continue to battle the disease, but how could he do it without her cooperation?
"I don't want to lose you," he said.
"The decision isn't up to you, I'm afraid. We must all answer to a higher power."
* * *
On Thanksgiving Day, Fritz's three children and their families gathered at their parents' house for the holiday. The Seuberings' daughter and two daughters-in-law were doing the cooking so that Dottie could enjoy what might be her last holiday. Her condition had worsened to the point where no one knew if she would still be alive at Christmas.
The elderly couple was watching the Macy's parade on television when Dottie got up and walked out to the kitchen to "see what the girls were doing." With his wife out of the room, Fritz switched the channel. He was in no mood to watch marching bands, floats, celebrities and balloons.
Wilton Radisson, a one-time radio host, was being interviewed on the network morning news.
"We've had an incredible success rate," Radisson was saying in response to one of the journalist's questions.
"How is that you have managed to succeed where other doctors have failed?"
"At my hospital and health spa in West Virginia, we attribute cancer patients' recovery to a combination of the area's natural healing waters and an elixir of my own creation. In most cases, we've been able to completely cure patients without surgery."
"You're primarily known for your work in radio, Doctor," the newscaster said. "What qualifications do you have as a physician?"
"I graduated medical school just prior to the stock market crash. I don't need to tell you that those were desperate times, even for doctors. I took what work I could get, in this case, radio broadcasting. But I never lost my interest in medicine. I spent years developing my cure for cancer; and now that I've perfected it, I purchased the former Mountain View Hotel and converted it into a private hospital."
"The Mountain View? As I recall that was once touted as the most luxurious hotel in America. Why choose such an obviously expensive place? Aren't there more economical facilities that would allow you to charge your patients more reasonable rates?"
"It's all about location, Sid," Radisson said, addressing the journalist by his first name. "That place has direct access to the mineral springs that are an essential part of my cure."
"How exactly does spring water cure cancerous tumors?"
"As I said before, the water works in conjunction with my elixir—and, no, I will not tell you what is in it. That's a trade secret. But read your history. In Roman-occupied Britain, the healing powers of the goddess Minerva and the mineral-rich water from the hot springs of Bath attracted visitors from across the Roman Empire. And what about our late president, Franklin D. Roosevelt? Although the waters of Warm Springs, Georgia, didn't cure his polio, he insisted it helped relieve his pain."
"This all sounds very fascinating, but I'm sure our television viewers would like to know more about the scientific basis of your 'miracle cure,'" the skeptical journalist said, continuing to pressure his guest.
"Look, Sid," Wilton retaliated, beginning to lose his patience. "I'm no god. I don't profess to be able to work miracles. Were Louis Pasteur and Edward Jenner doing so when they created a vaccine for rabies and smallpox? What about the group of scientists from the University of Toronto who discovered that artificial insulin could save the lives of diabetics? And Alexander Fleming's discovery of penicillin?"
"Do you honestly claim to belong in the same category as men like Pasteur and Fleming?"
"Cancer is as deadly a killer as rabies and smallpox. It's second only to heart disease as the leading cause of death in America. Since I am capable of making this scourge a thing of the past, yes, Sid, I do think I belong in the same category as these other great physicians."
Fritz had heard enough. Here at last was the hope he had longed for. Here was his chance to save the life of the woman he loved.
* * *
The cost of staying at the Mountain View Hospital was far greater than Fritz had anticipated, but he didn't care. He had worked hard all his life to care for his family, and treating his wife's cancer definitely fell under that category. While the European vacation would have actually been cheaper in the long run, he would rather spend the money to try to save Dottie's life.
It took a day and a half for Fritz to make the drive from Massachusetts to the former West Virginia hotel. He could have made the trip in one day, but he stopped every two hours in order for his wife to stretch her legs and use the ladies' room. They also stopped for breakfast in Connecticut and lunch in Pennsylvania. Finally, around four in the afternoon, they found a motel to spend the night.
Dottie was unusually quiet that evening as the two of them watched The Ed Sullivan Show on the motel's portable television set.
"Has the long drive made you tired?" her husband asked.
"Not really," she replied. "I've just been thinking."
"About what?"
"This might be the last night we have together."
"Don't be ridiculous! Radisson's treatment is going to cure your cancer, and you'll live another fifteen or twenty years—longer than that probably."
"I hope so," she confessed. "I'd love to see our grandchildren get married and have children of their own."
"You'll live to see our great-grandchildren. I promise you."
Dottie, however, did not share her husband's optimism. The headaches from her brain tumor were not only more frequent, but they were also more severe. She didn't need a high-priced oncologist to tell her that her condition was getting worse.
* * *
"This place is incredible!" Dottie exclaimed when her husband pulled his Nash Rambler into the visitors' parking area.
"Back in the late 1800s, it used to be a world-class hotel," Fritz explained.
As she took in the grandeur of the sprawling, elaborate Victorian building, she thought morbidly, It wouldn't be such a bad place to spend my last days.
Naturally, she did not share this sentiment with her husband.
A uniformed nurse met the elderly couple at the front door.
"You must be Mr. and Mrs. Seubering," she said in a polite, yet reserved voice better suited to a funeral parlor than a hospital. "We've been expecting you."
Nurse Olive Drexel led the new patient and her husband to the administration office where they completed the paperwork required for admittance.
"I assume you made all the financial arrangements with Dr. Radisson," the nurse said to Fritz in a low voice so as not to unnecessarily disturb Dottie.
"Yes, everything's been settled," he replied. "The hospital fees are to be automatically withdrawn from checking account."
"Good. Then let me show your wife to her room."
Fritz began following the two women toward the impressive English oak grand staircase, a vestigial feature from Mountain View's more illustrious past.
"Excuse me, Mr. Seubering," Olive said when she noticed him trailing behind. "Did you need someone to show you out?"
"No," he answered with confusion. "I hadn't planned on leaving just yet. I thought I'd stay with my wife until she's settled in."
"I'm sorry, but that's against our policy. It's extremely important that our patients get rest and remain absolutely calm while they're here. We don't allow any visitors, not even close family members."
"What? You're telling me I can't visit my own wife!"
"Even with the help of Dr. Radisson's amazing treatments, she'll need all her strength if she wants to rid herself of this terrible illness."
"But ...."
"You can contact Dr. Radisson's office for updates on your wife's condition, but I'm afraid you can't have any contact with her until she's ready to be discharged."
"You mean I can't even speak to her on the telephone?"
Nurse Drexel's face hardened, and she resembled a strict schoolteacher who was about to mete out punishment to a misbehaving youngster. Fritz imagined that withering glare could sour milk.
"No visits, no telephone calls, no letters. Now, are we clear, Mr. Seubering?"
Under other circumstances, Fritz would never have stood for such rude treatment by anyone—man or woman. He was, however, too stunned by Mountain View's rules to be insulted by the hospital's admitting nurse.
* * *
Dottie looked through the window in her room and watched her husband walk away. As he neared the parking lot, he turned and looked back at the hospital. She waved, but Fritz didn't know which, if any, of the rooms on the front of the building belonged to his wife.
"Goodbye," she whispered, her eyes filling with tears. "I love you."
"Take off your clothes and put on this hospital gown," Nurse Drexel commanded.
"I don't need one of those awful gowns that ties in the back. I brought my own nightgowns with me."
"Hospital rules. Everyone wears the issued gown."
"Why? What possible difference does it make to my recovery what I wear to bed?"
"Are you going to be difficult?" Nurse Drexel said in a threatening tone. "Put on the gown or I'll call for an orderly to assist you."
Frightened, Dottie turned toward the window, hoping to see her husband still watching the hospital's exterior. If he was, she would throw open the window and call to him for help. She wanted to leave Mountain View and the witch of a nurse with the appalling bedside manner. As she saw the rear of the Nash Rambler heading out of the parking lot, she lost hope of ever leaving Dr. Radisson's hospital.
"Well?" the nurse prompted.
Resigned to her cruel fate, Dottie removed her skirt, sweater, underwear, shoes and stockings and put on the thin cotton hospital gown, reaching behind to fasten the ties.
"Now get in bed."
The elderly woman wanted to protest that she was not tired, but she instinctively knew the nurse would not take no for an answer.
"What time is dinner served?" the patient asked. "I don't want to sleep through it."
The nurse didn't reply. Instead, she took a hypodermic needle out of her pocket and gave Dottie a shot. A few minutes later, the old woman was sound asleep.
"That'll be enough out of you," Olive said, and then called for an orderly to remove Dottie's luggage and personal belongings from the room.
* * *
The following morning Fritz phoned the hospital to see how his wife was adjusting to her new surroundings. The switchboard operator put his call through to Nurse Drexel.
"You needn't worry. Your wife is sleeping peacefully, Mr. Seubering."
"Has she started her treatments yet?"
"You can call Dr. Radisson's office if you have any questions about her condition."
"I just want to know if she's begun ...."
The phone clicked in his ear. Nurse Drexel had hung up on him.
"I'll be damned!"
Fritz immediately phoned Wilton Radisson's office. After seven rings, the call was sent to his answering service.
"I'm sorry, Dr. Radisson is not in at the moment," the operator told him. "Would you like to leave a message?"
"No. I want to talk to him. When will he be in?"
"I'm not sure, sir. We're just his answering service. He doesn't give us his schedule."
"When he calls in for his messages, would you tell him I want to speak with him as soon as possible."
The woman took down the number of Fritz's hotel and promised to give the message to the doctor. Three days later, the radio host turned cancer patient savior still hadn't returned his call.
* * *
While her husband was making attempts to track down Dr. Radisson, Dottie was being kept in a drugged stupor. She had been at Mountain View Hospital for three days and had yet to get out of bed. She hadn't eaten, bathed or even been allowed to go to the bathroom. Nurse Drexel insisted the patient be put in adult-size diapers that were changed only once a day.
On the fourth day when Olive came into her room, she had no hypodermic needle with her. Instead, she had a paper cup that contained two red and yellow capsules.
"I'm starved," Dottie said. "Can I please have something to eat?"
"Not yet. The medication tends to make people nauseous, and the doctor doesn't want to risk having you choke on your own vomit during the night."
"No needle today?"
"No. From now on you'll get your medicine in pill form. It's less expensive that way, and in your weakened state the capsules will work just as well."
The pills did not, however, work as quickly. There was a period of roughly ten minutes when Dottie was aware of her surroundings.
On the fifth night of her confinement in Mountain View, the patient heard strange sounds coming from the hallway outside her room. It sounded like several different pairs of footsteps running down the hall as though one or more people in shoes were chasing someone in slippers or bare feet.
There was a woman's scream that was quickly stifled, followed by whimpering.
"Is ... everything ... all right?" Dottie managed to ask in a weak voice, too low to carry out to the hallway.
More than ever she wanted to go home. She no longer cared if Dr. Radisson's cure could help her. She wanted only to escape the hellish hospital.
* * *
"Mr. Seubering," the operator said wearily, "as I've told you repeatedly, I gave your messages to Dr. Radisson. I don't know why he hasn't returned any of your calls."
"I have a new message for the doctor," Fritz said. "Tell him I've contacted my bank and stopped automatic payments to Mountain View. He's not going to get another cent of my money until I'm allowed to see my wife. Have you got that?"
"Yes, sir," the operator said. "I've taken down your message verbatim."
"Good. I expect I'll be hearing from either Dr. Radisson or Nurse Drexel shortly."
* * *
Day six. Nearly a week without eating had caused Dottie to lose weight. That was but one of her complaints, however. She still hadn't bathed and was sickened by her own body odor. On top of that, her skin was irritated by the adult diaper.
Diaper rash at my age! she thought despondently.
That night when Nurse Drexel brought her medication, Dottie put the capsules in her mouth, sipped her water and swallowed. The nurse said nothing. She just silently left the room to visit the next patient. Dottie spit out the sleeping pills in her hand.
The patient then waited an hour until the lights in the rooms were extinguished and those in the hallways were dimmed. When she stood up beside the bed, Dottie felt a wave of dizziness sweep over her.
Easy girl, she told herself. Take your time.
The patient slowly made her way across the room to the door. She peeked out into the hallway; no one was there. Cautiously, she stepped out of her room. She walked down the hall and then turned right, trying to retrace her steps from a week earlier. However, she took a wrong turn somewhere and wound up in the hospital basement.
* * *
"Hello," Fritz said when he picked up the receiver of the hotel phone.
"Mr. Seubering? This is Dr. Wilton Radisson. I understand you've been trying to reach me."
"You could say that. I've left at least two dozen messages for you."
"I've been extremely busy," the doctor apologized. "Saving lives takes a good deal of time."
"Yeah, I'm sure it does. I'll get right to the point. I want to see my wife."
"I'm sure Nurse Drexel has explained the hospital's policies to ...."
"You misunderstand me, Doctor. I'm not asking you. I'm going to Mountain View first thing in the morning, and I will see my wife. Now, you can either allow me to see her, in which case she may remain in your care, or I will remove her from the hospital and take her back to Massachusetts, even if it requires the assistance of the local police."
"I'll phone Nurse Drexel and tell her to expect you. I'm sure we can make an exception to our no-visitors rule this one time. However, I won't allow you to visit on a regular basis. I can't have you jeopardizing my patients' progress."
"I understand."
* * *
Where am I? Dottie thought as she walked along a dimly lit hallway, occasionally leaning against the wall for support.
Despite her seriously weakened condition and growing fear, she continued to search for an exit even though she had no idea what she would do if she managed to gain her freedom. Not only was it nighttime, but she was also miles from the nearest town.
She turned a corner and saw a flickering glow at on the wall at the end of the narrow hallway.
Oh, my God! Is the hospital on fire?
Dottie inched closer to the light. A sign on the wall put her at ease.
It's just the furnace, she realized with relief. Nothing to be frightened of.
When she stood in the doorway and saw the emaciated human form, covered by a sheet, lying on a gurney, she promptly changed her mind.
* * *
Fritz Seubering woke early the next morning, showered, dressed, shaved and walked down to the motel coffee shop to get a quick breakfast before heading out to Mountain View. He was finishing his short stack of pancakes when the front desk clerk informed him that there was an urgent call for him. He left a five on the table to cover the bill and the gratuity and went to answer the phone.
"Hello?"
"Mr. Seubering, this is Nurse Drexel over at Mountain View Hospital."
"Yes. I assume you're calling about my visit this morning."
"Not exactly. Mr. Seubering, I regret to inform you that your wife passed away during the night."
"I don't understand. How is that possible?"
"I'm afraid her condition was far worse than her doctor led us to believe. Not only was the tumor on her brain in an advanced state, but the cancer had already metastasized and spread through most of her body. Rest assured that her final days were peaceful ones. We kept her sedated so that he wouldn't suffer."
"Why didn't someone call me and tell me how bad she was? Why didn't you let me know my wife was dying?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Seubering, but we were just following hospital policy."
The morning passed by in a blur. After speaking with Olive Drexel, Fritz returned to his motel room where he phoned his children and informed them that their mother passed away. Then he called the mortician who had handled both his and Dottie' parents' funerals.
"You needn't worry about anything," the funeral director told him. "When you get home, we can go over the arrangements. Meanwhile, we'll have your wife's body brought back here."
Fritz went to a nearby gas station and filled his tank. Then he returned to the hotel and began packing his clothes for the long drive back to Massachusetts. After placing his suitcases in the trunk of his Rambler, he went into the motel office to settle his bill.
As he waited for his receipt, the hotel switchboard operator informed him that there was another call for him.
Who could it be now? he wondered.
"Mr. Seubering," the funeral director said when he answered, "I'm glad I caught you before you left. I contacted Mountain View Hospital. Apparently, there's been a terrible mix-up."
Fritz's hopes temporarily soared. Was his wife still alive?
"Apparently," the mortician continued, "they've already cremated your wife' remains."
* * *
"You had no right to do such a thing!" Fritz screamed at the hospital administrator.
"I understand you're upset," the weasel-looking man said.
"Upset is an understatement. I'm livid! You had my wife's body cremated without authorization."
"That's not the case. You signed the contract giving us permission to dispose of the body should death occur while your wife was a patient at our facility."
"I would never have signed such a document."
The administrator opened a file folder on his desk and showed the contract to Fritz.
"That is your signature, isn't it?" he asked.
"But I thought this was a part of your hospital admission form. When I checked Dottie into this place, I was given a stack of papers and told where to sign."
"And you didn't bother to read any of the papers you were signing, did you?"
Suddenly, the weight of guilt was placed squarely on Fritz's shoulders.
"No, I ... no."
* * *
Three years later, Fritz Seubering was still working. He no longer cared about the money, though. With his wife gone, he simply had no reason to stay at home.
He was sitting in his office one day when Meryl, his secretary, walked in carrying a copy of the daily newspaper.
"I thought you'd like to see this," she said and placed the paper on his desk.
"Good news, I hope," he said with a smile.
It was the photograph he saw first. He recognized the face at once.
"Wilton Radisson!"
"Read the article," Meryl told him. "He's no doctor. He never even attended medical school."
As Fritz read each horror-filled paragraph, his secretary silently slipped out of his office to get him a cup of coffee. He had read the article through twice by the time she returned.
"Here, you might need this," she said and handed him the mug.
"He was a con man, a fraud, a quack!"
"The article said the FBI has asked anyone with information about Wilton Radisson to come forward. Are you going to contact them?"
Fritz's eyes went to the framed photograph of Dottie that still held a place of honor on the corner of his desk.
"You're damned right I am!"
* * *
After Wilton Radisson was found guilty of fraud and sentenced to ten years in Leavenworth, he was led, handcuffed, out the back door of the courthouse by two FBI agents. Fritz had been patiently waiting there with members of the press.
When the door opened, the reporters bombarded the prisoner with questions.
"I am innocent," Wilton cried, "and I'm confident my conviction will be reversed upon appeal."
"Innocent?" Fritz screamed to be heard above the members of the press. "You killed my wife! You ought to have been convicted of murder as well."
The reporters, sensing there might be something to Fritz's story, stopped speaking and listened.
"Your wife died of cancer."
"No, Radisson. According to one of the former employees at Mountain View, my wife was kept in bed, heavily drugged. She wasn't fed or bathed the entire time she was a patient at your so-called hospital."
"If what your informant says is true, then the blame should be placed on Nurse Drexel, not me. I was never personally involved in the patients' care."
"Oh, she won't escape retribution," Fritz said confidently. "The district attorney is already preparing his case against her. But you ... ten years is a mockery of justice."
"What do you think you can do about it? The judge has already passed sentence."
"But I haven't. I curse you, Wilton Radisson! May you die in prison and then face the fires of hell for all eternity."
Moments after uttering his final words, Fritz Seubering grabbed his chest and collapsed on the ground. Mercifully, his death was quick and painless.
The same could not be said of Wilton Radisson's. As though in fulfillment of the dying man's curse, the con man was diagnosed with stomach cancer less than three months after entering the federal penitentiary. It was more than a year before the disease finally killed him, a year in which he lived in almost constant pain. Ironically, the same day Wilton Radisson took his last agonized breath Nurse Olive Drexel was sentenced to be executed for the murder of all the hopeful patients who had gone to Mountain View Hospital seeking a cure and found only death.
This story was inspired by the true case of a radio broadcaster, Norman G. Baker, who in the 1930s claimed to have found a cure for cancer. In 1937 he purchased the luxurious Crescent Hotel in Eureka Springs, Arkansas, and turned it into a hospital and health spa. He was later charged with mail fraud (he had faced previous state charges of practicing medicine without a license) and sentenced to the federal penitentiary in Leavenworth, Kansas. Some sources claim bodies were cremated in the furnace of the hotel.
Salem once studied to be a veterinarian. He gave it up because his patients kept giving him fleas.
