C H E S A P E A K E G E N E R A L H O S P I T A L

A His!or! o" Hea"in#By Kerry DeRochi Kisa

Cover:Layout 1 10/7/07 9:52 AM Page 1

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One Hundred Percent Determination

One morning, in the fall of 1967, Jim Leftwich pulled into the driveway ofa small ranch house in South Norfolk. He was there to meet Dr. W.

Stanley Jennings, his friend and colleague on the Chesapeake HospitalAuthority. Jennings had told him to be there at 7 a.m. They’d have coffee beforehitting the road. Leftwich looked at his watch and glanced down the tree-linedstreet. A lawyer with a meticulous eye for detail, Leftwich was on time. He wasalways on time. As usual, there was no sign of Jennings’ blue Lincoln Mercury.

Leftwich sighed and sat in his car, waiting,thinking about the trip ahead. A lot was at stakethis brisk morning; a lot was rid ing on this firststep. The pair was charged with traveling to Rich -mond to see about bringing a hospital to thenewly formed city of Chesapeake. They were tomeet later that morning with state health officialsto find out what needed to be done. Leftwichhoped they wouldn’t be late.

Jennings drew up in his car and leaned out thewindow. He’d been up for hours, seeing patientsat Norfolk’s Leigh Memorial Hospital. He’dalready made a handful of house calls on his wayback home. Clothes rumpled and his face wrin-

kled from lack of sleep, Jennings climbed in beside Leftwich. “You drive,” hesaid, and closed his eyes. On the way to Richmond, with Jennings sleeping beside him, Leftwichthought about the proposal outlined in a stack of papers inside his briefcase.The plans were simple, really. The city wanted federal money to help pay for a100-bed hospital to serve its 73,000 residents. City leaders had even picked alocation – 45 acres on a corner of the intersection between Interstate 64 andwhat later would be called Battlefield Boulevard. The site, sitting squarely inthe middle of Chesapeake, would be the flagship symbol of the city formed notfour years before in an acrimonious merger of the urban, industrialized SouthNorfolk and the sprawling corn fields of Norfolk County. It was hoped thatChesapeake General would help smooth the frictions held over from the newmarriage, unifying farmers and shipyard workers in a single campaign. Support for the hospital had been well-publicized at town meetings and inlocal newspaper headlines. Residents who lived in this 353-square-mile city

Residents who lived

in this 353-square-

mile city were tired

of traveling down

two-lane roads,

across railroad tracks

and draw bridges

just to see a doctor.

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were tired of traveling down two-lane roads, across railroad tracks and drawbridges just to see a doctor. They no longer wanted to play second fiddle toNorfolk residents who always seemed to get the best appointments with thestaffs at Norfolk General, Leigh Memorial or Portsmouth Naval hospitals.They were a new city and a new city needed a hospital. In Richmond, later that morning, Leftwich and Jennings walked into theoffice of the Bureau of Medicine and Nursing Facilities. They unpacked theirpapers on the table and began to outline their proposal. They didn’t get veryfar. As far as state health officials were concerned, Chesapeake was not recog-nized as a city. They could apply for the federal Hill-Burton grants, but it wasdoubtful they would ever win one. In fact, the state doubted they even neededa hospital, not in the shadows of Norfolk General. In the eyes of health offi-

cials, Chesapeake remained a part ofNorfolk and Portsmouth. And, it alwayswould be.

Shocked, Leftwich and Jennings madethe long drive back home. There really wasnot much to say.

What they didn’t know as they staredbleakly at the pine trees along winding

Route 60 was that this brief meeting would be only the first of countless set-backs they would face in pursuit of Chesapeake General. They didn’t know ofthe obstacles still before them, the stumbling blocks brought on by politics, bythe turf wars with area hospitals or by the infighting of their own city leaders. Yes, Chesapeake would get its hospital. But it would take another 10 years. “There was 100 percent determination,” said Leftwich in a recent inter-view. “There was never 100 percent confidence.” Today, at the 30th anniversary of its opening in 1976, Chesapeake GeneralHospital sits as the cornerstone of an 80 acre medical campus on bustling, six-lane north Battlefield Boulevard, less than two miles from Interstate 64. Thesix-floor brick building houses 310 beds and hosts a staff of 2,434. More than17,000 surgeries are performed at the hospital each year; the number of labo-ratory procedures tops 650,000. The 28-bed Emergency Department is thebusiest civilian ER in the region, treating more than 63,000 patients. In addi-tion, Chesapeake General’s parent organization operates a lifestyle center, twoassisted-living facilities, an ambulatory surgery center and a diagnostic centerand is partners in a hospital along the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Chesapeake General, built as a symbol for a newly formed city, remains theonly independent facility in the region.

The hospital recently marked the retirement of its first CEO, Dr. DonaldS. Buckley, who served at the helm of the hospital for 34 years. His tenurebegan in the back office of an unheated construction trailer on a muddy siteand ended with a lavish dinner reception at the Chesapeake ConferenceCenter, where he was lauded for his determination to succeed. At the same din-ner, the city welcomed its new chief, Christopher Mosley who took over thehelm in January 2005. Looking back at the last 30 years, those at the core of Chesapeake General’sfounding are nonplussed at its growth and expansion. Jennings, who retired inhis late 70s because of his failing legs, sees it as testament to the residents whofought so hard to build it. Sitting in the living room of his home off VirginiaAvenue in South Norfolk, Jennings refuses to take credit for the hospital’s suc-cess. Neither does Jim Leftwich, who retired as a judge in the juvenile courts.Nor, for that matter, does Ray Morgan, an accountant who brought momen-tum to the hospital campaign with his fiery speeches and his penchant for risks. The success of the hospital is linked to something else, they say, somethingfar greater than a ragged group of residents. You see, Chesapeake General was never about bricks and mortar. Built ina swampy wood along Battlefield Boulevard, the hospital was meant to heal ill-ness, to comfort those who were sick. Instead, it healed a whole city. This is its story.

Shocked, Leftwich and

Jennings made the long

drive back home. There

really was not much to say.

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for signs of favoritism, of plans being made to benefit the farmers to the south.Already, a dispute had erupted in the Department of Parks and Rec reation,hardly a typical spot for political squabbling. At issue was whether the parksshould be controlled by the city manager or a separate, independent authority.The conflict was philosophical and bitter; it lasted for years. “We were so divided at that time,” said Sidney M. Oman, a funeral homedirector who was asked by the city council to head up the city’s first anniver-sary celebration in 1964. “I couldn’t get people to come from one side of thecity to the other. We had 51 events in the seven boroughs, culminating with aparade in Great Bridge.” It was in this acrimony that Jennings saw opportunity. A general practice physician in South Norfolk, he had always believed hiscity deserved its own hospital. That year, he started circulating petitions in sup-port of such a project. Jennings was frustrated by what he considered his lackof standing at the Norfolk hospitals. His patients were often wait-listed for pro-cedures because they did not live in Norfolk. “When you’re brought up in a community where you’ve always gotten less,you eventually realize there is no reason why you can’t have the best,” Jenningssaid. “It was something we deserved. There was no reason why we shouldn’t have it.” A few months after Jennings began circulating his petitions, hundreds ofresidents attended a community meeting in the auditorium at Indian RiverHigh School off Indian River Road. It was the first such gathering in the cityfollowing the referendum, a chance for both sides to meet and talk about thefuture of Chesapeake. The guest speaker was a prominent politician from thecity of Norfolk. “I recall the speaker, in lauding Chesapeake’s great potential, suggestingour first priority should be to grow and build our industrial base and to refrainfrom building a hospital since we already have access to good medical facili-ties,” said Judge Preston Grissom, who had attended the meeting. “Little washe aware that Dr. Jennings’ idea had just started to spill over the old borders ofSouth Norfolk and was getting the attention of a few older, country folk.” It didn’t take long before the idea of a hospital caught on in this new city,emerging as a rallying cry of sorts. Looking back, it is difficult to assess why theidea of a single building held so much allure. Many of those who took part inthe foundation of the city believe the hospital symbolized a new beginning, achance for common, rural folks to make a break from Norfolk, to stand ontheir own. Some suggest it was simply the logical next step in the formation ofChesapeake: schools, police and a hospital. All believe that it had not been for Stanley Jennings, the hospital would

A City Divided

In the early 1960s, in an attempt to thwart the land-hungry city of Norfolkfrom grabbing more territory, a handful of power brokers from South

Norfolk and Norfolk County began secretly meeting to talk about the idea ofa merger. Talk of joining forces had been in the air around Tidewater for years.Already, South Norfolk had annexed nearby Portlock. Now, the leaders feareda land-grab by Norfolk would box them in to the south and west. Between1950 and 1960, the county had lost 50,000 residents and 30 square miles ofland area due to annexation. For months, elected officials from both sides attended night meetings atthe offices of the Norfolk County School Board in Great Bridge. Under the

cloak of secrecy, they hammeredout issues such as the make-up ofthe newly created city council.Who would serve as city man a -ger? And, for how long? Whowould be treasurer?

The secrecy was necessary.Though the merger was support-ed by the elected officials, the

issue was sure to cause a firestorm of protest from the two factions. There wasnot a lot of love lost between the two sides. Norfolk County, with its mile aftermile of rural land, was home to wealthy and politically well-connected farmers.South Norfolk, on the other hand, remained largely blue collar. It was a placewhere small, Victorian style houses crowded against each other along a grid ofstreets. Shipyard workers took street cars to work. Others worked at one of twocotton mills, walking along the Beltline railroad tracks for their shifts. Lone Staroperated a cement plant in the heart of the town. In February 1962, the proposed merger was announced and a referendum

was scheduled. It had to pass in both Norfolk County and South Norfolk.Those in the county largely supported the idea, but those in South Norfolkopposed it. Residents of Portlock, now residents of South Norfolk, helped tipthe vote in favor of the merger. Still angry at the recent annexation and closureof Portlock High School, they may have simply wanted to get even. The refer-endum passed four months later, and voters chose the name Chesapeake. On January 1, 1963, Chesapeake became a city. Many of the South Norfolk residents were wary of this new city, watching

The secrecy was necessary. Though

the merger was supported by the

elected officials, the issue was sure

to cause a firestorm of protest

from the two factions.

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ter, the committee reported that the state of Virginia was divided into 45 hos-pital areas, all falling under the supervision of the State Bureau of Medicine andNursing Facilities. These districts generally followed “shopping areas” andcrossed city boundaries. As it stood at the time, Chesapeake was split betweenNorfolk and Portsmouth, with 40 percent of the city lumped into the Norfolkregion and the remaining 60 percent with Portsmouth. The letter pointed outthat there was a shortage of hospital beds in the region. In 1963, some 9,000Chesapeake residents were admitted to other local hospitals. The time it re -quired them to reach a hospital was at least 20 minutes. If the hospital was built assuggested, no Chesapeake resident would be far from the health care he needed:

The recommendation of the committee is for a hospital with approximate-ly 100 beds with parking for approximately 175 cars and approximately20 acres of more land to allow for expansion,” the report stated. “A hospi-tal with 100 beds will cost $2.5 million, exclusive of site costs. The opera -ting expenses for three years will be approximately $2.5 million. Should itbe the desire of the city to be largely responsible for the construction andoperation of a hospital; to pay for its construction through the sale of bonds,sales tax or some form of revenue, collected by the city for that purpose,then the committee would suggest a hospital authority be created by thelegislature for that purpose.

On Nov. 23, 1965, the day after the report was submitted, the city coun-cil decided to move forward and appointed a hospital site committee, estab-lished “for the purpose of examining possible location sites in the city for con-struction of a general hospital.” According to the minutes of the city councilmeeting, of particular interest were 41 acres of land reportedly offered as a giftto the hospital by a prominent family. The land was located at the intersectionof Interstate 64 and Battlefield Boulevard. In response to the offer, forwardedby then Mayor G.A. Treakle, Councilman Forehand applauded the site and“stated the hospital committee can now move forward and take some positivesteps enabling them to make a report within a few weeks.” It would take far longer. On March 31, 1966, the Virginia General Assembly, acting in response to abill submitted by Del. Robert Gibson of Chesapeake, approved legislation cre atingthe Chesapeake Hospital Authority, a tax-exempt, not-for-profit or gan izationwhich held as its principal activity the ownership and operation of ChesapeakeGeneral Hospital. The authority was to be autonomous from the city, though itsmembers would be appointed by the city council. It was the first of its kind in thestate with its own enabling legislation from the General Assembly.

not have been built. Jennings, the son of a livestock farmer, was one of two physicians practic-ing in South Norfolk at the time of the merger. His office was a landmark tothe residents of his borough. By all accounts, he was a tireless doctor, workingat times in 24-hour stretches, doing rounds in Norfolk and making between 15and 20 house calls a day.

“People were so dedicated to him, they’d go down and sit on the corner ofChesapeake Boulevard andwait for him,” said retiredCity Treasurer Duval Flora.“Sometimes they would wait aslong as two hours.”

Jennings’ efforts paid offon January 29, 1965 when thecity council appointed a hos-pital steering committee at theurging of Clarence Fore hand,a soft-spoken member of the

council known for his polished dress and his courtly manners. Dr. William Y.Garrett, director of the Chesapeake Health Department, was appointed to thecommittee along with Jennings. The first order of business for the new committee was to contact the statefor advice on how to proceed. The response was not welcoming. In a February3 letter from the State Bureau of Medicine and Nursing Facilities, directorRobert Ham suggested the cost of the hospital to be about $2.85 million, withan annual operating cost of $870,000. With such a price tag, Ham advised, thecity would do well to evaluate whether there truly was a need for such a facili-ty. “Although the city of Chesapeake does not have a hospital within its bound-aries, this would not necessarily mean there is a need for one inasmuch asChesapeake patients are now being served by Norfolk General, DePaul, King’sDaughters, Norfolk Community, Leigh Memorial, Portsmouth General,Maryview and Virginia Beach hospitals, all within a reasonable driving dis-tance,” wrote Ham. “Practically all of the above hospitals are either presentlyenlarging and adding beds or have plans for addition on the drawing board.” It would not be the last time Ham would warn Chesapeake officials of thecosts and of the competition. It would not be the last time they ignored him. In November of that same year, six months after Ham’s letter, the hospitalsteering committee sent a letter to the city council containing information theboard had requested regarding the regulations surrounding hospitals. In the let-

“People were so dedicated to him,

they’d go down and sit on the corner

of Chesapeake Boulevard and wait

for him,” said retired City Treasurer

Duval Flora. “Sometimes they would

wait as long as two hours.”

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If We Had Funds, We Wouldn’t Have Needed Credibility

The first meeting of the Chesapeake Hospital Authority was held onJanuary 26, 1967. Dr. Stanley Jennings was named chairman. Also on the

committee were Sid Oman, the funeral home director who had planned thecity’s anniversary party; Lysle Lindsay, Jim Leftwitch, Dr. Horace Ashburn andJames Garrett. The group had no budget, no office space. They would meetmonth to month in different locations. Still, they wasted no time. At the firstmeeting, they established an official letterhead and formed finance, groundsand constitution committees. Leftwich, named secretary of the authority, saidtheir mission was simple: “Build us a hospital.” “The first thing lacking was credibility,” Leftwich said in a recent inter-view. “We didn’t have funds. If we had had funds, we wouldn’t have neededcredibility.” The group remained optimistic. The March 22, 1967, edition of The Ches -a peake Post, a local weekly newspaper, boasted the headline, “ChesapeakeHospital Plans Progress.” The article detailed a meeting of the Chesapeake PilotClub, a service organization, the day before when Jennings told the group, “Wehave set June 1968 as the tentative date for the actual construction to begin onChesapeake’s first hospital.” There were reasons for optimism. After all, the city had started negotia-tions on the proposed hospital property off Interstate 64. A $1,000 check fromRosemount Christian Church had arrived, the first donation of its kind towardthe construction of a new hospital. And, of course, the authority had the back-ing of the entire city council. Or so it thought. In the coming months and years, three issues would continue to nag theyoung authority, each one at times bubbling to the surface: controversy over asite for the hospital, the need for state approval of federal money for the proj-ect and the political will of the Chesapeake City Council. “The idea was not allthat popular at first,” said Judge Grissom. “In fact, several political leadersspoke out against it. Such a major undertaking was unfeasible for such a youngand inexperienced city, was the thought. Old-timers felt the energy should bespent elsewhere – building schools for example. A couple of them did not seea need for a hospital because they could go into Norfolk.” In the summer of 1967, plans for the hospital began to unravel. It startedin August, when a realtor, assessing the proposed hospital site, estimated the

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Two weeks later, the site committee would meet one more time to finalizethe selection of a location for the hospital. They chose the property first men-tioned by Mayor Treakle more than six months before. “The committee, inmaking its selection felt that the hospital location should be reasonably acces-sible to the center of community activities in that it would then serve best thepublic as well as the medical profession that would make use of its facilities,”the committee stated in its final report, urging the council to negotiate with thefamily on a purchase price. Members of the committee subsequently requested that their group be dis-banded and that the city council move forward to appoint members of a hos-pital authority, choosing, they hoped, “the most qualified and public spiritedcitizens available.” It seemed they were well on their way.

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the council wasn’t that responsive. They felt we couldn’t afford it and, well,there you go.” Oman remembered a meeting where the authority was struggling to figureout how to pay for a land survey needed in time for a federal grant application.Sitting around the table, the members present each reached into their pockets,pulled out $20 and placed it on the table. “From the beginning, there werestrong feelings,” Oman said. “This is our city’s hospital. We don’t have anymoney, but we’re going to make it.” That determination was tested early and often. On September 7, 1967,Carl Lindgren Jr., an architect from Richmond, appeared before the authoritywith a detailed plan of what would be needed to secure the hospital. He pro-jected the construction cost would be $30,000 per bed, or about $3 million.The minimum budget for the hospital would be $4 million, with an annualoperating expense of about 40 percent of the capital outlay. As part of the pres-entation, Lindgren listed seven steps the authority would have to go throughbefore construction, including a land survey, a consultant study on need,preparation of exact drawings in order for the city to apply for federal Hill-Burton funds, and preparation of construction documents. One week after the presentation, even the newspapers had picked up onthe size of the obstacles facing the authority. “The city will have to wait until1969 for its new hospital,” stated an article in the Post. “A lot of ‘ifs’ must bedissolved: If the hospital authority can present a unified front, if the councilwill support them financially, if a site can be secured to meet stringent require-ments and if Hill-Burton funds can be obtained.” On October 5, 1967, in a report to the city council, authority membersreported that the cost of the hospital would be $4 million, as estimated by theRichmond architect. They told the council that the Hill-Burton funds –administered by the Department of Health, Education and Welfare – wouldpay for 55 percent of the construction cost, or $2.2 million. The city wouldneed to raise the remainder itself – through bonds, capital funds or a combina-tion. “If city residents want a hospital in the near future,” Jennings said duringthe meeting, “then substantial financial backing must be obtained from thecouncil to be complemented by donations from interested individuals and cor-porations.” City council members were less than enthused. City administrators balkedat the high numbers. Just under 5-years-old, the city had plenty of other needssuch as roads and schools. Sewer lines had not been extended. Police and firewere a priority. Authority members did what they had to; they went public with their frus-

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cost of the land at $3,000 an acre, for a total of $140,000. With that price inmind, Leftwich wrote a letter to the owners of the property, GreenbrierHolding Corp. “In view of the worthy goals of this authority and the need forthe construction of this hospital, I want to assure you that both the membersof the authority and the citizens of Chesapeake will be deeply grateful for what-ever favorable consideration you are able to give us in this respect,” Leftwich

wrote.Five days later, he had his answer. The

land targeted by the authority had 1,600feet fronting the Norfolk and SouthernRailroad, making it “ideally suited” forindustrial or commercial development.“Based upon the most valuable use of thisland, the actual value, which in our opin-ion is at least $8,500 per acre, excludes thisparticular site for a hospital,” wrote LattieYates, administrator of the estate.

Still, the authority wouldn’t walk away,keeping the Greenbrier property on its list of proposed sites for another year.What members were hoping was that they’d be allowed to use a portion of thesite for the hospital at the reduced $3,000 an acre price tag. It wasn’t until thesummer of 1968, when the authority received a letter from attorney SamGoldblatt representing a partner who owned one-seventh of the property, thatit was obvious the deal was dead. It was time to look at new land. On June 14, 1968, Evelyn Williamson contacted the authority offering tosell a plot of land on the west side of Battlefield Boulevard, near the proposedGreat Bridge bypass. “The location of a medical facility for the City ofChesapeake must be weighed carefully, not only to meet the needs of today, butthe demands of the future,” Williamson wrote in a letter. She proposed to sellthe land to the authority for $4,800 an acre. Three days later, a second offercame into the authority, this one involving 30 acres on the east side ofBattlefield Boulevard. The land was assessed at $6,500 but the owners werewilling to sell it for $6,000 as long as the hospital was built within five years. Land was not the only issue facing the authority. How were they going topay for it? For that matter, how were they going to pay for the doctors, the nurs-es, the secretaries, the custodians and everyone else vital to a hospital’s success? “We’d be at our meetings and say, ‘Why are we meeting if we don’t haveanything?’” recalled Sidney Oman, a member of the authority who later servedas mayor of Chesapeake. “There was a reason to have a hospital authority, but

The land targeted by

the Authority had 1600

feet fronting the Norfolk

and Southern Railroad,

making it “ideally suited”

for industrial or

commercial development.

13

intricacies of financing a hospital. Lastly, the council would require residents topetition the council for a referendum on a bond issue. In the months that followed, much of what Wadsworth said at the meet-ing came to be true. The city council in an overwhelming majority agreed tospend $100,000 for a site for the hospital, though members did not pick out asite. The lone dissenter stated, “I am 100 percent in favor of a hospital, but I,for one, want to know where the location of thishospital is going to be.” In June 1968, the authority was ready to reporton the three sites under consideration – theWilliamson site, the Greenbrier site and the Unserproperty, the one located north of BattlefieldBoulevard. All three sites had been inspected andapproved by the state for hospital purposes.According to the report, “It appears that these threesites are virtually equal as to location, access, utilities and desirability. Whileeach site may have individual advantages, it is our conclusion that in everyinstance there are corresponding advantages unique to the other sites.” In otherwords, cost should be the most important factor. Or maybe not.

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trations. Speaking to a crowd gathered at a public meeting, the authority mem-bers admitted the federal money was no longer a sure thing and that the ideaof issuing bonds was controversial. In addition, there was no mention of thehospital in the city’s upcoming capital improvement budget. The authority haddone its part, they said. They had offered to cut the proposed facility from 100to 50 beds, hoping to entice the council to fund its construction. “It hasreached the point that we must rally citizen support for the hospital in orderfor it to ever become a reality,” Jennings said. By January 31, 1968, the issue of money came to a head in a meetingbetween the city council and the authority. The issue, again, was who wouldpay for the $1.8 million gap between federal money, which was by no meanscertain, and the cost of a 100-bed hospital. “The city fathers, like fathers every-where, are sometimes caught up in the familiar dilemma whether to buy some-thing the household ought to have or to do without it,” said Mayor Treakleduring the meeting. “We need a hospital, but hospitals are extremely costlythings.” In March, the authority, again, turned to the residents. In a meeting withneighbors from the Essex Meadow, Red Oak Colony and Greenwood Estatescivic leagues, authority members told the men and women that if they wanteda hospital, it was up to them. The authority had gone as far as it could. Duringthe meeting, a resident stood to inquire what response the authority hadreceived from the council regarding its request for financial reports. Theanswer: none. There had been no communication. Authority members went onto say they had no more answers; it was up to the citizens of Chesapeake.Residents leaving the meeting told reporters the message had been, “take it orleave it.” “Not one member of the authority voiced any confidence in getting thehospital at this meeting last week or even seemed hopeful,” a resident told thePost. One week later, at a meeting packed with 40 residents in support of a hos-pital, Eugene Wadsworth walked to the microphone. Confusion and frustra-tion is felt by the residents at this time, he told the council members. Accordingto a newspaper article, Wadsworth warned the council that there was no turn-ing back at this point. “Public concern for taking care of its health problemsand support for securing a hospital had reached a point among the citizenrythat turning back was out of the question,” Wadsworth said. He went on tooutline a three-step plan designed to secure a hospital. The first step, he said,would be for the council to agree to pay $100,000 for a hospital site. Secondly,they would hold a series of public hearings designed to educate residents on the

All three sites had

been inspected and

approved by the

state for hospital

purposes.

15

to pay a “substantial portion” of the construction of a 200-bed hospital. Inreturn, Leigh Memorial would furnish the remaining funds to construct a 200-bed hospital. Chesapeake will furnish the site at a location mutually agreeableto the two institutions. The name of the hospital would remain in Chesapeake’scontrol. One month later, on November 7, 1968, the directors of Leigh rejectedChesapeake’s offer. There have been many theories as to why. Some said it wasthe insistence that the hospital be named after Chesapeake. Others said it wasnever going to happen, anyway. It was simply a power play by Leigh officialswho would soon enter into negotiations with Norfolk General to become a partof the proposed Norfolk medical complex.Years later, executives at Leigh Memorialannounced they would align with NorfolkGeneral and move to a location offKempsville Road, near the border ofChesapeake, Virginia Beach and Norfolk. Judge Preston Grissom, a vocal sup-porter of the Chesapeake hospital, who waslater appointed to the Tidewater Regional Health Planning Council, met withLeigh executives during that time. In a recent interview, he remembered beingtold by the doctors present at the meeting that they “just didn’t want to prac-tice that kind of medicine,” when referring to the proposed move toChesapeake. “In that meeting, I realized for the first time just how different their per-spective was,” Grissom said. “It was ‘across the river.’ They even questionedwhether the land was swampy. I was struck with that.”

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The Suitor After the Bride

One month after the authority members forwarded their report on the pos-sible hospital sites, they received word that Leigh Memorial Hospital was

considering moving its location from Mowbray Arch along the Hague inNorfolk. The 65-year-old hospital would consider relocating to Chesapeake.The hospital authority jumped at the news. “We’re like the suitor after thebride,” Jennings said to a local reporter. “If she can be courted, we’re courtingher. We’ve been fighting for some time to get a hospital for Chesapeake.” LeighMemorial represented a shortcut to the final product. Authority members aswell as city politicians raced to take it. On September 13, 1968, the administrator of Leigh Memorial forwardedtwo reports to its board members regarding the growth of Leigh, asking thatneither be released to the public. One made its way to the hospital authority inChesapeake. In the studies, consultants examined two possible locations forLeigh Memorial, which they dubbed “the friendly hospital.” One of the recom-mendations was for a site at the intersection of Interstate 64 and BattlefieldBoulevard. The consultants recommended that Leigh transfer all of its pro-grams related to health to a new site: “The owners of Leigh Memorial shouldenter into a series of discussions with those persons in authority who areattempting to procure hospital facilities for this general area that will allow adecision to be made regarding this location.” Six days later, Leftwich sent a letter to the chairman of the executive com-mittee regarding Chesapeake’s interest in Leigh. “The Chesapeake HospitalAuthority is most interested in the relocation of Leigh Memorial Hospital inthe city of Chesapeake, Virginia, in the event of a move by that institution fromits present location,” Leftwich wrote. He offered to appear before the commit-tee at the next meeting scheduled for October 4. He was scheduled, instead, forOctober 11. He would be given 30 minutes. It was an all-out campaign. On October 9, two days before Leftwich was supposed to meet with theboard, the authority informed local newspapers of their intention. Authoritymember Ray Morgan, an accountant, said Chesapeake residents would supportthe relocation because it would be quicker than building a hospital fromscratch. “With Leigh,” Morgan said, “there would be a nucleus, a growingoperation.” One week later, the Chesapeake Chamber of Commerce adopted aresolution in support of the city’s effort to lure Leigh Memorial. Their resolu-tion was in response to a proposal by the authority outlining its offer: If Leighshould move to Chesapeake, the city council would include a bond referendum

“We’ve been fighting for

sometime to get a hospital

for Chesapeake.”

– W. STANLEY JENNINGS JR.

17

of the authority, read a resolution adopted unanimously just two days before.In that resolution, the authority threatened to withhold support for the city’sentire capital improvement package in the upcoming referendum, unless thecouncil agreed to add the hospital to the vote. It was a gutsy move, holding thecity hostage for their project. As a local reporter wrote in The Virginian-Pilot,the “council was caught by surprise. It had already placed $16,000 in the ref-erendum to help the authority but had not expected to be asked to include con-struction funds. The size of the demand was also surprising.” The council delayed considering the request for two days. On Thursday,residents supporting the hospital flooded the council chambers on behalf of thehospital. One of the first to speak was Dorothea Wadsworth, a tall, thin womanwho represented the Pilot Club. Her husband, Eugene, had already appearedbefore the council on behalf of the hospi-tal. Dorothea Wadsworth became one ofthe most influential supporters of theauthority’s efforts, later helping organize asuccessful door-to-door fund-raising cam-paign that raised $120,000 from Ches -apeake residents. A soft-spoken wo manwith a quiet and polite manner, DorotheaWadsworth somehow grabbed the atten-tion in what was otherwise a raucous meeting. “Safeguarding the health of cit-izens should be the first concern of the city,” she told the council. “There is ashortage of beds in the Nor folk hos pitals and it would be difficult to cope withan emergency situation in the area. The hospital authority must be very discour-aged and the people very tired.” The city council buckled. In a resolution adopted later that evening, thecouncil agreed to include $2.4 million for the construction of a hospital in theupcoming bond referendum. The wording read like a peace treaty between thetwo groups. “Whereas the Chesapeake Hospital Authority acknowledges coun-cil’s action as a positive and vital step toward the realization of the much-need-ed hospital and Whereas it appears the posture of the Chesapeake HospitalAuthority toward the proposed may have been misinterpreted,” stated the res-olution. The city also authorized a series of seven public hearings to be heldthroughout the city to talk about the items on the $32.5 million referendum,including $12.6 million for citywide sewer and water, $9.7 million for schools,$5.9 million for highway and drainage construction, $540,000 for fire stations,$475,000 for the city’s share in the cost of a library headquarters, $400,000 foran unspecified community college site, $290,000 for the development of parks

16

What Happens if it Doesn’t Work?

Faced with the realization that they had lost Leigh, members of the author-ity began a new campaign, this one to force the city to allow voters to vote

for a $4.5 million bond referendum to pay for a 115-bed hospital. Such a votehad already been scheduled for March 1969 for a host of new city services, suchas roads, schools and sewer. The hospital would be just one thing more. In itsreport submitted to the council on December 10, 1968, the authority stated,“in view of the recent decision by the Trustees of Leigh Memorial Hospital todecline the offer made by the Chesapeake Hospital Authority for the relocationof Leigh to Chesapeake, the authority believes it is now timely to revaluate itsposition and to reaffirm its goal of obtaining hospital facilities within the cityof Chesapeake. Toward that end, and with regard to the urgent need for suchfacilities, previously acknowledged by both council and the authority, we here-by restate our belief that it is imperative to proceed with the construction ofthese hospital facilities with all due haste.” The members went on to urge the council to proceed with the purchase ofa hospital site. “It is now the belief of the hospital authority that the proposedhospital, upon completion, can be operated without future financial liability onthe city,” the report stated. “The economy of these four cities is such that thepopulation will demand first-rate medical services and can afford the provisionof a wide continuum of medical services.” Not all city officials were convinced. Durwood Curling, the city planningdirector who would be named city manager, said he worried Chesapeake wouldbe caught holding the bag for a hospital that could not make money. “In allcandor, I had doubts about that hospital,” he said in an interview from hisGreat Bridge home. “I didn’t know whether it would make it economically ornot. Are people from South Norfolk going to go to Great Bridge to go to thehospital? Where are you going to get the doctors to come from? How are yougoing to get people to use the hospital if they’re going to get transferred toNorfolk anyway? The city manager is looking at the money side of things; he’sworried about next year. I think the council was generally for it, but they werescared. What happens if it doesn’t work?” Put more clearly, Raymond Morgan, a member of the authority, said, “Thecity was afraid it would be a first-aid station.” By February 1969, the authority, now three years old, was tired. Instead ofworking with the city council, members decided to launch an attack, using thepress and city residents. At the February 12 meeting, Sid Oman, vice chairman

Put more clearly, Raymond

Morgan, a member of the

Authority, said, “The city

was afraid it would be a

first-aid station.”

1918

and recreational facilities and $135,000 for an addition to the TidewaterDetention Home. One month later, on March 18, city officials watched in dismay as almostall of their bonds failed when put to the voters. Water. Sewer. Roads. All failed.Hospital, library, schools and public safety passed. It was a blow to the cityadministration, a reminder that residents may have their own ideas of what isimportant. Though as one resident, quoted in the newspaper, said, “withoutwater and sewer, what good is the rest of it?”

A Site and A Sign

Weeks later, the city council followed through on its promise to theauthority and purchased a site for the new hospital, 37.5 acres west of

Battlefield Boulevard for $4,000 an acre. The action prompted an editorial inThe Virginian-Pilot praising the purchase for enabling the authority to moveforward with the hospital project. It stated, “This should start the wheels turn-ing on a project that has stirred much public support in the city and has beenfor the most part, an innocent party to the whole site controversy.” In the weeks that followed, the authority members began writing their firstformal application for the Hill-Burton grant, even though they knew what thestate facilities director thought of the plan. Even now, four years after theprocess had started, Ches apeake still remained split between Norfolk andPortsmouth. State officials were not convinced a hospital was necessary in theshadows of already existing institutions. State officials controlled where themoney went. In a letter dated June 13, 1969, City Manager G. R. House Jr.,pleaded with Robert Ham, director of the state’s Bureau of Medical andNursing Facilities. “Mr. Ham,” he wrote, “the fast growing city of Chesapeakeurgently needs the proposed general hospital sought by this application. Asidefrom the economic advantages of giving employment to approximately 200professional and non-professional people of our city, the lack of hospital facil-

21

I Believe This Can Be Done

On September 29, 1969, Leftwich contacted Ham, who had finally agreedto meet with the Chesapeake delegation, to personally thank him. “Your

very kind offer to travel here for the purpose of meeting with us will enable thisentire group, rather than a small committee, to benefit from your comments,”Leftwich wrote. One week later, Ham met with members of the city council and the hos-pital authority in Chesapeake after touring the region with other officials fromthe state agency. The chances of the authority securing a Hill-Burton grantwere slim, he told the authority. Funds for the national hospital program weredrying up because of budget concerns in Washington. President Nixon hadindicated he wanted to see the money earmarked for expanding existing facili-ties rather than the construction of new ones. As a state, Virginia was only setto receive about $860,000 in aid for the coming year. That was the total for allof the projects proposed through the localities. Chesapeake, by being splitbetween two medical districts, in a word, did not have a chance. “It appears youare a Johnny Come Lately located between two established cities that have seenfit to accommodate your city’s medical needs,” Ham told the authority. “Theyhave been taking care of you all these years and they plan to continue to takecare of you.” Ham reiterated his opinions in a letter one week later to state Sen. WilliamHodges of Chesapeake to inform him not to get his hopes up regarding fund-ing for the hospital. “You will realize, I am certain, that Hill-Burton funds arevery limited and that we have far more applications for money than there arefunds available,” Ham wrote in his letter. “The Chesapeake people wereadvised, well prior to their making their application, that such was the case andthat it would be some time before they could possibly hope for funding.Dividing a state into medical areas is not an exact science. However, the infor-mation that we have available does indicate that the area of Chesapeake east ofthe Elizabeth River should logically be a portion of the Norfolk area and thearea of Chesapeake west of the Elizabeth River should logically be a portion ofthe Portsmouth area.” Leftwich, responding to another meeting with Ham, this one inRichmond, wrote to thank him for his attention. In the letter, Leftwich toldHam the Chesapeake delegation realized the limitations on the Hill-Burtonfunds and that their application could not, at that time, be considered on equalfooting with the other requests because of the division of medical districts. “We

20

ities jeopardizes the very health and welfare of our citizens.” House went on to argue that Chesapeake was the fourth-largest city in areain the state and the ninth largest by population, yet it had no hospital. Growthin Chesapeake was expected to skyrocket in the next few years, transformingthe rural borough into a city of more than 172,000 by 1985. Included with theapplication was a list of 110 area physicians who, when polled, said they sup-ported the proposed hospital. That summer, perhaps buoyed by the bond referendum, city officialsordered a sign reading, “Site of Chesapeake General Hospital,” to be placedalong Battlefield Boulevard in front of the future hospital location. In a letterto City Manager House, Totsy Chewning, an engineer who had volunteered hishelp as a consultant to the authority, thanked the city for clearing the land andplacing the sign. “I wanted to tell you how pleased I am with the clearing ofthe front part of the hospital site and the erection of the signs by the PublicWorks Department,” Chewning wrote. “It looks very nice and I am sure that itwill let the citizens of Chesapeake know that the hospital has not been forgotten.” The hospital had a site and a sign, visible signals that the project was underway. The group didn’t realize that what they really had was bad timing. Federal money earmarked for the construction of hospitals was drying upbecause of budget cuts in Congress. President M. Nixon was trying to trimhealth care costs and he had focused on hospital construction as the preferredway. His belief was that expansion of existing facilities could handle the grow-ing population and the increased need for hospital beds. That mentality hadshifted into Virginia, by and large, where the State Bureau of Medical andNursing Facilities had taken a hard line approach to new construction. Thoughthe bureau, especially its director Robert Ham, would face mounting criticismfrom Chesapeake officials, its decision to reign in new construction would beechoed later by hospital administrators across the state, worried about a glut ofhospital beds. The need to regulate beds drifted south to Tidewater where health officialsrealized the region would be served best through an autonomous council whichcould assess health needs of the area and monitor new construction. Grissom,a lawyer in Chesapeake who had long championed the new hospital, wasappointed to the board. At times, the group, called the Tidewater RegionalHealth Planning Council, met three nights a week, often until midnight.Grissom said he often spent the remaining week nights meeting with Jenningsand Leftwich. “It was a stressful time and yet you had this feeling that you wereon the right track, so you had to stick with it. They learned as they went along.” One lesson they had yet to learn – how to handle the state.

23

the council could not approve your project this year even on the basis of themaximum application,” Ham wrote. The message was clear. Chesapeake was not going to obtain Hill-Burtonmoney. Not this year. Perhaps not ever. It was about this time, after four years of efforts and little improvement,that Sid Oman proposed that the group essentially give up on the state and fed-eral money and form a private corporation. “Based on the fact that we havealready spent a goodly sum for the preliminary studies and the introduction toHill-Burton, which is giving to the state now less than they gave to the city ofNorfolk last year,” Oman wrote, “I thereby propose the following:

That the authority develop an open-stock company withdrawn from its present status; that we engage a bank or financial institution to sell stock

in this hospital; that this authority become the corporate governing body ofthe stock corporation; that this authority negotiate with the city to see if wecould legally rent the 37 and one-half acres from the city or to plan a long-range program of financing the land.”

It is unclear how far Oman’s proposal went. It would not be the last timethe authority members considered throwing out their plans.

22

will naturally continue to hope until the allocation period expires that somehowfunds might become available to make a consideration of our application pos -sible, “Leftwich wrote. “We recognize, however, that this possibility is slight. Ifit serves no other purpose, our application will, I hope, serve to focus attentionon the recent growth and changes which have occurred in Chesapeake.” On December 16, 1969, Ham informed Chesapeake City Manager Housethat the board overseeing allocation of Hill-Burton money, known as theVirginia Advisory Hospital Corporation, would meet January 22, 1970, toevaluate all of the applicants. He assured House there was no reason for any-one from Chesapeake to attend. “Although the council is willing to hear a rep-resentative of any applicant, it is apparent that representation on your behalf

would be of little avail,” he wrote in a letter.The letter prompted authority members

to seek another meeting with Ham for anexplanation. Totsy Chewning, the engineer,attempted to contact the state officials. OnDecember 31, 1969, New Year’s Eve, he wasable to get through. Chewning met withHam in his Richmond offices. Ham repeat-ed his assertion that “it would be useless” forany representative from Chesapeake toattend the January 22 meeting. Chewninginformed the authority that Ham’s previousestimate that the Hill-Burton allocation forVirginia would be $860,000 was wrong. It

now appeared that the state would have $1.8 million, more than double whatwas originally thought. Unfortunately, the money had already been allocated toother hospitals that were high on the priority list. Chesapeake was not amongthem. In the end, Chewning said, it was clear that the decision was “absoluteand final” for this year. “In view of the above circumstances, I recommend thatthe hospital authority proceed with plans to achieve a hospital building with-out Hill-Burton funds for the first phase,” Chewning wrote to Jennings. “Ibelieve that this can be done.” On January 26, 1970, Ham officially put the issue to rest. In a letter toCity Manager House, he wrote that the advisory council had received 21 appli-cations requesting $31 million in Hill-Burton money. Virginia had not yetreceived word as to how much its share would be, but indications were that itwould fall somewhere between $4 million and $6.6 million. “The applicationswere considered in order of priority and we are sorry we must inform you that

It was about this time,

after four years of efforts

and little improvement,

that Sid Oman proposed

that the group essentially

give up on the state and

federal money and form

a private corporation.

25

This was proof, Leftwich thought as he placed the clipping in his file. This iswhat they’d been saying all along. One night, later that month, as the authority meeting dragged past mid-night, Ray Morgan, a fiery accountant, urged his colleagues to try to do some-thing more. They needed to break free from the state officials who seemed benton keeping Chesapeake in the pockets of Norfolk and Portsmouth. He didn’twant to point fingers. But perhaps the politics of medicine were playing a role.Norfolk General was a powerful institution. Leaders in the city, including Dr.Mason Andrews, were trying to launch the Eastern Virginia Medical School.Perhaps a hospital in Chesapeake posed a threat of some sort. Perhaps their influ-ence was helping to sway Ham. “It’s time to fight fire with fire,” Morgan said. “When somebody tells me you can’t do something, that makes me thinkI’m going to do it or else,” Morgan said in a recent interview. “We were the badboys, the ones who wouldn’t go away.” The next morning, authority members called Sen. William B. Spong andU.S. Rep. Watkins Abbitt. Within a few weeks, they met with them in theiroffices on Capitol Hill. Jen -nings, Leftwich, Morgan andChewning drove together inJennings’ car. They chipped into pay for the gas. During themeeting, Leftwich explainedtheir frustration with the stateofficials who refused toconsider Chesa peake as a sepa-rate health district, thereby robbing it of its ability to earn a Hill-Burton grant.They asked if there was anything the politicians could do. “We believe the divi-sion of the city of Chesapeake into two separate medical areas, one allocated tothe Norfolk area and the other to Portsmouth, is antiquated and totally unre-alistic in view of the present geographical and political structure in the area aswell as the tremendous increased population in Chesapeake,” Leftwich wrotein an August 6, 1970, letter to Spong. He asked the senator to help the author-ity identify any other money that might be available to help. On August 18, 1970, two weeks after the meeting, Spong replied that hisstaff was looking into additional funding but, so far, had found only the Hill-Burton program. Rep. Abbitt informed the authority membeers that his staffhad contacted Ham’s office and would advise them if there were any otherdevelopments. Ham responded quickly to Abbitt, informing him that theapplication for Chesapeake General was on file and that they were reviewing it

24

The Politics of Medicine

On February 19, 1970, authority members approved a resolution urgingthe city to withdraw its Hill-Burton applications. It was time to come up

with a new strategy. “These circumstances demand that both the city and theauthority be in a position to rechannel their efforts toward a new and workableprogram,” Leftwich wrote to City Manager House. The next few months marked a time of retrenchment for the authoritymembers, a chance for them to try to figure out where to go next. They stillhad the $2.4 million in bonds authorized by the 1969 referendum. Alone, itwasn’t enough. On March 16, 1970, the authority created a finance board tooversee a fund-raising campaign. They appointed Townsend Oast as chairman.The purpose of the board was simple: “to engage in fundraising by public solic-itation to build a hospital.” On May 21, faced with losing even more time, the authority membersordered Chewning to file a second Hill-Burton application. They knew theyhad almost no chance. Ham had already informed the authority, again, thatthere was no possibility of the city winning a grant from the 1970 application.“Frankly, we do not anticipate receiving any funds from this, but thought itbest to file an application as a precautionary measure,” Jennings wrote toHouse, explaining why the authority had taken this unusual step. “In themeantime, the authority is proceeding with the idea of raising funds from thepublic to meet as much of the cost of the hospital as possible. We need to raise$1.1 million to go along with the maximum amount of the bond issue for $2.4million. If we can raise more, we will use these funds to diminish the amountof money we would need from the proceeds of the bonds.” The authority con-tracted with a Cleveland fund-raising firm to assess how much money could bemade through such a campaign. In July 1970, Leftwich clipped an article that appeared in the TheVirginian-Pilot. The article quoted Norfolk General officials as saying they hadadopted a new policy restricting the use of the hospital to nonpaying patients.The move, the officials said, “is directed at reducing the number of patientswho live outside Norfolk but who make use of the hospital for free medicalservices.” Norfolk General estimated that 30 percent of its clinic patients livedoutside of Norfolk. “We have got to be fair first to Norfolk people,” Roy R.Prangley, administrator of Norfolk General, was quoted as saying. On the sur-face, such a statement had nothing to do with Chesapeake General or theauthority’s efforts to secure a hospital. And, yet it seemed to hit close to home.

On the surface, such a statement

had nothing to do with Chesapeake

General or the authority’s efforts

to secure a hospital. And, yet it

seemed to hit close to home.

27

The News It Had Been Waiting to Hear

Two weeks later, in a letter detailing the obstacles facing the hospital,Jennings sounded almost defeated. Listing all of the problems facing the

funding of the project, the authority asserted, again, that the city would not beheld responsible for its financial success. The authority recommended that nofinal plans on financing be made until the members learned how much couldbe gathered by fundraising. “The authority has found the cooperation of otherhealth agencies has not been forthcoming in this venture and that there aremany obstacles being thrown in the path of the development of a hospital forChesapeake,” Jennings wrote in the letter. “The hospital authority believes thatthe development of this program is absolutely essential to the future growth,welfare and well-being of the city of Chesapeake. Without it, Chesapeakewould always remain a step-child of this metropolitan area.” In the months that followed, Chesapeake officials turned to two regionalbodies for help. The first was the Southeastern Virginia Planning Council, anumbrella organization that tried to promote regionalism in the boomingHampton Roads economy. The second was the Tidewater Regional HealthPlanning Council, Grissom’s group. The planning council’s mission was to assessthe health needs of the community and make recommendations to the state. Formonths, the council had been working with the bureau to study whether therewas, indeed, a need for the Chesapeake hospital. Ham, in October 1970,acknowledged being contacted by the planning council and working withthem, “in a joint study of the area in an effort to determine if Chesapeakeshould remain in the Norfolk-Portsmouth hospital service as currently indicat-ed in our state plan.” He would not release the results of the joint study. That same month, Chewning, whose firm had been hired to oversee theplans for the hospital, wrote a letter to the planning district commission, assert-ing that the project would not duplicate services already offered or being dis-cussed by the proposed medical school complex. ‘The hospital authority feelsstrongly that a hospital is absolutely needed in the city to provide not onlymedical services for its residents but to enable the city to attract additionalindustries and institutions that will be of benefit to the entire area,” Chewningwrote. “Without a hospital, the authority feels that Chesapeake would be rele-gated to an inferior position in the metropolitan scheme.” It was the start of an all-out campaign. One month later, Stanley Jenningswrote to the City Council begging for their help in establishing ChesapeakeGeneral Hospital. In the letter, Jennings pointed out that the city had a popu-

26

in detail. “We appreciate your interest in this matter,” he wrote. One month later, pranksters struck the sign erected a year before on the siteof the proposed hospital. They painted the word “woods” over “hospital” sothat the sign now read, “Site of Chesapeake General Woods.” The newspaperpublished a photograph of the sign along with the caption, “An anonymoussign painter has altered the city’s sign on Battlefield Boulevard to betterdescribe the surroundings. The sign has heralded the eventual construction ofa municipal hospital for about a year, but no physical progress has been made

and the 35-acre roadside plot hasgrown over with weeds.”

The words, meant as a joke, struckhome. Leftwich, in a letter to Rep.Abbitt, said the caption “demonstratesa fairly prevalent attitude as well assome of the bitterness occasioned bythe lack of any hospital facility inChesapeake.”PH

OTO

BY

J.T. M

cCLE

NN

Y

29

The move by the Norfolk hospital struck a chord with Kellam. At the subse-quent meeting, Kellam said, “This could happen to either one of us.” It wasobvious that to combat an attack from any one member, there would need tobe more effort at working together. “We felt the time had come we needed towork out a formula, what the need would be for all of us, all jurisdictions,”Grissom said. Less than one month later, the authority received the news it had beenwaiting to hear. The Tidewater Regional Health Planning Council had votedto “recommend to the State Bureau of Medical and Nursing Facil ities that thecity of Ches a peake be considered as a dis-tinct service area for federal funding.” In aletter to the authority, D.J. Moore, execu-tive director of the planning council, saidthe board had also endorsed the city’s pend-ing Hill-Burton application with the fol-lowing recommendations: that the city seekassociation with a major full-services hospi-tal in the area, that they establish a workingrelationship with the Chesapeake MentalHealth Services Board, that it consider si -mul taneous construction of a medical artsbuilding and that ity avoid unnecessaryduplication of medical services, i.e. nomaternity beds. The council recommendedthat the hospital be built with 104 beds, 72 for medical/surgical patients, sixfor ICU and 26 for extended care. The decision to endorse the Chesapeake hos-pital was based, in part, on the study conducted by the planning council thatfound 44 percent of the residents in Chesapeake were more than 20 minutesaway from emergency hospital care by emergency vehicles. The proposed hos-pital would cut that travel time in half. It was a big victory, the first time a governing body outside of Chesapeakehad endorsed the city’s plans. Headlines in The Virginian-Pilot remarked on theboost to Chesapeake efforts. The Chesapeake “city administration and hospitalauthority now harbor optimism that the regional health officials cite a criticallack of area surgical-medical care facilities.” The council’s finding was based onthe study it had conducted with the State Bureau of Medical and Facilities. The excitement wouldn’t last. Though the regional council could assess thehealth needs of an area and even make recommendations, it couldn’t build ahospital. That power still belonged to Ham, the state’s director of the Bureau

28

lation of 90,000 and yet had no hospital. The national average for beds per1,000 residents was between four and five. In the four-city area, the ratio wasfewer than three beds. In addition, Chesapeake had at the time one doctor forevery 5,000 residents. Virginia Beach had faced a similar situation in 1960,Jennings wrote, when they begged for permission to build a 160-bed commu-nity hospital. With the hospital now completed, the city enjoyed a doc-tor/patient ratio of one physician for every 1,500 residents. The improvementwas due to the start of the hospital. In a stinging rebuke of the state agencies,Jennings continued:

The preceding brings the realization that inconvenience, mal-distribu- tion of health facilities and personnel; hazards to the health of Chesapeake

citizens and a generally inequitable hospital situation exists in this area.This situation apparently has the blessing of our state health departmentsince it is through that department’s Bureau of Medical and Nursing facil-ities with Mr. Robert Ham as director that Chesapeake needs have beenconsidered . . . As a new city, we are desperately trying to be self-sufficientin the basic services to our citizenry and the citizenry have expressed theirsupport of such efforts. Please give any aid, advice or direction you feel willbe helpful in providing adequate medical facilities and services to our cit-izenry. Let’s sever the umbilical cord from medical facilities and personnelextending into our surrounding cities. A Chesapeake hospital would hope-fully serve as that long-awaited undertaking in Chesapeake in which allChesapeake citizens could develop pride, forget their sectionalism andestablish an identity for our city.

The next day, Jennings sent a second letter. This one went to Sydney S.Kellam, president of the Tidewater Council. Kellam, a prominent politician inVirginia Beach, had been through a similar process with the formation of hiscity’s first general hospital. “As you are aware, it is our intention to construct afacility of approximately 100 beds for general acute care on a site on BattlefieldBoulevard, which has already been purchased for that purpose by the city ofChesapeake,” Jennings wrote. “We are now deeply committed to this plan bothin time and investment as well as planning. It is unthinkable to us, as I am sure itmust be to you, that an independent political subdivision such as Chesapeake shouldhave no general hospital located within its political boundaries.” The timing of the letter was perfect. According to Grissom, the planningcouncil had just received a letter from an assistant administrator at NorfolkGeneral Hospital openly opposing the construction of Chesapeake GeneralHospital. It was the first time the Chesapeake contingent had open opposition.

“It is unthinkable to us,

as I am sure it must be

to you, that an independent

political subdivision such

as Chesapeake should have

no general hospital located

within its political

boundaries.”

– W. STANLEY JENNINGS JR.

31

Chesapeake from presenting their data,” Chewning complained. “The cold factis that Mr. Ham does not feel the ninth-largest city in the Commonwealth ofVirginia should have any hospital at all. It is my opinion that Mr. Ham isopposed to any hospital being in this city of 90,000 people and that these peo-ple will be required to run elsewhere for their medical needs. He knows full wellthat if the city of Chesapeake were set aside as a separate medical planning dis-trict, as it should be, the city of Chesapeake, without facilities, would have ahigh priority on the Hill-Burton list. It is evident Mr. Ham is trying to thwartthe rightful development of medical facilities in the city of Chesapeake.” The authority did not stop there. In the weeks that followed, Jim Leftwichwrote to Sen. Spong and state Sen. William Hodges to complain of the treat-ment. He wrote to state delegates Stanley Bryan and Robert Gibson, the politi-cian who had introduced the original legislation creating the ChesapeakeHospital Authority more than five years before. Gibson forwarded the com-plaint to Gov. Linwood Holton, explaining the issue and asking for his help. Inthat letter, Gibson said he “hoped (Ham’s) proposal will not be the recommen-dation to the Virginia Advisory Hospital Council because it is difficult for ourcitizens to comprehend a greater need than a local hospital for 90,000 inhabi-tants. Our citizens have been most patient and cooperative in the presentationof their hospital program for the last few years, but they are upset and alarmedand time is running out.” Two weeks later, on February 4, 1971, Jennings, along with Leftwich andMorgan, drove to Richmond to meet with the governor. They were escortedinto his office by delegates Bryan, Gibson and state Sen. Hodges. Holton waspol ite, they would report later, even cordial. The meeting was brief. When itwas over, the authority members left somewhat disappointed. Gov. Holton hadsaid he would study the matter. He had made no promises. Later that night, ina meeting with the Chesapeake City Council, Leftwich said he truly believed1971 would be the crossroads in Chesapeake’s attempt to get a hospital. “Thedoor was not closed,” he said of the meeting in Richmond. But it was definitelyclosing. “If we don’t win our bid for recognition this spring,” Leftwich said, “I hes-itate to believe we can expect Hill-Burton funds for many years to come.” Part of the pessimism was due to growing concerns among health officialsthat Congress, faced with budget cutbacks and an expensive war in Vietnam,was pushing to erode the federal money. Those worries came to fruition the dayafter the authority’s trip to Richmond when an article in the magazine,Hospital Week, detailed efforts by the Nixon administration to “eliminate Hill-Burton hospital construction grants.” The article stated “President Nixon has

30

Medical and Nursing Facilities. In a newspaper article outlining the planningcouncil’s endorsement of Chesapeake General, Ham told reporters he com-pletely disagreed with the findings of the regional council. He did not say howor why. He acknowledged he had not contacted either the planning council orthe Chesapeake Hospital Authority. He said only that his agency had conduct-ed a study of Chesapeake’s medical needs and that the study differed in conclu-sion. The decision on whether to split Chesapeake from Norfolk andPortsmouth would be made by the advisory council and Ham said he “ratherdoubts the city will be set aside.” It was a huge blow. Reeling from the attack, the authority fired back, send-ing copies of the council’s recommendation and the ensuing newspaper articlesto Sen. Spong and Rep. Abbitt. Two days later, the City Council adopted a res-olution demanding to know why – despite endorsements from the regionalcouncil and the Southeastern Virginia Planning District Commission – thestate Medical and Nursing Facilities Services had turned down their request fora hospital. They asked that the agency reveal the study they used to reach theirdecision. On January 5, 1971, Ham contacted Rep. Abbitt regarding the controver-sy, saying his office disagreed with some of the numbers used by the TidewaterCouncil in its study. “Our other disagreements involve opinions of need inview of present facilities and utilization and the requirements for additionalfacilities as related to time and distance for emergency services,” Ham wrote inhis letter to the congressman. “It is our opinion that consideration of furtherexpansion of medical facilities in this area should involve the entire area ofNorfolk, Portsmouth, Chesapeake and Virginia Beach. It is our further opin-ion that the great need in the Tidewater area at this time is for modernizationand upgrading of existing medical facilities.” Ham went on to say he had for-warded his conclusions to the advisory board, which would be deciding theissue at its next meeting, “the time of which has not been set.” He said that afterthe advisory board made its recommendation the findings “will be available forpublic use.” In other words, the state advisory council would be making a decision onthe future of Chesapeake’s health care based on statistics and recommendationsthat no one in Chesapeake had seen or would be allowed to see. The moveangered members of the authority, who saw it as further proof of the bias Hamhad shown toward their city. In a letter to Rep. Abbitt, Chewning blasted Ham.“The procedure stated by Mr. Ham will prevent those in this area from study-ing his data and making recommendations prior to the time Mr. Ham makeshis views known to the advisory council and such secrecy precludes the city of

33

It’s a Question of Whether You Want It

On April 9, 1971, faced with the notion that time was slipping away, thehospital authority asked the city council to authorize a second bond ref-

erendum, this one for $1.6 million in construction funds. The bonds would bepaid off by the anticipated hospital revenues. Authority members told thecouncil that construction on a hospital could begin as early as 1972 should thereferendum be passed by the voters. If it failed, perhaps it was time to abandonthe idea of a hospital. The entire hospital project was forwarded to City Man -ager Durwood Curling for review. While the authority members were scrambling locally for ways to pay fora hospital, members of the Virginia Hospital Advisory Council, meeting inRichmond, agreed to approve a federal loan for$561,000 to the Chesapeake project. The loanhad the potential to increase to $700,000. Thecouncil did not set aside Chesapeake as a med-ical district but realigned the entire Tidewaterregion into a single district. “We’re totally con-fused at this time,” Jennings told reporters ofthe news. “We don’t understand the realign-ment and don’t know the terms or stipulationsof the guaranteed loans.” Word of the loan drewmixed reaction. The size was too small to aid inthe construction; the authority would still needto hold a second bond referendum. Jennings said he believed the loan was anafterthought, the crumbs left over when others had been fed. He described itas “just one step above ignoring us.” They may have been lucky to get anything. In the report released by thestate council at the same time as the decision, health officials stated that “theinterests of all concerned would be best served by considering this total area inplanning for construction and modernization of medical facilities. Adequatemedical facilities are available within reasonable driving distance and time to allresidents of the region. Programmed modernization, replacement and expan-sion of existing medical facilities should meet the population needs through1975.” The report stated that separating Chesapeake into a single districtwould automatically give it the top priority for federal funding even if such pri-ority was not appropriate. The report also asserted that there were plenty ofbeds in the region. In 1969, the average utilization of hospital beds was 81 per-

32

resumed the effort to eliminate Hill-Burton grants for hospital construction.The administration has allocated $85 million in grants for ambulatory facili-ties, $42.2 million for long-term care facilities and $45 million for moderniza-tion, but it omitted funds for new hospital construction.” An editorial in The Ledger-Star credited the authority with keeping its mis-sion. “The disheartening part of the problem is that, even though it is some-thing of a quirk that has put Chesapeake in a disadvantageous position, no onewith the power to do so seems disposed to make any changes. There is to besure an element of civic pride in Chesapeake’s desire for a hospital of its owneven though the city borders both Norfolk and Portsmouth. But the effortsprings from more than this . . . Encouragingly, despite the string of disap-pointments, the hospital authority and the city council haven’t indicated thatthey’re ready to abandon or even trim down the hospital proposal. Chesapeakemay yet have its hospital.” Members of the authority were beginning to doubt they would. Despitestudies indicating the need for a hospital, despite political support inRichmond and Washington, D.C., despite the vocal and emotional urging ofmany of its residents, Chesapeake was no closer to building a hospital than ithad been in 1964, when Jennings began circulating his petitions. Perhaps that’swhy, in March of 1971, when most hope was gone, Jennings took a phone callfrom John M. DeBlois of DeBlois Inc. Perhaps that’s why he listened asDeBlois outlined his plans to build a private hospital in Chesapeake. Perhapsthat’s why he kept a copy of the proposed transaction for more than 30 years.It was his fall-back, he later said. When DeBlois contacted him, Jennings knewhe’d have a hospital. The particulars of the deal seemed appealing. DeBlois,working on behalf of a client, would build a $4.5 million hospital as a jointventure with local doctors. The doctors would own the hospital for 10 years atwhich time, the client would have the right to buy back the hospital. As hestudied the proposal, Jennings remembered Ham’s warnings from years before.He placed the letter in his file.

Authority members

told the council that

construction on a

hospital could begin as

early as 1972 should

the referendum be

passed by the voters.

35

ing about more than $4 million or you are talking about a smaller hospital.” One month later, the council agreed to issue the bonds, though somewhatreluctantly. Several of the council members said they were concerned abouttying the city’s credit to a project that did not have conclusive construction andequipment costs estimated by the consultants. Councilman Clarence Fore hand,who led the city’s first effort to secure a hospital, said they were at a “point ofno return” and he warned his colleagues that there was a possibility that futuretax increases would be needed to offset losses at the hospital. “I’m willing totake that chance,” Forehand said during the meeting. “But I don’t want anyonesaying later that a bunch of numbskulls said the taxes wouldn’t go up.”

34

cent. In addition, there were plans in the works for major expansions atNorfolk General Hospital, which were not included in the study because of dis-cussions surrounding the establishment of a Norfolk Medical Center complex,a complex that was supposed to include Leigh Memorial and a medical schoolalready under development. In truth, the numbers seemed to justify Ham’s preoccupation with theexpansion of existing facilities. However, the hospital authority members wereready to move on. On May 18, 1971, one month after receiving the loan offer, Jenningswrote to the city council asking them to delay consideration of a second bondreferendum. The authority, he said, had decided to accept the loan. He asked

that the council authorize the sale of the original $2.4million bonds so that the hospital could begin gettingits finances together. City Manager Durwood Curlingsaid he would not recommend selling the bonds untilthe authority presented the city with detailed informa-tion on the type of hospital that it proposing to buildand a letter of recommendation from a consultant onthe feasibility of a hospital at the selected location. Hewarned them to present the recommendations for “lay-man understanding and easy digestibility.”

In an interview, Curling recalled an afternoon whenLeftwich dropped by his office at city hall.

“It’s not a question whether you can afford it or not,” Leftwich told him.“It’s a question of whether you want it.” “Ok,” responded Curling. “You’re going to start a hospital. Where are yougoing to get the money to pay your bills?” One month later, the issue of finances came to a head in the middle of acity council meeting. A reporter for The Ledger-Star described the situationthis way: “The city hospital project was still ailing today. The diagnosis? Fi nan -cial fuzziness complicated by council-manic caution. The prognosis: uncertain.The patient was in no great danger of dying, but may have to remain bedrid-den for a while longer.” The reporter was referring to an exchange betweenCurling, the city manager, and the authority members present at the meeting.authority members, when asked by the council whether the hospital would beself-sustaining, distributed a financial statement suggesting the hospital wouldhave an operating profit after two years of $340,000. Curling didn’t buy it.“Who’s going to meet the debt payments during the first two years while thehospital is being built and not making money?” he asked. “You’re either talk-

“Ok,” responded

Curling. “You’re

going to start a

hospital. Where

are you going to

get the money to

pay your bills?”

Starting With an Empty Lot

In September 1971, the authority members hired a consultant to help withthe building stages and, once construction was under way, serve as the hos-

pital’s first administrator. In some ways, it was a gutsy move, issuing a contractwhen there was no formal agreement yet on how the hospital was going to bebuilt, or when, for that matter. The authority members interviewed dozens ofcandidates for the job before settling on Donald S. Buckley, an assistantprofessor with the Uni -versity of North Car -olina School of Medi -cine at Chapel Hill.Buckley had a uniquequalification; he knewthe area well. He hadbeen assistant ad min is -tra tor of Nor folk Gen -eral in the mid-1960s,the same time thatJennings, Morgan andLeftwich were scram-bling to find a way tobuild a hospital of theirown. Buckley, who was 34 at the time, liked the idea of a challenge, of startingwith an empty lot. “It was a small group, a great opportunity,” Buckley said ina recent interview. “When I agreed to come, I don’t think they had any moneyin the bank, maybe $300. I wanted to know what it was like to put together ahospital from scratch.” Buckley, a tall, thin man with dark hair and thick brown-rimmed glasses,had an immediate presence, one many described later as imposing. The firsttime Buckley met with the architects, after being hired, was in a restaurant atthe Raleigh/Durham Airport outside of Chapel Hill. The architects had pur-chased plans and specifications from a hospital in Hendersonville, N.C., hop-ing to use the blueprints for Chesapeake General Hospital. Buckley rolled theplans onto the restaurant table. He shook his head. No, he said. The planswouldn’t work. He had something else in mind. “They didn’t like that,”Buckley recalled. “They thought they were home free, saving time and money.”

3736

You Can Have the Money, But Not Now

The vote to sell the bonds gave the green light for the authority to move for-ward with its plans. That summer, members hired John Waller and Alan

Sadler as architects for the new hospital. They contacted Townsend Oast, thechairman of the fund-raising division, and told him it was time to start work.And, perhaps most importantly, they began negotiating with candidates inter-ested in the administrator position. On August 20, 1971, Chewning informedthe city the authority had adopted its first annual budget. The amount was$228,500 and was to cover the expenses expected in the preparation of plansand specifications along with the taking of bids. Another $20,000 was ear-marked for a hospital administrator who would work as a consultant during theplanning phases of the hospital, and $4,800 was to pay for a secretary and otheradministrative expenses. Most of the money, $163,000, would pay for thearchitect and the preparation of the plans. The city wasn’t satisfied. When, asked City Manager Curling, did theauthority think it would receive its Hill-Burton loan? In an August 30 letter to Curling, Chewning advised the city manager thatunder the provisions of the Hill-Burton act, the authority had to arrange for aloan from a local bank which would be guaranteed by the state of Virginia forrepayment and the assumption of 3 percent of the interest rate. “The guaran-tee would not be made available for such time as the hospital has been com-pletely constructed and ready for operation,” Chewning wrote. As it nowstood, it would be years before Chesapeake would see the Hill-Burton money.

Donald Buckley

39

Just Enough Gambling Blood

On November 4, 1971, a few weeks after Buckley had been hired as a con-sultant, members of the authority were invited to meet with representa-

tives from the state regarding their Hill-Burton application. The meeting,organized by Ham’s office, would take place at 10 a.m. in the Golden Trianglehotel in downtown Norfolk. Organizers requested that the authority send offi-cials who could represent the project and speak to local financing. Details weresketchy as to what took place at the meeting, held in a private hotel room on atop floor of the hotel. Ray Morgan, the accountant, said in an interview thatthe representatives from the Department of Health, Education and Welfaretold the authority members they had a choice. They could take the $700,000loan guarantee already offered or they could rescind it and hope for a shot at$1 million in grant money that may come available. There was no guarantee they would get the grant money or that it wouldeven exist, but there was a decent chance. The decision was theirs. They had anhour to make it. Morgan described what happened next. Leftwich, whoMorgan described as the conservative of the bunch, was not inclined to give upa sure thing for the idea of another. Walter Broadnax, a former Navy architect,sided with Leftwich. “Stanley and I were the wildcats,” Morgan said. “If weturned that money in and didn’t get anything, how would we explain it?” Morgan looked at Jennings across the hotel room. “How do you feel?” he asked. “I’ve got just enough gambling blood in me to go for it,” Jennings replied. The men left the hotel room that day without their $700,000 loan guar-antee. They didn’t say a word about what they had gambled. It would bemonths before they knew if they had won. In the weeks that followed, the authority pored over details for the newhospital. The architects had proposed a T-shaped patient floor with about 50beds per nursing station. Buckley wanted the design based on a 34-bed-to-sta-tion ratio. It was up the board members to decide. Buckley had started meet-ing with local physicians, hoping to get them on board. He’d met with formercolleagues at Norfolk General Hospital, who offered to help the fledgling hos-pital with any information they could share. On May 12, 1972, six months after the meeting at the Norfolk hotel,authority members learned their gamble had paid off. Robert Ham, the direc-tor of facilities who had so often blocked the authority’s attempt to secure ahospital, wrote, “This is to advise you that the Virginia Advisory Hospital

38

Once every other week, Buckley would travel from Chapel Hill to meetwith authority members in the First & Merchants Bank Building and elsewherein Great Bridge. The meetings would go on so long that the bank officials even-tually kicked them out. They didn’t want to pay for a security guard to stayuntil 1 or 2 in the morning, any more. The next day, before returning toChapel Hill, Buckley would meet again with the architects, Waller & Sadler, intheir offices on Laskin Road. Buckley was pushing to build an all private-roomhospital (“When you go to a hotel, do you want to share a room with someoneyou don’t know?” he’d quip.) with the capability to expand to 350 beds. Itwould be the first of its kind in the state of Virginia, where most hospitals hadadopted a combination of wards and semi-private rooms. “We had a chance tostart something,” Buckley said in an interview. “My feeling was, let’s not justlatch onto how everyone else does it. We had to wedge ourselves in with allthese established hospitals. Why win a battle and lose the war? I knew we hadto be different. We had to be better.”

41

Yet, optimism pre-vailed, and one monthlater, in a pho tograph onthe front page of TheChesapeake Post, Buckleystood next to the large signmarking the site of thehos pital; the word “woods”has been painted back to“hospital.” Buckley leanedagainst the wood, his righthand clenched into a fist.The headline on top of thepage stated, “The man atthe top starts at thebottom.” The article an -nounced that Ches apeakeGeneral had hired its firstadministrator. Speakingfor the authority, Leftwichtold reporters they had“screened approximatelytwo dozen applicants,looking for someone withthe right background to tackle this job successfully. It was difficult to find peo-ple like that, willing to do some trailblazing.” Buckley set up shop in Room 122 of the Great Bridge ProfessionalBuilding on Mount Pleasant Road, next to the Chamber of Commerce. “Ourdoor will be open,” Buckley told reporters, shortly after arriving. “Citizens ofthe area have known for several years of a move under way for a hospital. Theymust be wondering now when it will come about.” Buckley defined the idea ofChesapeake General as a community hospital, one that does not forget itspatients when they walk out the door. “A hospital must be cognizant of gener-al health care for the community,” Buckley said. “I, as administrator, must bewilling to cooperate with health care programs to improve the health care ofthe community. We can’t look at a hospital in an isolated condition. It shouldinvolve all health agencies, the tentacles of complete health care.” Buckley said the site for the hospital would be cleared within the next fewweeks. He planned to move to a trailer at the construction site in about 30

40

Council approved an allocation of $1 million in grant funds to your project.”The note, though brief, was what they’d been waiting for since 1967, whenLeftwich and Jennings first made the drive to Richmond to meet with Ham.The $1 million grant would be added to the $2.4 million in municipal bonds,bringing the authority ever closer to paying for the $4.5 million hospital. Thecity now needed to raise the remaining $1.2 million from a fund-raising cam-paign. Finally, it seemed, there would be a hospital. One month later, theauthority, in a report to the city council, advised the city that to receive thegrant money, construction on the hospital would have to begin by May 1,1973. Architects were already under way and expected to have plans ready forreview in July 1972. Conflicts, though, were not yet resolved. On September13, 1972, the Virginia Hospital Association circulated a petition to area hospi-tal administrators and employees, urging them to support an effort inRichmond to curtail the construction of new hospitals by forcing new hospi-tals and nursing homes to obtain certificates of need prior to licensing. “Signsof overbuilding acute and extended care facilities in this state are obvious to allbut a few special interest groups,” wrote Stuart Ogren, executive director of theassociation. He went on to lament that Virginia already ranked at the top ofthe ratio of hospital beds to population, closing the memo with the plea, “Thehospital you save may be your own.” Indeed, even the Tidewater Regional Health Planning Council, seemedworried with the number of hospital beds. In a report issued on August 29,1972, the council pointed out that “overbedding” was a serious issue facingTidewater. According to its analysis, the four-city area at the time had 2,420beds. The report stated that on any given day in 1972, the average bed demandwas only 1,944, resulting in 476 unoccupied beds. And, even though beddemand would increase to 2,207 by 1977, the number of hospital beds willhave grown to 3,254 beds, resulting in an excess number of 1,047 beds on anygiven day. Because of these numbers, the council proposed a six-month mora-torium on “all hospital construction plans, which have not been previouslyreviewed and endorsed by the council.” Such a moratorium would “permit arational and effective evaluation of the new directions in health care which arebeing presented to the four city area residents. More importantly, however, themoratorium will allow the implementation of decisions which are based onlogic rather than on an emotional atmosphere of haste and intimidation.” In 1973, the Virginia General Assembly adopted the law requiring hospitalsto obtain certificates of need from the state. The process did not affect the ini-tial plans for Chesapeake General because it had already received prior approval. However, it would come back to haunt them in the future.

43

We’re All Working to Build Chesapeake

The site was cleared. The trailer was in place. For the first time, it looked asif the city would have its hospital.

The residents who had fought so hard to win state approval now had tolaunch another campaign – this time to raise more than $1.2 million in dona-tions. The money was needed to fill the expected gap between the $4.6 millionprice tag for the new hospital, the $2.4 million bond issue and the $1 millionHill-Burton grant. At this point, residents knew they had their hospital. Theywanted to make sure it didn’t fail on opening day. The problem? There was no money. And, fund-raising campaigns costmoney. That fall, four members of the authority took out a $20,000 loan froma local bank, each of them cosigning $5,000. The money would pay for thebrochures and flyers to circulate the city. The materials would be used in anine-pronged attack designed to muster support from businesses, industry andcharities. Dorothea Wadsworth, the soft-spoken proponent of the hospital since themid-1960s, headed up a residential campaign that in May of 1973 wouldinvolve 1,300 volunteer workers pouring over all neighborhoods in the 353-square mile city. The campaign was coordinated out of two headquarter trail-ers, one in Great Bridge and one in Western Branch. There were six boroughcoordinators assigning the door-to-door volunteers. “The fund drive will notbe an annual event,” Mrs. Wadsworth said at the time “The need is now andthe opportunity to give is now. Each person must search his soul to determinethe validity of this cause as compared to his ability to give. When our workerrings your door bell, a pledge of your fair share will make our residential funddrive a success.” The first receipt, numbered 01, was given to a group of teenage girls whoalmost a year before raised $7.76 by putting on a musical show in their garage.Wadsworth handed the receipt in a simple ceremony. “This is going to requirethe cooperation of everyone in the city to reach that goal,” Mrs. Wadsworthtold reporters. “It is fitting that the children should lead them.” On April 26, 1973, the newspaper The Chesapeake Post, hosted a dancemarathon to raise money for the hospital. The tickets cost $10 a couple.Contestants received a 15-minute break every hour but were barred from leav-ing the dance floor at any other time. The contest would continue until the lastpair was standing. “Think you can do it?” stated the promotion in the Post.“Why not give it a try? Mix a little fun and a lot of pleasure in with some good

42

days. That move would be delayed at least once when the company called himto tell him the trailer had burned in a fire. In November 1972, Buckley presided with Jennings and MarionWhitehurst, the mayor of Chesapeake, at a ribbon-cutting ceremony in themiddle of the cleared, but muddy site. They each wore large carnations andhard hats. The ceremony was to commemorate the opening of a light greenconstruction trailer, what would become both the headquarters for Buckleyand a symbol of so much more. A sign reading “Administrative Office,Chesapeake General Hospital” was hammered into the dirt outside.

In a letter published the next week in The Chesapeake Post, Buckley urgedresidents to remain involved in the hospital planning. “The hospital has beenplanned for several years and many hours have been given by citizens in aneffort to locate a hospital in Chesapeake,” Buckley wrote. “Planning is a slowprocess that pays big dividends in the end results. We are still in the planningstages but are nearer to seeing construction under way. Our planning must con-tinue if we are going to meet the 1980 and 1990 health and hospital care needsof this area. The task before us cannot be accomplished in a ‘one-man effort’but through the combined desires, efforts and cooperation of all the citizens ofChesapeake.”

45

What You Need to Do to Get the Job Done

From her home in Great Bridge, Donna McLees read with interest all thenews about the proposed hospital. She had just given birth to her second

child when she decided to pick up the phone and call the new administrator.Would he be hiring anyone? “He asked me to come in and talk with him,” said Mrs. McLees, whosename was Harrell at the time. “I just thought it was going to be wonderful tosee our city have a hospital. I thought without question that this is where Iwant to be. I felt he was a visionary. He was someone who could take a visionand bring it to a reality.” McLees soon was hired as Buckley’s assistant. She moved into the GreatBridge Professional Center, and then to the light green trailer, nestled next to apile of gravel on the muddy construction site. Her office was in a room so smallthat if two people came in at the same time, they would have to edge sidewaysthrough the narrow passage to the adjoining conference room, used for author-ity meetings. There was a dirt walkway to the door. The trailer was powered by a gas gen-erator which held enough power for four hours at a time. Each morning, on hisway into work, Buckley stopped at the B. M. Williams fire station to load upon gas before coming to the trailer. Buckley often had to take a broom handleand bust through the water that had frozen in the toilet. “It was living in prim-itive conditions,” McLees said in an interview. Buckley’s office was on the otherside of the trailer and housed a desk and a large drafting table. The days were busy and long, running from 8 a.m. until midnight or later.On most days, McLees would arrive and find that Buckley had already beenthere, started the generator and gone. He always knew he had to return by 11a.m. with another tank of gas. “I would absolutely say Mr. Buckley set the stagefor me to say a workday doesn’t have a time frame,” McLees said. “It doesn’t.It’s what you need to do to get the job done.” The longest days were those when the hospital authority met, which wasas often as once a week. The meetings stretched at times until 1 a.m., as themembers debated details of the hospital, such as the color of the bricks orwhether to have fluorescent lights in the parking lot. One meeting went so late,the parents of Vista Cotten, who had been appointed to the authority, had apolice officer stop by to make sure everything was all right. “You had a lot of opinions being voiced,” Mrs. McLees said of the meet-ings. “This was ‘our hospital.’ It had been a long time coming. What you had

44

fund raising. After all, we’re all working to building Chesapeake.” A weeklong push to raise money was launched on May 18, 1973, with a“Cornerstone Banquet” held at the Moose Lodge on George WashingtonHighway. Tickets to the banquet cost $6 and those attending could sign abooklet that would be placed in the cornerstone of the building. Also plannedfor that week was a benefit square dance at the Great Bridge Shopping Centerwith music by the Broken Spokes. Clubs from the area high schools held peprallies, and a rock concert was held at the South Norfolk Drive-In Theater.

The goal of the residential cam-paign was to raise $60,000. The vol-unteers would double that amount.

In a letter to a local newspaper,Vista Cotten, co-chairman of theresidential fund drive, thanked thevolunteers for their efforts. “Afterworking with so many of you dur-ing this campaign,” she wrote, “Ifeel that the signs at the entrances ofour city reflect our true spirit as‘Virginia’s Finest City.’ I noted withinterest the young lady that stoppedby my home to solicit for the hospi-

tal. It was a rather warm day and she had two children with her. She was car-rying one and pushing the other in a carriage. I knew that she must have hada great number of things she could be doing at home and I mentioned this toher. She replied, ‘I believe in this hospital.” The residents of Chesapeake, along with local businesses and other organ-izations, raised more than $1.24 million by the time the hospital opened.Outdoor cookouts, bazaars, raffles, walkathons and garage sales were held onbehalf of the hospital, the police and fire departments played tackle football,while Rotarians scheduled a ball. A selling feature, according to The Virginian-Pilot, was the ability of an individual or group to secure a plaque of dedicationfor a certain area. “I have been in the area for 35 years and I have never seen its people asunited behind any cause as they were to build this hospital,” said E.W.Chittum, chairman of the drive at the time. “I think our drive captured asmuch grass-roots support as any ever conducted in the Tidewater area. And,every community in the city contributed.” It truly was the city’s hospital.

Dorothea Wadsworth (far right) plotsthe citywide residential fund-raisingcampaign.

47

A Hospital That Can Stand on Its Own Two Feet

In July 1973, in a ceremony attended by city officials and members of theauthority, the first of 584 pilings were pounded into the hospital site. Donna

McLees, Buckley’s assistant, sat in her chair observing the festivities and listen-ing to the words of the speakers. She looked up at what seemed to be a figure

moving along the treesthat lined the construc-tion site. It was Dr.Jennings. He was late tothe ceremony. It had beenan unusually rainy sum-mer so far, and as hewalked across the field,his feet sank deep intothe mud.

McLees smiled to her-self. Somehow, on thisafternoon, with its breezywind and threatening sky,everything seemed justright.

As it stood at the time,the hospital was plannedat 106 beds, 100 of themreserved as medical orsurgical beds and six forthe ICU. The beds wereall private; each room wasestimated at 190 squarefeet including the bath -room. The Emer gencyRoom was slated to havefive treatment areas. Thebuilding itself was shapedas an “H” with east andwest wings connected bythe elevator shafts. The

46

was the name of the hospital carrying the name of the actual town. There wasa lot of allegiance to that particular hospital.” In February 1973, Buckley sent a memo to City Manager Curling outlin-ing the timetable for the 106-bed hospital. The authority had just wonapproval from the agency administering the Hill-Burton money and was readyto advertise for construction bids. One month later, on March 22, 1973, the hospital authority accepted thebid from Leon H. Perlin and Company of Newport News to build the hospi-tal. Construction broke ground in April, one month before the deadline set bythe Hill-Burton grant. On June 18, 1973, Drs. James Crosby and Gad Brosch appeared before theauthority to talk about the creation of a Chesapeake Medical Society to serveas a nucleus for bringing new physicians to the city. Brosch, an obstetrician,urged the authority to add a maternity ward to the plans, pointing out that itis through giving birth that most young couples have their first experience witha hospital and usually establish ties with that facility. His words echoed whatthe administrator already knew, but was unable to do anything about. The statewas not going to allow Chesapeake General to build maternity beds. That fightwould come another day. The doctors were raising an issue that many in the city had feared wouldbe the Achilles Heel of the new hospital. If you build it, will the doctors come?Already, Buckley had surveyed area physicians to see if they would be interest-ed in moving or expanding their practices. The results were that 67 doctors saidthey were interested, with 40 of them projecting hospital admissions greaterthan 240 a week. Dr. Bernard Miller was one of those doctors. Miller had practiced internalmedicine in Norfolk since 1960, when he’d moved into the Medical Tower nextto Norfolk General. He saw patients at Leigh Memorial and often referredpatients from Chesapeake. At the time, he said, “Chesapeake was a medicalbackwater.” Still, Miller was open to a change when he was contacted byBuckley about possibly moving his office. By the early 1970s, he had run outof room in his offices. The demands of the new medical school were beginningto take their toll. All of it combined to “make me interested to move toChesapeake.” He would become the first president of the medical staff. “It did-n’t take long before the notion took off that this was a good place to practice,”Miller said in a recent interview. “It was virgin territory for patients. With asmall hospital, there was a feeling you had some say in what was going on.”

At the conclusion of the groundbreaking cere-monies, Donald Buckley (left), hospital adminis-trator, and Dr. W. Stanley Jennings Jr., chair-man of the hospital authority, put the trailer toimmediate use, with a conference.

49

All These Disagreements Made Us Have a Great Hospital

By January 1974, the construction was behind schedule due to heavy rain.Already the due date for the hospital had slipped to 1975. There were

problems on the site. The Clerk of the Works, the authority’s representative onthe site, was having trouble with a handful of contractors. One of the contrac-tors chased him across the site with a tree limb. He quit the next day. That was when Carl Hayes, retired director of safety for the military, washired. Hayes, a man fierce of personality, soon became known for his whitehard hat with his name written across it in large letters. “They had to knowwho I was and what I did,” he said in a recent interview. “I didn’t make anybones about it. They all knew I was in charge of the construction and that ithad to be done right.” Each morning, Hayes arrived at the site and went intohis trailer, positioned adjacent to Buckley’s. Usually, Buckley was already there.Hayes would meet with him every morning before walking to the site andinspecting the work. He was there 14 hours a day, climbing ladders and taking

48

entire fourth floor as well as a portion of the third floor would be shelled, only.What this meant was that these areas would have walls and a roof but wouldbe left unfinished until such a time as they were needed for expansion. Such a time was now. On Oct. 30, 1973, Buckley, appearing before the city council, explainedthat the authority had approached the state health department for permissionto complete the west wing of the third floor. The addition would add 34 beds,bringing the hospital’s total to 140 on opening day. Buckley said he hoped tohear from state officials by the end of the year. “The hospital authority hasmade a decision to proceed in trying to obtain approval for these beds for sev-eral reasons,” he told the council. “We all know the tremendous rate at whichthe city of Chesapeake is growing, both residentially and industrially. We alsorealize that many of the people presently employed in our city and adjacentcities reside in contiguous North Carolina counties and they, too, will be uti-lizing our hospital.” Buckley warned that obtaining a certificate of need for the area hospitalswas becoming more difficult because of the competition. “This is not to saythat hospitals are bed hungry, but it is a very basic fact in hospital economicsthat the range of services which a hospital can provide is directly dependent onthe number of beds which a hospital has,” he said. “That is why it is so impor-tant that Chesapeake General Hospital not be stymied in growth and end upas a 100-bed hospital and, as a result, have people begin to feel it is incapableof providing the degree of medical and hospital care which I am sure you andI desire for it to deliver. If we are to open 140 beds and within a short timeexpand, this previously described image will never exist. Obviously, we will notbe a medical center at which organ transplants and highly sophisticated med-ical center procedures are performed, but we will be an area hospital which cancertainly stand on its own two feet.” One month later, state health officials gave Buckley and the authority per-mission to add 35 beds, one more than they requested, bringing the total to 141.

51

One Step Closer to Reality

A t times, it seemed as though it would never open. In April 1974, a con-troversy erupted over the selection of the type of elevator. The general

contractor, Perlin, opted for a type of elevator known as Dover. The architects,Waller and Sadler, did not want to use those elevators and said the builder hadviolated the specifics of the contract. A war of words ensued. The architects saidDover would not be allowed by the Department of Health, Education andWelfare, who had to approve all details of the building. The builder contactedthe Philadelphia office of the HEW and was told Dover would be fine. Thearchitects would not budge and said the Dover elevator did not meet the build-ing design constraints. They insisted that the builder use Otis, which generallycarried a higher pricetag. Neither side would back down and the issue lookedlike it was headed to court. The builders saidthey would put in the Otis elevators butwould sue the architects in court to pay forthe difference in costs. In the end, a thirdoption, Westinghouse was chosen. “To this day, whenever I get in an elevator,I look at the name to check,” said Buckley. There were other holdups. During theconstruction, at various times series of workmen went on strike across the area.In the fall of 1974, it was the plumbers. A year later, the plasterers, operatingengineers and iron workers, all threatened to strike. This coupled with rain, ashortage of white concrete and a dispute over the type of paint to be used inthe hospital’s hallways contributed to what would become a year-long delay inthe long-awaited opening. In November 1974, Hayes estimated the project was180 days behind schedule. In January, he told the authority there was no waythe hospital would be operational before November 1975. Hayes had metrepeatedly with Perlin and said he believed the company was trying hard to fin-ish. “After these meetings, Mr. Hayes stated that he felt an extra effort to expe-dite the project was being put forth,” stated the minutes of the January 29authority meeting. “He noted the fact that crews were being doubled.” Throughout these fits and starts in the construction, a general unease fil-tered through the members of the hospital authority. Each day brought themone step closer to their reality. But each day seemed to bring another problem.To some, there was a general sense of doom that someone was trying to sabo-tage their efforts. Vista Cotten knew whom to blame. She looked no further

50

photographs. At the end of the day, he’d complete a daily report and give it toBuckley. “I was there everyday and they knew I was there,” Hayes said. “Thepressure was to get it finished so that it could be used. I knew what everyonewas planning to do. My commitment was to get it finished properly and thenturn it over to the authority.” Part of Hayes’ job was to attend the authority meetings, which were grow-ing in acrimony as time went on and issues cropped up about the construction.Or even when choices had to be made regarding furniture, the paint color ofwalls or even the color of the volunteer’s uniforms. “We’d get to arguing aboutthe type of furnishings at the hospital,” recalled Walter Broadnax, a member ofthe authority. “We didn’t make any hasty decisions, not with a board like that.” Vista Cotten remembered one meeting when a verbal fight erupted andtwo of the members did not speak for three weeks. There was a division, shesaid, between the younger and older members. Much of the infighting, shesaid, was due to their inexperience. No one had done this before. “We alladmitted in the end we had made mistakes, but the crucial thing is we learnedfrom them,” she said. “I think all of us could have killed each other at onetime.” Cotten recalled a meeting where one member threatened to “punch thelights out” of a colleague if he said another word. She went under the table tothe other side of the room. “It was the little things,” she said in an interview.“The big issues were taken care of. All these disagreements made us have a greathospital.”

To some, there was a

general sense of doom,

that someone was trying

to sabotage their efforts.

53

It Was All Done for That Reason

The opening of Chesapeake General Hospital was set for January 26, 1976.Newspapers heralded the day: “Sunday – whatever the weather – will be

a dazzling day for Chesapeake; it will mark a dream turning into a reality,”wrote reporter Lloyd Lewis in The Chesapeake Post. “Chesapeake, awaken to anew day. Sunday’s glittering opening will be an event long remembered. Withmore than good reason.” Still, there was much to be done. On January 22, four days before theopening and three days before a planned dedication ceremony, Buckley report-ed yet another problem had come up – this one regarding the color of uniformsfor the hospital volunteers. A light blue color had been chosen in September1975, but members of the hospital auxiliary wanted pink. Buckley wantedblue. He wanted Chesapeake General to be different. During the meeting, hetold the authority members that the director of nursing and the director of vol-unteers both had signed off on the blue. The uniform company already hadstocked the selection. The volunteers had been told what to wear. Simply put,it was too late. Jennings suggested the volunteers wear blue tops and pink bot-toms. The idea didn’t catch on. In a 5-4 vote, the authority agreed to letBuckley choose the color. Sunday dawned cold and cloudy, still 400 Chesapeake residents attendedthe formal dedication of the new hospital, huddling together in chairs as theylistened to the speakers laud the work of the city. Each member of the author-ity was there, so was the Mayor Marion Whitehurst and members of the statedelegation. The guest speaker was U.S. Rep. Bob Daniel. Stuart Ogren, execu-tive director of the Virginia Hospital Association, also was there to commendthe new facility, which was scheduled to open the next day. The press coverage was fawning. In the January 26 edition of the VirginianPilot-Ledger Star, a special pull-out section celebrated the hospital’s opening.Along with advertisements from doctors, realtors and business owners inChesapeake, was the message: “Congratulations to the people of Chesapeake –YOU MADE IT HAPPEN!” and, “At last you’re here . . . We’re so proud to haveyou in our great city at long last! May we take this opportunity to extend con-gratulations on your new facilities, Chesapeake General Hospital.” The Chesapeake Post, which had openly supported the effort to secure ahospital, waxed poetic about the big day: “Standing amid a grove of trees offBattlefield Boulevard just north of Great Bridge, the new Chesapeake GeneralHospital appears out of place. It would almost seem it sprung up like a magic

52

than the members of the Norfolk medical community. Cotten, an insurancedealer, played golf frequently with local doctors and discussed the new hospi-tal. She says she learned of efforts by a few associated with Norfolk Generalwho were trying to block physicians from practicing in Chesapeake. “You haveto remember, we pulled ourselves up by our bootstraps,” Cotten said. “We didn’tunderstand the medical politics of the time. Norfolk was trying to paint us assomeone they would absorb down the road. That put us in the position of not

attracting the top doctor groups. Everybody was waitingon everyone else to make a first move . . . A lot of citycouncil people were being lobbied by Norfolk. Norfolkwanted to capture the market. We all knew this hospitalwould be the vanguard of making Chesapeake what it istoday. We knew we needed a hospital. We just didn’thave the physicians. There were veiled threats – ‘Hey,you go to Chesapeake, you won’t get any referrals.’ Wedid not want to be dictated to. We knew our city wasgoing to grow. We had a commodity no one else had.We had land.”

Was Cotten paranoid? Or, was there an effort to, if not block ChesapeakeGeneral, at least make it more difficult to build? In July 1975, less than six months before the doors would open, Buckleytold the authority that he had been in negotiations with Virginia NationalBank to loan the authority $530,000 for new equipment and to extend a$500,000 line of credit to the hospital to cover the initial operating expenses.Two months later, the loan applications were denied. The reasons given werethat the authority already had outstanding loans and “there was also some con-cern addressed as to the assurance of continued support by the city ofChesapeake for the project.” The vague reference was unexplained. To theauthority members, it was a slap in the face and they didn’t have to look far orhard for a reason. On the board of VNB, they said, sat members of the Norfolkmedical community. They took their business elsewhere, scrambling toChesapeake banks.

There were

veiled threats –

‘Hey you go to

Chesapeake,

you won’t get

any referrals.’

55

Any Doctor to the ER! Stat!

The hospital wasn’t ready for business that afternoon; it wasn’t scheduled toopen until the next morning. Following the dedication, however, groups

of visitors took tours of the new facility. That day, the visitors taking the tour would have seen that the first floorhoused administrative offices, admissions, the business office, a small cafeteria,a gift shop and a tiny lobby. Also on the first floor was the 24-hour emergencyroom, along with operating suites, pathology labs, physical therapy rooms andthe radiology department. The second floor held the critical care unit, medical-surgical patient units and patient lounges. On the third floor were more patientbeds and lounges, though these beds were among those not quite ready byopening day. The third floor was not to open until early spring, but Buckley assured thecitizens the hospital would offer all its normal services with a limited numberof available beds. Kathie Edmonds, a nurse in the emergency room, was at the hospital whena tour was walking through the new ER. Suddenly, a man attending the cere-mony, stumbled against the door, his hand clutching his chest. He fell to thefloor. Edmonds first reaction was to ask, “Is this a joke?” It wasn’t. Secondslater, she broadcast a message across the hospital. “We had to find a doctor inthe hospital,” she said in an interview. “ ‘Any doctor to the ER. Stat!’ ” Crosby,one of the original members of the medical society, ran into the ER. The manwas stabilized and rushed by ambulance into Norfolk. The following morning, Chesapeake General Hospital opened its doors.This time for real. Only 72 of the 141 beds were ready for patient use when the hospitalopened. The remainder were to be phased in by the spring. On Monday, January 26, there were 27 admissions. On Wednesday, doc-tors treated 56 patients in the ER. All but one bed in the critical care unit wasused. All available beds on the floor were filled. In a meeting with the hospital authority, Buckley reported that an addi-tional 17 beds would be opened February 12, and that a dozen of those wouldbe dedicated to surgical cases. In the first three and one-half days of operation,the hospital had 105 patients in radiology and 168 procedures performed inthe X-ray department. In the first week, 85 percent of the beds were filled. Two weeks after the hospital opened, Buckley told the authority he hadpassed the decision regarding the color of uniforms over to the auxiliary. The

54

mushroom amid the splendor of the forest. But Chesapeake citizens who passedby the site daily and contributed their time and money, know otherwise.” Walter Broadnax was among those attending the ceremony. He filled withpride, as the dignitaries, one by one, praised the hospital authority. “I had a lit-tle something to do with the caring of patients in that hospital,” he thought ashe looked at the shining, new building. “It was all done for that reason.”

57

expansion ought to be opposed. But to frustrate Chesapeake’s plan becausemore doctors may move to areas where the people are is no cure for our region-al or our medical problems.” The controversy quickly ended in July 1977 when the state informedmembers of the Chesapeake Hospital Authority that it had approved the cer-tificate of need for the added beds and services. In August 1978, constructionbegan on the first portion of a three-phase expansion that would boost thenumber of beds to 210 and establish a critical care unit , housing eight inten-sive care beds and six cardiac care beds. “The growth of the hospital benefitsthe citizen through a totally improved health care system, serving patients innursing homes and as outpatients,” Buckley told reporters at the time. He wenton to say that the new hospital continued to attract more physicians to the area. In1972, only 18 physicians had offices in Chesapeake. By 1979, more than 70 did.

56

Auxiliary chose pink. By March 18, 107 beds were available for use by the hospital and the occu-pancy rate to date averaged 91 percent. The average hospital stay was eightdays. The occupancy statistics, Buckley contended, proved the need and recep-tiveness of the hospital in Chesapeake. In fact, it wasn’t until April, during the Easter holiday weekend, that thenew hospital’s occupancy rate dropped to below 90 percent for the first timesince the facility opened. At this time 124 beds were available. Buckley had

hoped to open an additional 17beds by March 28, but, due to alack of nursing personnel, thisgoal seemed doubtful. It wasdecided that the final 17-bed sec-tion would open when it wasdetermined there was a need andwhen a nursing staff could berecruited to man it.

It wouldn’t take long. Withoccupancy rates holding at 90 per-cent, the Chesapeake HospitalAuthority began looking toexpand, this time asking the statefor permission to increase the

number of beds from 141 to 210, and to triple its support service space. Theopposition was immediate and vocal. Portsmouth Vice Mayor Robert Wentzspoke out against the approval of more beds, decrying the move as an attemptby the medical community to follow the “white flight” from the inner citiesinto the suburbs. Allowing Chesapeake to expand would rob the urban hospi-tals such as Maryview and Portsmouth General of needed health care dollars.An editorial in The Virginian-Pilot questioned Wentz’ claims, arguing that thegrowth in Chesapeake was not the result of such a flight. “The point is an inter-esting one, although it probably is based on an erroneous assumption,” the edi-torial stated. “A population gain such as Chesapeake’s mainly reflects normalgrowth and not a ‘flight’ from anything. Further, what is wrong with develop-ing health care close to people? There’s no question that land-rich, suburbanChesapeake is attracting new people at a fast pace. For a community coveringsome 300-squre miles and containing some 100,000 people it might be argued,Chesapeake was quite late in getting a hospital within its boundaries in the firstplace. If the added beds would glut the Tidewater hospital bed market then the

With occupancy rates holding

at 90 percent, the Chesapeake

Hospital Authority began looking

to expand, this time asking the

state for permission to increase

the number of beds from 141

to 210, and to triple its support

service space. The opposition was

immediate and vocal.

59

Chesapeake is entitled only to the leftovers,” Buckley said in the June 2, 1982edition of The Chesapeake Post. “We saw it when we were trying to open thehospital and we saw it more recently when we were working to get our certifi-cate of need for expansion. Sentiment goes we should sit back and wait to seewhat Norfolk wants to do, and if anything is left over, we get it on the secondround.” On July 9, Kenley turned down the applications from both ChesapeakeGeneral and Leigh Memorial. Instead, he approved renovation of the birthingunit at Norfolk General, reversing the recommendations of the advisory panel.Kenley stated that adding new obstetrics units would “have a negative impact”on the birth centers already in operation without providing a “demonstrativeimprovement” in either the quality or accessibility of services. It was not the first time the authority had been turned down by the state.It was not the first time they decided to fight. Quickly, they filed an appeal withKenley’s office, calling on then-Gov. CharlesRobb to help. In an interview with local re -porters, Buckley said he was “disappointed andpuzzled.” Each year, he said, about 2,000 womenliving in Chesapeake give birth and they have toleave their city to do so. “What (Kenley) is sayingto the people of Chesapeake is that we don’t rec-ognize you as having a need for total health care,”Buckley said. “Again, Chesapeake is being ig -nored and is not being recognized as a city. Thepeople here should be concerned about this.” An editorial writer for The Chesapeake Postdescribed the state’s decision as an example of “Lunar Logic.” He wrote on July14, “Don Buckley suggests that politics could have had something to do withthe decision and that could be the case. The only other factor we can think ofthat might have caused this week’s sterling show of thought would be lastweek’s lunar eclipse. Apparently, the moon was not the only thing last week thatdidn’t see the light.” The appeal, filed the Monday after the Friday decision, would be reviewedby the health department. It would wind its way through hearings in front ofan independent authority before landing in circuit court. The battle lines were drawn. But the hospital faced other challenges, too.Complicating matters was a downturn in health care dollars and overallchanges in the industry as a whole. Chesapeake General, while pushing toexpand, faced a bleak financial picture. On October 26, 1982, Buckley recom-

58

The Pack Follows the Lead Horse

Within a few days, however, the giant health care provider, Blue Cross ofVirginia, filed suit to block the expansion, fearing it would cause a spike

in health care claims. Appearing before the authority, attorney Robert Wintersurged the members to allow him to file papers immediately challenging theBlue Cross suit. The lawsuit was heard by a judge outside of Richmond beforeit was dismissed. The ruling strengthened the power of the state’s certificate ofneed laws by suggesting that Blue Cross acted outside of the law and, therefore,its court suit had no standing. It was not the last fight Chesapeake General would face. In 1981, even asthe hospital readied to open its new renovations, the authority set its sights onthe single aspect of health care that it, so far, had been blocked from pursuing:obstetrics – the very specialty that physicians had sought before the hospitalwas built. On October 22, 1981, the hospital authority voted to pursue the additionof a 25-bed maternity ward. The ward would include 25 post-partum beds, andfive labor and delivery rooms, along with two surgical suites for caesarian sec-tions. The nursery would hold 30 bassinets. The cost of construction was esti-mated at $3.8 million. It would take three years to build – if the state grantedthe approval. Chesapeake General learned quickly what a big “If ” that was.Within a month of the state application, Leigh Memorial, too, indicated itwould submit a bid to add obstetrical services. Both hospitals argued thatgrowth in the area necessitated an increased, allotment of maternity beds. At ahearing before state and regional health officials, Judi Leader of Chesapeaketold the panel her daughter had been born in the front seat of her car, sittingoutside DePaul Hospital on Granby Street. A resident of Chesapeake, shecouldn’t make it to the hospital in time. “If we had had these services atChesapeake General, I know I would have had my baby in a hospital,” Leadersaid. The Chesapeake General bid for OB seemed to be on its way. The projectwon early and unanimous approval by the review committee of the state’shealth department. The issue was passed onto the actual council in charge ofmaking recommendations for certificates of need. In a 7-2 vote on June 15,1982, the council voted to approve Chesapeake General’s request. The recom-mendation had only to go before Dr. James B. Kenley, the state health commis-sioner, who would take final action on July 9, 1982. Buckley warned residentsnot to count on the approval. “There is a sentiment in this area that

“What (Kenley) is

saying to the people

of Chesapeake is that

we don’t recognize

you as having a need

for total health care.”

– DONALD BUCKLEY

61

in front of the building, counting down the months until it was opened.Anything to put pressure on the state. On July 7, 1983, in an attempt to avoid a court battle, Chesapeake Generalstruck a deal with state officials regarding obstetrics services. The hospital hadasked for permission to build 25 beds and 30 bassinets, bringing its overall bedtotal to 235 beds. As a result of the compromise, the hospital instead wouldmaintain its 210-bed level by adding only 20 OB beds and closing eight of themedical/surgical beds. It was a victory. Although it wouldn’t open for threemore years, the maternity ward would grow to the busiest in the region, deliv-ering its 50,000th baby in 2004. The year 1982 marked another critical shift in the role of ChesapeakeGeneral. On May 15, the hospital hosted its first “Wellness Day,” a daylong fairdesigned to teach the benefits of a healthy lifestyle. The fair, held on May 15of that year, represented the hospital’s push into the area of wellness, which waslargely unheard of at the time. This push resulted in the development oflifestyle centers where residents from Chesapeake could take aerobics classesand pick up information on how to stay healthy. In 1983, after working in hospitals on the Eastern Shore, in rural NorthCarolina and, most recently, DePaul Hospital in Norfolk, Dr. Francis Watsonstrode through the doors of the newly renovated emergency room atChesapeake General, eager to join a group of four doctors who together wouldman the 24-hour operation. It was a chanceto start a business from the ground floor, tobuild a practice as the still-young hospitalbuilt its reputation. There were 10 beds inthe emergency department at the time. Thedoctors split the days into two, 12-hourshifts. A room was set aside with a bed in itfor the doctors to take a break during a lull inthe overnight traffic. In Watson’s first year, the ER saw morethan 24,000 patients. “It was clear Ches -apeake was taking off,” Watson said. “From amedical business standpoint, it was a great location. Your patients were good.You were in a community. You were taking care of families.” It would not take long for the emergency room to grow into the busiest inSouth Hampton Roads. The call room where doctors could catch a quick napwas closed. The stories from the ER grew as well. There was the night the ER doctor

60

mended that a cost of living increase slated for employees be erased for the year.He also recommended that the authority close one nursing unit startingNovember 19 because of the anticipated low census during the holiday season.In addition, all staff members would be asked to voluntarily forego their hoursby eight to 16 hours per pay period. Of the 648 full-time employees, 430 elect-

ed to reduce their hours, saving the hospitalabout 7 percent in salary payments.“Everybody pulled together and did it,” saidPat Morhusen, who was head of the medicalstaff office. “Everybody knew that in orderto survive we had to make drastic cuts.”

Throughout this period, Buckley insist-ed that Chesapeake General look forward. Health care was changing.Chesapeake General had to change, too. Morhusen, who began as an assistantto Buckley, gradually took on the role as head of the medical staff department,overseeing the hospital’s doctors. In an interview, Morhusen said the early1980s marked massive changes in the industry, especially when it came tobilling for services. Universal coding was becoming a norm, meaning that mostphysicians had to come up to speed on what insurance carriers were paying.“Physicians weren’t used to being scrutinized,” said Morhusen. “It was thebreaking point for managed care. Don, at this point, was such an advocate forphysicians. He kept them on the cutting edge of what was happening in theindustry. He kept himself current. He had foresight. He knew what was com-ing in the future. At the same time, he was trying to get market share. He wasstrategically buying settings. ‘Look, I’m bringing the patients here, getting thatmarket share and then feeding the patients back to the specialists.’ If the doc-tors weren’t bringing in the market share, we had to.” As part of that philosophy, Buckley, in that same year, pushed for the hos-pital to look into purchasing two primary care centers in an attempt to boostits patient base. The centers were located in Deep Creek and Kempsville. Thedecision to move into these areas marked the first time the hospital looked toestablish its network elsewhere, hoping to draw in more patients with its net.The effort would eventually take Chesapeake General into the Outer Banksregion as well. “The whole idea was to make a presence in the market whereVirginia Beach was and take them and funnel them into Chesapeake,”Morhusen said. “We wanted to go there and show them Chesapeake is a goodhospital. That would feed our specialists.” Later that year, Morhusen, angered by the refusal of the state to grant a cer-tificate of need for a maternity ward, suggested the hospital place a giant stork

“Everybody knew that in

order to survive we had

to make drastic cuts.”

– PAT MORHUSEN

This push resulted in the

development of lifestyle

centers where residents

from Chesapeake could

take aerobics classes and

pick up information on

how to stay healthy.

63

were appointed by a city council filled with politicians looking for steppingstones to other careers. “I used to beg Don, and Don to his credit almost to afault, would not compromise in any way,” said Linwood Nelms, a member ofthe authority during the 1980s. “He would say, ‘I’m running a hospital. I’m notrunning a community institution.’ He wasworking like 15 hours a day. He didn’t havetime to go to the barbecues and the fish fries.He would say, ‘I don’t want to do that.’ I’dsay, ‘When you live in Rome, you have tolive with the Romans.’” Buckley’s style angered at least onemember of the authority, Dr. James Crosby,a general practitioner. Crosby, perhaps wor-ried by what seemed to be acrimonybetween the hospital authority and theChesapeake City Council, recommended that the two bodies meet every sixmonths on a business and social basis for an exchange of information. The rec-ommendation failed by a vote of 8-2. Crosby did not give up. In August, theauthority appointed an ad hoc committee to study Crosby’s 19 recommenda-tions for changes to the authority. Included in his plans were to have the con-tracts of all members of the administration made available to the authoritymembers. This was defeated because, according to the authority’s bylaws, onlythe administrator has a contract with the authority. Crosby also wanted to haveall of the meetings recorded on cassette tapes via three microphones. The sec-retary of the authority then would compare both the tapes with the writtenminutes for omissions. This was defeated in a 3-2 vote. Finally, Crosby suggest-ed a 5 percent reduction in all of the hospital’s administrative and supervisorysalaries in view of the reduction of hospital staff and decreased bed utilization.This, too, was defeated in a 3 to 2 vote. It was about this time that Dr. Juan Montero, a general surgeon, droppedby the office with a present for Buckley. It was a plaque with words written inLatin scrawled across it. Buckley looked at it but did not know what the wordsmeant. Leaning in, Montero whispered, “Don’t Let Them Get You Down.”The plaque hung in Buckley’s office. No one ever knew.

62

on duty suffered a stroke in the middle of the shift. Nurses had to scramble tofind another doctor to treat him. There was the day a giant Coast Guard heli-copter landed on the pad outside while transporting a patient. The wind forcefrom the propeller blew out the windows of all the cars parked nearby. Within a year or two of arriving at Chesapeake General, Watson wasnamed medical director for the city’s rescue squads. At the time, the squad hadone trained cardiac technician. Firemen who were given basic life support train-ing were called on to respond to emergencies. In one week alone, these firemenbrought in two dead patients to the ER. They didn’t know they were dead,Watson said. Clearly, the training was not enough. Watson took the issue to thecity council and won approval for the city to hire a staff of cardiac technicians.“We all have just kind of grown,” Watson said. Chesapeake General was making its mark. By this time, Buckley hadearned a reputation as a strong-willed administrator, a man who was autocrat-ic at times. At the weekly administrative meetings, Buckley would preside inthe conference room for three hours as lines of department heads and otheremployees would line up to make their reports. “When people came out, they’d

be totally drained,” Morhusen said. “He livedand breathed that hospital early on. He madeyou work harder because you couldn’t keep upwith him. They say the pack follows the leadhorse. He set the example and the employeeslived by it. Either you picked up and stayedwith him or you were out.”

Every Saturday and Sunday, Buckley walkedthrough the halls of the hospital, as if he were adoctor making rounds. Often, he broughtcookies to the nurses on weekend duty. It wasimportant to have a presence, he would say.

At times, Buckley’s style of leadershipsparked controversy. To make matters worse,Chesapeake was no longer a sleepy, rural town.

The city attracted the attention of local newspaper reporters who began scruti-nizing the moves of the public officials. When the malfeasance of a former citydevelopment director earned one of the local reporters a Pulitzer Prize,Chesapeake emerged as a favorite topic for journalists. Much of their attentionfocused on Buckley, who had made his distaste for press coverage well known.Part of the problem stemmed from the nature of the hospital. Buckley wantedto run it like a business, but it had a public foundation. Its authority members

There was the day a

giant Coast Guard

helicopter landed on

the pad outside while

transporting a patient.

The wind force from

the propeller blew out

the windows of all the

cars parked nearby.

Part of the problem

stemmed from the nature

of the hospital. Buckley

wanted to run it like a

business, but it had a

public foundation.

65

tion of the job as understandable as possible; personnel would furnish toChesapeake Forward the agreed-upon report on a monthly basis; the authoritywould engage a consultant to review its employment practices to determine ifthere was any validity to the allegations of discrimination contained in thereport presented by Chesapeake Forward, and allegations other than those per-taining to employment discrimination would be referred to legal counsel todetermine the legality of the authority’s actions. The following spring, on May 21, 1986, John Davis, a Washington, D.C.attorney, presented his report on the Chesapeake Forward allegations. “Theoverall EEO profile of the hospital is good,” he said in his report, stating thatnone of the reports he studied indicated discriminatory policies or practices. Later that year, Buckley was named Citizen of the Year in Chesapeake. Ina letter nominating Buckley for the honor, Rear Adm. Joseph L. Yon, who hadserved as chairman of the authority, wrote that Buckley was responsible for thegrowth that had led Chesapeake General to the forefront of health care inHampton Roads. “Don Buckley in every way represents the best of citizen-ship,” Yon wrote. “I have known him for 15 years and as chairman of theChesapeake Hospital Authority for six years, worked very closely with him. Heis a gentleman in every respect, a leader in the community and a tremendousasset to our city.”

64

The Changing Face of Healthcare

By 1985, Chesapeake General had continued to grow. In January of thatyear, Buckley announced the staff was reviewing a possible affiliation with

the Children’s Hospital of The King’s Daughters to coordinate pediatrics. Inaddition, plans were under way for a medical office building, proposed as athree-story office tower with 28,000 square feet of space. As part of the changing face of healthcare, many hospitals at the time wereforming networks to share information and purchasing power. Buckley reported

on a proposal from SunHealth Inc.,inviting Chesapeake General to join.Buckley advised the authority thathealth experts predicted by 1990between 1,000 and 1,500 hospitalsout of 5,000 would close. The oneswho will survive may be the oneswho link with systems or networks.Following his recommendation, the

authority unanimously approved the alignment.It was also during this time that Chesapeake General was accused of racial

discrimination in its hiring practices. In early 1985, Buckley presented theauthority with a letter from Willie Cooper, president of Chesapeake Forward,a citywide organization with 900 members, requesting information on theracial composition of the hospital’s work force. Buckley told authority mem-bers that he and the director of personnel had previously met with Cooper for90 minutes. The authority members agreed to give Cooper the information hewanted but to make sure he was billed for the cost of the copying. On April 30, 1985, Cooper appeared at the authority meeting. During his10-minute presentation he accused the hospital of having “an atmosphere ofsecrecy in the management of the hospital and a lack of black employment.”Tension filled the board room. A reporter from The Virginian-Pilot newspaperwas there. The next morning a headline on the front page blasted the hospitalfor alleged racial discrimination. In response to Cooper’s allegations, theauthority offered the following to ensure equal hiring practices: Advertisementsappearing in newspapers for recruitment of hospital employees would also runin the Journal and Guide, a minority owned publication in Norfolk; recruit-ment efforts would continue at Norfolk State and Hampton universities; thehospital would continue to post job openings and attempt to make the descrip-

“Don Buckley . . . is a

gentleman in every respect, a

leader in the community and

a tremendous asset to our city.”

– REAR ADM. JOSEPH L. YON

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troversy, detailing the reasons for such an affiliation in numerous articles in thelocal newspapers. His words fell on deaf ears, however, as rumors circulatedthat the administrator had been offered a lucrative job within Sentara. Word of the merger talks sparked widespread concern from health officialsthroughout the region. In an interview with reporters from The ChesapeakePost, Douglas Johnson, president and CEO of Tidewater Health Care, whichincluded Virginia Beach General Hospital and Portsmouth General Hospital,said he was “floored” by the news. He expressed dismay that Sentara wouldgobble up another portion of the local health care market and said Chesapeakewould be trading its “freedom for money.” Johnson also warned that such amerger would be unhealthy for the local area and could lead to a rise in healthcare costs. Authority members at the time tried to defend the merger talks as the log-ical next step for a young hospital that had already undergone several keyexpansions. “What we’re saying to the citizens is: “We’re solvent. We’re solid.We’re on good ground now,” said authority member Donald Taylor in TheVirginian-Pilot. “But we have to look at this in order to maintain our goodness,expand our service area and keep up with the technology. Chesapeake Generalwill remain identifiable as ChesapeakeGeneral. We haven’t sold it out.” The words did little to stem the contro-versy. Before long, the same residents whoheld bake sales and attended dance contestsin the 1970s to raise money for ChesapeakeGeneral formed a new campaign, “Friends ofChesapeake General,” determined to defeatBuckley and the authority’s plan. At thehelm was former authority member VistaCotten. “The green eyes of envy have beenon Chesapeake General for a long time,”Cotten said of Sentara’s grab. “A hard-core group of people worked to establishthis hospital and they are not going to let it be sold down the tube because itseems like the thing to do.” In interviews with the local media, Buckley said he has tried “to counterclaims that Sentara and Norfolk General were, in fact, enemies.” He said thatMitchell, Sentara’s president, who was administrator of Norfolk General dur-ing the 1970s, helped Chesapeake General get off the ground by ordering hisdepartment heads to provide the fledgling hospital with whatever advice andhelp it needed. As an example, Norfolk General allowed Buckley access into its

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Friends of Chesapeake General

In the spring of 1992, Durwood Curling, former city manager for the city ofChesapeake, sat in his office at the Southeastern Public Service Authority in

the Koger Center off Kempsville Road. He was scheduled to meet with execu-tives from Sentara to discuss a proposed “affiliation” with Chesapeake GeneralHospital. Curling had served as a member of the Sentara board for years. Heknew the men wanted to pick his brain on how they could sell the idea. You can’t, Curling would tell them at the end of their 20-minute presenta-tion. There’s no way you can sell it. “You’re going to create a firestorm,” he said. One week later, Curling sat in the living room of his Great Bridge home.It was about 8 p.m. when he heard the first car pull up across the street.Minutes later, he heard a second. And then a third. Uh-oh, he thought. It’s out. The cars across the street were filled with dozens of women, the very oneswho had canvassed the 353-square-mile city in 1973 to raise money to pay fora hospital. These women had gotten wind of the proposed merger with SentaraHealth Systems and were meeting at a home across the street to make theirplans. They weren’t about to let their hospital be gobbled by the monster to thenorth. The newspaper confirmed the rumors the next day. “Chesapeake Generaltalks about Sentara affiliation,” screamed the headline in The Virginian-Pilot.The story reported that, in a 7-2 vote, the authority agreed to “enter into nego-tiations for a future affiliation with Sentara.” In the story, Buckley downplayedthe talk as premature. “For two or three years, we have been talking about ourfuture, recognizing that health care is changing drastically,” Buckley was quot-ed as saying. “The question was: Could we be a stand-alone hospital or do weneed to make an affiliation?” That issue and how it would be decided would mark Chesapeake General’sfuture. With the retrenchment in health care and a new focus on cutting costsby limiting payments to caregivers, could a single hospital make it on its own? Informal discussions between Chesapeake General and Sentara had beenongoing for years, though they had become more regular in the four monthspreceding the announcement. Glenn Mitchell, then-president of Sentara, alsodownplayed use of the word merger. An affiliation could mean as little as sharingpurchasing services. Mitchell also told reporters that, given the origin ofChesapeake General and its strong ties to the community, every effort wouldbe made to maintain its autonomy. Buckley, too, tried to smooth over the con-

He expressed dismay that

Sentara would gobble up

another portion of the

local health care market

and said Chesapeake

would be trading its

“freedom for money.”

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He’s the Reason It Has Succeeded

On April 28, 1998, on a sunny and warm afternoon, hundreds of patients,doctors and dignitaries gathered on a brick patio outside of Chesapeake

General. Women wearing pastel-colored dresses and men in their coats and tieswalked under white arches and crowded into rows of chairs as the windwhipped through the small shrubs and trees that lined the hospital’s brick walls. The purpose of the ceremony was to dedicate the hospital’s three-year-oldcancer treatment center for Sidney M. Oman, the popular former mayor ofChesapeake and a survivor of advanced prostate cancer. Oman, a large manwith shocking white hair and a bright red rose on his lapel, sat quietly to theside as speaker after speaker took the podium to praise his dedication toChesapeake and the hospital. Six years had passed since the day in Dr. BernieMiller’s office when Oman learned he was sick. He underwent surgery and forseven weeks, he drove every day to DePaul Hospital in Norfolk for radiationtreatments, because Chesapeake did not offer the service. He decided that needed to change. Working with his doctor, Dr. MatthewSinesi, Oman helped push through the state bureaucracy to secure approval forthe hospital to open its own cancer treatment center. It took three years. Thecenter, predicted to serve 20 patients a day when it opened in 1995, servedmore than 60 three years later. “Sid pushed hard; he knew there was a tremen-dous need for it,” Sinesi said during the dedication ceremony. “This is a veryspecial place, now appropriately named for a very special man. Thanks, Sid.” Minutes later, Oman, a member of the hospital authority in the 1960s,tearfully thanked the doctors and the hospital, pausing several times to clear theemotions from his throat. He walked to the front of the hospital and pulled arope to unveil the large black words: Sidney M. Oman Cancer TreatmentCenter. “The citizens of Chesapeake are fortunate to have a hospital with sucha high level of dedication,” he said. “You are the finest people in the world. Ithank you for the honor.” Oman’s words signaled what many were feeling that April afternoon. Thisceremony, while lauding Oman for his work as mayor and for his work as amember of the authority, was about something much more. Only a few weekshad passed since word of the merger between Norfolk General and VirginiaBeach General hospitals rocked the health community. Chesapeake would have to go it alone. They were determined to do it well. “This center stands as a testament to the strength of the soul of Ches a -peake,” said Mayor William E. Ward, during the ceremony. “We must main-

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radiology services and central supply offices. “Why would he have done this ifhe was opposing us?” Buckley asked. Despite the words and a public relations campaign to stem the furor, thepossible deal with Sentara was dead. There was no going back. The distrust of Norfolk was greater than the ill-will brought on by the pol-itics of medicine. It stemmed back to the days of the merger when SouthNorfolk and Norfolk County grasped onto each other to try to stem the tideof annexations that had already siphoned off land and population. For 30 years,the city had tried to get out from the shadow of its larger and more powerfulneighbors. It had stubbornly insisted on standing alone. It wasn’t going to stopnow. “We knew it was going to be a firestorm,” said Linwood Nelms, a memberof the authority at the time. “That’s why we tried to do it as secretively as wecould. You had to or else you couldn’t have done it. The votes were there forinvestigating whether or not we could get closer. We started to feel the heat andthe votes started dropping off. As it became public knowledge we had to slamthe door.” Nelms said he received hundreds of phone calls in the weeks that followedthe publicity, the overwhelming majority of them negative, accusing him ofselling out. “People who have been my friends for 20 years are still mad at me.They never understood and I’m not so sure they do today. But if you take a par-ticular oath and the oath says basically you’re going to provide the best healthcare in Chesapeake, you have to listen to the best information provided you.Would I say I wanted a second-rate facility or would I say I would rather losethe brand, the name, but have the best health care available?” For the friends of Chesapeake Hospital, the answer is simple. “As long as Iam breathing, I will fight this to my dying day,” Cotten said. Six years later, in 1998, Sentara Health System announced it would mergewith Virginia Beach General Hospital, forever changing the Hampton Roadsmedical landscape and solidifying Sentara as the monopoly network. InSeptember 2005, Sentara announced it would affiliate with Obici as well. The music had stopped and Chesapeake stood alone.

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service to Chesapeake General Hospital and the Hampton Roads community.” At a gala two weeks later at the Chesapeake Conference Center, Buckleywas honored for his service at the helm of the growing hospital complex. As hestood on the dance floor of the sold-out ballroom, he thanked those who hadworked so hard to establish the city’s first hospital. Sitting together, at a round table against a wall, were Stanley Jennings andJim Leftwich, two of the original authority members who had helped launchthe campaign to land a hospital for the newly formed city. They applauded asBuckley walked off the floor. “If it comes down to single individuals, he’s the reason Chesapeake Generalhas succeeded,” Leftwich said. “It was his skill and his personality. He’s a littlebit aggressive, which is necessary. He also didn’t con you. He has no frills. Heis and was impressive.” “It’s almost miraculous that he has been able to achieve what he has – hehas turned a sow’s ear into a silk purse and nobody could have done it as well,”wrote Jennings in a pamphlet honoring Buckley. “I think Don is Chesapeake General Hospital,” wrote Curling, the formercity manager, in the same brochure. In a 2005 interview, Doug Carson, then chairman of the hospital author-ity, praised Buckley for the vision to build the hospital. “If there was no hospi-tal here, there would be no health care industry in the area,” Carson said in aninterview. “Don Buckley is the figurehead of the hospital.”

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tain our presence in the community and support Chesapeake General so it canwithstand the pressures from the outside.” In the years that followed, Chesapeake General withstood the pressure. Despite dire warnings that a single institution could not succeed in anever-changing market, the hospital continued to grow and expand. In 2002,the hospital entered a partnership with the University Health Systems ofEastern Carolina to open a 19-bed hospital on the Outer Banks of NorthCarolina. In 2004, a unit dedicated solely to the treatment of women openedon the fourth floor of the hospital. That same year, the hospital opened the W.Stanley Jennings Outpatient Center in a freestanding building in a corner ofthe medical complex. The changes reflected the hospital’s attempt to stay current in the tumul-tuous world of medicine. But the biggest shift was yet to come. In late 2004, about 32 years after he first walked the muddy site offBattlefield Boulevard, Buckley announced it was time to step down. He leftbehind a hospital that had grown beyond the fledgling 141-bed facility tryingto eek out its own share of the market into a 310-bed acute care communityhospital system employing more than 2,430 people and a medical staff of 500physicians representing three dozen specialties. “We had moved from a country hospital to a real hospital,” Buckley saidin an interview. “It’s amazing how a facility changes an attitude. Every time weadded a new service – OB, cancer center – we told the public we’re for real;we’re here for the long run.” Word of Buckley’s impending retirement swept through the Chesapeakemedical community, a community that had not known another CEO. A searchcommittee was formed to sift through hundreds of applications. ChesapeakeGeneral was a unique hospital. Committee members knew they wanted anexecutive that could match it. Dr. Francis Watson, an ER doctor and president of the medical staff at thetime, said the physicians wanted someone they could talk to, not an executivewho walls himself into an office. “Buckley always had a good relationship withthe physicians; he would listen to them,” Watson said. “The medical staff, espe-cially those doctors who worked at multiple hospitals, liked ChesapeakeGeneral the best. Our priority was to preserve that, find someone who canwork with the physicians.” The committee chose Christopher Mosley, a health care executive fromColorado. He took over in January 2005. That same month, the Virginia General Assembly in Richmond adopted aresolution commending Buckley for “completion of an exemplary career of

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said, is perched on a prime location because of the growth taking place alongHighways 168 and 158. He expects Chesapeake General to continue to drawheavily from both of those areas. One of the biggest issues facing the hospitalis simply the industry itself. Health care has changed dramatically in recentyears and the role of the traditional hospital must change to keep pace. “We’rea community hospital; that’s our focus,” Carson said. “As long as we can sus-tain ourselves financially, that is what we will do.” Mosley, the son of a nurse’s aie in Alabama, believes in the community hos-pital. “In a community hospital, you can really impact change,” he said. Youcan make things happen. We’re doing things that in most other settings wouldtake longer to do. My intention is to be here for a very long time. For me, thisis not a step along the way. I’m not a consultant. I’m a health care administra-tor. I want to be able to look back 10 to 15 years from now and see what we’vecreated together.”

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Our Destiny Is in Our Hands

Energy radiates from Chris Mosleyas he walks through the adminis-

trative offices on the first floor ofChesapeake General Hospital. Hegreets people with a smile and a quickhandshake. He re members nameswith ease. Mosley, former chief operatingofficer of St. Anthony’s Hospital inDenver, Colo., took over the reins ofChesapeake General in January 2005.He said the job attracted him becauseof three reasons: the community com-mitment to the hospital, the hospitalauthority’s record of recruiting andsupporting new leadership, and thequality of the physicians practicing atthe hospital. “I think the thing that appealed to me was I saw the organization waspoised to go in different directions,” Mosley said in an interview. “The plat-form was there – certainly, it could have been daunting following a legend inthe commu nity. I have come here not to follow someone, but to establish myown footprint.” Mosley said he believes Chesapeake General is in a state “of transition,defining itself and its desired future.” The largest challenge to date is improv-ing the bottom line in an era when one-third of all hospitals lose money. Oneof his first moves was to commission a consultant to devise a strategic planmapping out suggestions for the hospital’s future. “We think the future ofChesapeake General is a little different than now, but it will always be a com-munity-based hospital,” Mosley said. He was quick to assert that there are noplans for Chesapeake General to align with Sentara. “I don’t think we need tobe preoccupied with who is in our backyard,” Mosley said. “I think we need tobe preoccupied and committed to our future. I think organizations that focuson what they do, and do it exceedingly well, will succeed. We have a great foun-dation, a great location. Our destiny is in our hands in many, many ways.” Doug Carson, chairman of the hospital authority, agreed. The hospital, he

Christopher Mosley

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Georgian Manor, the hospital’s first assisted-living facility for seniors,opens.

1986 The BirthPlace opens at Chesapeake General Hospital. The first babyarrives one hour after its opening.

1984 OBX Center - OBMC

1983 CT scanner is added to radiology services. Urgent Care is imple mented.

1981 Hospital begins expansion. Construction begins on a new intensivecare unit.

1976 Hospital opens.

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Chesapeake General Hospital: A Fact Sheet

Chesapeake General Hospital is a 310-bed acute care community hospitallocated in Chesapeake, Virginia. It is a public hospital and medical cen-

ter that is governed by the Chesapeake Hospital Authority, an 11-memberboard composed of area citizens. The hospital employs 2,430 people. The med-ical staff is composed of 500 physicians representing three dozen specialties.

KEY DATES:

2004 W. Stanley Jennings Outpatient Center opens, providing diagnosticservices including MRI, CT, ultrasound and full-service laboratoryofferings.

Women’s unit opens, becoming the first inpatient hospital unit dedi-cated solely to women’s health.

2002 The Outer Banks Hospital opens as a partnership between ChesapeakeGeneral and the University Health Systems of Eastern Carolina. It is a19-bed facility offering emergency services along with inpatient andoutpatient surgeries.

2001 Cedar Manor, an assisted living facility, opens on Cedar Road.

1997 Lifestyle Center in Western Branch opens.

1995 Sidney M. Oman Cancer Treatment Center opens at ChesapeakeGeneral Hospital. Named after the former mayor who once served onthe hospital authority, the 24-bed center provides a full range of treat-ment to cancer patients.

1991 Renovation and expansion of the hospital to six floors, including giantglass atrium.

1988 The Health Resource Center, housing the Lifestyle Fitness Center andthe Women’s Health Center, opens. It is the first wellness center inSouth Hampton Roads.

Don Buckley cuts the ribbon at opening day festivities.

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Hospital area, November 1976

Hospital area, December 1973