Mr. Gilreath and I left the conference room, exchanging a look that meant “Okay, now we’ve got some work to do.”
We set the implementation date, or “D-day” as Mr. Gilreath and I called it, for a weekend in September. On the big day, I arrived in the surgery department at 6:30 a.m. Mrs. Gilreath and Catherine arrived at 6:00 to make sure everything was set up in the SPD Department. The surgeons turned out to be supportive, and the whole day, Mr. Gilreath sat in his office with his eye on the Surgery Department, hoping he wouldn’t have to hear about any problems from the staff.
Overall, the surgery staff was pleased with SPD’s effort. Instead of making thirty to forty calls to SPD because of a missing instrument, they only made three to four calls. The revised case cart system also improved the hospital’s revenue. Since our lists were more complete, the surgery staff only needed to put a checkmark by the used item. In the past, the staff missed charges because no one knew if an item had been used. After a month of following the new system, we found that the revenue in the surgery department increased by almost thirty percent.
Nearly three months after implementation, Mr. Gilreath told me Dr. Zenni was very pleased, and had said, “Since you put that Indian downstairs, there has been a eighty-seven percent improvement in the instrument, supplies, and case cart system.”
Mr. Gilreath and I laughed, wondering how he had calculated such a precise percentage.
Six months after we implemented the changes, Mr. Gilreath persuaded the surgical committee to make me a member. Previously, only physicians were members, and more recently, the committee appointed Mr. Poll, assistant administrator of the Diagnostic Department, as well.
As the months passed, word of Providence Hospital’s improvement spread throughout Cincinnati, the Friesen concept hospitals in America, and especially the hospitals wanting to implement the case cart system. Providence Hospital had lost close to one million dollars during its first nine months in operation, and its occupancy rate was at approximately eighty percent. After Mr. Gilreath, Mr. Poll, and I were brought to the hospital, we turned things around, showing a profit of one million dollars and an occupancy rate of ninety-nine percent, sometimes even running at full capacity. Although the hospital was a nonprofit organization, this money was used to buy new equipment and upgrade to new technology. As a result of these improvements and an elimination of certain highly paid positions, it was no longer necessary to eliminate 125 employee positions, which Mr. Gilreath felt would have been negative publicity.
The six hospitals in the Cincinnati area were amazed and envious because we were their competition, and now Providence, with its increase in good publicity, was taking some of their business. Providence Hospital gained fame throughout the country, and we started receiving calls from other hospitals wanting to see our operations, specifically the CCS. Since my team implemented the system, Mr. Gilreath asked me to conduct weekly tours.
“This is your pride and joy, Kris,” he told me. “The credit should be given to you.”
Many hospitals, although not following Friesen’s design, were moving to the CCS, which allowed operating room nurses to concentrate on their professional work instead of worrying about supplies, sterilizing instruments, and preparing instrument trays. Even Congressman Tom Lukin visited Providence to see what all the talk was about.
During the tours, I made sure to give my team credit for all their hard work, even praising the SPD staff. “They are working very hard to make this system function,” I informed the visitors as we passed through the basement level. “If even one of these sections is taken away, the hospital will fail.”
“Kris, I have some big news for you,” Mr. Gilreath told me one day. “The news of this hospital’s success has reached the ears of Gordon Friesen. I talked to him on the phone this morning, and I told him that you are the key person in making all this work.”
“Really?” I said, surprised yet pleased at the same time.
“Yes, Mr. Friesen is interested in you. So interested, in fact, that he wants you to come to Germany to consult for a hospital he has designed there.”
If I was surprised before, now I was stunned. “He wants me to go to Germany?”
“Yes, there is a two-thousand-bed complex in Köln— Cologne —that needs a great deal of work. He sounded eager to have you go there for a consultation visit.”
My mouth dropped open at the word “two thousand.” That was nearly five times the size of Providence.
“Mr. Friesen sounds very taken with you, Kris,” Mr. Gilreath continued, after giving me a moment to register the news. “He didn’t even ask me if I wanted to go to Germany and help with this hospital. I would have loved an opportunity like this.” Then he added with a smile, “I’m happy for you, Kris. You may be going to Köln, Germany.”
Several weeks later, Mr. Gilreath walked into my office again. “It’s final, Kris. Mr. Friesen has given me the confirmation. You are going to Köln. Just let me know when you will be able to travel.”
While in Germany, I would receive $300 per day, and my airfare, food, and living expenses would be covered. On top of that, I would still be receiving my paycheck from Providence during that time. This was typical of Mr. Gilreath’s generosity. He told me in confidence, “Kris, you worked very long hours as well as weekends at the hospital, so I will consider these two weeks as compensatory time. You deserve it.”
My trip to Germany took place toward the end of October 1974, and by the time I returned home near the middle of November, I was mentally exhausted. My first day back at Providence, Mr. Gilreath was eager to hear all about the
