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Serenity returns to hospice that housed Schiavo

By ANNE LINDBERG
Published March 31, 2006

PINELLAS PARK - Twittering birds and a gushing fountain are the only sounds that disturb the silence in the front parking lot of Hospice House Woodside.

A year ago, it was not so peaceful.

The fountains and birds were drowned out by chanting and praying protesters massed at the entrance, where police officers stood sentinel. Handmade signs said a murder was occurring inside. TV trucks, tents and cars crowded 102nd Avenue N.

This was ground zero for the battle over Terri Schiavo's life.

As it turned out, the biggest challenges weren't the protesters, but the phone calls and e-mails, said hospice spokesman Mike Bell. Thousands of them.

Hospice personnel answered all of them, until the end when the deluge became too much, Bell said in an exclusive interview with the St. Petersburg Times.

Today, life is back to normal on 102nd. Nearby companies go about their daily business and children pass on their way to school. Traffic is scarce.

But Terri Schiavo has left her imprint here.

Her legacy, if any, comes in an increased number of donations, volunteers and admissions. It comes as a kind of recommitment to be there even when the situation is difficult and controversial, Bell said.

"If not us, who?" he said. "Our job is to walk with those families while they make the decision."

Schiavo's legacy also comes in the relationship between hospice employees and the Pinellas Park police. "You spend a night shift every night for weeks, you get to know someone," Bell said.

Shortly after Schiavo's death, the hospice held a gathering on its grounds and invited the officers. Now, many Pinellas Park police officers take part in hospice fundraising efforts.

"We still have that incredible relationship with hospice," said Capt. Mike Haworth of the Pinellas Park Police Department. "Relationships developed and they carry on to this day."

The situation, Haworth said, "strengthened us in ways I don't think we can measure."

For the hospice employees, life has moved on. For the most part, Schiavo was just one of last year's approximately 7,000 hospice patients countywide.

The decisions faced by Schiavo's husband and parents are encountered daily by other families, Bell said. Disagreements also are not unique. "What was so different is it became public," he said.

For hospice employees and volunteers, that also became the dividing line. Outside the building, there was chaos and noise.

"It truly was more as you drove through . . . being stopped, having to be in the middle of it," Bell said.

But inside the hospice, it was quiet as families agonized over the imminent loss of loved ones. "Life went on," Bell said.

Occasionally, everyone was reminded of the strife outside as praying and chanting pierced the quiet. Extra lighting was installed in the back garden for security. A police officer and his canine partner patrolled the grounds while patients sat in wheelchairs.

At least one patient grew frustrated, he recalled. She stepped outside, waved her cane at protesters and cried: "How dare you? This is our home."

Bonnie Lewis-Brydges, owner of Bontel Fasteners, also remembers the frustration of dealing with the security and crowds that made it hard to run a business near the hospice.

"We had problems with truck delivery and (with) car searches and truck searches," Lewis-Brydges said. "They felt it was necessary to stop anybody and everybody who wanted to venture down 102nd Avenue. . . . I couldn't conduct my daily business. I just couldn't. It was extremely difficult."

The police, she said, did their best.

Lewis-Brydges has not thought much about the anniversary of Schiavo's death.

She has had more immediate worries, like the flooding caused by torrential rains earlier this year. "We had waist-high water in our parking lot," she said.

[Last modified March 31, 2006, 09:43:13]