Brotman Medical Center

There is no For Sale sign on the front lawn of Brotman Medical Center in Culver City. But a behind-the-scenes drama is unfolding that could determine the financially troubled hospital's future and what kind of care may be offered to patients on the Westside. Brotman filed for bankruptcy protection in the fall, and its financial condition continues to look bleak. It has been searching for buyers willing to help pay off its large debt and invest in its aging buildings and equipment.

For 50 years Linda Sue Brown's nine siblings fiercely protected her, facing down anyone who would taunt her or seek to exploit the disability that left her with the mental capacity of a 12-year-old. That sense of responsibility only grew after their 81-year-old mother, Brown's lifelong caretaker, was stricken with Alzheimer's disease, leaving her unable to tend to her daughter.

Brotman Medical Center, a key healthcare provider serving Los Angeles' Westside, is expected to seek protection from creditors in Bankruptcy Court as early as next week, according to three executives familiar with the matter. Administrators at the 420-bed hospital in Culver City have tried for months to avoid filing a bankruptcy petition but have continued struggling to pay its growing debt.

Brotman Medical Center in Culver City has filed for Bankruptcy Court protection from creditors but is expected to stay open and maintain most critical services, including its emergency room, hospital administrators said Friday. The 420-bed hospital is seeking reorganization under Chapter 11 of the U.S. Bankruptcy Code.

Brotman Medical Center in Culver City, with the help of the Jewish Home for the Aging, emerged from bankruptcy protection Tuesday in a way that may result in a new senior living facility on the Westside. The 420-bed hospital said it returned to profitability after securing $29 million in financing, including $23 million in loans from the Jewish home.

The parking lot at Brotman Medical Center in Culver City looked like a MASH unit Thursday. People lay on gurneys, looking as if they were nursing broken bones or gasping for air because of smoke inhalation. Doctors and nurses appeared to hover over the victims at the makeshift triage unit, waving many of the stretchers into the hospital for more extensive treatment. But the injuries were not real; the doctors and nurses were just playing along.

Dr. Brian Johnston, medical director of the Emergency Department at White Memorial Medical Center, bounds out of his office, apologizing that he's running late for the interview. His desk, visible behind him, is piled with paperwork, but it's downright orderly compared to the desk in his other office on the hospital's ground floor. Amid three dozen precariously stacked Journals of Trauma is so much paper that it's difficult to determine the desktop's color.