Silent Epidemic (Book 1 - Carol Freeman Series)

by Jill Province

  “As of my last contact with them," Jerry said, “two hundred and fifty of them were supposed to have completed the entire six weeks of abstinence, but only one hundred and twenty three of them remained.  The rest had either gotten back on the medication or dropped out of the study completely.  The remaining two hundred and fifty volunteers will most likely share the same success rate." 

  “If these five hundred people are any indication of the effect of sedatives, then there are a lot of very addicted people out there," Sandra said incredulously. 

  “There are approximately twenty different sedatives that have been on the market for a very long time,” Jason added, “and the most terrifying part of this is that most of the people taking them probably don’t even know they’re addicted." 

  “Or what is waiting for them if they ever decide to stop taking the drug," Sheila said.  

  The group became silent, realizing the weight of their discovery. 

  Sandra was the first to find her voice.  “This is a worldwide disaster.”  

  Jason nodded, and turned to the whole group.

  “It’s a silent epidemic."

     

  * * * * * * * * * * * * *

   

  David Manning had been patiently awaiting the Dominex study completion.  He was anxious to begin putting the test results under a magnifying glass.  An unopened envelope lay sitting on the top of his desk, and he paused momentarily before opening it.  This was the first half of the test results.  He had contacted the company and directed the submission of what they had so far.  He did this for two reasons.  First, he wanted to force their hand without giving them any time to prepare for his scrutiny.  He also wanted to complete the process as soon as possible. 

  David was eligible for retirement and was more than ready to go.  He already had a cabin on Lake Hartwell.  It was paid for and ready to provide him with the peaceful life he dreamed about for the past two decades.  The only thing keeping him from beginning his life of leisure was Dominex Pharmaceuticals.  He wasn’t going anywhere until they were securely under the moving bus.  That final push would be his last day.

  David opened the envelope and laid the pages out on his desk.  According to these results there were two hundred and fifty volunteers who had completed the required process.  Only seventeen of them had dropped out of the study for reasons unknown.  The remaining two hundred and thirty three volunteers had made it through with flying colors.  The only difficulty reported by the drug company was a slight increase in blood pressure during the first few weeks of drug termination.  The partial conclusion of the study was that consumers should not terminate the medication abruptly.  It would be recommended that patients consult their physicians prior to going off Suprame.  In that way, the doctor would be in a position to monitor a patient’s progress. 

  David scanned the data.  There were no names mentioned.  Each volunteer was represented by a number.  This was customary during a research study to keep the names of the individuals confidential, and to avoid any age or gender bias.  The first name and last initial could be furnished upon request, but full names were never provided, unless the FDA found the need to randomly contact study participants.  In simple terms, David could not justifiably demand the volunteers’ names without providing specific concerns about the test results.

  He had been monitoring the news when the company’s name made headlines, and was hoping there would be something from the shooting he could use to demand the information. But the case appeared to have been dropped as fast as it had begun.  He was going to have to find something else.  It’s in here somewhere. The final results were not due to arrive at his office for another four weeks.  He would use the time well.  He was mentally decorating his dream cabin.  The heads of Sam Reynolds and Charles Roman would hang nicely over the fireplace.

     

  * * * * * * * * * * *

   

  The phone had not stopped ringing all day and Margie Barrett had a headache the size of Texas.  She had no sooner gotten off the phone with a woman who had been crying uncontrollably, when two more calls followed right behind.  She answered each one, asking the second caller if they were willing to hold on.  She was told what she could do with her hold button and was then provided with a hard slam in her ear.

  Moving back to the first call, Margie sat and attempted to listen patiently while a man graphically described his fear of leaving the house.  “I never had any problem walking outside my door until I tried to get off this crap," the man said angrily.  “My wife drove me to my doctor’s office and I was hyperventilating the whole time.  I’m a fifty-four-year-old war vet for Christ’s sake, and my wife has to take care of me now."  Margie was sitting with her eyes closed, listening to the caller’s tirade and feeling helpless. 

  “What did your doctor tell you?" she asked, helplessly. 

  “He said that I’ve probably had an anxiety disorder all my life and it is only now beginning to surface.  He called it PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder   I’ve been back from combat for thirty years.  Never had one bad night’s sleep.  Now I’m suddenly having war memories?  Can you think of anything more lame?” 

  Margie had to admit that she could not. 

  She had been receiving horrible graphic details of the volunteers’ withdrawal symptoms, and in most cases, the doctors that had prescribed the medication to begin with had been surprised and baffled when their patients returned and complained of severe physical and psychiatric problems after stopping the drug.  Some doctors had even become outraged when they discovered that their patients had gone off the medication and refused to provide further treatment unless the person resumed taking the drug.

  “What can I do for you today?" Margie said, unable to think of any resolution. 

  “You can tell the asshole in charge of your organization that he will be hearing from my lawyer," the man yelled into the phone. 

  “Have you tried seeing Doctor Donovan?" she negotiated. 

  “Sure.  He agreed with my idiot doctor." 

  “Oh, I’m sorry," Margie said, now at a loss for words. 

  “Look," the man concluded, “I know that you have nothing personally to do with this, but I can’t seem to get anyone from your company to talk to me.  This is the most devastating thing that has ever happened to me and someone is going to pay for it."  Margie apologized once again and the man was gone.

  I can’t do this anymore.  She had already exceeded the maximum dosage of Tylenol and began massaging her temples.  Most of these people had not even given her their names.  They were all so upset by the time they had gotten transferred to the VP’s secretary, they had just wanted to vent their anger and hang up.  The caller ID identified them at the source of the call, but she would have had to contact the receptionist after each contact and have her check who the caller was.  It was just a matter of time before they started getting hit with lawsuits.  Margie decided to take some action.

  She forwarded her phone calls back to the receptionist and went to Sam’s office door, giving it a light knock before entering.  Sam was not alone.  He had been engaged in another of his daily disaster control meetings with the company attorney.  Margie knew that Paul Pratt was in the VP’s office and decided this would be the most opportune time to resolve this issue.  

  “I’m sorry to disturb you both," Margie began, “but I have a problem that requires your attention." 

  “Have a seat," Sam sighed.  “We’re not getting anywhere with all the other problems we’re dealing with.  Maybe we’ll have better luck with yours." 

  Margie sat down and described in detail all of the calls she was receiving. 

  “The bottom line," she concluded, “is that whether they have threatened us with a lawsuit yet or not, they’re coming.  You can set your watch by it."  

  “How many callers have you had?" Paul inquired. 
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  “That’s hard to say.  Many of them never got around to identifying themselves, so all I’ve had to go on is their voices.   But if I had to guess, I’d say somewhere in the neighborhood of seventy five solid callers."  

  Sam and Paul sat quietly for a moment absorbing the information.  

  “And Sam," Margie added. “It’s Thursday." 

  “Right," Sam acknowledged. 

  “What’s so special about Thursday?" Paul asked. 

  “I promised her she wouldn’t have to deal with the volunteers after this week."  Sam turned to Margie and said, “Listen, you’ve done a great job heading this off so far.  I will keep my promise.  Just hang in there one more day." 

  Margie just nodded her head sadly and said, “It will be the longest day of my life."  

  Paul and Sam watched her leave the office.

  “She looks pretty rough," Paul observed. 

  “Sometimes I can hear the screaming through the phone receiver when I walk past her desk," Sam added.  “I have been thinking about this all week and I can’t come up with a thing.” 

  “The problem extends way beyond this study," Paul reminded him.  “Even if by some miracle you get this past the FDA, the problem will not go away.  People will be going directly to the FDA after this drug is on the shelf and they will want to know why the research study failed to capture the consumer’s reactions to the medication." 

  “It will be a financial disaster either now or later," Sam predicted.  “If we concede to putting stronger warnings on our label, our projected revenue will suffer.  If we wait until people start sending complaints to the FDA, they will require stronger warnings at that point or they might even recall the medication entirely." 

  “Sounds like a no-win situation," Paul interjected. 

  “As long as Manning is in charge, it’s a chess game," Sam stated.  “If I had to pick which move to make, it would be the one that would keep us in the game longer.  Our financial situation is spiraling downward quickly.  We need that first billion just to keep us going.” 

  “That’s a risky choice," Paul concluded. 

  “Chess is a risky game." 

  “Okay, then," Paul said.  “As I see it, the only choice you have with these volunteers is to settle with them." 

  “Don’t you lawyer types know any other words?  Where am I going to find the cash to make these people happy?"  

  Paul thought about it for a moment. 

  “Let’s offer them a settlement, effective after Suprame goes on the market."  

  Sam began to nod. 

  “I like that idea.  Not only will that keep these people quiet, but it will also provide a very specific message." 

  “Exactly," Paul agreed.  “If you want your money, stay out of the way."

      

  The attorney smiled at Margie on his way past her desk.  She returned a weak one in his direction and then focused on Sam.  “Okay, Margie," he announced. “We have your solution.  Come on in and I’ll tell you all about it."  She happily forwarded her calls again and sprinted into his office.

  Sam explained the solution to his secretary, emphasizing the delay in the settlement process.  Margie gave his words considerable thought, and then said, “I think that would work.  These people have been wanting some kind of compensation for their hardship.  No one expects us to magically make them better, so I guess money is the only other solution." 

  “So, how does a promotion sound?" Sam said, smiling.  

  Margie did not smile back. 

  “Oh no.  Sam, you can’t possibly be thinking that I am going to keep dealing with those irate people." 

  “Now, before you jump to the wrong conclusion, let me walk you through this."  

  Margie rolled her eyes at him, but gave him her attention.  

  “As a secretary with no authority, you were at the mercy of those people." 

  “You got that right," she stated adamantly. 

  “But as liaison to the legal department… You’d be the solution Genie."  

  She looked at him through squinty-eyed scrutiny. 

  “Go on."

  “Think about it," Sam continued, now on a roll.  “You would no longer be a secretary.  You would have your own office and – here’s the best part – a bigger salary." 

  “Continue," she said, warming up to the idea. 

  “You would be responsible for the volunteers and the volunteers only.  You would contact each one that has dropped out, and – let’s say – feel them out, so to speak.  If any of them are looking for compensation, you will be able to offer it to them." 

  “Not bad, Sam," she conceded.  “But what happens to my position after the study is over?" 

  “I have a feeling that this issue is not going to end with the study," Sam said.  

  Margie nodded her head in agreement. 

  “Okay," she announced.  “You’ve got yourself a legal liaison." 

  “Great." 

  “After my three day weekend," she added.  

  Sam stood and shook her hand. 

  “Spoken like a true legal liaison."

    

   

  Chapter 21

   

  Carol was looking forward to her temporary retirement.  She had been so sick and exhausted since her return to work that all she planned to do the first week was lay around the house.  She had insisted that Josh take the twenty-eight thousand dollars out of the trading account and put it into a savings account.  “It won’t grow there," Josh argued.  “It won’t shrink there either," she countered.  She had felt as though that money was truly her ticket out of the work force, at least for a while, and didn’t want anything to happen to it.  In the end, Josh conceded.  Her sanity had been hanging by a thread these days, and if the savings account was going to give her some measure of happiness, it was worth the price.

  Friday’s at Newberg Mental Health were always casual.  It was the one day each week they were allowed to wear jeans.  Carol had declined.  Her clothes no longer fit, and blue jeans were the most unforgiving of the clothing chain.  She had gone shopping to find baggier and more suitable clothing.  As a size eight, she had been small compared to the average size American female.  Clothes had been designed for her and she had never had any problem finding suitable attire.  As a size twelve, she was now average by comparison.  Current fashion, however, was a mockery to the average woman. 

  She had wandered through major department stores and wondered what had happened to everyone’s sanity.  The person who had decided they would all wear clothing so tight that you could count ribs must be off somewhere having a big laugh.  If some self-appointed fashion guru from London had determined that women should start wearing their underwear on their heads, it would now be chic to have panties as a hat.  There had been rack after rack of the worst clothes from the sixties, and a miscellaneous decade that was simply referred to as, “What were they thinking?”  Carol remembered the sixties very well and argued that at least women had been allowed to have butts and thighs back then. 

  She wondered where all the average size woman went shopping.  It certainly couldn’t have been any place she had gone.  Nothing fit.  Clothes were either way too small or way too big.  The petite and “full figure” ladies were set.  The average were being punished and sent to clothing purgatory for being average. 

  Carol finally resorted to her local Goodwill Store.  She could find clothes in her size that had been made before the fashion designer criminals had come along to torture American women.  One day, she resolved, her body would return to its pre-withdrawal condition.  Until then, she would be wearing her larger “rental” clothing.  She was currently walking through the hallway in her three-dollar baggy dress.  This wasn’t the person she could ever remember being, but a least her blood circulation wasn’t being cut off by a waistband.    />
  The receptionist saw her in the hallway and signaled to her that she had a call.  Carol went to the closest phone.  Walking all the way back to her office would have required movement.  Carol picked up the receiver and pressed the appropriate line.  

  “Carol, it’s Sandra," the caller announced. 

  “Hey, Sandra. What’s new?" 

  “We’re hitting a brick wall with this story.  We have so much great information and no proof.  These people have covered their tracks well." 

  “Makes sense."  

  “Yeah, it does," Sandra agreed, “but we need to find a crack in the structure somewhere.  Do you know of any other volunteers besides you and Brian?"  

  Carol thought for a moment.  She couldn’t provide any information about Clair because she had come in as a patient. 

  “Wasn’t Brian’s interaction with the doctor any help at all?"  

  “Not really," Sandra said reluctantly.  “The drug screen would have provided solid evidence to substantiate his story, but as we discussed, it can’t be used." 

  “I’m so sorry about that."  

  “Forget it.  I’d have done the same thing in your situation."

  “Tell you what I can do," Carol said.  “I can’t give the name of this person, but I can contact them myself and ask them to call you." 

  “Was this person a Donovan patient?" Sandra asked.  

  Carol confirmed that they were.  Sandra gave Carol a cell phone number and instructed her not to use any of the direct lines to the newspaper.  Carol was tempted to ask her more about that but decided to refrain.  Sandra thanked her and was gone.

  Carol went to the chart room and found Clair’s file.  Carrying it to her office, she wondered what sort of condition she would find the woman in.  Last time they spoke, Clair was pretty intoxicated and didn’t seem very motivated to deal with her problem.  She dialed the number and waited.  A man answered the phone and Carol asked to speak to Clair.  “Who’s calling?" the voice demanded.  Carol was not supposed to provide any information.  Even though this person had answered Clair’s phone, the rules of confidentiality were very clear.  If a person had sought out mental health services, it wasn’t necessarily known by their immediate family. She did not have permission to tell this person anything.  Carol was only allowed to give her name and leave a generic message, nothing more.