Jennifer began to cry. “Can I still go home?”
“Yes,” Terri said, “but I need to see you and run tests for the next few days to make sure your kidneys don’t overdo it.”
When Matt heard the news, he said, “You’re amazing, Terri. Unbelievable. This calls for a real celebration.”
“Don’t,” she said.
“What’s wrong?”
“She could have died, Matt. She could have died if it hadn’t been for Chester.”
Matt smiled. “You’re really reaching to blame yourself this time, babe. You take responsibility for things not under your control, and won’t accept recognition for the good you do for your patients. That’s weird—no that’s self indulgent.”
“Self indulgent?”
“Yes, it means that you think you can control everything. I have news for you, you can’t.”
“But,” she plead...
“No buts, Terri. Should you have sent Richie and every patient for a skin biopsy on normal appearing moles?”
“No, but...”
Matt smiled. “You really can’t help yourself. Should you have refused Jennifer and kept her out of the Phase I trial?”
Terri stared at Matt. She shook her head and smiled. “I don’t know why you hung with me so long. I didn’t make it easy for you.”
“Nothing worthwhile is easy,” Matt said as they embraced.
Epilogue
Nigel Larkin sat in his backyard in Chichester, a small cathedral city in West Sussex, England. He pulled his coat closed against the cold and looked over his shoulder at his backdoor. Nigel reached into his pocket and withdrew a pack of Dunhill King Size cigarettes, and lit one up. He dragged heavily watching the tip redden, and then he smiled, and coughed.
“Damn it, Nigel,” his wife, Kate cried through the window. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Never mind, mother,” he said.
She came to the door, placed her hands on her hips. “Put the damned thing out, won’t ya.”
Nigel knew what was coming. They’d had the same argument with minor variations, for thirty years. Her only success followed his diagnosis of lung cancer five years ago when he managed to stop for six months.
Following his near-death experience with widespread cancer and his miraculous survival after treatment with the BCG vaccination, Nigel was able to return to work at Rolls-Royce. He’d been employed by the company since he was twenty-four and he’d progressed from a skilled craftsman to a line supervisor. Although he didn’t work with his hands on a daily basis, he loved the opportunity to display his skills to younger employees when they faced a difficult problem.
Smoking was strictly forbidden on the assembly floor so Nigel found himself watching the clock for a cigarette break. Outside, he’d stand with a dozen or so men puffing and coughing in a fog of smoke.
Just three weeks ago while showing them how to make a fine adjustment on a fender installation, the wrench slipped from his hand leaving a gash on the thick enamel and his hand.
“You okay, Mr. Larkin?” his apprentice asked.
“Sure, I’m fine. That never happened before. I must be getting old.”
Two weeks ago, while sleeping, Kate shook him awake. “Stop it, will ya. I can’t get me no sleep.”
Nigel shook his head. “What are you talkin’ about?”
“Your leg. It’s jumping’ and keepin’ me awake.”
Things had worsened in the last week. His muscles in his arms and legs would twitch and jump without warning, and he found his hand trembling when he tried to light a cigarette.
Nigel took his last drag as Kate watched. When he tried to snub it out in the ashtray, his hand shook violently and sparks from the tip blew in all directions.
“What’s wrong, Luv?”
“Dunno.”
He remembered his words at that meeting in Cambridge so many years ago when they threatened to stop the BCG study due to contaminated vaccine.
“I best take me a trip up north to Cambridge where they give me the BCG vaccine. Me thinks the Mad Cow’s come callin’”
Philip Howard, now an emeritus professor of medicine and infectious diseases, sat with Nigel and Kate following Nigel’s extensive workup. “I’m sorry, Nigel. We knew the risks going in. We think it CJD.”
“Is there any way to be sure?” Kate asked.
“We could do a brain biopsy, but I’m satisfied with the diagnosis. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, Guv’ner. You give me four years more than I deserved. CJD’s a small price to pay.”
“Ain’t nothin’...?” Kate asked.
“We’ll try a few new medicines we’ve developed in the last three years, but I won’t lie to you. I’m not optimistic.”
“I’ll go for it, Guv’ner, if it don’t make the rest of me life miserable. I’d rather spend me days at home with darlin’ Kate than sick all the time.”
“I’ll lay it out for you, Nigel. You decide.”
“I seen it with me mum and me dad, both heavy smokers,” Nigel said. “They wasted away to nothing—skeletons—no way to go, Guv’ner. No way to go.”
“I’ll ring you up,” said Howard.
“Do that, Guv’ner. Me, I’m okay. I won. I beat the cancer.”
A Simple Cure Page 29