Never Too Late (Brier Hospital)

by Larence Gold

  Never Too Late

  By

  Lawrence W. Gold, M.D

  Never Too Late 2014 © by Lawrence W. Gold, M.D.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Characters names, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A Grass Valley Publishing Production

  Cover Art©2014 by Dawné Dominique

  First print edition August 2014

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To my wife, Dorlis. Besides Izzy, in this novel, Dorlis is, herself, an inspiration for all those who fear aging.

  To my readers who encourage me to write.

  Acknowledgments

  Donna Eastman of Parkeast Literary Agency who

  first encouraged me to write.

  Dawné Dominique, a gifted artist and cover designer.

  Donna Meares, a great editor.

  Sierra Writers Fiction Critique Group in Grass Valley, CA

  “Run early in the morning, before your brain figures out what your really doing.

  Anon

  “If only. Those must be the two saddest words in the world.”

  Mercedes Lackey

  “Regret is insight that comes a day too late”

  Northrop Frye

  “The bitterest tears shed over graves are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone. “

  Harriet Beecher Stowe

  “I admire runners older than I - they are now my heroes. I want to be like them as I grow older.”

  Frank Shorter

  “If you want to run, run a mile. If you want to experience a different life, run a marathon.”

  Emil Zatopek

  “In the marathon, anything can happen.”

  Paula Radcliffe

  “If you start to feel good during a marathon, don’t worry, you’ll get over it.”

  Gene Thibeault

  Other Works

  By

  Lawrence W. Gold, M.D.

  Fiction:

  Brier Hospital Series:

  First, Do No Harm

  No Cure for Murder

  The Sixth Sense

  Tortured Memory

  The Plague Within

  Trapped

  Hybrid

  Other Novels:

  For the Love of God

  Rage

  Deadly Passage

  A Simple Cure

  Non-Fiction:

  I Love My Doctor, But…, a lighthearted look

  at the doctor/patient relationship

  All available in print and in Kindle

  Chapter One

  The sun was cresting the Berkeley-Oakland hills as Isabel Kramer leaned gasping against a eucalyptus tree. Her twenty-year-old daughter Jennifer kept jogging in place. “C’mon Mom, you can make it. It’s only another mile.”

  Izzy took a deep breath and coughed. “It’s too much. Another mile, and you’ll have to dial 911.”

  “This was your idea…”

  “My idea? Who said, ‘Let’s do the Bay to Breakers.’”

  “I never thought you’d do it.” She paused. “And, now that you’re committed, don’t be a pussy and give up now.”

  “I’m not giving up. This is a strategic regeneration. Just let me take a moment.”

  Izzy placed her hands on her waist and walked in a circle for thirty seconds taking deep breaths. She ran her fingers through her short salt and pepper hair, looked up at Jennifer, and grinned. “Okay. Let’s go for it.”

  Jennifer was tall and lanky, like Izzy, but her ever-present smile distinguished her from her more dour mother.

  When Izzy staggered up to their Piedmont home, Jennifer was sitting on the front porch. “I told you that you could do it. Not bad for only ten days training.”

  “We should have started in the flatlands, not the hills, Jen. They’re a killer for a beginner.”

  “That would have only delayed your conditioning. The Bay to Breakers is only four weeks away. Not to worry; it’s a fun race and you’ll do great.”

  “Sure, I’m a superstar. I’ll be lucky just to keep up with the centipedes.”

  “Dr. Phil says you’ve got to erase those tapes…”

  “Dr. Phil—give me a break. I started running in Valley Stream High School on Long Island, and my coach said that I had promise. I was all promise and no support. Running wasn’t exactly the rage in those days and women runners were somehow odd. Grandpa, and especially grandma, couldn’t deal with odd.”

  “You’re doing a lot better than 98 percent of my friends’ mothers who average forty pounds overweight and spend most of their time shopping, sipping martinis, or watching the soaps.”

  Izzy pulled the towel from her fanny pack and wiped her face dry. She stared at Jennifer, and with her best Brando voice said, “You don't understand. I coulda had class. I coulda been a contender. I coulda been somebody…”

  Jennifer smiled. “What was that?”

  “Brando? Marlon Brando? On the Waterfront?”

  “Marlon who? On the what…?”

  Izzy shook her head. “What’s the use?”

  Izzy unlaced her running shoes and left them on the porch. She entered the great room, sank into the La-Z-Boy chair, and leaned back. In moments, she was asleep.

  “Wake up…wake up.” The words startled Izzy. She opened her eyes. Her husband, Ross, stood holding a large coffee mug. “Izzy, here, take it. Better get going or you’re going to be late for work.”

  Ross Cohen was 62 and a respected, much in demand psychiatrist at Brier Hospital in Berkeley. He was husky, bear-like, with curly brown hair without a hint of grey.

  Although he had complained at first, Izzy retained her maiden name, Kramer, for “professional purposes.” He’d fussed over it for a while and then decided that she was right; she’d worked hard for her titles.

  Ross looked into her chocolate-brown eyes, then bent down to kiss her, but she pulled away. “Don’t. I’m a sweaty mess.”

  “Just how I like you.” He looked at his watch. “Sorry, but it’s too late now. You’ll make it up to me another time.”

  “Add it to the list.” She stood and stretched. “What time will you be home?”

  “This is my anxiety/neurosis afternoon clinic, but I should make it home by six if they can scrape me off the wall. I’ll be ready for a therapeutic glass of Chardonnay.”

  “I don’t know how you do it,” Izzy said, “listening to those gripes day after day.”

  “Who says I listen?”

  “Funny. Try to get home a little earlier. I have my Zumba class at seven. I hate to rush, and I especially hate to exercise on a full stomach.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll make it, and,” he paused. “Running and Zumba, don’t you think you’re overdoing it a bit; remember you’re not a kid anymore.”

  “Where have you been, Ross? Sixty’s the new forty.”

  “Tell that to your body.”

  She took a deep breath, expanding her slender chest, and batting her eyelashes. “You don’t like my body?”

  Ross grinned at her seductive antics. “I like your body, but let’s not get carried away and lose those curves. Those, I do love.”

  Izzy rose and kissed him on the cheek. “Gotta shower and get dressed. See you tonight.”

  Izzy put on her backpack with a change
of clothes, rolled her hybrid Trek bicycle onto the driveway, and put on her helmet. She pedaled to the UC Berkeley campus, locked her bike in the rack, and got to her office at 9:15 a.m. The smoked glass door read, Professor Isabel Kramer, M.D., Ph.D. Clinical Psychology.

  Connie Blaire, her secretary, looked up. He was twenty-eight and a former business communication major at UC. They’d been close since she’d counseled him over his faulty choice of girlfriends. When the secretary position came up, Izzy offered, and Connie accepted at once. “You’re late again, Doctor. I have two students waiting, and if you don’t get a move on, you’ll be late for your Cognition, Brain, and Behavior course.”

  “Give me five then bring the first one in. And, relax, Connie. Everything’s under control.”

  After the second student left, Izzy studied her appointment book. She had a faculty lunch meeting, Psychology 101 and then her clinic at the Tang Center at 3:30 p.m.

  “You should drop Psych 101,” Connie said. “It’s a waste of your talent to teach that undergraduate program.”

  “No, you’re wrong. It’s the most important course I teach. It’s the introduction to the field, and can make or break a student’s interest in psychology.”

  Just before noon as Izzy’s class was leaving, Jodie Kaufman stuck her head in. “C’mon, walk with me. If we don’t hurry, we’re going to be late for the faculty lunch meeting. Wouldn’t want to miss a minute of that,” she said facetiously.

  Izzy had met Jodie ten years ago after Izzy had retired from four years practicing clinical psychiatry in Berkeley. That had followed a five-year partnership with Michael Rose, Northern California’s premier forensic psychiatrist. Although she’d agreed with Michael about the virtue of their practice, she never quite escaped the “getting criminals off” part of their work. Finally, she agreed to take an academic appointment that included student counseling.

  Jodie was forty-two and had a Ph.D. in brain physiology. She worked at the Institute of Cognitive and Brain Science studying athletic performance. Jodie was 5’ 2” with short blonde hair. Walking with the nearly 6-foot Izzy made for a visual odd couple.

  Jodie studied Izzy. “You’re looking great, Izzy. How much weight have you lost?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m sure it’s the running in preparation for the Bay to Breakers.” She paused. “Losing the weight has made me look older, don’t you think?”

  “Izzy, you have the skin of a twenty-year-old. I wish I had your skin.”

  “Good genes and sunblock.”

  “You’ll look so good when you join the Bare to Breakers group?”

  Izzy smiled. “I wouldn’t have run naked forty years ago when I had something to show. Fatty waistlines and flabby butts jiggling down San Francisco streets make me want to turn away. Thank God for inventing clothing.” She paused. “Why don’t you join us? It’ll be fun.”

  “Okay, but I agree with the revered Erma Bombeck: The only reason I’m taking up running is so that I can hear heavy breathing again.”

  When Izzy arrived at the Tang Center for University Health Services, she walked to her student clinic.

  When the nurse spied Izzy, she stood at once. “You’d better see Karen Stack right away.”

  “What’s up?”

  “She’s a wreck,” the nurse said. “Her roommate was so concerned that she called in this morning saying she feared that Karen might injure herself.” She paused. “Your brother, Richard didn’t do you any favors by referring Karen.”

  Izzy ignored the comment, and asked, “What else did her roommate say?”

  “That Karen’s been drinking.”

  “So much for our ‘no-harm’ contract,” Izzy said, shaking her head. “That’s great. How many patients do I have this afternoon?”

  “Six, Doctor.”

  “Give my apologies to the first three and tell the second group that I’ll try to make it, but no guarantee.”

  When Izzy entered her office, she found Karen curled up on the couch, almost into the fetal position.

  Karen, a freshman, was small and pale with sallow skin and short brown hair. She wore baggy sweatpants and a UC Berkeley t-shirt.

  Izzy moved to the couch and sat three feet away. “I’m here, Karen.”

  Karen wrapped her arms around her body, rocked gently, but remained silent.

  “I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me.”

  Karen looked up. Her eyes were red and tears ran down both cheeks. “Talking don’t help. Nothing can help me. I can’t sleep. I’m so tired and weak, yet I can’t sleep.”

  “Are you thinking of injuring yourself?” Izzy asked.

  “A careful choice of words there, Doctor.” She paused, and then spoke in a whisper. “I have pills—I’m ready.”

  “You’ve got to help me, Karen. What’s driving you toward those pills?”

  They talked in muted tones as the clock showed forty minutes passing.

  “Everything looks bleak, Karen, that’s part of depression, but stop for a moment and think about your friends and your family. They’re here to help you—I’m here to help you.”

  Karen remained still.

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “I had to do something. I couldn’t sleep.”

  Karen moved close to Izzy, threw her arms around her, and broke down in tears.

  “I need you in the hospital, Karen,” Izzy said.

  “You think I’m that bad?”

  “I don’t think about hospitalization for depression in those terms. I think about it as a fresh start.”

  “What will my parents think? What will your brother think?” She paused. “I’m so ashamed.”

  “My brother is an experienced psychiatrist. Trust me, he’ll understand.” Izzy paused. “But think about how would your mom and dad will feel if something happened to you? They’d blame themselves for sure.”

  “They had nothing to do with this,” Karen said.

  “They’d blame themselves anyway.” Izzy paused. “Would you be ashamed if you developed diabetes or an ulcer?”

  “No,” Karen said, “but I can’t control those diseases. I should be able to control my emotions.”

  “No, Karen, you can’t.”

  After a few moments, Izzy went to her phone, dialed the number for Brier Hospital Psychiatry. “I’m admitting a student. We’ll be over in ten minutes.”

  After Izzy admitted Karen Stack, they moved her into a two-bed room with a sitter in place at all times. This room, like all on the ward, had been subjected to suicidal precautions with no ties of any kind. They’d removed the bed rails as well.

  Izzy walked back to the nursing station and talked with Ellie, the head nurse. “Don’t we have a private room for Karen?”

  Ellie looked up at Izzy. “Her insurance only pays for a double, unless you certify that her condition demands a single.”

  “It does,” Izzy said. “I need to spend time with her in private.”

  “Okay, Doc. We’ll move her right away.” Ellie paused. “She looks pretty low—has she…”

  “Not yet, but she has pills and was ready to use them.”

  “How long have you been treating her?”

  “My brother, a first rate psychiatrist on Park Avenue, referred her to me when she came to UC. He had been treating Karen for several years. She’s been with me for four months, but, as is all too common, she’d managed to sabotage her treatment by not taking the antidepressants and self-medicating with alcohol.”

  “There are times when I think you have to be a saint to treat these suicidal patients—they’re tough,” Ellie said.

  “Yes, but think of a promising life wasted, and the pain and regrets that these patients leave behind. We’ve seen more than enough success to keep us going through these darkest moments.”

  “Are you going to medicate her, Doctor?”

  “Not today. I’m going to spend some time with her, but I will leave an order for Xanax, if she needs it.”

  “Good luck, Izzy
,” Ellie said.

  When Izzy came into Karen’s room, she excused the sitter, a middle-aged woman. The girl was curled up in bed with her head under the pillow. Izzy sat by her side, and asked, “How are you feeling?”

  “Why does she have to be with me at all times?” Karen asked. “She wouldn’t let me close the bathroom door to pee.”

  “C’mon, Karen. You know the answer. Now, tell me how you’re feeling.”

  Karen pulled her head out. “I’m weak and tired. I can barely move without feeling totally exhausted. This can’t be just from depression, can it?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid it can.” Izzy paused. “I know we’re been through some of this before, but I need you to understand this disease—and yes, it is a disease.”

  Karen remained silent.

  “Although I’ve been a psychiatrist for years, and have treated many for depression, each individual is unique. I may have some inkling of what you’re feeling, but I can’t know for sure, unless you tell me.”

  Karen looked away.

  “First, you’re not responsible for this illness. It’s not a character flaw or some sign of weakness. I believe, and research supports that your type of depression is a problem of altered brain chemistry. Second, my success rate in treating depression is well over 90 percent. That doesn’t mean that it will be a walk in the park, but eventually, one way or another, you’ll get better.”

  “Have you notified my parents and Dr. Aaron?”

  “Not yet,” Izzy said.

  “Must you?”

  “You’re old enough to have agreed to this hospitalization, but I’m going to advise you to inform your mom and dad. From what I know about your family, and your history with them, they will be part of your therapy.”

  “My father will understand and do anything to help, but my mother…”