Never Too Late (Brier Hospital)

by Larence Gold

“What?”

  “By anyone’s definition, Izzy, you’re right out of Malcolm Gladwell’s book, Outliers. That’s how you’ve come so far.”

  “But?”

  “I’m comfortable pushing teens and young adults, but I can’t guess how far I can safely push you.”

  “I don’t think I’m a freak of nature. I have a few gifts, but mostly, I work harder than anyone does. That’s the most common explanation for outliers. Ross had my ticker checked out. I have no calcium deposits in my coronary arteries and my stress test is perfectly normal.”

  “A stress test is a joke for someone running so strenuously.”

  “Don’t make this a Catch-22 problem for me, Mitch. I know it won’t look good to the running world if I collapse and die while you’re training me. If you want a release of liability, a doctor’s note, or skywriting absolving you, let’s get to it.”

  “Okay, but I want your word…”

  “Mitch, you have it.”

  “You see, that’s what I mean. If I feel that you’ll say or do anything to continue training, I just can’t be a part of it. I want your solemn word that if you develop pain anywhere, heart, muscles, joints etc. you’ll tell me.”

  Izzy smiled. “So my regular promise isn’t enough; you want my solemn one?”

  Mitch laughed. “When people say you’re an inspiration to all, I say that they don’t know the half of it. You’ve reawakened my passion for running and that didn’t come easy.”

  “Does that mean…?”

  “Just get your skinny ass ready, Izzy. We’re going for it.”

  Mitch tried to back away as Izzy grabbed and hugged him. “That’s one hell of a way to talk to a senior citizen.”

  Two weeks later, when Ross arrived home from for lunch, Izzy was sitting in the great room with her bare feet up on the La-Z-Boy recliner.

  “How was your workout today?” He asked.

  “Terrific.”

  Ross looked at Izzy for a long moment. “How do you know how far to push it? You know that I’m concerned.”

  “I don’t know if this is original with Mitch, but he says, ‘if I can sing while running, I’d better work harder. If I’m gasping, I’d better cut back.”

  “That’s cute, but it trivializes the risk.”

  She caressed his cheek. “Remember, we’ve done everything possible on that front.”

  Ross studied her feet, and then wrinkled his nose and waved his hand over them.

  She smiled. “No smell there. No bacteria could survive on those tootsies. Check them out, will you, to see if I have any redness or early blisters.”

  Ross grabbed his flashlight and put on his reading glasses as he carefully examined Izzy’s calloused feet and toes. “They look fine, but your black toes—that about does it for what’s left of my foot fetish.”

  Izzy smiled. “Black toes are the marathoner’s badge of honor, but don’t forget the rest of me.”

  “Did you shower after your workout today?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Good. Let’s lie down and rest for a few minutes.”

  “Rest?”

  “Yes. You rest. I’ll workout.”

  “Not on your life, old man.”

  Chapter Ten

  Izzy’s frustration had increased further as they reached week fourteen. As hard as she tried, she couldn’t progress.

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Izzy,” Mitch said. “Every runner eventually reaches this stage. I had the same conversation with Hunter yesterday, and, she’s twenty-five.”

  “What about HGH?”

  “Human Growth Hormone, are you out of your mind? It’s illegal.”

  “Not injections…growth hormone releasers.”

  “They don’t work.”

  “So what’s to lose except money?”

  Mitch shook his head. “I don’t know where to start…”

  “Start at the beginning.”

  “Just the fact that you’re willing to consider doping of any type makes me think that you’re losing it. Determination is one thing, obsession is another. It’s unhealthy and I want no part of it. What’s next, anabolic steroids, blood doping, or God knows what else?”

  Izzy wrapped her arms around her chest. “I think I hit a sore spot. I was just asking a question.”

  “I don’t find the subject of performance enhancing drugs to be casual under any circumstances. My God, don’t you know what’s at stake for you, even if you don’t give a shit about me or my reputation?”

  “You’re overreacting—”

  Mitch held up his hand to stop her. “If you test positive for any performance enhancing drug, they’ll ban you from competition and I’m through as a coach. At my age, integrity is about all I have left to sell.” He paused then studied her. “Those tests have become so sensitive that you could get a positive by sniffing the wrong air.”

  Izzy raised her arms in surrender. “Okay. I get it, and certainly, I agree with you. You’re simply hearing my frustration.”

  “I’m sorry. I do get worked up on the subject. I’ve seen careers ruined. Don’t take any medication, prescription or over-the-counter, without first checking it with me.”

  “Can I at least meditate or do relaxation exercises?”

  “Yes, as long as you don’t ingest, inject, inhale, or insert anything into any orifice, we’re okay.”

  When Izzy got home, she sat with Ross and told him about her discussion with Mitch.

  “He’s right about the drugs, Izzy, and he’s right about your obsession with racing. What would you do if one of your own patients presented with such a history?”

  “I’d want to know why, so I could do something about it.”

  “Well…?”

  “I’m not talking to you about this, sweetheart, and I don’t feel comfortable seeing any of your bizarre colleagues. Maybe I’ll call Michael.”

  “Michael Rose, your former partner?”

  “Yes. He’s a terrific therapist and a no-nonsense guy, plus he knows me well enough to do some good.”

  “Is he seeing patients or is he only doing forensic psychiatry?”

  “I don’t know, but if I ask, he’ll see me.”

  “How about Abbie Adler?” Ross asked. “Mike’s in San Francisco. Abbie’s right across the street, plus she’s smart, an experienced analyst, and a woman.”

  “I don’t have time for years of psychoanalysis, plus she specializes in abused children and teens…I may not be right for her practice.”

  “Weak, Izzy. Lame excuse. You can do better than that.”

  “Okay, I’ll call her, but remember, the best and most accomplished in any field are all a little nuts. It’s what helps make them…I mean us, great.”

  He smiled. “Well, Izzy, you’re already nuts. Let’s push for greatness.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Abbie Adler’s office was in the large medical office building across the street from Brier Hospital. When Izzy entered, she felt uneasy at once with the child and adolescent decor.

  A large black man rose from behind his desk. “You must be Dr. Kramer. I’m Ben Carter, Dr. Adler’s office manager.”

  Izzy took Ben’s extended hand. “It’s good to meet you, Mr. Carter.”

  “It’s Ben, please. We’re informal around here. How should I address you?”

  “Call me Izzy. Everyone does.” Izzy stared at Ben for a moment. “I know you, don’t I?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “How?”

  “J-Ward at the county hospital. I cut my teeth in that psychiatric hellhole. Abbie, Dr. Adler, saved my ass and my sanity.”

  “That must be it,” Izzy said, “I hated that place. It reminded me of the movie, The Snake Pit with Olivia de Havilland.”

  Ben laughed. “It wasn’t quite that bad.”

  “You’re right, but it was close.”

  After completing the forms and getting her insurance cards back, Izzy sat reading a magazine.

  Ben studied her from hi
s desk. “You’re a celebrity, Izzy.”

  “Don’t I know it. While I always suspected that celebrity was overrated, now I know it for a fact.”

  “Be careful, it can get worse.” Ben stood and led Izzy to Abbie’s office. “Dr. Adler will see you now.”

  Izzy walked into the dimly lit office.

  Abbie rose, walked around her desk, smiled, and took Izzy’s hand. Abbie wore a Burgundy, knee-length skirt with a crisp white blouse.

  Abbie smiled. “We’ve met before…a medical staff dinner dance, I think.”

  “I’m sorry, I just don’t…”

  “Not to worry. I’m bad with names, but good with faces.” Abbie paused. “I remember your dress, a green DKNY. You looked great.”

  “Blame it on Ross. That dress cost him a small fortune.”

  “You look well—healthy but, if I’m not mistaken, you’ve lost weight.”

  “It’s the marathon training. I’m eating like a horse, but I’m using more calories than I’m consuming. My running’s the reason that I’m here.”

  “Come have a seat and let’s get started.”

  Abbie took a complete medical and psychiatric history and then put down her pad and turned to Izzy. “You’re a pro, Izzy. Why don’t you tell me what you and Ross think is going on.”

  “If Ross has any insight, and I’m sure he does, I’ll never hear about it directly from him. At home, we’re Ross and Izzy—shrink stuff is off limits. We decided that early in our marriage and it has worked well.”

  “Yet, he encouraged you to seek help.”

  “We could never hide our concern for each other. One of his looks and an oblique reference or two was all I needed to get the hint.”

  “It’s about the running and everything that goes with it?” Abbie asked.

  Izzy took a deep breath. “Yes, but I was me even before I decided to run.”

  “That comment could keep us busy for months. I’m going to jot a few notes, if that’s okay.”

  “That’s fine. I take notes myself in therapy sessions.”

  “Take a moment, or more,” Abbie said, “and tell me what running means to you.”

  Izzy leaned back, took a deep breath, and said, “That’s the crux of the matter, isn’t it?”

  Abbie remained silent.

  “I love running,” she paused, “more than that, I feel the need to run. I felt that in high school and have suppressed it all these years.”

  “Tell me more.”

  Izzy smiled and pointed her finger at Abbie.

  Abbie touched her nose with her index finger to affirm Izzy’s observation of therapeutic technique.

  “It’s complicated. I love the physical and mental challenge. People, especially someone like me, get off with expressing a skill or talent. When you can do something well, it’s addictive. It must stimulate the brain’s pleasure centers, like narcotics.”

  “Endorphins?” Abbie asked.

  “More likely endocannabinoids, our internal marijuana. Then, being as reflective as I am, I ponder over what might have been.” Izzy paused. “There’s something else, and I’m guessing that you’ll understand this completely. We live busy lives. Some things arrive unprogrammed, while others are clearly of our own doing. Running gets me away from it all and allows me to be in my own head. At times, I ruminate, while at other times my mind’s a complete blank. It’s healthy, I think.”

  “As long as you don’t ruminate unproductively,” Abbie said.

  “It’s a miracle, but I don’t. Maybe it’s the purity of the run, the fresh air, and the exercise, but worries, regrets, annoyances, and frustrations just don’t fit into the scene. You should try it sometime.”

  Izzy talked non-stop for about thirty-five minutes, pausing to sip water from time to time. She talked about her early childhood, her frustrations as an adolescent, and her final escape from home.

  “Your brother, Richard—you don’t talk much about him.”

  “Everything I have to say about Rick is cliché. Miriam’s favorite. A successful Park Avenue psychiatrist who’d never think of giving his mother shit.”

  “You get along?”

  “An arms-length relationship,” Izzy said wistfully. “It’s a shame. He worshipped me as his baby sister; and you’re right, we should spend time on him in therapy.”

  “You’ve had an uneasy truce with your mother, Miriam, for years. What’s different now?”

  “My tolerance for her, I think. I’d reconciled myself that regardless of my accomplishments, I’d never get the appreciation I need from my mother.” She paused, “and no, Abbie, my expectations from my mother have always been modest ones. Now, when I’m doing something I really feel good about, she finds reason to criticize me. I should ignore it. I know that it’s stupid and useless, but I just can’t let it go.”

  “You know that Miriam has her limitations, yet you interpret them as an attack.”

  “If you mean that my mother should be responsible for what comes out of her mouth, yes, that’s true,” Izzy said. “She’s gotten away with murder her entire life. Me, I’m sick of it.”

  “For example?”

  “You know what actors say about being ‘in the moment’, actually listening to what other actors are saying?”

  Abbie nodded

  “When we have a conversation,” Izzy said, “Miriam is anything but ‘in the moment’—she’s planning her counterattack. That’s a win-at-all-cost philosophy—a zero-sum game. How does that fit for a mother-daughter relationship?” She paused. “Moreover, whatever she thinks, regardless of how inane or thoughtless, or how it might affect others, comes uncensored, right out her mouth.”

  “You think Miriam’s going to change now?”

  Izzy smiled. “Therapy is a lot like having one’s writing edited. A good editor can see in moments, things you wrote or didn’t write. It strongly suggests that life itself should be a collaboration.”

  “I like the metaphor and I agree with you, especially when behaviors become disruptive.”

  “So, I’m no saint, Abbie, but I’m no fool either. I have issues, big issues and they need attention.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Izzy talked for another fifteen minutes and then Abbie turned to the clock. “We’re done for today. You’ve given us both a lot to think about.”

  Izzy stood. “You’re easy to talk with. I can see why you do well with your patients, especially young girls.”

  “You identify with them?”

  “I guess I do. As a teenager, life with Mother was a nightmare. I wish there had been someone like you to talk with when I was younger.”

  Abbie smiled. “You’re a true believer?”

  “If I didn’t believe in what we do, I’d pack it in. I’d choke over the hypocrisy. Despite Scientology’s vitriolic attacks, I know for sure that we help our patients. Now with age and experience, I’ve learned to control my zeal and moderate my expectations.”

  Abbie met Izzy’s gaze. “That’s a little sad.”

  Izzy shook her head. “Not sad. Real. If shrinks, even good shrinks, don’t understand the potential for harm, then therapy becomes a high wire act. I don’t want any part of that, either as a therapist or as a patient.”

  Abbie winked. “Maybe we should change roles for a while? Maybe we should even consider switching mothers?” She paused. “Therapy is going to be good for both of us, especially for me since you’re paying the bills.” She stood, smiled, hugged Izzy, and walked her to the door. “See you next week.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Ross clicked off the TV as Izzy arrived home after therapy. “How did it go?”

  “It went well. I like Abbie a lot and I think she can help me.”

  “I don’t want to pry…well, I do, but I won’t unless you want me to.”

  “I didn’t talk with Abbie about us and I’m not sure I want to. In many ways, we’ve been beating the odds. Imagine, two shrinks making a go of it in marriage.”

  “I agree with y
ou,” Ross said. “We may be a perfect example of ‘if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.’” He paused. “It’s not like we don’t talk about things, we talk about everything, but only as civilians. For me, it’s like turning off the switch from shrink to husband, father, friend, neighbor, etc.”

  Izzy smiled. “And, if you saw clear destructive behavior on my part, you’d just ignore it?”

  “Have I?”

  Izzy moved to the sofa and cuddled next to Ross. “If you related to your patients as you do to me, you’d be in jail, or have had your license revoked.”

  “Well, in some ways, making love with you is therapeutic—at least it is for me.”

  She kissed him on the lips and said, “Why don’t we lay down and rest for a moment.”

  After they finished making love, Izzy turned to Ross. “More than anything, I trust you and I have the sneaky suspicion that you know me well enough to have a pretty good grasp at what’s going on in therapy with Abbie.”

  “One thing’s for sure, you’ll never know.”

  The next morning Izzy arrived a few minutes late at the Redwood site. Mitch Silverman stared at his watch and shook his head.

  “I’m sorry, Mitch. It won’t happen again.”

  “Look, Izzy, you’re no kid. I’m not comfortable having this kind of conversation with you.”

  “I think my glycogen stores must be low—not enough good carbs last night for dinner.”

  “C’mon, Izzy. It’s a package deal—running, eating, fluids, and supplements.”

  “I’m sorry. I know, but what more do you want?”

  “No. I’m sorry, too. I get this way when I’m dealing with athletes who have the potential to perform.” He pointed to Hunter stretching on a rail across the parking lot. “Warm up well. We’re working hard today and this whole week.”

  “How come?”

  “Hunter’s pushing for more, and I think she’s right.”

  “I’m up for it,” Izzy said, nodding and looking at Hunter. “Find us the ugliest hills in Redwood.”

  At the end of the day’s hilly run, Izzy bent over with her hands on her quads, catching her breath, while Hunter vomited into the bushes.