Never Too Late (Brier Hospital)

by Larence Gold

  “Please, Mitch. Let’s not do anything that’s going to interfere with my performance.”

  Mitch shook his head. “Izzy, that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

  Later that same afternoon, Izzy plunked herself on Abbie’s couch, leaned back, and closed her eyes.

  Abbie picked up her notepad, sat back in her easy chair, and smiled. “It’s your dime, Izzy.”

  “I’m sorry. Maybe coming in the afternoon after a workout isn’t such a great idea. Therapy takes almost as much energy as running.”

  “You called for an early appointment so you must have had something special in mind. Let’s get to it.”

  Izzy related her meeting with Coach Carter and his revelations.

  “The specifics must have been disappointing, Izzy, but the general concept isn’t new, is it?”

  “That my mother is a selfish bastard, and, no, that’s not new. The effects on me of her decisions; well those I do have trouble with.”

  “Let me ask you the question; did Miriam do what she did because she’s evil or did she do it because she’s flawed?”

  “What difference does it make? The net effects are the same.”

  “So an accident is the same as murder?”

  Izzy shook her head. “So if Miriam didn’t intend to screw me over, she’s off the hook?”

  “I’m not trying to get Miriam off the hook, I’m trying to get you off the hook. You’re entitled to your anger and your resentment, but you can’t allow them to compromise your life or the lives of your loved ones.”

  They talked for another thirty minutes.

  “The threat to coach Carter does place Miriam in a new light,” Izzy said. “It’s clearly a character issue, and the act, the threat, was pure evil.”

  Abbie nodded, “It’s not the way you want to feel about your own mother.”

  Izzy smiled at Abbie. “So, here are my choices: continue with my dysfunctional dealings with my mother or forgive her, develop a reality-based relationship with her, or continue with the psychopathology that’s going to drive me to set a record in the Boston Marathon?”

  Abbie shook her head. “I hope that was tongue in cheek.”

  Izzy stood and hugged Abbie. “No, that was foot in running shoe. And, thanks, as usual, you’ve given me much to consider.”

  “So what’s going to happen when you see Miriam again?”

  “I’ll just open my arms, tell her I love her, and that I’m sorry for all the hostility between us and tell her that I forgive her.”

  Abbie laughed.

  Izzy grabbed her handbag and headed for the door where she stopped. “I should thank my mother for one thing.”

  “What is it?”

  “For giving me the best examples of what not to do with children.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Izzy tossed and turned in bed, staring repeatedly at the clock that read 2:25 a.m.

  “Can’t sleep again, Izzy,” Ross grunted.

  “This is the fourth night in a row. I’m getting pretty sick of it.”

  “I’ve got a drawer filled with samples,” Ross said. “Want me to get you something?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll stick it out a while longer. I hate the after effects and I sure don’t want to become dependent.”

  “What about Ambien, Ross asked. “I’ve had great success with that drug and it’s short acting.”

  “I prescribed Ambien to a male patient who sleepwalked into his neighbor’s bedroom after a single dose. I had a hell of a time convincing the patient’s wife that it was the drug and the neighbor not to press charges.”

  “Does Mitch know about your sleep problem?”

  “He knows. I had to tell him about my shin splints, too, but I’m not anxious to raise the specter of age and infirmity.”

  “Don’t sell Mitch short. He’s seen it all and can advise you better than anyone else.”

  After the next day’s workout, Mitch studied his watch and notes. “Your time’s way off, Izzy. What’s wrong?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Don’t go Hunter on me, Izzy.”

  Izzy laughed. “You’ve made Hunter an eponym, like Kleenex or Xerox.”

  “You get the point.”

  “Okay. I started slow because of the shin splints, but they got better after a while and now they’re gone.” She paused. “Injury so close to the Boston Marathon scares the hell out of me. I’ve worked too hard for too long to fail because of something as banal as shin splints.”

  “It’s no joking matter, Izzy. I want x-rays and we’d best get on this soon.”

  The next day, Mitch brought up the images of Izzy’s legs on his computer. Izzy studied them.

  “They’re x-ray images, Izzy. You remember them from medical school.”

  “Yes, oh sarcastic one. I remember, but it’s difficult finding an ego or superego on a film.” She looked a minute more then placed her finger on the x-ray film. “What in hell is this?”

  “Bingo! Unfortunately, we call that shadow through the bone, the ‘dreaded black line’ the marker of the Tibial Stress Syndrome. You got it for sure and we’d best throw everything at it in the time we have left before Boston.”

  “You’re scaring me, Mitch.”

  “That’s my intention.”

  “Tell me, and I’ll do it.”

  “First, you’re going to hate this, we need to begin what we call relative rest. We need to cut your running hours.”

  “I’m training for Boston. How can I cut my hours?”

  “If we don’t resolve this, you won’t be running at all.”

  “What else?”

  “NSAIDS, changing your shoes, icing after workouts, and calf stretching exercises. Some recommend osteopathic manipulation, but studies don’t convince me.”

  “If these don’t work?”

  Mitch shook his head slowly. “Then we’re into non-standard approaches.”

  “Do you think I give a damn, Mitch? I’ll do anything.”

  “Perhaps we won’t have to consider any of these.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Shock waves through your legs, cortisone injections, injections of your own platelets into the affected area, and prolotherapy.”

  “You made that last one up…anyway, I don’t have a prolo to treat.”

  “Well, at least you haven’t lost your sense of humor. Prolo is short for proliferation. They inject glucose solution into the affected area to create an inflammatory reaction that promotes healing.”

  “Does it work?”

  Mitch shrugged his shoulders.

  “Okay. I’m in. Tell me where to start.”

  Ten days later, Jennifer was over for dinner. Afterward they sat on the back porch.

  “How are you feeling, Mother?”

  “I feel like shit. My legs are killing me. I’m not sleeping and I’m tired all the time.”

  “What did you expect?” Ross asked.

  “I’m running out of time. If I can’t get back to training as I should, I’m going to quit.”

  Jennifer grasped Izzy’s hand. “It hasn’t come to that yet, has it?”

  “Not quite.”

  “This doesn’t sound like you, Mom.”

  “Maybe this is the real me.”

  Ross looked up. “I’ve been reading about prolotherapy. They’ve had some remarkable results at UCLA, and moreover, it’s benign—it can’t hurt anything.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Ross stared at Izzy a moment and then looked away. “I’ve been talking with Mitch.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t ask questions when you already know the answers.”

  Izzy remained silent.

  “I want to help in any way I can. Is that surprising?”

  “What did he say?”

  “He wonders if your symptoms are, in part at least, due to overtraining. He knows that you’ve been spending time in the VR laboratory. Altogether, that may have been too much exercise.”

  Izzy
grasped his hand. “What do you think?”

  “The other morning when we were together in bed and my ear was against your chest, your resting heart rate was 114 beats per minute.”

  Izzy smiled. “That’s your affect on me.”

  “Thanks, but I think not. High resting pulse rate is part of the overtraining syndrome.”

  Izzy stood and shook her head. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed before you think up another diagnosis.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  While Izzy had always looked forward to each training session, she now found herself dreading them. Her energy remained low and the pain in her legs had become more severe. The discomfort diminished during her runs, but afterward it recurred with increasing intensity.

  She was sitting with an ice pack on her legs as Mitch sat beside her.

  “Don’t ask,” she blurted. “My legs are killing me.”

  “We’re doing everything possible, Izzy. Are you taking your naproxen?”

  “I had to cut back, they were upsetting my stomach. More of that and I could bleed. That would be my runner’s last rights.”

  “I’ve been talking to trainers I trust about Prolotherapy. They say it’s helped.”

  “You’re kidding. It doesn’t make sense to me—sugar water sounds a lot like placebo to me.”

  “Its main virtue, besides the fact that it might help,” Mitch said, “is that it’s safe. What’s to lose?”

  “Who will do it?”

  “You know Fred Bonner, the orthopod?”

  “Yes. Mr. Conservative. I’m surprised he agreed.”

  “He’s a friend and he’s tried it before,” Mitch said. “He’s making it clear to us, Izzy; no promises.”

  The next day Ross stood by Izzy’s side in Dr. Bonner’s treatment room. Bonner, in his mid fifties, was a big man, bear-like with a ready smile.

  “Ross, good to see you. It’s been a while.”

  “I’m glad you agreed to help Izzy.”

  Fred stretched his hand to Izzy. “Fred Bonner. It’s great to meet you. You’re a bit of a legend around here.”

  “Thanks, Fred, but my legend’s fading unless I can get these shin splints under control.”

  “I’ll do what I can, Izzy, but I won’t predict results. It’s helped some, but for others, it’s done little.”

  “It’s good psychology to talk up a treatment, Fred,” Ross said. “It increases the chances of success.”

  Fred nodded. “Yes, but I cherish my reputation and my objectivity even more. If you’re looking for great placebo effects, Berkeley’s full of therapists who specialize in fringe medical therapies.”

  “I’m a bit nuts about my running, Fred,” Izzy said, “but not that nuts.”

  Fred spread a pain-killing gel on Izzy’s shins and then left the room for thirty minutes. When he returned, he scrubbed her legs and painted them with Betadyne. He drew up clear fluid into a large syringe. “Nothing fancy here, Izzy. It concentrated glucose with a local anesthetic. It should be uncomfortable, but not too painful.”

  Fred injected both shins at multiple sites.

  Izzy felt a pinching sensation, but nothing more. Afterward, she stood and massaged her legs. “Feels great already, Fred.”

  “That’s the local anesthetic. When it wears off, it’s going to be painful and will remain so for several days. After all, the theory of prolotherapy is to produce inflammation to encourage healing.”

  “Thanks, I think, Fred.”

  Fred smiled. “Remember, Izzy, this was your idea, not mine.”

  When they reached home, Izzy’s legs remained pain free, but five hours later, the pain was back—much worse than before.

  “Do you want me to get you something for pain?” Ross asked.

  “It’s not that bad.”

  “Suffering won’t make it heal any faster, Izzy. Even more, keeping you up and around might encourage healing and it’s certainly better for your muscles.”

  “Okay, whatcha got?”

  “Percodan or Vicodin?”

  “No Oxycontin, morphine or heroin?”

  “The USAPA will love that.”

  “They wouldn’t like heroin, but believe it or not, Ross, narcotics aren’t considered performance enhancing drugs. For the moment, a couple of Vicodin will do.”

  The next morning when Izzy arrived at Redwood Park, Mitch stared at her. “You must be kidding, Izzy.”

  “I don’t kid when it comes to running. Not to worry, I’m just going to jog today.”

  When Izzy pulled off her sweat pants, a half dozen Band-Aids covered the injection sites. Mitch stared at them. “When I think of you, Izzy, it’s in appreciation of your commitment to running. Now, I’m thinking of the word commitment in psychiatric terms.”

  Izzy laughed. “As a psychiatrist, I decide what’s pathological. Concerned and determined are virtues. Preoccupied is worrisome. And,” she paused, “obsessive or fanatic, in either order, are clearly over the top. I reject fanatic, but must plead guilty to an iota of obsessive behavior.”

  “I was going to say that you shouldn’t let it get out of control, but I’m afraid that it’s too late.”

  As Izzy jogged the familiar running trails, she found herself monitoring her leg discomfort. It was worse at the onset and gradually completely subsided. It was all she could do not to turn it on and run.

  I’m the world’s greatest expert in delaying gratification, she thought.

  At about halfway through her planned jog, Izzy drifted into a dreamlike state where she became totally unaware of her surroundings. Her mind paged through the months of training and back to running cross-country in high school at Valley Stream State Park.

  Things were a lot simpler in those days, she thought.

  When she returned to the parking lot, Mitch stared at her. “So, how was it?”

  “A little discomfort in the beginning, but, overall, the legs felt good.”

  “I know you, Izzy,” Mitch said. “Keep it under control. If you push too hard and too fast, it’s only going to make things worse.”

  “You’re the voice of reason, Mitch,” Izzy said. “But sometimes the best athletes succeed by being unreasonable.”

  “That’s true,” Mitch said, “but I’m for playing the odds and not shooting for the moon.”

  “You’re right, of course, but it ain’t easy,” Izzy said. “I may be even more compulsive and competitive than I thought.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  When Izzy stepped into the Sports Science Laboratory, Jodie said, “I don’t think you’re on the schedule for today.

  “I’m not, but if David’s available, I’d like a word with him.”

  “What’s up, Izzy?”

  “Just a moment with him. You can sit in.”

  They walked to David’s office. He waved them in and pointed to the chairs before his desk. “Izzy. It’s good to see you. What can I do for you?

  “I need your help.”

  “Of course. Anything.”

  “I’ve been suffering with severe shin splints and thus far, nothing’s worked.”

  David nodded. “It can be a difficult problem. We’ve seen it before and it’s frustrating for runners, especially competitive runners.”

  “Do you know of anything in the literature about wound healing and VR?”

  David studied her. “You’re grasping at straws, Izzy.”

  “Please. Just tell me.”

  “First, we’re not into those aspects of VR. We’re studying metabolism, physiological parameters, and athletic performance. I know that studies on VR in burn patients have shown remarkable improvement in healing, but I believe that’s due to better pain control.”

  “But, I’ve read that VR can improve blood flow and even increase the number of new blood vessels in the injured area.”

  “I’m sorry, Izzy. We’re not into any of that, and I can’t afford to divert the few resources we have for our own studies.”

  “I’ll pay for it,” Izzy cri
ed.

  “You’re crossing the line, Izzy,” David said. “Don’t you think that I would help you if I could?”

  Izzy stood. “I’m sorry, David. I’ve come so close and now I’m watching my dreams fade away.”

  “I’m sorry, too. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work.”

  Hunter was sprawled on her couch recovering from today’s workout. She switched on the TV to ESPN. After a few moments, she nodded off into a deep sleep.

  The soft tap on her door awakened her. She walked to the door peephole. It was her father’s chauffeur. “What.”

  “Your father would like a word, Miss Blake.”

  “Tell him I’m not home.”

  The chauffeur walked away, but a moment later, someone was pounding on the door. “Goddammit, Hunter. Open the fucking door.”

  She stared at a red-faced Cedric. “Why don’t you just leave me alone?”

  “Stop being so childish and open the door.”

  When she opened it, Cedric turned to the chauffeur. “Wait in the car. I’ll be but a moment.”

  Hunter backed away as he sauntered in and walked around checking her things. He then took off his overcoat and placed it on the sofa.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  “You mean to say, ‘so nice to see you, Father. Thanks for visiting.’”

  Hunter placed her arms across her chest and sat in the La-Z-Boy chair.

  “I could use a cup of tea.”

  “Make it yourself.”

  “We didn’t bring you up with such poor manners, Hunter. Is rudeness going to help your case?”

  “I don’t have a case. I just want to be left alone. I want you to leave me alone.”

  “Your mother and I would like to have you come home. This is no place for a girl of your stature.”

  “Forget it.”

  “How’s your training going?”

  “Fine.”

  “That’s not what I hear.”

  “Hear from whom?”

  “I can be of big help to you, Hunter. I have considerable connections.”

  “No thank you, sir.”

  Cedric shook his head in frustration. “I hear that superwoman is finally having problems.”