by Larence Gold
“Two days, but I think that I’ll cancel it.”
“My, my,” Ross said. “You’re proving for sure, the difference between practitioner and patient. You’d never let one of your patients get away with that.”
“I wouldn’t take a patient like me.”
Ross laughed. “
Later that evening, Jennifer was sitting before the computer screen. “All this stuff about you, Mother, it’s just crazy.”
“That’s what happens when you open the world to any nut or anyone with a grudge, and a computer.”
“You’re awfully sanguine about this, Mother.”
“What choice do I have? If I were a politician or a celebrity with a spin machine, maybe I could try to counteract these postings. I don’t and I can’t. After I retire from running, I won’t be of much interest anymore.”
Jennifer clicked on a link, and in a moment the image filled the screen. She rotated the screen away from Izzy’s view.
“What was that?” Izzy asked.
“Nothing.”
“Love ya, Jen, but you’re the world’s worst liar. Let me see.”
“Don’t, Mother. You’ve seen enough.”
Izzy rotated the screen to see the image. It was a Photoshopped version of Izzy on crutches approaching a finish line. The caption read: Cheating won’t help you now, Izzy.
“What is this?” Izzy asked.
“It’s TMZ.com, the celebrity gossip site,” Jennifer said. “Don’t be upset, Mother.”
“Easier said than done, sweetheart. Intellectually, I understand the psychology of gossip, but being a target is something else. Without getting into the subject, humans, from early childhood, are deeply offended by cheating. Innocent or not, the world has labeled me a cheater.”
“But, you’re not,” Jennifer said.
“Perception is everything,” Izzy said.
“Until it’s not.”
“Meanwhile, I have to sit here and take it. I don’t know if I can. I just want it to end.” Izzy bent over and wept into her hands.
When Izzy got to her office the next morning, Connie said, “Allison Chin called. She said that if you have a moment, she’d like a word with you.”
Allison Chin was in her late fifties and had started at UC ten years before Izzy. She now was Chair of the Department of Psychology, and a good friend.
Izzy walked down the hallway to Allison’s office. The door was open, and Allison waved her in. Allison was behind her huge mahogany desk that had stacks of folders and reprints. She had short, silver hair and wore a pale yellow sweater. She removed her half-reading glasses and placed them on the desk.
“Thanks for coming, Izzy.”
Izzy sensed at once her coolness and unusual formality, and tensed.
“What’s up, Allison? I don’t have much time, I’m teaching in ten minutes.”
“We’re friends, Izzy, so I won’t beat around the bush, pardon that unfortunate colloquialism.”
“What?”
“The charges against you from the USADA has concerned members of our faculty, administration, and alumni.”
“If they’re upset, how do you think I feel, Allison?”
“You owe nobody an explanation, Izzy, but concern today becomes embarrassment and anger tomorrow, and finally to charges of violation of the faculty code of conduct.”
“You’re kidding?”
Allison shook her head, no. “I know that you’re incapable of cheating, but too many don’t know you and are willing to accept things at face value.”
Izzy felt herself tremble. She clenched her jaw and said, “So, at the liberal bastion of democracy, an accusation equals guilt—I don’t believe it.”
“I don’t blame you for being angry, and please, don’t blame the messenger. I tell you this so you can protect yourself.”
“Who’s saying these things?” Izzy asked.
Allison shook her head. “You know better than to ask that question.”
“So I must deal with anonymous and unfounded charges—that’s one hell of a way to live.”
“Please, Izzy, you have my full confidence. Deal with these sparks before they become an inferno.”
Izzy took a deep breath and studied Allison. “This has become a nightmare. At sixty, I found joy, freedom, and a sense of accomplishment I’d never experienced before, and now this…” Izzy grabbed a tissue from Allison’s desk and blotted her eyes. “If I had known that it would come to this, I would have told Jennifer to forget running the Bay to Breakers—that’s what started the whole thing. Now, all the things that are important to me, running, teaching, and let’s not forget, my reputation, are on the line. I’m not sure that I can handle it.”
Allison stood, moved to Izzy’s side, and embraced her. “I hate to sound mystical or for that part, naïve, but this is going to work itself out. Over your lifetime, you’ve earned an ocean of goodwill. You’ve have many good people on your side and maybe it’s time that you drew some of that goodwill from those waters. Don’t give up hope.”
When Izzy told Ross about her conversation with Allison, he reddened in anger. “So much for friendship and loyalty.” He paused. “This makes me even more skeptical about human beings, even the good ones.”
“I don’t question Allison’s friendship for a moment. She’s in a position of responsibility where what she does or doesn’t do, becomes a choice that she must justify to others. It’s the small minded, ready to believe anything, with or without their own agendas, that upsets me the most. That says terrible things about human nature.”
“When are you seeing Abbie?” Ross asked.
“Tomorrow.”
Abbie hugged Izzy when she arrived for her scheduled appointment. “I’m so glad you came. It’s in stressful situations like this that I can be most helpful.”
“Can you make it go away, or numb me to its effects?” Izzy asked.
Abbie smiled at Izzy. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”
Izzy spent the next twenty minutes outlining the effects of the positive test for steroids, the upcoming hearing, her conversation with Allison, and the public’s reaction.
“So,” Abbie said, “you think dropping out is the answer?”
“If my legs don’t improve, and improve soon, it won’t be a matter of choice. Then, assuming I can run, I still have to deal with the USADA’s positive test for steroids. I don’t have a clue how we’re going to deal with that. Protestations of innocence don’t mean much in the face of two positive tests.”
“Were all your tests positive?”
“No, Abbie, I was clean right after the Napa Valley Marathon. I can’t explain what happened between that time, and now.”
“What are you going to do, Izzy?”
“If it weren’t for Ross and Jennifer, and my friends, I’d just quit and get on with the rest of my life. Ross knows me, and now, you do, too. He’s smart and worries about the long term effects of regret.”
“He’s right, Izzy. As therapists, we watch as patient after patient wallows in regret. We can deal with most anything in psychiatry, but regret’s the killer. Avoid it at all costs.”
“But, Abbie, I see the problem from a new perspective now. The reality factors can be overwhelming and perhaps I’ve reached the point where it’s imprudent to push on, regret be damned.”
Abbie laughed. “I should be paying you for counseling, Izzy. You’re smart, insightful, and you have a good grasp of yourself, but I wonder how well you can make decisions in your current state?”
“What if I just let you and Ross decide for me?”
“Now, you’re pissing me off, Izzy. We can’t and won’t do that. For better or worse, you’re stuck with yourself, and so are we.” Abbie paused. “Frankly, I trust that you’ll make the decision that’s in your best interest. I can live with that, and I think you can, too.”
Izzy stood, approached Abbie, hugged her, and smiled. “As you suggested, I’ll send you my bill.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Connie knocked softly and entered Izzy’s office. “I have Ross on the line.”
Izzy picked up the phone. “How can I help you, Dr. Cohen?”
“Well, Dr. Kramer, I’d like you to see a patient for me.”
“I’d better check caller ID,” Izzy said, “to make sure it’s really you, Ross.”
“So business is so good that you’re willing to duck a consult at Brier Hospital.”
Izzy leaned back in her chair and smiled. “You don’t usually ask me to consult on your patients, sweetheart, so I want to know what’s up.”
“This will be the exception to our rule about working together, professionally. Want to hear it? Jack Byrnes at Brier ICU asked me to consult on a patient in his unit suffering from extreme anorexia nervosa.”
“You deal with those patients all the time, Ross. What’s different now?”
“I hate to admit it, but anorexia nervosa patients are my lease favorite. I cringe each time a referring doc calls in for me to see a patient with that diagnosis. They’re more than difficult, Izzy, they’re impossible.” He paused. “I just introduced myself to Ernestine Blair, age twenty-four with an eight year history of anorexia nervosa. She took one look at me, and said, ‘Don’t bother to pull up a chair, Doc. Get out!’”
“Encouraging, sweetheart.”
“I tried all the techniques in my repertoire, but she was able to resist my charm. That was more than a hint that my treating her would be useless. I’m not going to bang my head against the wall when I have a wife, a psychiatrist, who can bang her head against the wall.”
Izzy laughed. “It’s a good thing that you don’t earn your living in sales, sweetheart, and since you have made the consult so attractive, I’ll just give it a shot.”
“Kidding aside, Izzy, this is Ernestine’s fourth hospitalization in six months. This time, she nearly died of a heart irregularity caused by an extremely low potassium level. The next time, she may not be so lucky.”
When Izzy approached the nursing station, the charge nurse, Beth, Jack Byrnes’s wife said, “Thank God you’re going to see Ernestine. I have three nurses planning her execution.”
“You exaggerate,” Izzy said.
“Only a little.”
Someone had drawn the curtains around Ernestine’s bed, and when Izzy pulled them apart, Ernestine frowned, and said, “Whatever you’re selling, I ain’t buying.”
“I’m Doctor Kramer. Dr. Byrnes asked me to see you.”
“Great,” Ernestine said, “you saw me, now get out.”
“I don’t think that was what Dr. Byrnes had in mind.”
“Well, I don’t give a shit. Get out!”
Izzy pulled up a chair next to the bed. “I’m not that easy, Ernestine—may I call you Ernestine?”
“You already did. What should I call you?”
“Call me Dr. Kramer, Isabel, or Izzy.”
Ernestine stared at Izzy. “Izzy,” she paused. “You’re that marathon runner who got caught cheating. I read all about it.”
“What you read was wrong, Ernestine.”
Ernestine shook her head. “That’s what they all say.”
Izzy had that sinking feeling in her stomach. She took a deep breath and continued, “You almost didn’t make it this time. Your potassium was so low that you could have died on the spot.”
“I don’t give a damn. That would have been the best way out. I wish it had turned out that way, although you wouldn’t have collected your consultation fee.”
“They can’t pay me enough to put up with your bullshit, Ernestine.”
Ernestine smiled, and then looked up and down at Izzy. “Stand up, will you?”
Izzy stood.
“How tall and how much do you weigh?”
“I’m five feet eleven inches, and I weigh one hundred fifty-two pounds.”
Ernestine smiled. “Ah, a woman after my own heart.”
“You’re kidding, Ernestine. I know you’re not stupid and that you recognize the difference between being thin from marathon training, and healthy, and starvation, malnutrition, and near-death electrolyte abnormalities.”
“That felt good, didn’t it Izzy?”
Izzy’s smile disappeared. “Listen, Ernestine…”
“Call me Ernie.”
“Listen, Ernie, I don’t know if I can help you—anorexia nervosa is a bear to treat, but if you can come to trust me, even a little, I might be able to help you.” Izzy paused. “I can’t believe that it’s easy being you.”
Ernestine held her head down for a moment, and when she looked up at Izzy, she had tears in her eyes.”
They talked for about an hour, and when Izzy got up to leave, Ernestine reach across and grasped Izzy’s hand. “Thank you. I’m so sorry that I was obnoxious.”
“Obnoxious?” Izzy said. “You were a pussycat. See you tomorrow.”
When Ross came home after work, he asked, “How did it go with sweet Ernestine?”
“Better than I expected. Everything you and I saw and felt were manifestations of her disease. The whole process reminded me why I got into psychiatry in the first place. In the midst of all that I’ve been going through, the training, the injuries, and the steroid scandal, helping people with their emotional problems still turns me on. I love it—I seem to have forgotten that, at least temporarily.”
“You were a wonderful therapist. The community lost a lot when you retired your couch. Maybe it’s time to get back in the saddle.”
Izzy caressed Ross’s cheek. “You’re a sweet man, but there’s no chance in hell that I’m going back to full-time psychiatry. I just don’t have the patience, and the psych clinic is about as much as I can take. Sometimes I wonder how you can listen to it, day in and day out.”
Ross smiled. “It’s my way of doing penance.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Izzy saw Ernestine daily during the first week of therapy, and they were making progress. She was siting with Ross after dinner. "It's as if she never saw a psychiatrist before."
"Maybe she finally found the right shrink. It's always a crapshoot, matching patient and psychiatrist."
"She trusts me."
"That means you're 99 percent home with her," he said.
"It also means that now I'm responsible for the outcome."
Ross shook his head. "We all carry a degree of responsibility, but therapists don't work in a vacuum—patients are involved, you know."
"I do know. Ernestine did surprise me today when she wanted to focus on me. At first, I thought that it was her attempt to avoid dealing with her own problems, then, when I concluded that her concern was genuine, I nearly cried. It was unprofessional, to say the least."
"No, Izzy, that's your gift to her, one she could never buy."
"You're sweet."
"Just honest. I'm interested, too, about what you told her about our situation?"
"Great pronoun, sweetheart."
"We'll, Izzy?" he asked.
Izzy paused. She scratched her head, straightened her skirt, and then grasped Ross's hand. "You and Jen must be really smart. You coerced me without landing a blow, twisting an arm, or guilting me...slick, very slick."
"Not really. We simply believe in you...as we've always done, and now, just like all the times before, you never let us down." He paused. "So, what's our plan?"
Izzy smiled and caressed his cheek. "Can't help yourself, can you?"
Ross shrugged his shoulders.
"I don't have time to try those treatments in sequence, so I'll do them all at once. No regrets or 'what-ifs' after that."
When Izzy came in to see Ernestine this morning, she was packing up her clothes. “What’s going on? You’re not going home, are you?”
“Yes. I’ve had enough—life calls.”
“Don’t be glib with me, Ernie,” Izzy said. “I have a lot invested in you.”
Ernestine rushed up and hugged Izzy. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“You can’t go,” Izzy s
aid. “It’s just too soon. We need more time together.”
“I’m sorry, Izzy, but my father made arrangements to move me to Boston.”
“My God—why Boston?”
“He arranged admission to the Boston Anorexia and Eating Disorders Program. It’s an inpatient program, and, I conclude, it’s just what I need.” She paused. “What do you think, Izzy?”
“If I could have arranged for it myself, I would have done it in a flash. That’s one of the most successful programs in the country. I’m so happy for you, but I’ll be sad to see you leave.”
Ernestine again hugged Izzy. “It’s only for a short while. However, I’ll make sure that I’m at the finish line at the Boston Marathon when you cross.”
“But…” Izzy said.
“No buts—I’ll see you there.”
Izzy went to the lab and gave blood. They’d spin it down and remove the platelet-rich plasma. She arranged for hyperbaric treatments at the wound care center, and Extracorporeal Pulse Wave Therapy (EPAT) at a clinic in Petaluma.
“Okay,” Fred Bonner, the orthopedic surgeon said, “but I think you’re nuts. Prolotherapy is benign, but this…”
“Please, Fred,” Ross said, “don’t give us a hard time. We’ll sign any form you need to protect yourself against liability.”
Fred reddened with anger. “It was never that. I just don’t like doing things that might harm someone.”
“I’m sorry,” Izzy said. “We’re just playing all the odds.”
“I thought that the USADA had banned you from competition for using steroids? I don’t for a second believe that you’d do that.”
“Thanks, Fred,” Ross said. “We appreciate the support. We’ll be appealing the USADA’s decision.”
“Do you have enough time to heal and resolve your legal problems before the Boston Marathon?” Fred asked.
“Barely,” Izzy said, “but the odds are worse than filling an inside straight.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine