by Larence Gold
Izzy was nervous as they approached Alameda Hyperbarics, Inc. two blocks from Jack London Square. “Just the thought of being confined in that chamber has my pulse rate up.”
“You’re thinking about those old iron lungs,” Ross said. “Anyway, if you do get claustrophobic, I’ll slip you some Valium.”
The technicians took multiple photos of Izzy’s legs. “This is for comparison purposes, only.”
Izzy turned to Ross. “See, they’ve already rejected me as a leg model.”
They slid Izzy into the chamber, tightened the hatch, and switched on the machine. To Izzy, the motors sounded like dive compressors, and soon her eardrums tensed as the pressure rose. Just like Scuba diving, Izzy held her nose and equalized the chamber pressure and her middle ears. After fifteen minutes they achieved maximal pressure and Izzy was breathing 100 percent oxygen.
She spoke to Ross through a microphone as he was sitting beside the chamber. “Your turn next.”
“If hyperbaric pressure and 100 % oxygen will keep me young,” Ross said. “I’ll go for it.”
They chatted for about an hour and then, Izzy fell asleep. At approximately the ninety-minute mark, they gradually reduce the chamber pressure and she awakened clutching her ears in pain.
“I better equalize again,” she said.
Ten minutes later they opened the chamber and Izzy slid out. “How do I look?” she asked, smiling.
“Like a teenager.”
“Is that what you really want, Ross?”
“As long as Izzy’s in there, I’ll adjust.”
The next morning, Ross asked Izzy, “How do you feel?”
“A little better.”
“Maybe we should cancel your visit to the Shock Wave clinic?”
“No. We’ve been through this before. I need to try everything.”
They drove to Petaluma to the strip mall Chiropractic offices of Randal Hertz. Dr. Hertz was a small man in his fifties with a thick German accent. When he looked at Izzy’s legs and the multiple puncture sites from the plasma injections, he said, “I’m not comfortable with performing a treatment on your legs. It may be too soon, and I can’t predict the outcome.”
“We appreciate that, Doctor,” Ross said, “but we don’t have the luxury of time.”
Hertz looked away. “I’m sorry, but doing this now, makes me uncomfortable. See me in two weeks and I’ll reconsider.”
Izzy’s eyes filled. “Please. This may be my only chance.” She paused. “I’ll sign any disclaimer accepting full responsibility for adverse outcomes.”
“Okay,” Hertz said, “ but if you have a bad reaction, don’t expect that I’ll repeat the procedure.”
He placed Izzy on his examining table, cleaned her legs with an antiseptic, and then covered both legs with thick gel.
“Will it hurt?” Izzy asked.
“Most people feel a bit uncomfortable for the first fifteen or twenty minutes only. With both legs to treat, the procedure will take about ninety minutes.”
Hertz adjusted the shock wave machine, and then placed the transducer over Izzy’s legs. The device made a rapid clicking sound as Izzy felt tolerable discomfort in her legs just below the transducer. As he went over both legs, the discomfort gradually abated.
“That’s it,” Hertz said. “In general, we see some swelling, mild pain, and redness for about three days. Give me a call and let me know how you’re doing.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Izzy said. “I will.”
As they drove home, Ross said, “That was a little bit like witchcraft or those bogus electrical treatment devices that go back to Benjamin Franklin.”
Izzy smiled. “At heart, you’re a Luddite. You probably don’t believe in CT scans, MRIs, PET scans, or gene therapy.”
“Oh, I believe in them, but shockwave therapy still feels like a scam to me. The last thing you need, sweetheart, is disappointment.”
Izzy took Ross’s hand. “You’re the only thing that will never disappoint me. I love you.”
Three days later, when Izzy came to see Mitch, he took one look at her swollen legs and said, “My God, Izzy! What have you done?”
Chapter Forty
Al Russo, Michael Rose, and Mitch Silverman met for lunch in the dining room at the Langley Porter Institute next to the UC Medical Center. Michael was in his mid-fifties and looked a bit like a tall and husky Judd Hirsch in the movie Ordinary People.
Al looked up at Michael. “Even though this is just a cafeteria, the place gives me the willies.”
“So murders, rapists, child molesters, and kidnappers are okay, Al, but the mentally ill gives you indigestion.”
“Nuts, isn’t it,” Al said.
“You said it, not I.” Michael paused. “Are you getting anywhere with the doping investigation about Izzy?”
Mitch sat up straight. “Let’s hear it.”
“We got a problem, guys. A big problem. While everyone who knows her says that it’s totally out of character for her to cheat in any way, the positive drug test is the killer.”
“C’mon, Al,” Michael said, “you’ve got to do something.”
“And, it better be fast,” Mitch said.
“We have two problems: convincing the USADA that she didn’t willingly use anabolic steroids, and proving that they weren’t sufficient to enhance her performance.”
“You’ll need the first to prove the second,” Michael said.
“Yup,” Al said.
“Suspects?”
“I’ve been in competitive sports most of my life,” Mitch said. “Any competitor, and runners can be especially competitive, would like Izzy out of the way for the Boston Marathon.”
“That’s a bit non-specific, Mitch.”
“Well, close to home,” Mitch said, “we have Hunter, and her father, Cedric Blake—they’re obvious candidates.”
“We’ve had our problems with Hunter in the past, but I can’t believe that she would stoop so low, but Cedric Blake, he’s sure capable. You may not know this, but he and I had a major fallout. I had to throw the son-of-a-bitch out of my office after he cast aspersions on my ethnic background.”
“I’m guessing that he didn’t take that well,” Michael said.
“You’re right, Mike,” Mitch said. “Moreover he has the resources to make things happen.”
“Unless we discover how those steroids got into Izzy,” Al said, “it’s going to be impossible to nail the son-of-a-bitch.”
“Any other candidates?” Michael asked.
“Welcome to the highly competitive world of marathoners,” Mitch said. “We have all the disgruntled runners who have been going wild on the Internet, social media, and talk radio with speculative charges against Izzy. Most of them are all talk, but you never can know for sure.”
Michael turned to Al. “Please Al. We’re running out of time.”
“I’m working my way through Izzy’s every contact since the Napa Marathon,” Al said. “Sooner or later, I’ll find something.”
“We’re just too late,” Michael said, “and it’s all over. Izzy’s done.”
“You like her a lot, don’t you?” Mitch asked.
“Izzy was my first partner, and a gifted psychiatrist.”
“If you don’t mind,” Al asked, “what happened?”
Michael thought for a moment. “The personality characteristics that made Izzy a wonderful psychiatrist; intelligence, compassion, empathy, and sensitivity, made her vulnerable to the vulgarity and the malevolence of forensic psychiatry. I recall Izzy saying that ‘I needed a bath after seeing some of our referring attorneys and their clients.’ Forensic psychiatry ain’t no place for the sensitive soul.”
Mitch remained silent.
“I’m with you, both,” Al said. “I have to finish my inquiry, and then I have one more card to play.”
“Better play it now,” Mitch said, “before it’s too late.”
Chapter Forty-One
David Rice was at his desk in the virtual re
ality lab talking with Jodie Kaufman when his receptionist buzzed his intercom. “It’s another reporter, Dr. Rice.”
“Tell them I died,” he said with a smile.
“Oh,” his receptionist said, shocked, “I don’t think that I can say that.”
“I’m just kidding. Just say that I have no further comment on Izzy Kramer.”
David turned back to Jodie. “That must have been the thirtieth call this morning. I’m getting sick of it. How did they know that Izzy had anything to do with our program?”
“People like to talk,” Jodie said. “Anything for fifteen minutes of fame.” She paused. “I know you don’t want to hear this, David, but you’re going to need to talk with someone in the media before rampant speculation distorts what we’re doing here and what we’ve done with Izzy.”
David held his head down. “I don’t like it. I’m not suitable for it.”
“I’ll do it, if you like,” Jodie said. “Remember, we did nothing wrong, and neither did Izzy.”
“I’m sorry we got started with her,” he said.
“No you’re not, and neither am I. Any reputable exercise performance laboratory would have given an arm to study Izzy. She’s a once in a generation runner.”
“I have no idea whom to call,” David said.
“Call Lynda Levy at Marathoner Magazine. She’s interviewed Izzy before and has the reputation as a tough but fair reporter.”
When Lynda arrived in the lab three days later, Jodie gave her a tour while David was finishing on a test subject.
“With all this athletic gear, this looks like some sort of a cyberspace gym,” Lynda said.
“The equipment is high-grade, but they’re standard treadmills, bicycles, rowing machines, etc., except they’re set up for monitoring a subject during exercise. If you have the time, ask David to show you our VR equipment.”
“VR?” Lynda asked.
“Yes, virtual reality. Izzy loves working with that equipment.”
When David broke away from his study, Jodie did the intros.
“Please come into my office,” David said.
“Would you like me to stay?” Jodie asked.
“It would be best if you didn’t,” David said.
Lynda turned to David. “It’s okay with me.”
“Jodie may be Izzy’s…I mean Dr. Kramer’s best friend.”
“Nice meeting you, Lynda,” Jodie said. “Please be fair with Izzy. She deserves that.” Jodie left, closing the door behind.
“I usually have to fight for my interviews,” Lynda said, “especially with scientists. If you don’t mind, why did you call and why did you choose me?”
David pondered the question, and then said, “You know Izzy and we’ve been getting so much unwanted attention that we chose a reporter with a reputation for toughness, but also fairness and objectivity. We’re being harassed on all sides by the media. It’s gotten so bad that we feel we are being shadowed everywhere we go. It’s ridiculous.”
“Some are like that. It’s unfair, but reporters need to do their jobs as well.”
“Excuse me, Ms. Levy…”
“Please call me Lynda.”
“Excuse me, Lynda, but those are not reporters, they’re jackals,” David said. “If I thought for a moment that you were in that category, you wouldn’t be sitting here now.”
“Thank you, I think,” Lynda said, “but every profession has its miscreants. You don’t want to be judged by researchers who misrepresent their data, and no reputable reporter wants to be compared with the paparazzi.”
“You’re right, Lynda, and I’m sorry. None of us is used to such attention, and unfounded speculation.”
“Such as?” Lynda asked.
“That we’ve abetted Izzy in her crime against the sanctity of sport—that’s one hell of a joke.” He paused. “Can you imagine, the sanctity of sport? The corruption of performance enhancing drugs is savaging both amateur and professional sports. We do drug screens ourselves to insure the quality of our data.”
“You tested Izzy?”
“Of course,” David said. “If we were to use her data, and we had planned to, we had to be sure that she was clean—and she was.”
“You’re a research laboratory at a prestigious institute, and I suspect that you’re unable to tell me all that goes on here.”
David laughed.
“What’s so funny, David.”
“I’m sorry, Lynda, but you confuse a research laboratory with Dr. Frankenstein. Every protocol, piece of equipment, medication, and technique are part of the public record. If you like, I’ll send you the full disclosure. The only thing we cannot share with you are our research results, and this is only because they’re incomplete and haven’t been subjected to statistical verification.” He paused. “And, by the way, the only drugs we have here are on our crash cart to be used for resuscitation.”
“Is there any way that VR training could be considered an unfair advantage for someone like Izzy?”
“Absolutely not. Competitive athletes, even Olympians, have used VR programs all over the world to improve their performance. Moreover, VR is merely an extension of standard training techniques that have been used forever. If you train hard you do better. If you learn to count cards, you’ll do better at Black Jack, although the casino may not let you play again.”
“I see,” Lynda said.
“Do you?” David asked. “You’re a tough-minded reporter—a skeptic,” he paused. “Do you think that Izzy would use any performance enhancing drug?”
Lynda thought for a long moment, and then said, “No, I don’t believe she would, but then again, she did test positive for anabolic steroids.”
David stood. “Put your investigational skills to work to answer that one, Lynda.”
“I will.”
“If you have any other questions, I’m available as is my entire staff.” He paused. “I’m tempted to add a comment off-the-record, but I don’t really care to. Everyone in the laboratory who knows Izzy has developed affection for her. Besides being an honest, caring, and sensitive person with remarkable skills and determination, she’s an inspiration to all who fear the ravages of aging—and who doesn’t?”
After Lynda spent several hours with the VR lab staff, and with Izzy’s friends and co-workers, she was sitting before her editor, Eddie Powell in his glass-enclosed office in full view of the staff. Eddie was twenty-eight, ten years younger than Lynda. He’d come to Marathoner Magazine from Sports Illustrated. Men on his staff, and a few women, too had tried to get the phone numbers of the Swim Suit edition models. He managed to keep them at bay while he proved to be an insightful, and demanding editor.
He held up Lynda’s three-page article on Izzy Kramer and frowned. “Are you really sure you want me to publish this?”
Lynda nodded.
“What happened to the hard-nosed crusading journalist? This is a puff-piece and we’re both going to take a hit.”
“If you want me to make it up, you’d better give me a good reason,” Lynda said.
“Right or wrong,” Eddie said, “the general public believes Izzy is guilty of using performance enhancing drugs. How else do you explain her fantastic record of success at age sixty? If she looses the USADA appeal, that will confirm the public’s opinion and make us look like softhearted jerks. Maybe with your following, you can survive, but I’ve worked hard to create a magazine runners can trust.”
“You’re prepared to confirm the publics’ view, but I just don’t believe that she did it.”
“For someone who has been around the block more that a few times, you seem to have lost your cynicism.”
“You have three choices, Eddie: go with my article, join the majority in their guilty opinion, or wait to publish until after the USADA hearing.”
Eddie laughed. “That would make me one hell of a courageous editor, Lynda. I’d rather take my chances with you.”
Lynda smiled. “Good decision, Chief.”
Chapter
Forty-Two
“Who’s next?” Izzy asked as she approached the end of her clinic schedule at the Tang Center.
The nurse closed the door behind and placed a clinic chart and a thick folder on Izzy’s desk. “This one’s a bit sensitive.”
“Why?”
“Sylvia Carter isn’t here of her own free will. The Student Conduct Office referred her after multiple cheating violations. I know that you won’t like this, but for Sylvia, it was see you or face suspension.”
“I love that,” Izzy said. “That undermines my ability to establish a therapeutic relationship before she steps foot into my office.”
The nurse grinned. “You’ll manage, Izzy. You always do. I’ll bring her in—gird yourself.”
Sylvia was eighteen and a freshman. She was nearly as tall as Izzy and rail thin. She wore grey sweatpants and a sweatshirt with the Cal Bear logo. She had short dark hair and multiple piercings.
Izzy extended her hand to greet Sylvia, but she refused it and sat before the desk.
Izzy limped back to her desk. “I’m sorry that we have to meet this way, Sylvia. I know you don’t like it, and neither do I.”
“This is so much crap. Everyone around here cheats. I was just stupid enough to get caught.” She paused. “Should I call you doctor or what?”
“Call me Dr. Kramer or Izzy—either is okay. Why don’t you tell me what happened and how you wound up in front of a shrink?”
Sylvia pointed to the folders on Izzy’s desk. “You know how to read, don’t you? It’s all in there. Read it.”
Izzy didn’t react to her hostility. “I’d rather hear it from you.”
“I’m sure you would, Izzy, but this is a waste of time for both of us.”
Izzy opened Sylvia’s folder. “You’re here. You have fifty minutes of my time, so let’s make the best of it.”
“Look, Izzy, you seem like a nice person, but I don’t belong here.”
“At the clinic?”
“No, here at the university. Mom and Dad are both alumni. They wanted me at Cal, so here I sit.”
“They gave you no choice?”