Chapter 10
Chapter ten
Antonia
The line goes dead; the handset still in my hand.
His email hits my inbox before I can replace it.
I immediately print Anna’s file. Paperwork requires scrutiny, which is easier at your fingertips.
He’s efficient. I like that. And confident enough to have the information ready to send as soon as I said yes.
Ben understands the medical world. That’s appealing in a business partner, which, if I fund his retreat, is what we will be. Opengate may not be looking for direct economic return on the venture, but good PR is a must. And I need someone who ticks all the boxes.
So far, he does.
My stomach flutters unexpectedly. It’s not lunchtime yet.
Returning my attention to my computer, I type in Lunavax trial.
It’s a drug I was aware of, but I don’t believe we have any patients registered, though I remember receiving the information.
I press my buzzer. Instead of answering, Clara steps through my office door within seconds.
It doesn’t surprise me; we both prefer face-to-face discussion.
“Clara,” I say, still reading the summary on my screen. “Did we ever receive the criteria for the Lunavax trial conducted by Pinnacle?”
“It sounds familiar, but if we did, it was a while ago. Shall I ask supply?”
I shake my head. I rarely get involved in individual cases now, only when there’s a stumbling block. If I’m asking for something specific, no doubt half the board will be in here asking questions.
“No, take a look in the files yourself, please.”
She nods, then leaves without comment. Clara knows when to pry and when not to. It’s a quality I appreciate in her.
I move on to reading Ben’s patient file. Anna Collins, forty-three, has stage four metastasized cancer. Current life expectancy is eight to twelve weeks, but with this drug, it’s estimated to increase to up to two years. Reason for rejection from trial: unstable blood marker.
That causes me to pause; one unstable blood marker isn’t usually enough for rejection, but I need the trial specifics to be sure. Just then, my door opens again. Clara struts in with her chest puffed out and throws a file on my desk.
“Lunavax trial information,” she says with a grin. “And no one knows I have it.”
I laugh. “It’s not a secret. I just don’t want questions. You know what it’s like when I get directly involved, people want to know why.”
“And why are you involved?” she asks, her head cocking to the side, shrewd eyes watching my every move.
“I have a hunch.”
She accepts my explanation. “Well, if I can help, you know where I am,” she says, then wanders back to her desk in the reception area.
I flip to the exclusion criteria. Elevated inflammatory markers, two or more required for automatic disqualification from trial.
Anna Collins’ file lies open on my desk. She has one. One marker outside the range. That makes her borderline, not an automatic disqualification on this basis.
That’s interpretation, not disqualification.
That’s my in, my way to challenge Pinnacle and potentially get her file reassessed. Unless I’m missing something else. But I rarely do. And in my gut, I know this woman should be on the trial.
This is an administration issue.
I pick up my phone and punch in the number I haven’t used in months.
“Pinnacle Research, how may I—”
“Put me through to Dr. Gordon,” I say, polite but firm. The receptionist on the other end snorts, clearly annoyed at being cut off mid-flow. “Tell him, Antonia Cole from Opengate is on the line.”
She pauses, then the phone rings again. After a few moments, he answers. “Good morning, Antonia. How can I help?” Dr. Gordon says. I’ve dealt with him before. He prefers clean statistics. Predictable outcomes. Patients who improve neatly on cue.
“Doctor, I’ve been passed Anna Collins’ file. She was an applicant for your Lunavax trial.”
“I’m aware,” he replies, tone shortening. “As I explained to her husband—”
“She only has one elevated blood marker,” I interrupt. “Your criteria state two are required.”
Silence.
“I’d be grateful if you could reassess the file.” I don’t raise my voice. I don’t need to.
“Antonia, the trial is full. I can’t—”
“If it’s a funding issue, just say so. But patients shouldn’t be given false hope, then excluded not based on the facts.”
“Give me forty-eight hours,” he grumbles, then cuts the line.
I place the phone down, then look up to see Clara standing in the doorway watching.
“Problem solved?”
“Incorrectly applied criteria, I believe,” I tell her. “They’re reassessing.”
She smiles. “Good.”
Ben’s email sits open on my screen. For a moment, I consider replying, then decide to just call instead. He answers on the second ring.
“Dr. Jones.”
“Ben, it’s Antonia. I spoke with Pinnacle. They’re reassessing Anna Collins’ file.” Again, I’m left listening to silence. “You should have a decision within forty-eight hours.”
He exhales. “Thank you.”
“If she meets the criteria, she’ll be accepted. It shouldn’t have required intervention.”
“Thank you for giving her the chance,” he says, genuine warmth in his voice. The fluttering happens again. I ignore it. “You didn’t have to.”
“It was incorrect,” I say. “That’s enough. Let me know if they don’t respond within the timeframe, and I’ll follow up.”
He thanks me for a third time, then mentions our meeting at the retreat location planned for Friday. I tell him I’m looking forward to seeing it. And I am.
We hang up.
Suddenly, I’m back in that consultant’s office, the day they closed the file on my little boy. They said he didn’t meet the criteria. I remember thinking criteria should be flexible when it’s your child.
It wasn’t.
I reopen the retreat proposal, reading it over as if I’ve never seen it before. Six families at a time to help navigate terminal illness…and all the complications no one can predict.