Chapter 3 #2
And the man played the most violent, trauma-causing sport on the planet, as far as she was concerned. Football.
He was almost finished dressing, buttoning his shirt, when she opened the door and walked back into the examining room.
“You passed.” She realized too late that she’d forgotten to knock.
“For the moment you’re good to go, pending the results of the blood and urine tests, but based on my review of your file, there shouldn’t be any problem there.
” She hadn’t been around patients much in years, focusing on research and drug testing on lab rats. Until now.
“No kidding.” She watched him button the second-to-the-top button of his turquoise polo shirt. It was an expensive brand. And new. Quick efficient movements. Easy movements. She thought of her mother. She couldn’t button or zip things anymore. They had to buy her things with Velcro now.
“So tell me,” he continued. “If this is top secret, then I clearly don’t fit the profile for a subject based on that alone. Why are you considering me? And don’t say it’s the money because there are lots of rich athletes out there.”
“You have Ralph Nunley to thank. We go way back. I owe him.” She shouldn’t have admitted that last part and instantly regretted it. She turned away and hoped he wouldn’t attach any significance to it. But no such luck. The guy was no dumb jock.
He whistled. “Some favor. Seems like you’re risking your career here, and I’m not trying to talk you out of it by any means, but I’m wondering what you owe Nunley—and more importantly, what you’re getting out of this—money?”
“The money is for the research.” She glared at him.
This was none of his goddamn business. She ought to tell him that, but she didn’t want to say any more than was necessary.
Theirs was a professional relationship and she would not break form on that no matter how sketchy the origin of his participation in this research.
If he was going to become her patient, her research subject, then she would damn well keep him on the same level with the rest.
He nodded. She could read his mind. He’d talk to Ralph the minute he left here. He might not even wait for a face-to-face.
“Let’s go back to my office. We have paperwork.
” She turned and left the examining room and walked in her usual quick pace to her office down the hall—not her official office, but her clinical office.
She threw herself into the chair and pulled open the desk’s file drawer on the left, picked through the various files filled with forms, then stacked them on her desk and pushed them toward him.
“You will fill these out as John Doe. Normally you would have an attorney look them over. But he’d have to be someone you could trust absolutely. Someone we could all trust.”
He nodded as he sat in the chair, pulling it directly in front of her desk. He barely fit in it and still managed to tower over her, even sitting.
“I won’t need an attorney. Is that everything you have to tell me?”
“Hardly. This is where I tell you what the research protocol entails. The risks. Give you a chance to back out before you sign over your life in the release forms.”
“Don’t worry about me.”
“You don’t want to know what the downside is?
What the side effects and risks might be?
” She leaned forward. She meant the questions rhetorically, because of course she knew he cared nothing about anything except how the drugs might help him be better at his game.
She could sense his desperation. His age and tense posture told her everything.
But he answered her anyway.
“Suppose, Doc,” he drawled, “this was a clinical trial for a drug that would enhance your brainpower—say it would not only restore your memory capacity to peak, but increase it and allow you to think quicker, better.” He paused and gave her that smile.
“Tell me you wouldn’t sign up without reservation. ”
She flared her nostrils at him and treated his question as rhetorical.
“That’s what I thought.” He said it without sounding smug.
She opened her mouth, determined not to flare her nostrils yet again.
She didn’t want to like him. Couldn’t respect him.
Their professions couldn’t be compared. Enhanced performance for the sake of football couldn’t possibly be compared to enhanced performance for a medical researcher.
He continued. “So test away, Doc. I’m your willing lab rat.”
“I’m not Dr. Frankenstein. You’re not a lab rat. You’re ultimately my patient. I’m responsible for you so I will make sure you don’t come to undue harm—in spite of yourself.”
She had told all the subjects variations of the same thing because she meant it, not because it was part of the protocol—because it wasn’t part of the protocol and she might even get in trouble if the administrators—particularly Dr. Hogarth—knew she’d said anything like this.
Something about special assurances exposing them to liability.
“That’s very reassuring, Doc.”
“And stop calling me Doc. It’s Dr. Morneau.”
He looked at her and smiled, undaunted. She licked her lips and jumped into her explanation of the risks.
“Studies have revealed significant genetic and epigenetic abnormalities in iPS cells, higher than embryonic stem cells or fibroblasts. The mutation rates are estimated to be 10 times as high as those of fibroblasts. Chromosome p12 has been found to be over-represented in iPS cell cultures, a characteristic associated with testicular germ cell tumors. Other mutations are also associated with cell cycle regulation and oncogenesis, which raises the risk of teratogenesis in vivo. Although introducing HGH helps reduce the risks, it doesn’t eliminate them.
Do you want to know what all this means? ”
“Cancer.”
She nodded, impressed that he understood the implications of her medical-speak without the usual layperson translation.
“But that’s only the long-term problem. In the short run—and this is a big one—your risk of blood clots and possible stroke, in particular mini-strokes, are increased with trauma.
Since you play a sport that guarantees there will be trauma, we’ll need to monitor this especially carefully. ” She felt queasy.
There were never any guarantees. People suffered bumps and bruises every day. But in his case, it felt like she was handing him a sure sentence of blood clotting and mini-strokes.
“I’ll set up a monitoring protocol for you—an extra vigilant one—and maybe you can wear extra padding around the injection site . . . or something.”
He nodded. He looked contemplative.
“Don’t you have any questions? About the mini-strokes? About what they can do to a person?”
“No. I’m familiar.”
She shivered.
“Consider your duty done. I’ll sign the forms and have them back to you tomorrow.” He stood. At least his too-charming smile was gone. There was something about that smile that didn’t settle.
“Sit. I’m not finished.” She folded her hands on her desk and glanced at her clock. Time was running short.
He sat back down. “I can’t imagine what you have left to say.”
“I haven’t told you what will be required of you—besides the regular injections.”
“I imagine you’ll do some blood tests, periodic physicals. I hate to burst your bubble, Dr. Frankenstein, but that kind of poking and prodding is routine for me. I get my temperature taken every day by the team physicians, whether I sneeze or not.”
She nodded and cringed inside at the notion of a healthy man being subjected to such scrutiny for the sake of football—like a piece of meat.
Like a research subject.
“I suppose you are a valuable commodity.”
“A rare and valuable specimen,” he said.
His smile returned as careless as ever but it didn’t hide the cold flinch.
She looked him over. She didn’t want to think of what kind of specimen he was, but if she’d met him at a medical conference—the only place she seemed to ever meet men these days—she’d be interested. He was flat-out magnificent.
Back to business. “I’m afraid our experimental protocol will be more involved than your routine poking and prodding.
You will be required to be injected three times weekly with the EM-HGH-1, our name for the experimental serum or drug, but we’ll also require daily urine samples, blood samples every two days, and measurement of muscle mass, muscle strength, nervous system performance testing, reaction time testing and—”
“What the hell? How long does all this testing take?”
“On average 30 to 45 minutes a day and about two hours once a week. But, like I said, because you’re involved in a contact sport on a regular basis you will need to be closely monitored for injuries, bruising, clotting, ligament and tendon stability—”
She stopped. She saw the horror in his face deepen and felt the effects spread through her belly like a leach sapping the life from her.
“This is football season, Doc. How can we deal with this?”
His schedule and profession were major problems. She should never have jumped into this so fast, should never have considered a professional athlete against all the rules. There was a good reason for the rules. Many good reasons even beyond the obvious ones she’d already talked to him about.
“Forget it—you’re out. I’m tearing up the papers.” No amount of money was worth it.
“What the hell?” He stared at her. “Don’t make my decisions for me.
I risk far worse than a few blood clots or mini-strokes every day on that field—I risk having my brains turned to mush.
It’s what I signed up for. In fact, if your drug works like it’s supposed to, I’ll be able to avoid more trauma.
I’ll be able to get passes off quicker and move around better to avoid getting crushed. ”
She took a deep breath, but it didn’t help. The weight of the problem in her gut rolled around. She struggled with herself over the intractable choice.
He said, “We can make it work.”
“There’s only one way I’d be willing to go forward.” Her voice sounded unnaturally strained as she spoke. “I’ll have to be on the sidelines at every practice and for every game to monitor you.”