Never Too Late (Brier Hospital) by Gold Larence

Author:Gold, Larence [Gold, Larence]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: rass Valley Publishing
Published: 2014-08-06T16:00:00+00:00

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.

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