Eleven

It was after nine when Charles reached Pediatric Hospital. In contrast to the daytime chaos, the street outside was quiet, and he found a parking spot in front of the medical center bookstore. He entered the hospital through the main entrance and rode up to Anderson 6 on an empty elevator.

He was accosted by someone when he passed the nurses’ station, but he didn’t even look in the direction of the voice. He got to Michelle’s room and slipped through the partially open door.

It was darker than in the hall with light coming from a small night-light near the floor. Giving his eyes a chance to adjust, Charles stood for a moment taking in the scene. The cardiac monitor was visible on the other side of the bed. The auditory signal had been turned down but the visual signal traced a repetitive fluorescent blip across the tiny screen. There were two intravenous lines, one running into each of Michelle’s arms. The one on the left had a piggyback connector, and Charles knew it was being used as the infusion route for the chemotherapy.

Charles silently advanced into the room, his eyes glued to the sleeping face of his daughter. As he got closer he realized, to his surprise, that Michelle’s eyes were not closed. They were watching his every move.

“Michelle?” whispered Charles.

“Daddy?” whispered Michelle in response. She’d thought it was another hospital technician sneaking up on her in the night to take more blood.

Charles tenderly lifted his daughter in his arms. She felt perceptibly lighter. She tried to return the embrace but her limbs were without strength. He pressed her cheek to his and slowly rocked her. He could feel her skin was flushed with fever.

Looking into her face, he noticed that her lips were ulcerated.

He felt such powerful emotion that it was beyond tears. Life was not fair. It was a cruel experience in which hope and happiness were transient illusions that served only to make the inevitable tragedy more poignant.

As he held his daughter Charles thought about his response to Recycle, Ltd. and felt foolish. Of course he could understand his urge for revenge, but under the circumstances, there were more important ways to spend his time. Obviously the people at Recycle did not care about a twelve-year-old girl, and they could conveniently blind themselves to any sense of responsibility. And what about the so-called cancer establishment? Did they care? Charles doubted it, seeing as he had the inner dynamics at his own institute. The irony was that the people controlling the megalithic cancer establishment were ultimately at equal risk to succumbing to the disease as the public at large.

“Daddy, why is your nose so swollen?” asked Michelle, looking into Charles’s face.

Charles smiled. Ill as she was, Michelle was still concerned about him! Incredible!

He made up a quick story of slipping in the snow and comically falling on his face. Michelle laughed, but her face quickly became serious. “Daddy, am I going to get well?”

Without meaning to, Charles hesitated. The question had caught him off guard. “Of course,” he said with a laugh, trying to make up for the pause. “In fact, I don’t think you’ll be needing any more of this medicine.” Charles stood up, indicating the IV used for the chemotherapy. “Why don’t I just take it out?”

Michelle’s face clouded with worry. She detested any adjustments to the IV.

“It won’t hurt,” said Charles.

Deftly he removed the plastic catheter from Michelle’s arm, keeping pressure on the spot. “You’ll need the other IV for a little longer in case your ticker speeds up again.” Charles tapped Michelle’s chest.

The room light snapped on, throwing its raw fluorescent glare around the room.

A nurse came in followed by two uniformed security guards.

“Mr. Martel, I’m sorry but you are going to have to leave.” She noticed the dangling IV line and shook her head angrily.

Charles did not respond. He sat on the edge of Michelle’s bed and again took her into his arms.

The nurse gestured for the security men to help. They came forward and gently urged Charles to leave.

“We could have you arrested if you don’t cooperate,” said the nurse, “but I don’t want to do that.”

Charles allowed the guards to pull his arms from around Michelle.

Michelle looked at the guards and then her father. “Why would they arrest you?”

“I don’t know,” said Charles with a smile. “I guess it’s not visiting hours.”

Charles stood up, bent over and kissed Michelle, and said, “Try to be good. I’ll be back soon.”

The nurse turned out the overhead light. Charles waved from the doorway and Michelle waved back.

“You shouldn’t have taken out that IV,” said the nurse as they walked back to the nurses’ station.

Charles didn’t respond.

“If you wish to visit your daughter,” continued the nurse, “it will have to be during regular hours, and you’ll have to be accompanied.”

“I’d like to see her chart,” said Charles courteously, ignoring her other comments.

The nurse continued walking; obviously she didn’t like the idea.

“It’s my right,” said Charles simply. “Besides, I am a physician.”

The nurse reluctantly agreed and Charles went into the deserted chart room. Michelle’s chart was innocently hanging in its designated spot. He pulled it out and placed it before him. There’d been a blood count that afternoon. His heart sank! Although he expected it, it still was a blow to see that her leukemic cell count had not decreased. In fact, it had gone up a little. There was no doubt that the chemotherapy was not helping her at all.

Pulling the phone over to him, Charles put in a call to Dr. Keitzman. While he waited for the call back, he glanced through the rest of the chart. The plot of Michelle’s fever was the most alarming. It had been hovering around one hundred until that afternoon when it had shot up to one hundred four. Charles read the carefully typed cardiology report. The conclusion was that the ventricular tachycardia could have been caused by either the rapid infusion of the second dose of Daunorubicin or a leukemic infiltration of the heart, or perhaps, a combination of the two. At that point, the phone rang. It was Dr. Keitzman.

Both Dr. Keitzman and Charles made an effort at being cordial.

“As a physician,” said Dr. Keitzman, “I’m sure you are aware that we doctors frequently find ourselves in the dilemma of adhering to the established and best principles of medicine or giving way to the wishes of the patient or the family. Personally, I believe in the former approach and as soon as one begins to make exception, whatever the justification, it’s like opening Pandora’s box. So we’re having to rely on the courts more and more.”

“But clearly,” said Charles, controlling himself, “chemotherapy is not helping in Michelle’s case.”

“Not yet,” admitted Dr. Keitzman. “But it’s still early. There’s still a chance. Besides, it’s all we have.”

“I think you’re treating yourself,” snapped Charles.

Dr. Keitzman didn’t answer. He knew there was a grain of truth in what Charles said. The idea of doing nothing was anathema to Dr. Keitzman, especially with a child.

“One other thing,” said Charles. “Do you think benzene could have caused Michelle’s leukemia?”

“It’s possible,” said Dr. Keitzman. “It’s the right kind of leukemia. Was she exposed?”

“Over a long period,” said Charles. “A factory has been dumping it into a river that feeds the pond on our property. Would you be willing to say that Michelle’s leukemia was caused by benzene?”

“I couldn’t do that,” said Dr. Keitzman. “I’m sorry, but it would be purely circumstantial. Besides, benzene has only been unequivocally implicated in causing leukemia in laboratory animals.”

“Which you and I know means it causes it in humans.”