Silent Epidemic (Book 1 - Carol Freeman Series)

by Jill Province

  On the other hand, she was not as weak or exhausted as she was during the day.  At night, she was sharply alert and defied sleep with a vengeance.   Attempting to keep her sanity, she had lovingly labeled the horrible symptoms “night hell.”  She guessed that the withdrawal was at its peak during the time when she would have taken the drug. 

  By late morning, “night hell” would subside and “day hell” would take its place.  The intense muscle ache would subside, but the bright sun was blinding.  When she looked out the window, the leaves on the trees appeared as one big green blur.  In fact, she had begun to see the whole world that way.  The fatigue would set back in and the ground would return to its wave-like motion.  She also noticed with alarm that her emotions were out of control.  The level of anxiety she felt was constant and overwhelming.  She had not had another panic attack but she had also not ventured back outside the safety of her house.  Carol would try to relax into the day cycle, but as the sun began to go down, she would know with dread that another terrifying night was only hours away.   

  The strange flu symptoms she had experienced while she on the low dose of the drug had been a dress rehearsal for the symptoms she was experiencing now. Her stomach remained in knots, and she spent more time in the bathroom than in the bed.  Carol believed she had truly found hell.

  It was her day to report to Dominex for her ten-day checkup.  Carol was no longer interested in the study, the free drugs, or the one thousand dollars.  She was currently fighting for her life.  The realization that she had become addicted to Valipene was her only focus.  She asked Josh to call the company and inform them that she was off the volunteer list.  Her only concern at the moment was to get through this horrendous nightmare and get back to work.

  Her experience in addiction recovery had been helpful; however, up to this moment it had never been personal.  She predicted that she would be sick for at least a few more weeks, and then, like all other drug withdrawals, the symptoms would subside and she would be free from the poison that had done this to her. 

  Carol was sitting up in bed with the remote control close at hand.  She could tolerate daytime television.  In fact, it helped divert her attention from her illness. The commercials, on the other hand, had a strange effect on her anxiety symptoms.  She could feel her agitation growing out of control whenever they would come on.  The mute button was her only defense.  She knew how strange and frightening all of this was, but the counselor in her understood what was happening on a different level.  She was the patient and the doctor, guiding herself through a terrifying journey.  She would see herself through this.  She had to.  It was the only way to the other side.

  Carol was looking at the muted automobile commercial.  A man was holding a sign that said zero percent and zero percent.  She was sure he was shouting and was glad she had grabbed the remote control.  The phone by the bed had the ringer turned off, but she could hear the ringing from another room.  Carol lifted the handset and said hello.  

  “Is this Carol Freeman?" a man asked. 

  “Yes, this is Carol," she answered. 

  “Hi.  This is Jerry Owens from Dominex and I’m calling to check on how you are doing."  Carol sat up in the bed and shut off the TV. 

  “Jerry," she began, “I guess no one told you that I’m out of the study."

  “Really?" Jerry said.  “What made you decide to quit?" 

  “I’m deathly ill from this withdrawal," Carol continued.  “I had no idea that I was addicted to this drug, and now after only six months of taking it, I’m fighting for my life."  There was silence at the other end of the phone while Jerry absorbed the information. 

  “Carol," he said finally.  “This is news to me.  I agreed to call and check on you guys, and you’re the first one who has answered the phone.  Tell me what’s going on."  

  Carol was happy to comply.  She spent the next ten minutes describing her symptoms, the visit to the doctor, and her current inability to leave the house.

  “Have you contacted the company?" Jerry asked, in an attempt to help her.

  “About ten times.  I keep leaving messages, but so far no one seems concerned enough to return my calls." 

  “No one has called you back?" Jerry asked incredulously. 

  “Nope.” She wanted to add that, based on what she knew now, it really was no surprise. 

  “I’m sorry about this," Jerry said.  “I will get your information to the right person.” 

  “It doesn’t matter anymore," Carol said.  “My only concern now is to get better.  I’m never taking that poison again." 

  “I understand," was all Jerry could say.  “Well, take it easy," he said, at a loss for anything more. 

  “Thanks for calling," Carol said, and hung up.  She sat pondering the conversation.  This guy seemed so nice and so concerned.  Not at all like the people she had been dealing with at Dominex.  Carol checked the caller ID, and jotted down the previous incoming number.  Jerry Owens might be a valuable contact person. But that would be later, when she was better.  For now, Dominex and their little study were no longer her concern.  

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

   

  Sheila was just inserting the key into the front door of her hotel room, and could hear the phone ringing inside.  Leaving her suitcase in the hallway, she ran inside to grab the phone.  “Hello," she said breathlessly. 

  “Hey, I found you," Jerry said. 

  “Jerry, how did you know where to call me?" Sheila said, catching her breath.  “I didn’t even know where I was until about thirty seconds ago."

  “The marketing department in lovely downtown Newark did.”

  “Did Dominex burn down?" Sheila asked, placing her travel bag on the chair. 

  “Not funny, but I am getting some very distressing information." 

  “I’m listening," Sheila prodded.

  “Sheila, these volunteers are getting really sick.  I’ve only gotten in touch with about ten of them, but they are all telling me the same thing." 

  “Go on," Sheila said, intrigued. 

  “They have all tried to contact the company, and no one is responding to them." 

  “No shit," Sheila said in amazement.  “How can no one be dealing with them?  Aren’t they coming in for follow-up examinations?" 

  “A few are coming.  The ones that haven’t gotten deathly ill are coming in, but some of them are too sick to leave the house."

  “Jesus," was all Sheila could muster. 

  “This can’t be good for the outcome of this study," Jerry continued.  “But I think there’s a bigger issue here.  This one woman, uh, Freeman. Carol Freeman. She told me that she’d only been on the medication for six months."  

  Sheila was now in the chair, with the bag in her lap.  She was holding the receiver with one hand, and massaging her temples with the other.  

  “Carol Freeman is one of the house bound," Jerry concluded.  

  Sheila sat, opened mouthed, trying to absorb what she was hearing.

  “Sheila," Jerry said. 

  “Yeah?"  

  “What is going to happen to the volunteers that have been on this stuff for the past ten years?"  Both remained silent, while they processed the meaning of Jerry’s last statement. 

  “I think I’ll do a little friendly checking in," Sheila said finally. 

  “Good luck," Jerry said cynically. 

  “I’ll get back to you."

  Sheila went to retrieve her suitcase from the hall and double locked the door.  Newark was not Buckhead.  I’ll probably have to buy a gun.  She walked back to the end table that hosted the telephone and started dialing.  Halfway through, the phone began making short bleeping tones.  You have got to be kidding.  Sheila pulled out the card from under the phone and read the long distance dialing instructions.  The compan
y had made no provisions for long distance phone calls.  This did not surprise her.  Sheila got her calling card out of the travel bag and punched in a long series of digits that were her escape from the evil world of toll restriction. 

  “Dominex.  How may I direct your call?" the receptionist asked. 

  “Sam Reynolds, please," Sheila directed.  She waited for the call to be transferred and wondered how she was going to approach this delicate subject. 

  “Sam Reynolds."  

  “Sam.  It’s Sheila." 

  “Well, hi," Sam said. 

  “I just wanted to let you know that I got here," she ad-libbed. 

  “Great," Sam answered.  “I’ll let everyone know." 

  “So," she interjected casually.  “How is everything going with the research study?" 

  “Just great."  

  “No problems?"  

  “None," Sam confirmed.  “Everything is going fine, so you just worry about the marketing problems up there." 

  “Great," she said, convincingly.  “I will.  Bye, Sam."  Sheila pressed the switch hook and immediately began to dial again.  This is going to get expensive. 

  “Jerry," she said, as soon as she heard the receiver picked up.  “Sam said everything is going fine with the study." 

  “Are you serious?" he asked incredulously.  “Trust me Sheila, everything is not fine.  In fact, I’ll be surprised if we don’t get hit with a big fat law suit before this is all over with." 

  “I don’t know what we can do.  If the company won’t acknowledge that there’s a problem, we can’t exactly shift into rescue mode." 

  “I feel so sorry for these people," Jerry said. 

  “I do, too," she agreed.  She had an agenda where Dominex was concerned, but innocent people suffering in the process had not been part of the plan.

  “There is nothing we can do right now," Sheila concluded.  Jerry remained silent for a moment. 

  “I’ll continue to contact them," he said, finally. 

  “Thanks, and document everything." 

  “I will.  Bye." 

  Sheila sat staring at the phone.  She had expected some problems for the volunteers, but she had planned to be there.  Her early intervention might have saved these people a lot of suffering.  What she had not anticipated was the ease at which the company was covering up the problem.  These people were getting deathly ill, but because the illness had rendered them all helpless victims, Dominex was somehow managing to contain that information.  This would not detract her from her goal, but at what price?  Sheila pondered that question with dread and remorse.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  Josh Freeman was sitting at his computer with one eye on the screen, and the other on his wife.  Her behavior had been really bizarre lately, laughing out of control one minute, and crying the next.  She seemed so scared, and yet at the same time, he saw strength in her he had never seen before.  Josh looked at the stock information for Dominex Pharmaceuticals.  The value had continued to climb.  He shook his head as he looked at the screen.  Where was all of this optimism coming from?  If the other volunteers were having half the problems that his wife was having, the value would have dove into the basement.  Instead, everything was sunny in Dominex land.

  Josh looked up when he saw Carol walking through the house.  “Do you need anything?" Josh called out. 

  “No thanks," Carol answered coming into the little office area. 

  “Why are you dressed?"  

  “I have to try and go in," Carol explained. 

  “Why?" he asked, elongating the y to express his disapproval. 

  “Too much time has passed, and I do not want to lose my job," Carol said defiantly. 

  “After what they have done to you?" Josh said, not feeling the need to finish the thought to its obvious conclusion. 

  “There are people counting on me."  

  “I think you’re nuts," Josh told her, “but that has never stopped you from doing what you wanted before.” 

  “Good,” Carol replied.  “You’re a fast learner.”  

  Carol needed to at least make an appearance.  She had been gone for two weeks, and even though she wasn’t any better, too much time was passing.  In some ways, she was actually getting worse.  The intensity of her agitation was giving way to constant fatigue and exhaustion. She felt as though her heavy, lifeless limbs would not carry her across the room, much less to work.  Nevertheless, Carol gathered her purse and keys and headed out the door. 

  When she reached the car, she remembered her previous panic attack.  She reminded herself that that was how panic disorders overtook their victims.  Memories of previous attacks, and the fear of repeat performances were at the heart of every person who had surrendered their lives to its clutches.  Carol backed the car out of the driveway, and told herself to relax in fifteen-second intervals.  She did this for twenty-three miles until she found herself pulling into the mental health center parking lot.  “I am Spartacus," Carol whispered, as she got out of the car, and into the painful sunlight.

  Carol made her way into the building and down the hall to her office.  She noted the pile of phone messages, files and notes that covered the entire surface of her desk.  Breathless, dizzy and exhausted, Carol sat in her chair and rested her head on her desk.   The surface of the metal was cool on her face providing some momentary relief.  She did not know how she was going to do anything beyond this current activity.

  Carol lifted her head and tried to force her eyes to focus on the debris on her desk.  There were numerous phone messages that were so old, she was sure someone must have handled them by now.  But around here, that was a lot to assume.  Carol was beginning to sort them in order of importance, when she paused on one that read, “Brian Carter called."  The message was dated with last week’s date.  Carol stopped sorting, and dialed the number on the phone message.  She let the phone ring for a long time, and was getting ready to hang up, when she heard a very faint and shaky voice say hello. 

  “Brian?"  

  “Yes?"  

  “This is Carol Freeman, from the study.  You called last week?" 

  “Oh, yeah," Brian said.  “I pretty much gave up on you." 

  “Sorry about that," Carol said apologetically.  “I’ve been out sick for the past two weeks, and I just got your message." 

  “I told them it was urgent," Brian said weakly. 

  “That doesn’t mean much around here," Carol said, feeling the old resentment returning.  “It would have required that someone actually get off their ass and call me."  Carol realized she was back on her soapbox, and Brian did not sound like he was in any condition to hear it.  “Anyway, enough of that," she said, shaking off her frustration.  “How are you doing?" 

  “I’m really sick," Brian said, and proceeded to give Carol a long list of symptoms that she already knew only too well.  

  When he finished describing his illness, Carol said, “Brian, I know.  I have felt exactly the same way." 

  “Oh God,” he wailed.  “I thought this might be from stopping the medication, but no one at Dominex will return my calls."  Carol was not surprised to hear this, and wondered how many of the volunteers were sick and unable to find any support. 

  “Listen, Brian,” Carol said soothingly.  “This is withdrawal from Valipene.  We are sick because we’re addicted to it." 

  “Why would my doctor keep me on a drug if it was addictive?" Brian asked in alarm. 

  “I don’t know," Carol stated.  “I have been asking that same question for the past two weeks." 

  “How long is this going to last?" he wailed, now in a panic.  “I can’t even leave the house.  The thought of going outside scares the crap out of me.”

  “Brian," Carol said.  “Try to calm down.  Do you have anyone there to l
ook after you?" 

  “My wife."  

  “Good," Carol said.  “Listen Brian.  The worst thing you can do right now is panic.  It just feeds into the symptoms.  Try to remember that this is all physical." 

  “I feel like I’m losing my mind," he said weakly.  Carol could tell that he was crying. 

  “I know it feels that way, but I promise you, you’re not."  Carol waited while he collected himself. 

  “So, how long is this going to last?" Brian asked again. 

  “I wish I knew," Carol said.  “I don’t think it will last very much longer," she added encouragingly.  “In the meantime, you need to rest." 

  “That’s all I’ve been doing," Brian sighed. 

  “That’s okay."  

  “God, if I had known what this crap was doing to me…” Brian began, and did not complete the obvious conclusion. 

  “I know," Carol said, beginning to feel herself tear up.  She wiped her eyes, and took a deep breath.  “Listen,” she concluded.  “Call me anytime.  My home number is unlisted because of my job.  It’s 555-4581.  We’ll get through this, I promise." 

  “Carol?" Brian said, now shifting his focus to her.  “What are you doing at work?"  Carol just shook her head and then answered,

  “Crawling on all fours, and hanging on to this bogus job." 

  “You should go home," he instructed.  “If you feel anything like this, you have no business being anywhere but in the bed." 

  “That’s what my husband said." 

  “He was right," Brian stated emphatically. 

  “This won’t last much longer," Carol rationalized. 

  “And I thought I was crazy."

  Carol could tell that Brian’s level of anxiety was lessening. “We’re going to get through this," she repeated, for both their benefits. 

  “If you say so," he answered skeptically.

  “Go watch some sitcoms,” Carol directed.  “It’ll take your mind off being sick." 

  “Thanks," Brian said.  “At least I’m not in this alone anymore.  That helps a lot." 

  “Take care," Carol concluded.  She hung up the phone and stared at the mess on her desk.  On her best day, this would have been a lot to handle.  Today, she could not organize a single thought.  Carol decided to do what everyone else did at Newberg Mental Health.  She sorted through papers and moved files from one place to another until it was time to go home.  No one came in to see if she was alive or dead.  She was grateful for their apathy.  She was not yet able to explain her situation to herself, much less to anyone else.  Carol watched the building clear from her office window.  When she was sure she could stagger out to her car unnoticed, she turned off the light and went home.