by Carla Hanna
“When is the last time you saw the doctor?”
“I first went to him after I turned 14, after we wrapped Left to Die. I saw him probably every six months thereafter.”
He interrupted, “So you saw him seven months ago?”
“Yeah. At the medical center by UCLA.”
“If we went there, could you remember which office was his?”
“Yeah, totally. Good thinking!”
“Well, I guess we know what adventure we are having this morning.” He smiled. “We’ll get the doctor’s name off the door, look him up and you can call his office for a refill. I’ll call my mom and figure out the plan for later this morning or this afternoon.”
We left in a hurry, without showering, and parked at UCLA within fifteen minutes after leaving the house. It was so easy to find the doctor’s office. I did have a great memory even though I was feeling insecure because I couldn’t remember the name of the drugs I’ve been taking for four years.
We figured the office would be closed when we arrived. I was sure that we were at the right office, but I didn’t recognize the names on the door. Manuel pushed the latch to the door anyway. I was surprised that it was open.
We went inside, but no one was at the reception desk. I opened the door from the reception area to the offices and walked down the short hallway to find someone to help me. There was a man going through a file cabinet in the last office. File folders were everywhere. He seemed frustrated.
“Excuse me. I don’t want to frighten you. I lost my medicine and need to get a refill and couldn’t remember Dr. Mark’s last name so we came down here. His name wasn’t on the door.”
The man was surprised, but relaxed. He was Dad’s age, maybe older, fifty, tops. He was very handsome, taller than Manuel, probably 6’2” or more. He had a weekend runner’s body—strong, lank, but not too thin. He had brown hair and steel gray eyes and a kind smile.
I had not been in the back office before. The office didn’t seem to match him. The desk and office hutch on the back wall were made of elegantly carved mahogany, something I’ve seen in my lawyer’s office but never in a doctor’s office. Framed, signed photos of a man with celebrities covered the walls. I recognized the entertainers and the man. He was my doctor.
“Was it Dr. Mark Rugers?” He asked with a French accent just like Renee Dupree’s.
“Yes!” I recalled. I pointed to one of the photos. “That’s him.”
“Mark disappeared, I’m afraid. He left a lot of unanswered questions behind. I flew down here from Northern California to try to make sense of this mess. I’m a doctor, perhaps I can help you. What type of chemo were you taking?”
“What? Chemo? I don’t have cancer. I have polycystic ovarian syndrome. One drug I take is to make sure the cysts don’t enlarge to prevent a rupture. The other drug enhances my immune system so I don’t get sick.”
The man stared at me, so I quickly added, “I’m here in person because I don’t know the name of the medication. I left my pills on a trip in March and forgot about taking them. It’s kind of a hard cycle to remember. The med for POS is taken in cycles: 2 weeks on, 1 week off for 6 months. Then I get a new prescription and start the cycle over. I should start a new cycle tomorrow, May 1st. I’ve been on the medicine for several years, since I’ve been fourteen. You’d think I’d remember the drug’s name but it’s quite a mouthful,” I smiled awkwardly. He probably thought I was a total moron.
“How old are you? You look young, fourteen or fifteen.”
Weird. Someone didn’t recognize me. It was kind of a cool feeling, a freeing feeling.
“I just turned eighteen a few weeks ago.”
“But your doctor was Mark? He’s an oncologist.”
“Yes, I’m sure Mark was my doctor. But I never had cancer or chemo.”
He paused, thinking. “For the cysts, were you taking progesterone, metformin, clomiphene citrate, clomid?”
“None of them are familiar. I think it started with an X,” I recalled.
He squinted, bewildered. I was sure he thought I was intellectually vacant. “Is it possible you were taking Xrysinib?”
“Yes!” I exclaimed. “That’s the name. We called it x-nib. The other drug was for my immune system.”
His face fell. He stared at me with his hand on the file cabinet drawer, as if the drawer was keeping him from collapsing. He was silent.
Manuel interrupted my thoughts, “What is Xrysinib?”
The man answered slowly, as if his mind was working on two tracks. One track was answering, the other track was panicking. “A chemotherapy drug. It’s a cancer treatment I developed over fifteen years ago for the treatment of cancer in adults with a particular type of leukemia. It was FDA approved for adults and has been available for the last 7 years. It’s extremely effective in preventing the action of a protein within the cancer cells. Do you mind if we sit down?”
I moved a file off of the chair next to me and put it on the office desk. Manuel did the same. We all sat down.
He continued, “Since it was so successful in adults, we made it available on a trial case basis to adolescents. We had six case studies, including my son who inherited my family’s predisposition for developing leukemia, both my dad and brother died from it. We found that in adolescents Xrysinib had a side effect of essentially stopping the aging process. We have isolated the targeted cells but have yet to determine how it altered the pituitary gland, damaged the hypothalamus, or both.” He stopped and wrote some notes down on his paper.
He continued, “Clearly, x-nib stopped aging in adults—that answers the Hollywood connection. We just haven’t focused on that. I never thought about autopsying the adult glands. We need to look at tissue damage in the pituitary gland and hypothalamus of the adults who became victim to secondary malignancies.”
Manuel interrupted, “So what does this mean?”
The doctor broke his thoughts. He explained, “I’m so sorry, but for four years now no children were to be given this drug. I honestly don’t know how it has affected her but I can tell you that she should not be able to sit right here after taking chemo for four years. Her immune system should be toast, to speak bluntly.”
“I’m calling the police.” Manuel fumbled with his cell phone.
I didn’t understand Manuel’s reaction. My head was spinning. What crime did Manuel see? I knew there was something wrong with me. I have been going to Dr. Mark for the last four years, never understanding why I didn’t have a period. My periods started when I was twelve. I had painful periods, horrible cramping when I was on set. Mom was concerned because I had very large breasts for a thirteen-year-old and was worried about future breast cancer since my grandma died from it. Once, I was worried about not menstruating and researched polycystic ovarian syndrome. I didn’t really have the symptoms when I was thirteen. Last year, my migraines were so bad that I told Mark I’d rather have the painful periods, they lasted only one to two days per month but the headaches were daily. He reduced my dosage of x-nib and the immunity enhancer and I felt relief but still needed Excedrin. Most importantly, I was always aware that I wasn’t looking older. Every day I looked in the mirror, I saw the same person as the girl in the picture with Grandma May at fifteen years old. So the crime must be that I never did have POS. Mark intentionally gave me the meds to stop my aging, which meant Mom was behind this. They wanted me to be forever young-looking. They wanted me to be Muse. That bitch! That psycho doctor!
The doctor addressed Manuel, “You can do that and have every right to, but if you do, the local police will confiscate everything in this room. Then I won’t be able to help her. I am working with the FBI.”
Manuel hung up, furious. “Well, what the hell are we going to do? Damn! She didn’t even have cancer. She took a drug for four years, forgets to take it, and you’re telling us that she wasn’t supposed to be on it and the reason why she looks so young is because she’s not aging!”
The doctor responded. “I don’t kn
ow what happened. What I do know is that Mark is missing, a bunch of powerful people in Hollywood knew him, some high-profile people are dying and pointing fingers here, and there might be a connection with Xrysinib. I’m here on behalf of my company and the FBI to figure out what Mark was up to. Now I see this pretty girl took the drug, too. Ten minutes ago, I was looking for a needle in a haystack in here. We now have evidence that Mark was prescribing this medicine to stop the aging of non-cancer patients. With the Hollywood connection, it looks like he was selling the serum to eternal youth.
“But x-nib is carcinogenic, a very aggressive therapy, a last resort. Some chemotherapies are safe. X-nib is not. Over-treatment causes the growth of tumors, what we call secondary malignancy. It’s the assumed risk of primary treatment—that the chemo or radiation treatment will cure the existing problem but cause other tumors down the road.”
Manuel gasped, “Great. So she probably now has cancer?”
The doctor nodded. “We know x-nib affected the pituitary gland but we don’t want to remove the gland from the patients if we can help it. So it has been very difficult to isolate the damage. We are only now studying the pituitary gland and hypothalamus from the autopsy of CSY2, the second adolescent trial. Now I just realized we should be autopsying the adults as well. When we first saw that the adolescent case studies didn’t age, we expected to find hypopituitarism to explain the deficiency in the gland to produce growth hormone, but only one adolescent had a non-functioning pituitary gland tumor. I’m working to find a way to reverse x-nib’s effect on the gland, or possibly on the hypothalamus, to help the kids and my son live normal lives.”
He stated with sad eyes, “You’ve been on the drug longer than any. But how are you not sick? Chemo kills cells. Your immune system should be shot. You should be vulnerable to every virus around. I wish I knew what dosage you were taking.”
I lost it. I cried hysterically, shaking, sobbing, and heaving. My psycho mom did this to me. I absolutely hated her!
I felt alone. Yeah, I had Manuel, but I didn’t believe in a fairy tale happily-ever-after. I was never one to live in the future. I saw best intentions as they were: decisions made with hope everything would turn out for the best. I lived in the now, and had accepted long ago that the future was uncertain. I didn’t believe in promises.
Manuel had his arm around me. “We need to call her father. Can you please tell him what you told us?”
“Yes,” the doctor agreed.
“Hey Tom,” Manuel said with anger in his voice. “Can you get Celia on the phone, conference call if she’s not there. This is important.” He waited for a long minute. “Hi, Celia. You’re going to be talking with a doctor. Please write everything down. Get his name. This is serious and I need to take care of Marie now.”
Manuel handed his phone to the doctor and then scooped me up and held me in his chair while he listened to the conversation.
When the doctor hung up, he wrote his contact info and some notes on a piece of paper.
“Here is all of my contact information. I’d like to run tests on you tomorrow. I’m going to set you up as [email protected].” He was typing on his computer. “Password?”
I answered, “N10tions, capital N, number 10, lower case ‘t,’ ‘i,’’o,’ ‘n,’ ‘s’.” I don’t know why I chose that password. It just seemed to fit. I felt hollow. I had been taking chemo for four years. What the hell?!
“There, you’re set up. I just emailed you all my contact information and the FBI contact. I also CC’d him and your dad.” He took the paper back from Manuel and wrote down my new email address and password.
“I’m so very sorry. But have hope. We’ve been working on a cure for the cure for four years now and we are very close to solving the problem.”
I couldn’t speak. I stood up, but I couldn’t walk well. I stumbled and hit the wall after we left the doctor’s office. My head spun while Manuel helped me walk to the car.
~ HOW DARE YOU?! ~
Manuel drove erratically. He tried to focus on the road but he struggled. I noticed that he was crying.
“I hate my mom! Hate her!” I fumed. I called Mom’s cell. No answer. I called it again. No answer. I scanned my contact list. I called the director. No answer. I called him again. No answer. I started shaking.
“Damn. No one is answering!” I yelled to Manuel.
He asked as calmly as he could possibly speak, “Who on crew is the farthest from the sound stage? He might have his phone on vibrate.”
I called Mom’s assistant. “No answer.”
“Try texting,” he suggested.
I texted Mom. “X=chemo. So angry. Do NOT come home. Psycho!”
I copied the text and pasted it into an email. I knew her assistant read her emails, but at the moment I didn’t care about following the rules. I pressed, “Send.”
“It’s done. ‘Mommy Dearest’ knows…and so does her assistant,” I whimpered. “You and me finally together… I thought maybe we could just have a happily-ever-after. Serves me right to start believing in fairy tales.”
“Oh, don’t say that. We will have a good life together. Don’t lose faith, Marie. Medicine is amazing now. You caught it in time, for sure. You’ll be okay.” Manuel held my hand. He changed his voice to sound confident. “I want to know everything about what you have. When we get back to your place, can I use your computer? And who’s this doctor that was in that quack’s office—Jacques Lambert? I want to look him up.”
“Sure, yeah, I don’t need to look anything up.” I added, “I just want to sit in the hot tub. I hate her! I can’t believe she did this to me on purpose to give me some shitty career! What a bitch! And I thought she loved me? I feel… feel so played, trapped…made.”
I was absolutely certain that the doctor told the truth. I knew my symptoms would match the hypo-pituitary-whatever failure he mentioned. The weirdness about the last four years, Mom’s overreaction to me quitting, and her creepy guilt all finally fell into place. Yep, the evidence was beyond a reasonable doubt. I couldn’t talk anymore and was too mad to cry. Manuel held my hand and likewise said nothing.
~ OVERWHELMED ~
Thank God Manuel was there for me. I vomited a couple of times, sick from the shock that Mom did this to me and from the realization that my life was incomplete.
It was nighttime. We were both lying on my bed, facing each other on our sides, holding hands with our arms bent at the elbows. He softly stroked my hair. He knew I liked it off of my face and neck.
“Manuel, thank you for being here for me. I feel kind of selfish, though. All these traumas in just a few months: media betrayal, Matthew, Byron, quitting my career, getting mad about my birthday, learning that I’ve been on a chemo drug, my mom deceiving me. I feel like I’m not being fair to you. It must suck being my boyfriend.”
“No, no, no.” He shook his head and fought back tears. His eyes were wet. “I want to be here for you.” He put his hand on my cheek. “I have loved you my whole life and am finally your boyfriend. My dreams have come true. There’s not a possibility I’d leave you.”
I sighed, relieved. Being with him was so comforting, so nice. For at least a week I noticed feelings of desire move through my body when I was with him. I felt warm and tingly. I was ready to make love.
I moved closer to him, wiped his tears and kissed his lips. “I’m ready,” I whispered and put my hand under his shirt onto his chest.
He gently pushed me away, back to where we were before. His eyes were on mine, searching for the right words to say. He shook his head and bit his trembling lips.
Feeling rejected, I pleaded. “I can try to be with you. I want you.”
“No, angel, not now.” He grimaced soulfully, sadly.
I worried, “I don’t want you to reject me. Please?”
I wept—worried that he didn’t want me. Speaking the words out loud that Mom betrayed me so thoroughly devastated me.
I didn’t understand how I avoided getting sick while I t
ook a medicine designed to kill my cells. I should have been weak, with gray-toned skin and hair loss. Why would I have been healthy while on chemo? I wondered how sick I would become now that I was not. What consequential tumor was growing in my body?
Not knowing if I might have a side effect from a drug developed to cure a cancer I never had, having ‘eternal youth’ for an unknown amount of time, made me want to hurry up and start living immediately. I was healthy at that moment. That was all I knew. I didn’t know the future. I wanted to make love, eat brownies, graduate from high school. LIVE. I worried about how long I had to live. Would I be able to get pregnant if I did live? Dr. Mark said I would start menstruating when I got off the x-nib. But he was a liar, a monster. Did he lie about me being able to have babies? What would life be like, always looking like a teenager? How full would my life be if I lived the rest of my life alone?
Manuel interrupted my thoughts. He murmured, “Want you? Always.” He put his hands to his face and wiped his eyes. He held me. “What you’ve gone through is always in the back of my mind: you calling from the prick’s place; wanting to bust up his face when he felt no shame in the limo; seeing you in that movie, on the swing, in that rape scene; wanting the media to leave you alone; knowing that Matthew almost… And now knowing what your mom did to you. Making love is not right today, not now.”
Manuel wrapped himself around me and spoke softly. “I printed the symptoms of hypopituitarism for you to read. The chemo made your hormones shut down. It was physically impossible for you to get turned on.” He sighed. “Good thing I ruined your birthday or you probably would have faked it to get me to leave you alone.”
I laughed. I would have.
“Now that you’ve been off x-nib, you might find me more desirable because you finally can if you pituitary gland is releasing hormones again.”
“So my heart wasn’t a diamond. My pituitary gland was. Then why have I always felt so much love for you and not others?”
