Robin Cook: Fever

“I don’t want to be a goddamn doctor anyway,” Chuck snapped, as he stood up and pulled on dirty Levi’s. He was proud of the fact that they’d never been washed. In the bathroom he decided not to shave. He thought maybe he’d grow a beard.

Clad in a terrycloth lava-lava, which, unfortunately, emphasized the fifteen pounds he’d gained in the last ten years, Charles lathered his chin. He was trying to sort through the myriad facts associated with his current research project. The immunology of living forms involved a complexity which never failed to amaze and exhilarate him, especially now that he thought he was coming very close to some real answers about cancer. Charles had been excited before and wrong before. He knew that. But now his ideas were based on years of painstaking experimentation and supported by easily reproducible facts.

Charles began to chart the schedule for the day. He wanted to start work with the new HR7 strain of mice that carried hereditary mammary cancer. He hoped to make the animals “allergic” to their own tumors, a goal which Charles felt was coming closer and closer.

Cathryn opened the door and pushed past him. Pulling her gown over her head, she slipped into the shower. The water and steam billowed the shower curtain. After a moment she pulled back the curtain and called to Charles.

“I think I’ve got to take Michelle to see a real doctor,” she said before disappearing back behind the curtain.

Charles paused in his shaving, trying not to be annoyed by her sarcastic reference to a “real” doctor. It was a sensitive issue between them.

“I really thought that marrying a doctor would at least guarantee good medical attention for my family,” shouted Cathryn over the din of the shower. “Was I wrong!”

Charles busied himself, examining his half-shaved face, noticing in the process that his eyelids were a little puffy. He was trying to avoid a fight. The fact that the family’s “medical problems” spontaneously solved themselves within twenty-four hours was lost on Cathryn. Her newly awakened mother instincts demanded specialists for every sniffle, ache, or bout of diarrhea.

“Michelle still feeling lousy?” asked Charles. It was better to talk about specifics.

“I shouldn’t have to tell you. The child’s been feeling sick for some time.”

With exasperation, Charles reached out and pulled back the edge of the shower curtain. “Cathryn, I’m a cancer researcher, not a pediatrician.”

“Oh, excuse me,” said Cathryn, lifting her face to the water. “I thought you were a doctor.”

“I’m not going to let you bait me into an argument,” said Charles testily. “The flu has been going around. Michelle has a touch of it. People feel lousy for a week and then it’s over.”

Pulling her head from beneath the shower, Cathryn looked directly at Charles. “The point is, she’s been feeling lousy for four weeks.”

“Four weeks?” he asked. Time had a way of dissolving in the face of his work.

“Four weeks,” repeated Cathryn. “I don’t think I’m panicking at the first sign of a cold. I think I’d better take Michelle into Pediatric Hospital and see Dr. Wiley. Besides, I can visit the Schonhauser boy.”

“All right, I’ll take a look at Michelle,” agreed Charles, turning back to the sink. Four weeks was a long time to have the flu. Perhaps Cathryn was exaggerating, but he knew better than to question. In fact, it was better to change the subject. “What’s wrong with the Schonhauser boy?” The Schonhausers were neighbors who lived about a mile up the river. Henry Schonhauser was a chemist at M.I.T. and one of the few people with whom Charles enjoyed socializing. The Schonhauser boy, Tad, was a year older than Michelle, but because of the way their birthdays fell, they were in the same class.

Cathryn stepped out of the shower, pleased that her tactic to get Charles to look at Michelle had worked so perfectly. “Tad’s been in the hospital for three weeks. I hear he’s very sick but I haven’t spoken with Marge since he went in.”

“What’s the diagnosis?” Charles poised the razor below his left sideburn.

“Something I’ve never heard of before. Elastic anemia or something,” said Cathryn, toweling herself off.

“Aplastic anemia?” asked Charles with disbelief.

“Something like that.”

“My God,” said Charles, leaning on the sink. “That’s awful.”

“What is it?” Cathryn experienced a reflex jolt of panic.

“It’s a disease where the bone marrow stops producing blood cells.”

“Is it serious?”

“It’s always serious and often fatal.”

Cathryn’s arms hung limply at her sides, her wet hair like an unwrung mop. She could feel a mixture of sympathy and fear. “Is it catching?”

“No,” said Charles absently. He was trying to remember what he knew of the affliction. It was not a common illness.

“Michelle and Tad have spent quite a bit of time together,” said Cathryn. Her voice was hesitant.

Charles looked at her, realizing that she was pleading for reassurance. “Wait a minute. You’re not thinking that Michelle might have aplastic anemia, are you?”

“Could she?”

“No. My God, you’re like a med student. You hear of a new disease and five minutes later either you or the kids have it. Aplastic anemia is as rare as hell. It’s usually associated with some drug or chemical. It’s either a poisoning or an allergic reaction. Although most of the time the actual cause is never found. Anyway, it’s not catching; but that poor kid.”

“And to think I haven’t even called Marge,” said Cathryn. She leaned forward and looked at her face in the mirror. She tried to imagine the emotional strain Marge was under and decided she’d better go back to making lists like she did before getting married. There was no excuse for such thoughtlessness.

Charles shaved the left side of his face wondering if aplastic anemia was the kind of disease he should look into. Could it possibly shed some clue on the organization of life? Where was the control that shut the marrow down? That was a cogent question because, after all, it was the control issue which Charles felt was key to understanding cancer.

With the knuckle of his first finger, Charles knocked softly on Michelle’s door. Listening, he heard only the sound of the shower coming from the connecting bathroom. Quietly he opened the door. Michelle was lying in bed, facing away from him. Abruptly she turned over and their eyes met. A line of tears which sparkled in the morning light ran down her flushed cheeks. Charles’s heart melted.

Sitting on the edge of her eyelet-covered bed, he bent down and kissed her forehead. With his lips he could tell she had a fever. Straightening up, Charles looked at his little girl. He could so easily see Elizabeth, his first wife, in Michelle’s face. There was the same thick, black hair, the same high cheekbones and full lips, the same flawless olive skin. From Charles, Michelle had inherited intensely blue eyes, straight white teeth, and unfortunately a somewhat wide nose. Charles believed she was the most beautiful twelve-year-old in the world.

With the back of his hand he wiped the wetness from her cheeks.

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” said Michelle through her tears.

“What do you mean, sorry?” asked Charles softly.

“I’m sorry I’m sick again. I don’t like to be a bother.”

Charles hugged her. She felt fragile in his arms. “You’re not a bother. I don’t want to even hear you say such a thing. Let me look at you.”

Embarrassed by her tears, Michelle kept her face averted as Charles pulled away to examine her. He cradled her chin in the palm of his hand and lifted her face to his. “Tell me how you feel. What is bothering you?”