Over the Edge Read Online Free PDF

his throat. The chilling sound sent a fissure up my spine. "But they're not, you see. Your husband and his cohorts find what they want to find. They enter their research with their minds already made up. They quash dissenting opinions."
    "Why would they do that?"
    "Tell me something, Mrs. McNeil. What would happen to your husband's scholarly reputation if his life's research was proven wrong? "
    My mouth opened but no answer came.
    "And doesn't he hold patents having to do with Lyme? Maybe he'll come up with a new vaccine some day. That could make him millions of dollars."
    "He's—"
    "Do you know that selling a Lyme vaccine depends on a narrow definition of the disease?"
    "I . . . no." What was he talking about—narrow definition? My head swam.
    "And hasn't your dear husband testified on behalf of insurance companies at numerous trials? Trials in which other doctors have been sued for over-treating patients who claim to have Lyme? I believe he's been paid for his hard work on the stand, correct?"
    My breath came in shallow pants. My limbs hurt, my neck ached, and my elbow throbbed from bending to hold the phone. My wavering brain could barely follow this conversation. Why was I even bothering to listen to this?
    "Still with me, Janessa?"
    I swallowed. "Yes."
    "Your husband is the same as the rest of his cronies on that committee. He has a reputation to keep, not to mention the money at stake. Of course their 'findings' support what they've always claimed."
    This was too much. This man was accusing the man I loved of being some kind of shyster. Brock's reputation was stellar. He was known across the country for his work in medicine. "You're saying my husband is nothing but a fake?"
    "I'm saying he sees what he wants to see. And meanwhile, Janessa, people are dying. Brock McNeil has blood on his hands."
    "You're insane."
    "Really?" Anger trembled in the man's voice. "Perhaps you don't understand how powerful that committee is. Its written report will be touted to all doctors across the country. Physicians everywhere will be told—again—that chronic Lyme exists only in the imagination of self-proclaimed patients and their doctors." The man's tirade grew louder, more virulent. "Those doctors who treat such patients with long-term antibiotics can be brought before their medical boards, have their licenses pulled. All other docs will be afraid to treat Lyme at all, or will only treat it for the mere number of days that the report recommends. And those doctors will continue to be told Lyme probably doesn't even exist in their area. Patients, very sick patients, will come to them and get no help. They'll go undiagnosed for years. Every day they'll feel like you're feeling right now. Only over time they'll get far worse. They'll lose their friends, life as they knew it. And no one will listen to them. And doctors like your husband will tell them it's all in their head!"
    I sagged to my left until my shoulder rested against the wall. I so needed to lie down. This man was crazy, yet his diatribe simmered through me. There were people who felt like I did right now—and worse—for years? How could they live like that? How could they cope? After a few more days of this . . . whatever it was I expected to be back to normal. I couldn't imagine feeling like this for months. My body already felt like half its strength had wasted away.
    "Please." I took a deep breath. My lungs couldn't get enough oxygen. "What do you want?"
    "I want you to change your husband's mind."
    I blinked.
    "I infected you months ago. The spirochetes have had time to multiply and burrow deep into your body tissue. So now I want you to show him how real chronic Lyme is. Shouldn't be too hard once he sees it raging in his beloved wife's body. The problem with doctors like your husband is they're sheltered in their laboratories. They need to get down in the trenches with patients, see what the disease is like up close and personal. You're Exhibit A,