“She only has one elevated blood marker,” I interrupt. “Your criteria state two are required.”
Silence.
“I’d be grateful if you could reassess the file.” I don’t raise my voice. I don’t need to.
“Antonia, the trial is full. I can’t—”
“If it’s a funding issue, just say so. But patients shouldn’t be given false hope, then excluded not based on the facts.”
“Give me forty-eight hours,” he grumbles, then cuts the line.
I place the phone down, then look up to see Clara standing in the doorway watching.
“Problem solved?”
“Incorrectly applied criteria, I believe,” I tell her. “They’re reassessing.”
She smiles. “Good.”
Ben’s email sits open on my screen. For a moment, I consider replying, then decide to just call instead. He answers on the second ring.
“Dr. Jones.”
“Ben, it’s Antonia. I spoke with Pinnacle. They’re reassessing Anna Collins’ file.” Again, I’m left listening to silence. “You should have a decision within forty-eight hours.”
He exhales. “Thank you.”
“If she meets the criteria, she’ll be accepted. It shouldn’t have required intervention.”
“Thank you for giving her the chance,” he says, genuine warmth in his voice. The fluttering happens again. I ignore it. “You didn’t have to.”
“It was incorrect,” I say. “That’s enough. Let me know if they don’t respond within the timeframe, and I’ll follow up.”
He thanks me for a third time, then mentions our meeting at the retreat location planned for Friday. I tell him I’m looking forward to seeing it. And I am.
We hang up.
Suddenly, I’m back in that consultant’s office, the day they closed the file on my little boy. They said he didn’t meet the criteria. I remember thinking criteria should be flexible when it’s your child.
It wasn’t.
I reopen the retreat proposal, reading it over as if I’ve never seen it before. Six families at a time to help navigate terminal illness…and all the complications no one can predict.