encountered anything like this before." She paused, apparently gathering her thoughts. "We did succeed in lengthening your telomeres, Sarah, but for some reason the new endcap sequences are just being ignored when your chromosomes are being reproduced. Instead of continuing to transcribe all the way up to the end of your DNA, the replicator enzyme is stopping short, at where your chromosome arms used to end." She paused. "Several of the other biochemical changes we introduced are being rejected, too, and, again, we don't know why."
Don was on his feet now. "This is bullshit," he said. "Your people said they knew what they were doing."
Petra flinched, but then seemed to find some strength. She had a slight accent to his ears; Georgia, maybe. "Look," she said, "I'm a doctor; I'm not in PR. We do know more about senescence and programmed cell death than anybody else. But we've done fewer than two hundred multidecade rejuvenation procedures on humans at this point." She spread her arms a bit. "This is still new territory."
Sarah was looking down at her hands—her swollen-jointed, liver-spotted, translucent-skinned hands, folded in her lap. "I'm going to stay old." It was a statement, not a question.
Petra closed her eyes. "I am so sorry, Sarah." But then she made her tone a bit brighter, although it sounded forced to Don. "But some of what we did was beneficial, and none of it seems to have been detrimental. Didn't you tell me last time I was here that some of your day-to-day physical discomfort is gone?"
Sarah looked at Don, and she squinted, as if trying to make out someone far, far away. He walked over to her and stood next to where she was seated, placing a hand on her bony shoulder. "You must have some idea what caused this," he said sharply to Petra.
"As I said, we're still working on that, but..."
"What? "he said.
"Well, it's just that you had breast cancer, Mrs. Halifax..."
Sarah narrowed her eyes. "Yes. So? It was a long time ago."
"When we went over your medical history, prior to commencing our procedures, you told us how it was treated. Some chemotherapy. Radiation. Drugs. A mastectomy."
"Yes."
"Well, one of our people thinks that it might have something to do with that. Not with the successful treatment, which you told us about. But he wanted to know if there were any unsuccessful treatments you tried before that."
"Good grief," said Sarah. "I don't remember all the details. It was over forty years ago, and I've tried to put the whole thing out of my mind."
"Of course," said Petra, gently. "Maybe we should speak to the doctors involved."
"Our GP from back then is long dead," Don said. "And the oncologist treating Sarah was in her sixties. She must be gone by now, too."
Petra nodded. "I don't suppose your old doctors transferred records to your new doctor?"
"Christ, how should we know?" said Don. "When we changed doctors we filled out medical histories, and I'm sure we authorized the handing over of files, but..."
Petra nodded again. "But this was in the era of paper medical records, wasn't it? Who knows what's become of them after all these years? Still, the researcher at our facility looking into this uncovered that about that time—early 2000s, right?—there were some interferon-based cancer treatments here in Canada that weren't ever approved by the FDA in the States; that's why we didn't really know about them. They're long off the market; better drugs came along by 2010. But we're trying to find a supply of them somewhere, so that we can run some tests. He thinks that if you had such a treatment, it might be what's caused our process to fail, possibly because it permanently eliminated some crucial commensal viruses."
"Jesus, you should have screened more carefully," Don said. "We could sue you."
Petra rallied a bit and looked up at him defiantly. "Sue us for what? A medical procedure that you didn't pay for that had no adverse effect?"
"Don, please," said Sarah. "I don't want to sue anyone.
Don was on his feet now. "This is bullshit," he said. "Your people said they knew what they were doing."
Petra flinched, but then seemed to find some strength. She had a slight accent to his ears; Georgia, maybe. "Look," she said, "I'm a doctor; I'm not in PR. We do know more about senescence and programmed cell death than anybody else. But we've done fewer than two hundred multidecade rejuvenation procedures on humans at this point." She spread her arms a bit. "This is still new territory."
Sarah was looking down at her hands—her swollen-jointed, liver-spotted, translucent-skinned hands, folded in her lap. "I'm going to stay old." It was a statement, not a question.
Petra closed her eyes. "I am so sorry, Sarah." But then she made her tone a bit brighter, although it sounded forced to Don. "But some of what we did was beneficial, and none of it seems to have been detrimental. Didn't you tell me last time I was here that some of your day-to-day physical discomfort is gone?"
Sarah looked at Don, and she squinted, as if trying to make out someone far, far away. He walked over to her and stood next to where she was seated, placing a hand on her bony shoulder. "You must have some idea what caused this," he said sharply to Petra.
"As I said, we're still working on that, but..."
"What? "he said.
"Well, it's just that you had breast cancer, Mrs. Halifax..."
Sarah narrowed her eyes. "Yes. So? It was a long time ago."
"When we went over your medical history, prior to commencing our procedures, you told us how it was treated. Some chemotherapy. Radiation. Drugs. A mastectomy."
"Yes."
"Well, one of our people thinks that it might have something to do with that. Not with the successful treatment, which you told us about. But he wanted to know if there were any unsuccessful treatments you tried before that."
"Good grief," said Sarah. "I don't remember all the details. It was over forty years ago, and I've tried to put the whole thing out of my mind."
"Of course," said Petra, gently. "Maybe we should speak to the doctors involved."
"Our GP from back then is long dead," Don said. "And the oncologist treating Sarah was in her sixties. She must be gone by now, too."
Petra nodded. "I don't suppose your old doctors transferred records to your new doctor?"
"Christ, how should we know?" said Don. "When we changed doctors we filled out medical histories, and I'm sure we authorized the handing over of files, but..."
Petra nodded again. "But this was in the era of paper medical records, wasn't it? Who knows what's become of them after all these years? Still, the researcher at our facility looking into this uncovered that about that time—early 2000s, right?—there were some interferon-based cancer treatments here in Canada that weren't ever approved by the FDA in the States; that's why we didn't really know about them. They're long off the market; better drugs came along by 2010. But we're trying to find a supply of them somewhere, so that we can run some tests. He thinks that if you had such a treatment, it might be what's caused our process to fail, possibly because it permanently eliminated some crucial commensal viruses."
"Jesus, you should have screened more carefully," Don said. "We could sue you."
Petra rallied a bit and looked up at him defiantly. "Sue us for what? A medical procedure that you didn't pay for that had no adverse effect?"
"Don, please," said Sarah. "I don't want to sue anyone.
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