The Maverick M.D.
Dr. Nicholas Gonzalez and His Fight for a  New Cancer Treatment

The Authorized Biography
by Mary Swander

“Babies calling Babies,” Nick dialed Mary Beth on the phone at the end of the day on September 4, 2008. Both Nick and Mary Beth referred to
each other by the nickname “Babies,” and he always called her just before he was about to go out the door of his office and depart for home—often as late as 8:00 or 9:00 P.M. When Mary Beth received the call, she started steaming vegetables for their dinner, and as soon as he arrived, they would sit down to eat together.

Immediately, on the other end of the line, Mary Beth could tell that Nick was upset, more upset than usual in these long grueling years of the clinical trial. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s over,” he said. “The trial?”
“The trial, my research, my practice, my career. Take your pick.”
“What happened?”
“Tell you when I get there.”

Briefcase in hand, Nick walked up Fifth Avenue toward his apartment building as he did most nights, his shoes clicking the pavement of the sidewalk. Past Saks Fifth Avenue, Tiffany’s, and Trump Tower, Nick got angrier and more worried with each step. The trial had already done damage to his reputation. The word was out about the purported results and his numbers of new patients were down. His expenses were up. The cost of his office suite climbed every year as did his malpractice insurance. His apartment, too, wasn’t cheap. But most of all, his twenty years of research were over. Tanked.

And scores of cancer patients could potentially be denied a therapy that might save their lives. Science. He believed in the tenets of sound science with each molecule of his being. But was this clinical trial science? Or biased manipulation of the facts? Oh, yes, he knew what he was in for before he even hung out his shingle. He’d seen what Kelley had suffered. He’d churned it over and over again in his mind throughout the years. Kelley was an eccentric dentist in Texas. Nick was an Ivy League-trained physician in New York City. A world of difference.

Nick loved and had the upmost respect for the medical field. He was part of the establishment. He wanted nothing more than to be a researcher at Sloan Kettering right now. Twice, not once but twice, Sloan Kettering had offered him that job that he so desired. But there were strings attached, always the same strings. He could only research conventional treatments, not this nutty Kelley thing that included coffee enemas. Oh, no, no, no, not enemas, heaven forbid! Tell that to Florence Nightingale. Nick had turned down the plush Sloan Kettering jobs to do his Kelley research. How could the medical world be so blocked that they would have no interest in a protocol that is saving lives? How could the medical world, the reputable, distinguished scientists behave this way? How could any human beings, period, behave this way?

With each step up Fifth Avenue, Nick was falling into a darker and darker mood, a mood that only Dr. Hans Moolenburgh had been able to address in the past. Yes, maybe he would try to call Hans tonight … On second thought, maybe he would just fold his practice right now. Call it quits for good. What was the use? Here he was left to fend for himself, to try to do his own research. How did he pay his bills? Not through the support of a grand institution with health insurance and benefits, labs and assistants, but through a private practice, a demanding practice filled with very ill patients who flew in to New York from all over the world. Here he was working day and night, every weekend and most holidays, to try to advance science. He just wanted a chance to prove his theory in a conventional way, through a clinical trial, through the rigors of the medical model. Then he wanted some free time, please God, just a couple of hours a day of free time to write about his program and get the word out to the public.

Mary Beth met him at the door with the “Babies dance,” but she knew that as much as he loved the greeting, this time it wasn’t working to elevate his mood. Nick slumped down at the kitchen table, and he and Mary Beth ate organic roasted chicken and steamed vegetables. He told her about Dr. Andreason’s short response that he had received that afternoon.

“The OHRP has closed their case. There is no more recourse,” Nick said. Mary Beth knew full well the implications of the actions of the OHRP. This was the final appeal. The final bundle of documents supporting his case had been sent long ago. Now Nick could no longer throw himself into writing rebuttals. His work at the computer had been a stress release as well as a necessary defense. Now what?

After their meal was finished, Mary Beth thought a little television would take his mind off of work. She knew not to suggest they watch a movie as she didn’t have anything on hand that she had pre-screened. So she clicked on Fox News. They sat together on the sofa and watched, but Nick soon became irritated and yelled at Bill O’Reilly on the TV set.

“What in the world are you saying?” he shouted. Nick, a Reagan Republican, thought the party had recently taken a wrong turn. He walked out of the room, leaving Mary Beth to click off the set.
It was too late to call Hans—still in the middle of the night in the Netherlands. So Nick sat in his study and took solace in his Bible, reading favorite passages that tended to calm him. The Psalms were usually his first stop. His Bible open on his lap, he let the words sink down into his body and his soul.

I want you to trust in times of trouble, so I can rescue you and you will give glory to me. (Psalm 50:15).

At last it was time for bed. Tomorrow was a busy day with patients, and he knew he needed his rest. Mary Beth was already in bed, so he sat on the edge of the mattress and pulled out a stack of letters from the bedside table, cards of appreciation and letters of acknowledgement thanking him for what he had done, from patients and colleagues.

Dear Dr. Gonzalez:
Thank you so much for your brilliance and guidance throughout my illness. I’m so thankful to be on the other side of it now…

Dear Nick:
Thank you for your dedication and hard work. You’ve done brilliant work in cancer research and deserve the Nobel Prize…

On and on the letters went. Nick read through the whole stack, fingering their pages. He read some of them a second time. He smoothed the sheets and pressed the letters back into their envelopes. He arranged them in a pile, larger envelopes on the bottom, smaller ones on top. Finally breathing more deeply, he slipped under the covers next to his wife, as if he were folding himself into a sealed and secure space, drifting off to sleep.